'I expected it. Thank you.' He braced himself for what was ahead and started up the stairs.
'Oh, sir!' Mrs. Nettles said before he'd gotten more than halfway up. 'I recalled somethin' I thought you might find of interest. About Rev'rend Grove.'
'Go on,' Matthew urged.
'Well, sir . . . you asked if the rev'rend had any enemies, and I said he had none I knew of. But I was thinkin' over it some, and I recall a strange thing happened—oh, I'd say it was three or four days 'fore he was killed.'
'What was it?'
'He'd come for dinner,' she said. 'Had some business 'bout the church to talk over with Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Winston, so his wife had stayed home. I remember they were talkin' there in the parlor, with the fire goin'.' She nodded toward that room. 'Mr. Bidwell had walked with Mr. Winston out to the carriage. I had come in to ask the rev'rend if I could refresh his cup, and he said no, that he was fine as he was. I turned my back and started to leave, and he says, 'Mrs. Nettles? What would you do if you knew a thing, and tellin' it might be right but it would serve no good purpose?' That's what he said.'
'Did you ask what he meant?'
'No sir, that would not have been proper. I told him I was nae one to be givin' advice to a man a' God, but that it depended on what it was he knew.'
'And what was the reverend's response?'
'He just sat there, lookin' at the fire. I started out again, on my way to the kitchen, and then I heard him say, 'No Latin.' That was all, and he'd said it so quiet I hardly heard it. But I said, 'Sir?' 'cause I didn't know what he meant. He didn't answer; he was just sittin' there, lookin' at the fire and thinkin'.'
'Hm,' Matthew grunted. 'You're sure he spoke those words, and not something else?'
'I heard him say, 'No Latin.' At least, it sounded like that to me. Then Mr. Bidwell came back in, and I went about my business.'
'And you say Reverend Grove was killed three or four days afterward?'
'Yes sir, he was. His wife found him, lyin' there on the church floor.' She frowned. 'What do ye think he meant?'
'I have no idea,' Matthew said, 'but his question to you may mean that someone of physical rather than spectral nature had cause to wish him harm. I'd very much like to find out what it might have been he knew. May I ask why you've not brought this up before?'
'I'd forgot it, 'til this mornin'. Bein' who he was, the rev'rend knew a lot of things about a lot of people,' she said. 'But like I told ye, he had no enemies.'
'Obviously he did,' Matthew corrected. 'Only it was someone who might have worn the disguise of being a friend.'
'Yes sir, I suppose so.'
'Thank you for telling me this.' Matthew decided to store this information away and pursue it at a later date. Right now there was the magistrate to deal with. 'I'd better go up.' He ascended the stairs, his face grim.
He had spoken to Dr. Shields at length concerning the magistrate's condition, and had been informed that though the sickness appeared serious it was well under control. The doctor said more bleeding would have to be done and there would be times when the magistrate would feel both better and then worse before he improved. But, said Dr. Shields, the road to recovery was never easy, especially from a malady such as this coastal fever. The magistrate was a strong specimen and otherwise in good health, Dr. Shields had said, therefore there was no reason he shouldn't respond to the bleeding and put this sickness behind him within a week or two.
Matthew reached the magistrate's door and tentatively knocked. 'Who is it?' came his voice: a weary but serviceable croaking.
'It's me, sir.'
There was a pointed silence. Then, 'Come in.' Matthew entered. Woodward was still in bed, propped up by two pillows. The box of documents lay beside him, a sheaf of the papers on the blanket that covered his lap. Three candles burned on the bedside table. He didn't look up from his reading. 'Please close the door,' he said, and Matthew obeyed. Woodward let his clerk stand there for a while; his throat was agonizing him again, his nostrils were swollen, his head ached, and he had a hellish mixture of chills and fever, so when Exodus Jerusalem had told him what Matthew had done it did no good to his nerves or temper. But Woodward kept himself calm and continued reading, unwilling yet to display one iota of anger.
'Sir?' Matthew said. 'I know you had a visit from—'
'I'm involved at the moment,' Woodward interrupted. 'Allow me to finish this page.'
'Yes, sir.' He stared at the floor, his hands clasped behind him. Finally, he heard the magistrate put aside the documents and clear his throat with what sounded to be painful difficulty.
'As usual,' Woodward began, 'you have done an admirable job. The papers are excellent.'
'Thank you.'
'I should finish reading them tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Oh, I'll be glad to get out of this place!' He lifted a hand and massaged his tender throat; his shaving mirror had told him how bad he appeared— pasty-faced, dark hollows under the eyes, and a sheen of fever sweat on his cheeks and forehead. He was extremely tired as well, weakened by both the ravages of his illness and the bleeding lancet, and all he really cared to do was lie back in this bed and sleep. 'I'm sure you shall be glad too, won't you?'
A trick, Matthew thought. So obvious it was hardly worth dodging. 'I'll be glad when justice is done, sir.'
'Well, justice is about to be done. I shall deliver my decree tomorrow.'
'Pardon me,' Matthew said, 'but usually you spend at least two days reviewing the documents.'
'Is it etched in stone? No, I hardly need to read these papers.'
'Does it matter at all that I feel—very strongly—that Rachel Howarth is neither a murderess nor a witch?'
'Evidence, Matthew.' Woodward tapped the sheaf of papers. 'The evidence is right here. You heard it, and you recorded it. There are the poppets on the dresser over there. Tell me what evidence refutes the testimony?' Matthew remained silent. 'None,' Woodward said. 'Your opinion, and your opinion only.'
'But do you agree that some of the testimony is questionable?'
'I find the witnesses to be credible. How do you explain that all their stories have overlapping elements?'
'I can't.'
Woodward swallowed and winced at the pain. He had to speak, though, while his voice had at least a minimum of strength. 'You know what will be best for this town, just as I do. I don't relish it. But it has to be done.'
'Will you not allow me time to ask some more questions, sir? I believe that Violet Adams may—'
Matthew took a deep breath. He said, 'I believe I should be able to go where I please, sir.' He saw the fire jump into Woodward's eyes, even as sick as the magistrate was. 'If you are basing your restrictions on what Exodus Jerusalem told you, I might inform you that the preacher has filthy designs on Madam Howarth. He wants her to confess and throw herself at your mercy, whereupon he will step in and vouch for her newfound Christian soul. His aim is to recruit her as his travelling doxy.'
Woodward started to speak, but his voice cracked and so he had to pause until he regained it. When he was able, he said, 'I don't give a damn about Exodus Jerusalem! Of course he's a scoundrel. I knew that the minute I saw him. My concern is your soul.'
'My soul is well protected,' Matthew answered.
'Is it? Really?' Woodward stared up at the ceiling for a time, composing his thoughts. 'Matthew,' he said, 'I fear for you. That woman . . . she can do you some harm, if she pleases.'
'I can take care of myself.'
At that Woodward had to laugh, though it fiercely pained him. 'The famous last words of a million sons to their fathers!'
'I am not your son,' Matthew said, a muscle clenching in his jaw. 'You are not my father. We have a professional relationship, sir, and that is all.'
