Part 14 (1/2)
”My bedroom's next to his,” Bidwell said. ”I'm d.a.m.ned if I can get a wink!” He reached for the doork.n.o.b.
”Sir?” Matthew grasped his wrist. ”I would ask that you leave him be. He'll snore again, even if you disturb him. And I do think he needs his rest for tomorrow.”
”What about my my rest?” rest?”
”You won't be interviewing the witnesses, as the magistrate will be.”
Bidwell made a sour face. Without his lavish and expensive wig, he seemed a diminished presence. His hair, the color of sand, was cropped to the scalp. He pulled his arm away from Matthew's grip. ”A second-rate citizen in my own house!” he fumed.
”I thank you for your understanding.”
”Understanding be d.a.m.ned!” He flinched as Woodward sputtered and moaned.
”Hurting,” the magistrate said. ”Dear G.o.d... hurting...” His voice was overcome once more by the darktime sawing.
Bidwell released the breath from between his teeth. ”I suppose he ought to see Dr. s.h.i.+elds, then, if he's suffering so grievously.”
”He's speaking to a dream,” Matthew explained.
”A dream? dream? Well, he's not the only one in Fount Royal with evil dreams! Satan plants them in the mind like bad seeds!” Well, he's not the only one in Fount Royal with evil dreams! Satan plants them in the mind like bad seeds!”
”It isn't something new. I've heard him this way on many occasions.”
”My pity on your ears, then!” Bidwell ran a hand across his coa.r.s.e-cut hair, his vanity making him realize how much an opulent wig added to his stature. ”What're you doing up? Did he awaken you?”
”No, it was the thunder. I looked out my window and saw-” Matthew hesitated. Saw what? he asked himself. A man or woman? Negro or white? Carrying something or not? This news might add to Bidwell's impression of him as a wolf-crier. He decided to let the matter pa.s.s. ”The storm approaching,” he said.
”Ha!” Bidwell grinned. ”You're not as smart as you fancy yourself, clerk!”
”Pardon?”
”Your window faces the sea. The storm's approaching from the west.”
”Oh,” Matthew said. ”My mistake, then.”
”h.e.l.l's bells!” Bidwell growled as the thunder crashed again. ”Who can sleep in this?” this?”
”Not I. In fact, I was on my way down to your library for something to read.”
”To read? Do you know what time it is? Near three o'clock!”
”The lateness of the hour never stopped me from reading before,” Matthew said. He had a sudden thought. ”Of course... since you're unable to sleep, you might indulge me.”
”Indulge you in what?”
”A game of chess. I saw your board and the pieces there. Do you play?”
”Yes, I certainly do!” Bidwell thrust out his chin. ”And very well too, I might say!”
”Really? Well enough to beat me?”
”Well enough,” Bidwell said, and offered a slight smile, ”to grind you into a powder and puff you to the winds!”
”I should like to see that.”
”Then see it you shall! After you, my swell-headed clerk!”
In the library, as the storm continued to bellow and boom outside the shuttered windows, they set the lamps down to give light upon the board and Bidwell announced his choice of the white pieces. Once seated, Bidwell advanced a p.a.w.n with ferocious alacrity. ”There!” he said. ”The first soldier who seeks to have your head!”
Matthew moved a knight. ”Seeking,” he said, ”is a long distance from having.”
Another p.a.w.n entered the fray. ”I was schooled in chess by an expert, so don't be alarmed at the speed with which you're conquered.”
”I suppose I am am at a disadvantage, then.” Matthew studied the board. ”I was self-taught.” at a disadvantage, then.” Matthew studied the board. ”I was self-taught.”
”Many evenings I played on this same board with Reverend Grove. In fact, this was his chess set. Now surely you're not going to tarry very long over what must be a simple move, are you?”
”No,” Matthew said. ”Not very long.” His next move was a minute more in being placed. Within twelve moves, Bidwell saw his queen impaled between a bishop and a rook.
”Go on, then! Take her, d.a.m.n it!” he said.
Matthew did. Now it was Bidwell's turn to study the board. ”You say Reverend Grove taught you?” Matthew asked. ”He was a chess scholar as well as a minister?”
”Are you being witty?” Bidwell's tone had turned sharp.
”No, not at all. I asked an honest question.”
Bidwell was silent, his eyes searching for moves but registering the fact that his king would soon be threatened by the very same knight with which Matthew had begun his game. ”Grove wasn't a chess scholar,” Bidwell said, ”but he did enjoy playing. He was a bright man. If he was a scholar at anything, it was Latin.”
”Latin?”
”That's right. He loved the language. So much that when he played-and this never failed to infuriate me, which I suppose was partly the point-he announced his moves in Latin. Ah! There's my savior!” Bidwell started to take the offending knight with a bishop.
”Uh... if you move that piece,” Matthew said, ”your king will be in check from my queen.”
Bidwell's hand stopped in midair. ”I knew that!” he snapped. ”Do you think I'm blind?” He quickly altered the destination of his hand to move a knight toward Matthew's king.
Which Matthew instantly killed with a p.a.w.n that had been lying in wait. ”Did Reverend Grove have any enemies?” he asked.
”Yes. Satan. And the witch, of course.” Bidwell frowned, rubbing his chin. ”I must need spectacles, to have missed that little b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”
”How long had the reverend been here?”
”Since the beginning. He offered himself the very first month.”
”Where did he come from?”