Part 31 (2/2)

”Such as?”

”Such as where were you when your husband was murdered? And why is it that someone other than you found the body?”

”I remember Daniel getting out of bed that night,” Rachel said. ”Or perhaps it was early morning. I don't know. But he often rose in the dark and by candlelight figured in his ledger. There was nothing odd in his rising. I simply turned over, pulled the blanket up, and went back to sleep as I always did.”

”Did you know that he'd gone outside?”

”No, I didn't.”

”Was that usual also? That he should go out in the cold at such an early hour?”

”He might go out to feed the livestock, depending on how near it was to sunrise.”

”You say your husband kept a ledger? Containing what?”

”Daniel kept account of every s.h.i.+lling he had. Also how much money was invested in the farm, and how much was spent on day-to-day matters such as candles, soap, and the like.”

”Was money owed to him by anyone in town, or did he owe money?”

”No,” Rachel said. ”Daniel prided himself that he was his own master.”

”Admirable, but quite unusual in these times.” Matthew took another swallow of soup. ”How did your husband's body come to be found?”

”Jess Maynard found it. Him, Him, I mean. Lying in the field, with his throat... you know.” She paused. ”The Maynards lived on the other side of us. Jess had come out to feed his chickens at first light when he saw... the crows circling. He came over and that's when he found Daniel.” I mean. Lying in the field, with his throat... you know.” She paused. ”The Maynards lived on the other side of us. Jess had come out to feed his chickens at first light when he saw... the crows circling. He came over and that's when he found Daniel.”

”Did you see the body?”

Again, there was a hesitation. Then she said quietly. ”I did.”

”I understand it was the throat wound that killed him, but were there not other wounds on his body? Bidwell described them, I recall, as claw or teeth marks to the face and arms.”

”Yes, there were those.”

”Forgive my indelicacy,” Matthew said, ”but is that how you would describe them? As teeth or claw marks?”

”I... remember... how terrible was the wound to his throat. I did see what appeared to be claw marks on his face, but... I didn't care at the moment to inspect them. The sight of my husband lying dead, his eyes and mouth open as they were... I remember that I cried out and fell to my knees beside him. I don't recall much after that, except that Ellen Maynard took me to her house to rest.”

”Are the Maynards still living there?”

”No. They moved away after...” She gave a sigh of resignation. ”After the stories about me began to fly.”

”And who began these stories? Do you know of any one person?”

”I would be the last to know,” Rachel said dryly.

”Yes,” Matthew agreed. ”Of course. People being as they are, I'm sure the stories were spread about and more and more embellished. But tell me this: the accusations against you did not begin until your husband was murdered, is that correct? You were not suspected in the murder of Reverend Grove?”

”No, I was not. After I was brought here, Bidwell came in to see me. He said he had witnesses to my practise of witchcraft and that he knew I-or my 'master,' as he put it-was responsible for the calamities that had struck Fount Royal. He asked me why I had decided to consort with Satan, and what was my purpose in destroying the town. At that point he asked if I had murdered the reverend. Of course I thought he'd lost his mind. He said I was to cease all a.s.sociations with demons and confess myself to be a witch, and that he would arrange for me to be immediately banished. The alternative, he said, was death.”

Matthew finished his soup and set the bowl aside. ”Tell me,” he said, ”why you didn't agree to banishment. Your husband was dead, and you faced execution. Why didn't you leave?”

”Because,” she answered, ”I am not guilty. Daniel bought our farm from Bidwell and we had both worked hard at making it a success. Why should I give it up, admit to killing two men and being a witch, and be sent out into the wilds with nothing? I would have surely died out there. Here, at least, I felt that when a magistrate arrived to hear the case I might have a chance.” She was silent for a while, and then she said, ”I never thought it would take so long. The magistrate was supposed to be here over a month ago. By the day you and Woodward arrived, I had suffered Bidwell's slings and arrows many times over. I had almost lost all hope. In fact, you both looked so... well, unofficial... unofficial... that I at first thought Bidwell had brought in two hirelings to goad a confession out of me.” that I at first thought Bidwell had brought in two hirelings to goad a confession out of me.”

”I understand,” Matthew said. ”But was there no effort to discover who had murdered the reverend?”

”There was, as I recall, but after Lenora Grove left, the interest faded over time, as there were no suspects and no apparent motive. But the reverend's murder was the first incident that caused people to start leaving Fount Royal. It was a grim Winter.”

”I can imagine it was.” Matthew listened to the increasing sound of rain on the roof. ”A grim Spring, as well. I doubt if Fount Royal could survive another one as bad.”

”Probably not. But I won't be here to know, will I?”

Matthew didn't answer. What could he say? Rachel's voice was very tight when she spoke again. ”In your opinion, how long do I have to live?”

She was asking to be told the truth. Matthew said, ”The magistrate will read thoroughly over the records. He will deliberate, according to past witchcraft cases of which he has knowledge.” Matthew folded his hands together in his lap. ”He may give his decision as early as Wednesday. On Thursday he might ask for your confession, and on that day as well he might require me to write, date, and sign the order of sentencing. I expect... the preparations would be made on Friday. He would not wish to carry out the sentence on either the day before the Sabbath or the Sabbath itself. Therefore-”

”Therefore I burn on Monday,” Rachel finished for him.

”Yes,” Matthew said. A long silence stretched. Though he wished to ease her sorrow, Matthew knew of no consolation he could offer that would not sound blatantly foolish.

”Well,” she said at last, her voice carrying a mixture of courage and pain, and that was all.

Matthew lay down in his accustomed place in the straw and folded himself up for warmth. Rain drummed harder on the roof. He listened to its m.u.f.fled roar and thought how simple life had seemed when he was a child and all he had to fear was the pile of pig dung. Life was so complicated now, so filled with strange twists and turns like a road that wandered across a wilderness no man could completely tame, much less understand.

He was deeply concerned for the magistrate's failing health. On the one hand, the sooner they got away from Fount Royal and returned to the city, the better; but on the other hand he was deeply concerned as well for the life of the woman in the next cell.

And it was not simply because he did think her beautiful to look upon. Paine had been correct, of course. Rachel was indeed-as he had crudely put it-a ”handsome piece.” Matthew could understand how Paine-how any man, really-could be drawn to her. Rachel's intelligence and inner fire were also appealing to Matthew, as he'd never met a woman of such nature before. Or, at least, he'd never met a woman before who had allowed those characteristics of intelligence and fire to be seen in public. It was profoundly troubling to believe that just possibly Rachel's beauty and independent nature were two reasons she'd been singled out by public opinion as a witch. It seemed to him, in his observations, that if one could not catch and conquer an object of desire, it often served the same to destroy it.

The question must be answered in his own mind: was she a witch or not? Before the testimony of Violet Adams, he would have said the so-called eyewitness accounts were fabrications or fantasies, even though both men had sworn on the Bible. But the child's testimony had been tight and convincing. Frighteningly convincing, in fact. This was not a situation where the child had gone to bed and awakened thinking that a dream had been reality; this had happened when she was wide awake, and her grasp of details seemed about right considering the stress of the moment. The child's testimony-especially concerning the black cloak, the six gold b.u.t.tons, and the white-haired dwarf, or ”imp,” as she'd called it-gave further believability to what both Buckner and Garrick had seen. What, then, to make of it?

And there were the poppets, of course. Yes, anyone might have made them and hidden them under the floorboards. But why would anyone have done so? And what to make of Cara Grunewald's ”vision” telling the searchers where to look?

Had Rachel indulged in witchcraft, or not? Had she murdered or wished the murders of Reverend Grove and her husband, the actual killings having been committed by some demonic creature summoned from the bullypit of h.e.l.l?

Another thought came to him while he was on this awful track: if Rachel was a witch, might she or her terrible accomplices have worked a spell on the magistrate's health to prevent him from delivering sentence?

Matthew had to admit that, even though there were puzzling lapses of detail in the accounts of Buckner and Garrick, all the evidence taken together served to light the torch for Rachel's death. He knew the magistrate would read the court doc.u.ments carefully and ponder them with a fair mind, but there was no question the decree would be guilty as charged. guilty as charged. So: was she a witch, or not? So: was she a witch, or not?

Even having read and digested the scholarly volumes that explained witchcraft as insanity, ignorance, or downright malicious accusations, he honestly couldn't say, which frightened him far more than any of the testimony he'd heard.

But she was so beautiful, he thought. So beautiful and so alone. If she was indeed a servant of Satan, how could the Devil himself let a woman so beautiful be destroyed by the hands of men?

Thunder spoke over Fount Royal. Rain began to drip from the gaol's roof at a dozen weak joints. Matthew lay in the dark, huddled up against the chill, his mind struggling with a question inside a mystery within an enigma.

Nineteen.

<script>