Part 44 (1/2)
”For what reason?”
Violet carefully placed the chesspiece back in its proper place on the board. ”What are these, sir? Are they toys?”
”It's a game called chess. The pieces have different patterns of movement across the board.”
”Ohhhh.” She seemed much impressed. ”Like knuckles 'n' stones, 'ceptin' you play that in the dirt.”
”I imagine so, yes.”
”They're pretty, ” she said. ”Did Mr. Bidwell carve 'em?”
”I doubt it.”
She continued staring at the chessboard. The tic of her upper lip had returned. ”Last night, ” she said, ”a rat got in my bed.” Matthew didn't quite know how to respond to this matter-of-fact statement, so he said nothing.
”It got all tangled up in the beddin's, ” she went on. ”It couldn't get out, and I could feel it down at my feet, thras.h.i.+n'. I couldn't get loose, neither. Both of us were tryin' to get out. Then my papa come in and I was scared I was gonna get bit so I was screamin'. So he grabbed it up in the sheet and hit it with a candlestick, and then my mama started screamin' 'cause there was blood everywhere and that sheet was ruined.”
”I'm sorry, ” Matthew said. ”It must have been traumatic.” Especially for a child of her sensitive nature, he might have added.
”Trau-what, sir?”
”I meant it must have been a fearsome experience.”
”Yes sir.” She nodded, and now she picked up a p.a.w.n and studied it in the sunlight. ”The thing about it, though... is that... near mornin', I started rememberin' somethin'. About that man's voice I heard singin' in the Hamilton house.”
Matthew's heart suddenly lodged in his throat. ”Remembering what?”
”Whose voice it was.” She put down the p.a.w.n and lifted her eyes to his. ”It's still a fog... and thinkin' about it makes my head hurt somethin' awful, but... I recollected what he was sin-gin'.” She took a breath and began to softly sing, in a sweet and clear timbre: ”Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies...”
”The ratcatcher, ” Matthew said. In his mind he heard Linch singing that same macabre song during the ma.s.sacre of rats at the gaol.
”Yes sir. It was Mr. Linch's voice I heard, from that room back there.”
Matthew stared intensely into the child's eyes. ”Tell me this, Violet: how did you know it was Linch's voice? Had you ever heard that song before?”
”One time he come to kill a nest of rats my papa found. They were all big ones, and black as night. Mr. Linch came and brought his potions and his sticker, and that was what he was singin' when he was waitin' for the rats to get drunk.”
”Did you tell anyone else about this? Your mother and father?”
”No sir. They don't like for me to talk of it.”
”Then you shouldn't tell them you've been here to see me, either.”
”No sir, I wouldn't dare. I'd get a terrible whippin'.”
”You ought to get your water and go home, then, ” Matthew said. ”But one more thing: when you entered the Hamilton house, do you remember smelling anything? Like a very bad odor?” He was thinking of the decaying carca.s.s. ”Or did you see or hear a dog?”
Violet shook her head. ”No sir, none of that. Why?”
”Well...” Matthew reached down to the chessboard and traded positions between the king's knight and the king's bishop. ”If you were to describe this board and the pieces upon it to someone not in this room, how would you do so?”
She shrugged. ”I suppose... that it's a wooden board with light and dark squares and some pieces in position on it.”
”Would you say the game is ready to be played?”
”I don't know, sir. I would say... it is, but then again I don't know the particulars.”
”Yes.” He smiled slightly. ”And it is the particulars that make all the difference. I want to thank you for coming to tell me what you've remembered. I know this has been very difficult for you.”
”Yes sir. But my mama says when the witch is burnt up my head won't pain me no more.” She picked up the two buckets. ”May I ask you somethin' now, sir?'”
”You may.”
”Why do you suppose Mr. Linch was back there in the dark, singin' like that?”
”I don't know, ” he answered.
”I thought on it all this mornin'.” She stared out the window, the yellow sunlight coloring her face. ”It made my head ache so bad I almost cried, but it seemed like somethin' I had to keep thinkin' on.” Violet didn't speak for a moment, but Matthew could tell from the set of her jaw that she had come to an important conclusion. ”I think... Mr. Linch must be a friend of Satan's. That's what I think.”
”You might possibly be right. Do you know where I might find Mr. Linch?”
An expression of alarm tightened her face. ”You're not going to tell him, are you?”
”No. I promise it. I would just like to know where he lives.”
She hesitated for a few seconds, but she knew he would find out anyway. ”At the end of Industry Street. He lives in the very last house.”
”Thank you.”
”I don't know if I was right to come here, ” she said, frowning. ”I mean to say... if Mr. Linch is a friend of the Devil, shouldn't he be called to account for it?”
”He'll be called for an accounting, ” Matthew said. ”You may depend on that.” He touched her shoulder. ”You were right to come. Go ahead, now. Get your water.”
”Yes sir.” Violet left the library with her buckets in tow, and a moment later Matthew stood at the window watching her walk to the spring. Then, his mind aflame with this new information, he hurried upstairs to look in on the magistrate.
He found Woodward sleeping again, which was probably for the best. The magistrate's face sparkled with sweat, and when Matthew approached the bed he could feel the man's fever long before he placed his fingers to Woodward's hot forehead.
The magistrate stirred. His mouth opened, yet his eyes remained sealed. ”Hurting, ” he said, in that tormented whisper. 'Ann... he's hurting...”
Matthew drew his hand back. The tips of his fingers felt as if he had held them over a forge. Matthew placed the rolled-up decree atop the dresser and then picked up the box that held the remainder of the court doc.u.ments so that he might continue reading through them tonight. For now, though, he had other things to do. He went to his room, put the doc.u.ment box on the table beside his bed, splashed water in his face from his shaving bowl to revive his flagging energies, and then was again out the door.
It had become a truly magnificent day. The sky was bright blue and cloudless and the sun was gorgeously warm. A light breeze was blowing from the west, and in it Matthew could detect the fragrances of wild honeysuckle, pine sap, and the rich aroma of fulsome earth. He might have sat down upon the bank of the spring to enjoy the warmth, as he saw several citizens doing, but he had a task ahead of him that granted no freedom of time for simple pleasures.
On his way along Industry Street-which he was beginning to know quite well-he pa.s.sed Exodus Jerusalem's camp. Actually, he heard the bl.u.s.ter of Jerusalem's preaching before he got there and he marveled that the breeze didn't become a hot and malodorous tempest in this quarter of Fount Royal. Jerusalem's sister-and by that term Matthew didn't know whether the preacher meant by blood or by indecent patronage-was scrubbing clothes in a washpot next to the wagon, while the young nephew-and here it was best to make no mental comment- was lying on a quilt in the shade nearby, picking the petals off a yellow flower and tossing them idly aside. The black-garbed master of ceremonies, however, was hard at work; he stood upon an overturned crate, orating and gesticulating for a somber crowd of two men and a woman.
Matthew stared straight ahead, hoping to invoke invisibility as he slipped past Jerusalem's field of view, but he knew it was not to be. ”Ah!” came the sky-ripping shout. ”Ah, there walketh a sinner! Right there! Look, everyone! Look how he doth scurry like a thief in broad daylight!”
What Jerusalem called scurrying Matthew called picking up his pace. He dared not pause to deflect Jerusalem's hook, for then he would be nattered to holes by this pseudo-holy imbecile. Therefore he kept a constant course, even though the preacher began to rant and rave in a fas.h.i.+on that made Matthew's blood start to boil: ”Yes, look at him and thy looketh upon the pride of a witch's bed! Oh, did thou not all know the vile truth? Well, it is as plain as the writ of G.o.d across the soul of a righteous man! That sinner yonder hath actually struck me-struck me, I sayeth!-in defense of that wanton sorceress he so dearly yearn-eth to protect! And not just protect! Gentle flock, if thou but kneweth the cravings in that sinner's mind concerning the dark woman, thou might falleth to thy knees in the frenzy of madness! He wisheth the flesh of her body be gripped in his hands, her mouth open to his abominable needs, her every orifice a receptacle of his goatly l.u.s.ts! And there he goeth, the blind wretched beast, scurrying away from the word of G.o.d lest it scorcheth some light into his eyes and maketh him see the path to d.a.m.nation upon which he rusheth to travel!”
The only path upon which Matthew rusheth was the one leading away from Exodus Jerusalem. It occurred to him, as he gladly left the preacher's caterwaulings behind, that the gentle flock would probably cough up some coins to hear more on the subject of orifices, receptacles, and goatly l.u.s.ts, which was probably at the heart of it the whole reason for their attendance today. Matthew had to admit that Jerusalem had a talent at painting h.o.r.n.y pictures. For now, though-until, dreadfully, he had to come back this way-his attention was focused on finding the ratcatcher's domicile.