Part 5 (1/2)

”I'll be going, too,” Woodward said. ”I wouldn't miss seeing the expression on Shawcombe's face when the iron's slapped on him.”

”Will Shawcombe?” One of the gentlemen-a younger man, perhaps in his early thirties-frowned. ”I've stopped at his tavern before, on my trips back and forth to Charles Town! I had my suspicions about that man's character.”

”They were well founded. Furthermore, he murdered the magistrate who was on his way here two weeks ago. Thymon Kingsbury was his name.”

”Let me make introductions,” Bidwell said. ”Magistrate Isaac Woodward, this is Nicholas Paine”-he nodded toward the younger man, and Woodward shook Paine's outstretched hand- ”and Elias Garrick.” Woodward grasped Garrick's hand as well. ”Mr. Paine is the captain of our militia. He'll be leading the expedition to secure Mr. Shawcombe in the morning. Won't you, Nicholas?”

”My duty,” Paine said, though it was obvious from the glint in his iron-gray eyes that he might resent these plans of arrest being made without his representation. ”And my pleasure to serve you, Magistrate.”

”Mr. Garrick is our largest farmholder,” Bidwell went on. ”He was also one of the first to cast his lot with me.”

”Yes sir,” Garrick said. ”I built my house the very first month.”

”Ah!” Bidwell had glanced toward the room's entrance. ”Here's your scribe!”

Matthew had just walked in, wearing shoes that pinched his feet. ”Good evening, sirs,” he said, and managed a wan smile though he was still dog-tired and in no mood for convivialities. ”Pardon my being late.”

”No pardon necessary!” Bidwell motioned him in. ”We were hearing about your adventure of last night.”

”I'd have to call it a misadventure,” Matthew said. ”Surely not one I'd care to repeat.”

”Gentlemen, this is the magistrate's clerk, Mr. Matthew Corbett,” Bidwell announced. He introduced Matthew to Paine and Garrick, and hands were again shaken. ”I was telling the magistrate that Mr. Paine is the captain of our militia and shall be leading-”

”-the expedition to secure Mr. Shawcombe in the morning,” Paine broke in. ”As it's a lengthy trip, we shall be leaving promptly at sunrise.”

Woodward said, ”It will be a pleasure to rise early for that satisfaction, sir.”

”Very well. I'll find another man or two to take along. Will we need guns, or do you think Shawcombe'll give up without violence?”

”Guns,” Woodward said. ”Definitely guns.”

The talk turned to other matters, notably what was happening in Charles Town, and therefore Matthew-who was wearing a white s.h.i.+rt and tan trousers with white stockings-had the opportunity to make quick studies of Paine and Garrick. The captain of militia was a st.u.r.dy-looking man who stood perhaps five-ten. Matthew judged him to be in the vicinity of thirty years; he wore his sand-colored hair long and pulled into a queue at the back of his head, secured with a black cord. His face was well balanced by a long, slender-bridged nose and thick blond brows that settled low over his gunmetal gray eyes. Matthew surmised from Paine's build and economy of motion that he was a no-nonsense type of man, someone who was no stranger to strenuous activity and probably an adept horseman. Paine was also no clotheshorse; his outfit consisted of a simple gray s.h.i.+rt, well-used leather waistcoat, dark brown trousers, gray leggings, and brown boots.

Garrick, who listened far more than he spoke, impressed Matthew as an earthy gentleman who was probably facing the dusk of his fifties. He was slim and rawboned, his gaunt-cheeked face burnt and weathered by the fierce sun of past summers. He had deeply set brown eyes, his left brow slashed and drawn upward by a small scar. His gray hair was slicked with pomade and combed straight back on his skull, and he wore cream-colored corduroy trousers, a blue s.h.i.+rt, and an age-buffed waistcoat that was the bright yellowish hue of some spoiled cheese Matthew once had the misfortune to inhale. Something about Garrick's expression and manner-slow-blinking, thick and labored language when he did deem to speak-made Matthew believe that the man might be the salt of the earth but was definitely limited in his selection of spices.

A young negress servant appeared with a pewter tray upon which were goblets-real cut gla.s.s, which impressed Woodward because such treasures of luxury were rarely seen in these rough-edged colonies-br.i.m.m.i.n.g with red wine. Bidwell urged them all to partake, and never did wine flow down two more appreciative throats than those of the magistrate and his clerk.

The ringing of a dulcet-toned bell at the front door announced the arrival of others. Two more gentlemen were escorted into the room by Mrs. Nettles, who then took her leave to attend to business in the kitchen. Woodward and Matthew had already made the acquaintance of Edward Winston, but the man with him-who limped in his walk and supported himself on a twisted cane with an ivory handle-was a stranger.

”Our schoolmaster, Alan Johnstone,” Bidwell said, introducing them one to another. ”We're fortunate to have Master Johnstone as part of our community. He brings to us the benefit of an Oxford education.”

”Oxford?” Woodward shook the man's hand. ”I too attended Oxford.”

”Really? Which college, may I ask?” The schoolmaster's elegant voice, though pitched low and quiet, held a power that Woodward felt sure would serve him well securing the respectful attention of students in a cla.s.sroom.

”Christ Church. And you?”

”All Souls'.”

”Ah, that was a magnificent time,” Woodward said, but he rested his eyes on Bidwell because he found the schoolmaster more than a little strange in appearance. Johnstone wore a dusting of white facial powder and had plucked his eyebrows thin. ”I remember many nights spent studying the bottom of ale tankards at the Chequers Inn.”

”I myself preferred the Golden Cross,” Johnstone said with a slight smile. ”Their ale was a student's delight: very strong and very cheap.”

”I see we have a true scholar among us.” Woodward returned the smile. ”All Souls' College, eh? I expect Lord Mallard will be drunk again next year.”

”In his cups, I'm sure.”

As this exchange between fellow Oxfordians had been going on, Matthew had been making his own cursory study of Alan Johnstone. The schoolmaster, slim and tall, was dressed in a dark gray suit with black striping, a white ruffled s.h.i.+rt and a black tri-corn. He wore a simple white wig, and from the breast pocket of his jacket protruded a white lace handkerchief. With the powder on his face-and a spot of rouge highlighting each sharp cheekbone-it was difficult to guess his age, though Matthew reasoned lie was somewhere between forty and fifty. Johnstone had a long, aristocratic nose with slightly flared nostrils, narrow dark blue eyes that were not unfriendly but rather somewhat reserved in expression, and the high forehead of an intellectual. Matthew glanced quickly down and saw that Johnstone wore polished black boots and white stockings, but that a misshapen lump on his right leg served him as a knee. When he looked up again, he found the schoolmaster staring into his face and he felt a blush spreading across his cheeks.

”As you're interested, young man,” Johnstone said, with an uplift of his finely plucked eyebrows, ”it is a defect of birth.”

”Oh... I'm sorry. I mean... I didn't-”

”Tut tut.” Johnstone reached out and patted Matthew's shoulder. ”Observance is the mark of a good mind. Would that you hone that quality, but be a shade less direct in its application.”

”Yes, sir,” Matthew said, wis.h.i.+ng he might sink through the floor.

”My clerk's eyes are sometimes too large for his head,” Woodward offered, as a poultice of apology. He, too, had noted the malformed knee.

”Better too large than too small, I think,” returned the schoolmaster. ”In this town at this present time, however, it would be wise to keep both eyes and head in moderation.” He sipped his wine, as Woodward nodded at Johnstone's sagacity. ”And as we are speaking of such things and it is the point of your visit here, might I ask if you've seen her yet?”

”No, not yet,” Bidwell answered quickly. ”I thought the magistrate should like to hear the particulars before he sets sight on her.”

”Do you mean particulars, or peculiars?” peculiars?” Johnstone asked, which brought uneasy laughter from Winston and Paine but only a slight smile from Bidwell. ”As one Oxford man to another, sir,” he said to the magistrate, ”I should not wish to be in your shoes.” Johnstone asked, which brought uneasy laughter from Winston and Paine but only a slight smile from Bidwell. ”As one Oxford man to another, sir,” he said to the magistrate, ”I should not wish to be in your shoes.”

”If you were in my shoes, sir,” Woodward said, enjoying this joust with the schoolmaster's wit, ”you would not be an Oxford man. You would be a candidate for the noose.”

Johnstone's eyes widened a fraction. ”Pardon me?”

”My shoes are in the custody of a murderer,” Woodward explained, and then proceeded to paint in detail the events at Shawcombe's tavern. The judge had realized that such a tale of near-tragedy was as sure a draw to an audience as was a candle-flame to inquisitive moths, and so began to bellows the flame for all it was worth. Matthew was intrigued to find that in this go-round of the tale, the judge was certain from the beginning that Shawcombe was ”a scoundrel of evil intent,” and that he'd made up his mind to guard his back ere Shawcombe sank a blade into it.

As the clay of history was being reshaped, the doorbell again rang and presently Mrs. Nettles reappeared escorting another guest to the gathering. This gentleman was a slight, small-boned man who brought to Matthew's mind the image of a bantam owl perched atop a barn's beam. His face was truly owlish, with a pale pursed mouth and a hooked nose, his large pallid blue eyes swimming behind round-lensed spectacles and arched brown brows set high on his furrowed dome. He wore a plain black suit, blue s.h.i.+rt with ruffled cuffs, and high-topped boots. His long brown hair- streaked with gray at the temples-overhung his shoulders, his head crowned by an ebon tricorn.

”Dr. Benjamin s.h.i.+elds, our surgeon,” Bidwell announced. ”How goes it, Ben?”

”An unfortunate day, I fear,” the doctor said, in a voice very much larger than himself. ”Forgive my tardiness. I just came from the Chester house.”

”What is Madam Chester's condition?” Winston asked.

”Lifeless.” s.h.i.+elds removed his tricorn and handed it to Mrs. Nettles, who stood behind him like a dark wall. ”Sad to say, she pa.s.sed not an hour ago. It's this swamp air! It clogs the lungs and thickens the blood. If we don't have some relief soon, Robert, our shovels will see much new work. h.e.l.lo!” He strode forward and offered his hand to Woodward. ”You're the magistrate we've been waiting for. Thank G.o.d you've finally come!”

”As I understand it from the council in Charles Town,” Woodward said after he'd shaken the doctor's hand, which he noticed was more than a little cold and clammy, ”I am actually the third magistrate involved in this situation. The first perished by the plague back in March, before he could leave the city, and the second... well, Magistrate Kingsbury's fate was unknown until last night. This is my clerk, Matthew Corbett.”

”A pleasure, young man.” The doctor shook Matthew's hand. ”Sir,” he said, addressing Woodward again, ”I care not if you are the third, thirteenth, or thirty-third magistrate involved! We just want this situation resolved, and the sooner the better.” He punctuated his statement with a fiery glare over the rims of his spectacles, then he sniffed the air of the aroma that had been creeping into the room. ”Ah, roasted meat! What's on the table tonight, Robert?”

”Toss 'em boys in peppercorn sauce,” Bidwell said, with less vitality than a few moments previously; he was pained by the death of Dorcas Chester, a grandly aged lady whose husband Timothy was Fount Royal's tailor. Indeed, the cloth of things was unraveling. The doctor's remark about the work of shovels also made Bidwell think-uncomfortably so-of Alice Barrow's dreams.

”Dinner will be a'table presently,” Mrs. Nettles told them, and then she left the room, carrying the doctor's tricorn.

s.h.i.+elds walked to the fireplace and warmed his hands. ”A pity about Madam Chester,” he said, before anyone else could venture off into new territory. ”She was a fine woman. Magistrate, have you had much of a chance to inspect our town?”