Part 53 (2/2)
”So long as they wouldn't mix it with blood sausage, ” Matthew muttered.
”What?”
”Nothing. Just... thinking aloud.” He licked the goblet's rim and then held the gla.s.s out. Mrs. Nettles reverted to the role of servant and put the silver tray up to receive the empty goblet.
”Thank you for the information and the candor, ” Matthew said. Instead of luffing his sails, the rum had stolen his wind. He felt light-headed but heavy at heart. He went to the window and stood beside it with his hand braced against the wall and his head drooping.
”Yes sir. Is there anythin' else?” She walked to the door, where she paused before leaving.
”One thing, ” Matthew said. ”If someone had taken your sister to the Florida country, after she was accused and convicted of witchcraft, she would still be alive today. Wouldn't you have wanted that?”
”Of course, sir. But I wouldn't ask a body to give up his life ta do it.”
”Mrs. Nettles, my life will be given up when Rachel is burned on that stake Monday morning. Knowing what I do... and unable to save her through the proper legal channels... it's going to be more than I can bear. And I fear also that this is a burden that will never disappear, but only grow heavier with the pa.s.sage of time.”
”If that's the case, I regret ever askin' you ta take an interest in her.”
”It is the case, ” he replied, with some heat in it. ”And you did ask me to take an interest, and I have... and here we are.”
”Oh, my, ” Mrs. Nettles said quietly, her eyes widening.
”Oh... my.”
”Is there a meaning behind that? If so, I'd like to hear it.”
”You... have a feelin' for her, do you nae?”
”A feeling? Yes, I care whether she lives or dies!”
”Nae only that, ” Mrs. Nettles said. ”You know of what I'm speakin'. Oh, my. Who'd ha' thought such a thing?”
”You may go now.” He turned his back to her, directing his attention out the window at some pa.s.sing figment.
”Does she know? She ought ta. It mi' ease her-”
”Please go, ” he said, through clenched teeth.
”Yes sir, ” she answered, rather meekly, and she closed the door behind her.
Matthew eased himself down in the chair again and put his hands to his face. What had he ever done to deserve such torment as this? Of course it was nothing compared to the anguish Rachel would be subjected to in less than seventy-two hours.
He couldn't bear it. He couldn't. For he knew that wherever he ran on Monday morning... wherever he hid... he would hear Rachel's screams and smell her flesh burning.
He was near drunk from the goblet of fiery rum, but in truth he could have easily swallowed down the bottle. He had come to the end of the road. There was nothing more he could do, say, or discover. Linch had won. When Bidwell was found murdered a week or so hence-after Matthew and the magistrate had left, of course-the tales of Satan's vengeance would spread through Fount Royal and in one month, if that long, the town would be deserted. Linch might even move into the mansion and lord over an estate of ghosts while he plundered the fount.
Matthew's mind was beleaguered. The room's walls had begun to slowly spin, and if he hadn't put down the Sir Richard he might have feared Linch was still trampling through his head.
There were details... details that did not fit.
The surveyor, for instance. Who had he been? Perhaps just a surveyor, after all? The gold coin possessed by Shawcombe. From where had the Indian gotten it? The disappearance of Shawcombe and that nasty brood. Where had they gone, leaving their valuables behind?
And the murder of Reverend Grove.
He could understand why Linch had killed Daniel Howarth. But why the reverend? To emphasize that the Devil had no use for a man of G.o.d? To remove what the citizens would feel was a source of protection from evil? Or was it another reason altogether, something that Matthew was missing?
He couldn't think anymore. The walls were spinning too fast. He was going to have to stand up and try to reach the bed, if he could. Ready... one... two... three!
He staggered to the bed, barely reaching it before the room's rotation lamed him. Then he lay down on his back, his arms out-flung on either side, and with a heaving sigh he gave himself up from this world of tribulations.
Thirty-Three.
At half-past seven, Van Gundy's tavern was doing a brisk business. On any given Friday night the lamplit, smoky emporium of potables and edibles would have a half-dozen customers, mostly farmers who wished to socialize with their brethren away from the ears of wives and children. On this Friday night, with its celebratory air due to the fine weather and the imminent end of Rachel Howarth, fifteen men had a.s.sembled to talk, or holler as the case might be, to chew on the tavern's salted beef and drink draught after draught of wine, turn, and apple beer. For the truly adventurous there was available a tavern-brewed corn liquor guaranteed to elevate the earth to the level of one's nose.
Van Gundy-a husky, florid-faced man with a trimmed gray goatee and a few sprouts of peppery hair that stood upright on his scalp-was inspired by this activity to perform. Taking up his gittern, he planted himself amid the revelers and began to howl bawdy songs that involved succulent young wives, chast.i.ty belts, duplicate keys, and travelling merchants. This cattawago proved so enn.o.bling to the crowd that more orders for strong drink thundered forth and the thin, rather sour-looking woman who tended to the serving was gazed upon by bleary eyes as if she were a veritable Helen of Troy.
”Here is a song!” Van Gundy bellowed, his wind puffing the blue pipe smoke that wafted about him. ”I made this up myself, just today!” He struck a chord that would've made a cat swoon and began: ”Hi hi ho, here's a tale I know, 'tis a sad sad tale I am sure, Concerns the witch of Fount Royal, and her devilish crew, To call her vile is calling s.h.i.+t mannnnure!
Much laughter and tankard-lifting greeted this, of course, but Van Gundy was a fool for music.
”Hi hi ho, here's a tale I know, 'tis a sorry sorry tale I know well, For when the witch of Fount Royal, has been burnt to cold gray ash, She'll still be suckin' Satan's c.o.c.k way down in h.e.l.llllll!”
Matthew thought the roof might be hurled off the tavern by the hurricane of noise generated by this ode. He had chosen his table wisely, sitting at the back of the room as far as possible from the center of activity, but not even the two cups of wine and the cup of apple beer he'd consumed could dull the sickened pain produced by Van Gundy's rape of the ear. These fools were insufferable! Their laughing and gruesome attempts at jokes turned Matthew's stomach. He had the feeling that if he remained much longer in this town he would become an accomplished drunkard and sink to a nadir known only by the worms that thrived in dog dates.
Now Van Gundy turned his talents to tunes concocted on the spot. He pointed at a gent nearby and then walloped a chord: ”Let me sing 'bout old d.i.c.k Cus.h.i.+ng, Wore out his wife from his constant pus.h.i.+n'
She called for an ointment to ease her down there, But all the stuff did was burn off her hair'.”
Laughter, hilarity, drinking, and rousting aplenty followed. Another customer was singled out: ”Woe to all who cross Hiram Abercrombie, For he's got a temper would sting a bee, He can drink any ten men under a table, And plow their wives' furrows when they are unable!”
Oh, this was torture! Matthew pushed aside the plate of chicken and beans that had served as a not very appetizing dinner. His appet.i.te had been further killed by that unfortunate filth flung at Rachel, who might have silenced this haven of jesters with a single regal glance.
He finished the last swallow of the apple beer and stood up from his bench. At that moment Van Gundy launched into a new tuneless tune: ”Allow us to welcome fine Solomon Stiles, Whose talent in life lies in walking for miles, Through Indian woods and beast-haunted glen, Searchin' for a squaw to put his p.r.i.c.k in!”
Matthew looked toward the door and saw that a man had just entered. As a reply to the laughter and shouts directed at him, this new arrival took off his leather tricorn and gave a mocking bow to the a.s.sembled idiots. Then he proceeded to a table and sat down as Van Gundy turned his graceless wit upon the next grinning victim, by name Jethro Sudrucker.
Matthew again seated himself. He'd realized that an interesting opportunity lay before him, if he handled it correctly. Was not this the Solomon Stiles who Bidwell had told him was a hunter, and who had gone out with a party of men in search of the escaped slaves? He watched as Stiles-a lean, rawboned man of perhaps fifty years-summoned the serving-woman over, and then he stood up and went to the table.
Just before Matthew was about to make his introduction, Van Gundy strummed his gittern and bellowed forth: ”We should all feel pity for young Matthew Corbett, I heard beside the spring he was savagely bit.
By that venomous serpent whose pa.s.sion is pies, And whose daughter bakes loaves between her hot thighs!”
Matthew blushed red even before the wave of laughter struck him, and redder yet after it had rolled past. He saw that Solomon Stiles was offering only a bemused smile, the man's square-jawed face weathered and sharp-chiseled as tombstone granite. Stiles had closely trimmed black hair, gray at the temples. From his left eyebrow up across his forehead was the jagged scar of a dagger or rapier slash. His nose was the shape of an Indian tomahawk, his eyes dark brown and meticulous in their inspection of the young man who stood before him. Stiles was dressed simply, in black breeches and a plain white s.h.i.+rt.
”Mr. Stiles?” Matthew said, his face still flushed. Van Gundy had gone on to skewer another citizen on his gittern spike. ”My name is-”
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