Part 41 (2/2)

Bidwell stared blankly at him. ”Your mind is as addled as a c.o.c.kroach, isn't it? What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l does it matter?”

”I would really like to know, ” Matthew persisted. ”What was his height?”

”Well... taller than me, I suppose. I don't remember much about him but the beard.”

”What color was it?”

”I think... dark brown. There might have been some gray in it.” He scowled. ”You don't expect me to fully remember a man who pa.s.sed through here four years ago, do you? And what's the point of these foolish questions?”

”Where did he stay?” Matthew asked, oblivious to Bidwell's rising ire. ”Here in the house?”

”I offered him a room. As I recall, he refused and asked for the loan of a tent. He spent two or possibly three nights sleeping outside. I believe it was early September, and certainly warm enough.”

”Let me guess where the tent was pitched, ” Matthew said. ”Was it beside the spring?”

”I think it might have been. What of it?” Bidwell c.o.c.ked his head to one side, flakes of snuff around his nostrils.

”I am working on a theory, ” Matthew answered.

Bidwell giggled; it sounded like a woman's laugh, it was so quick and high-pitched, and Bidwell instantly put his hand to his mouth and flushed crimson. ”A theory, ” he said, about to laugh again; in fact, he was straining so hard to hold back his merriment that his jowls and corncake-stuffed belly quivered. ”By G.o.d, we must have our daily theories, mustn't we?”

”Laugh if you like, but answer this: for whom was the surveyor working?”

”For whom? Why... one moment, I have a theory!” Bidwell widened his eyes in mockery. ”I believe he must have been working for the Council of Lands and Plantations! There is such an administrative body, you know!”

”He told you he was working for this council, then?”

”d.a.m.n it, boy!” Bidwell shouted, the mighty schooner of his patience smas.h.i.+ng out its belly on the rocks. ”I've had enough of this!” He stalked past Matthew and out of the banquet room.

Matthew instantly followed him. ”Please, sir!” he said as Bid-well walked to the staircase. ”It's important! Did this surveyor tell you his name?”

”Pah!” Bidwell replied, starting up the steps. ”You're as crazy as a loon!”

”His name! Can you recall it?”

Bidwell stopped, realizing he could not shake the flea that gave him such a maddening itch. He looked back at Matthew, his eyes ablaze. ”No, I do not! Winston walked him about the town! Go ask him and leave me be! I swear, you could set Satan himself running for sanctuary!” He jabbed a finger toward the younger man. ”But you won't ruin this glorious day for me, no sirrah you won't! The sun is out, praise G.o.d, and as soon as that d.a.m.ned witch is ashes this town will grow again! So go march to the gaol and tell her that Robert Bidwell has never failed, never, and will never be a failure!”

A figure suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. Matthew saw him first, of course, and Matthew's astonished expression made Bidwell jerk his head around.

Woodward braced himself against the wall, his flesh near the same hue as his pap-stained cotton nightgown. A sheen of sweat glistened on his sallow face, and his eyes were red-rimmed and weak with pain.

”Magistrate!” Bidwell climbed the risers to lend a supporting arm. ”I thought you were sleeping!”

”I was, ” he said hoa.r.s.ely, though speaking with any volume caused his throat grievous suffering. ”Who can sleep... during a duel of cannons?”

”I apologize, sir. Your clerk has roused my bad manners yet again.”

The magistrate stared down into Matthew's face, and at once Matthew knew what had been important enough to force him from his bed.

”My deliberations are done, ” Woodward said. ”Come prepare a quill and paper.”

”You mean... you mean...” Bidwell could hardly contain himself. ”You have reached your decision?”

”Come up, Matthew, ” Woodward repeated, and then to Bid-well, ”Will you help me to my bed, please?”

Bidwell might have bodily lifted the magistrate and carried him, but decorum prevailed. Matthew ascended the stairs, and together he and the master of Fount Royal took Woodward along the hallway to his room. Once settled in bed again and propped up on the blood-spotted pillow, Woodward said, ”Thank you, Mr. Bidwell. You may depart.”

”If you don't mind, I would like to stay and hear the decree.” Bidwell had already closed the door and claimed a position next to the bed.

”I do mind, sir. Until the decree is read to the accused”- Woodward paused to gasp a breath-”it is the court's business. It would not be seemly otherwise.”

”Yes but-”

”Depart, ” Woodward said. ”Your presence delays our work.” He glanced irritably at Matthew, who stood at the foot of the bed. ”The quill and paper! Now!” Matthew turned away to get the doc.u.ment box that also held sheets of clean paper, the quill, and the inkjar.

Bidwell went to the door, but before he left he had to try once again. ”Tell me this, then: should I have the stake cut and planted?”

Woodward squeezed his eyes shut at Bidwell's dogged disregard for propriety. Then he opened them and said tersely, ”Sir... you may accompany Matthew to read my decree to the accused. Now please... leave us.”

”All right, then. I'm going.”

”And... Mr. Bidwell... please refrain from dawdling in the hall.”

”My word on it as a gentleman. I shall be waiting downstairs.” Bidwell left the room and closed the door.

Woodward stared out the window at the gold-tinged sun-illumed morning. It was going to be beautiful today, he thought. A more lovely morning than he'd seen in the better part of a month. ”Date the decree, ” he told Matthew, though it was hardly necessary.

Matthew sat upon the stool beside the bed, using the doc.u.ment box as a makes.h.i.+ft writing table propped on his knees. He dipped the quill into the ink and wrote at the top of the paper May Seventeenth, Sixteen-Ninety-Nine.

”Ready it, ” Woodward prodded, his eyes fixed on the outside world.

Matthew scribed the preface, which he had done enough times in enough different circ.u.mstances to know the correct wording. It took him a few moments and a few dips of the quill: By Decree of the Right Honorable King's Appointed Magistrate Isaac Temple Woodward on This Day in the Settlement of Fount Royal, Carolina Colony, Concerning the Accusations of Murder and Witchcraft to Be Detailed As Follows Against the Defendant, a Woman Citizen Known Hereby As Rachel Howarth...

He had to stop to work out a kink in his writing hand. ”Go on, ” Woodward said. ”It must be done.”

Matthew had an ashen taste in his mouth. He dipped the quill again, and this time he spoke the words aloud as he wrote them: ”On the Charge of the Murder of the Reverend Burlton Grove, I Find the Aforesaid Defendant-” He paused once more, his quill poised to record the magistrate's decree. The flesh of his face seemed to have drawn tight beyond endurance, and a heat burned in his skull.

Suddenly Woodward snapped his fingers. Matthew looked at him quizzically, and when the magistrate put a finger to his lips and then motioned toward the door Matthew realized what he was trying to communicate. Matthew quietly put aside his writing materials and the doc.u.ment box, got up from the stool, went to the door, and quickly opened it.

Bidwell was down on one knee in the hallway, busily buffing his right shoe with his peac.o.c.k-blue sleeve. He turned his head and looked at Matthew, lifting his eyebrows as if to ask why the clerk had emerged so stealthily from the magistrate's room.

”Gentleman, my a.s.s!” Woodward hissed under his breath.

”I thought you were going downstairs to wait, ” Matthew reminded the man, who now ferociously buffed his shoetop and then heaved himself up to his feet with an air of indignance.

”Did I say I would race there? I saw a blemish on my shoe!”

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