Speaks The Nightbird Part 21

"That's correct."

"I know his story." s.h.i.+elds returned to his chair, carrying bottle and probe but minus the mirrored candle this time. "It's enough to shock the hair off a wigstand, isn't it?"

"I've never heard anything more sickening."

"Open, please." s.h.i.+elds dipped the cotton into the bottle and brought it out wet with a dark brown liquid. "This may sting a bit, but it's the rawness being soothed." He slid the probe in and Woodward braced himself. "Steady, now." The liquid-soaked cotton made contact. Woodward almost bit down on the probe, so fierce was the pain. New tears sprang to his eyes, his hands curled into fists, and he found himself thinking that this must be akin to a burning at the stake but without the smoke. "Steady, steady," the doctor said, pausing to dip the cotton into the bottle again. The contest with agony began once more, and Woodward realized his head was starting to twist on his neck in an involuntary effort to escape; thus it was akin, he thought in a fevered sort of humor, to being hanged as well as being burnt.

In another moment, though, the awful pain did begin to subside. s.h.i.+elds kept redipping the cotton into the bottle and swabbing liquid liberally over the back of Woodward's throat. "You should be feeling some relief by now," s.h.i.+elds said. "Are you?" Woodward nodded, tears streaking his face.

"This is my own mixture: Jesuit's Bark, limonum, and opium, made more firm by a base of oxymel. It's shown very excellent results in the past. I'm even considering applying for a label." He made a few more applications of the tonic and then, satisfied that the magistrate's throat was well done, sat back with a smile. "There! I wish all my patients were as st.u.r.dy as you, sir! Ah, just a moment!" He got up, went to one of the drawers, and returned with a linen cloth. "You might wish to use this."

"Thank you," Woodward croaked. He used the cloth as it was intended, to blot his tears.

"If your condition worsens in the next few days, we shall apply the tonic again at a greater strength. But I expect you'll feel much more yourself by tomorrow evening... Elias Garrick is to be your next witness?"

"Yes."

"He's already told you his story. Why do you need to see him?"

"His testimony must be spoken onto the record."

Dr. s.h.i.+elds peered over his spectacles, looking every bit the barn owl. "I must warn you that prolonged speaking will further harm your throat. You should rest it, by all means."

"I'm seeing Garrick on Monday. I'll have the Sabbath to rest."

"Even Monday might be too soon. I'd recommend a week of as little speech as absolutely necessary."

"Impossible!" Woodward said. "I'd be a fine magistrate who couldn't speak!"

"Be that as it may, I'm simply giving you my advice." He again went to the workbench, where he put aside the probe and opened a blue ceramic jar. "This remedy will aid your air pa.s.sages," he said, returning to Woodward with the jar. "Take one."

Woodward looked into the jar and saw what appeared to be a dozen or so small brown sticks, each perhaps two inches in length. "What are they?"

"A botanical remedy, from the hemp plant. I grow and cure the weed myself, as it seems to be one of the few crops that will thrive in this atrocious climate. Go ahead; you'll find it quite a useful drug."

Woodward selected one of the sticks, which had a rather oily texture, and started to slide it into his mouth, intending to chew it. "No, no!" s.h.i.+elds said. "It's smoked, much as one would puff a pipe."

"Smoked?"

"Yes. Except for one difference: the smoke is pulled deeply into the lungs, let settle, and then slowly exhaled." s.h.i.+elds brought the candle over. "Put it between your lips and draw on it." The magistrate obeyed, and s.h.i.+elds touched the candle's flame to the stick's slightly twisted end. A thin plume of bluish smoke began to rise. "Draw it in," s.h.i.+elds instructed. "It will do you no good if you don't."

Woodward inhaled as deeply as possible. He felt the bitter-tasting smoke sear his lungs, and then the bout of coughing that burst forth from him brought fresh tears. He bent over, coughing and weeping.

"The first several inhalations are difficult," the doctor admitted. "Here, I'll show you how it's done." He seated himself, chose one of the hemp sticks, and lit it. Then he inhaled with a familiar ease. After a slight pause, he let the smoke exit his mouth. "You see? It does take some practise."

Even so, Woodward noted that s.h.i.+elds's eyes were glistening. He tried it again, and again was attacked by a coughing fit.

s.h.i.+elds said, "You may be taking in too much smoke. Small doses are the better."

"Do you insist I suffer this remedy?"

"I do. You'll breathe so much more freely." s.h.i.+elds inhaled again, uptilted his chin, and let the smoke drift toward the ceiling.

Woodward tried it a third time. The coughing was not so severe. The fourth time, he coughed only twice. By the sixth inhalation, there did seem to be some lessening of the pressure in his head.

Dr. s.h.i.+elds had almost smoked his down to the halfway point. He regarded the burning tip, and then he stared fixedly at Woodward. "You know, Magistrate," he said after a long silence, "you're a very fine man."

"And why is that, sir?"

"Because you take Robert Bidwell's bluff and bl.u.s.ter without complaint. You must be a fine man. By G.o.d, you must be verging on sanct.i.ty."

"I think not. I'm just a servant"

"Oh, more than a servant! You're master of the law, which makes you Bidwell's superior, since he so desperately needs what only you you can supply." can supply."

"But I might say the same for you, sir," Woodward answered. He inhaled deeply, let settle, and then exhaled. The smoke, as it rose, seemed to him to break apart, merge, and break apart again like the movement of a beautiful kaleidoscope. "You are master of the healing arts."

"Would that I were!" s.h.i.+elds gave a hollow laugh, then leaned forward to give a conspiratorial whisper: "Most of the time, I don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm doing."

"Oh, you're joking!"

"No." s.h.i.+elds drew again and the smoke spooled from his mouth. "It's quite pitifully true."

"I think your honesty has lost its brindle. I mean..." Woodward had to pause to collect the words. The lessening of the pressure in his head also seemed to have shaken the proper vocabulary from his brain. "Your modesty has lost its bridle, I think."

"Being a physician here... in this town, at this time... is a depressing occupation, sir. I have occasion to stroll past the cemetery in visiting my patients. Sometimes I feel I should set up office amid the graves, as there would not be as much travel required." He held the hemp stick between his lips and pulled rather violently on it. The amount of smoke that poured from his mouth was copious. Behind his spectacles, his eyes had become reddened and sad. "It's the swamp, of course. Human beings were not meant to live so near to such a miasma. It burdens the soul and weakens the spirit. Add upon that dismal picture the continual rain and the presence of the witch, and I cannot for the life of me see how Bidwell's town can thrive. People are leaving here every day... one way or the other. No." He shook his head. "Mark Fount Royal as doomed."

"If you really believe so, why don't you take your wife and leave?"

"My wife?"

"Yes." Woodward blinked heavily. His air pa.s.sages were feeling so much clearer, but his mind seemed befogged. "The woman who admitted me. Isn't she your wife?"

"Oh, you mean Mrs. Heussen. My nurse. No, my wife and two sons-no, one son-live in Boston. My wife is a seamstress. I did have two sons. One of them..." He inhaled in a way that struck Woodward as being needful. "... the eldest, was murdered by a highwayman on the Philadelphia Post Road. That would be... oh... eight years ago, I suppose, but still some wounds refuse the remedy of time. To have a child-no matter what age-s.n.a.t.c.hed away from you in such a fas.h.i.+on..." He trailed off, watching the blue smoke swirl in currents and eddies as it rose toward the ceiling. "Pardon me," he said presently, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. "My mind wandered."

"If I may ask," Woodward ventured, "why does your wife remain in Boston?"

"You're not suggesting that she come here to live, are you? Christ's Blood, I wouldn't hear of it! No, she's much better off in Boston, where the medical facilities are modern. They've tamed their salt marshes and tidepools up there, as well, so the damp humours aren't so vengeful." He took a quick sip of the hemp and slowly spewed out the smoke. "For the same reasons, Winston left his family in England and Bidwell wouldn't dream of having his wife make the voyage-not even on one of his own s.h.i.+ps! You know, Johnstone's wife so detested the place that she returned to England and refused to make the crossing again. Do you blame her? This isn't a woman's land, that's a surety!"

Woodward, though this fog was rapidly overcoming his mind, remembered what he had intended to ask Dr. s.h.i.+elds. "About Schoolmaster Johnstone," he said, his tongue thick and seemingly coated with cat fur. "I have to inquire about this, and I know it must sound very strange, but... have you ever seen his deformed knee?"

"His knee? No, I haven't. I'm not sure I would care to, since deformation is not my area of interest. I have sold him bandages and liniment for his discomfort, though." s.h.i.+elds frowned. "Why do you ask such a question?"

"My curiosity," he replied, though it was more Matthew's curiosity that his own. "Uh... would it be unlikely that Mr. Johnstone could... for instance... run or climb stairs?"

The doctor looked at Woodward as if the magistrate's senses had flown the coop.

"I take it that he could not," Woodward said.

"Most certainly not. Well, he might be able to climb stairs one at the time, but I think the effort would be considerable." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side, his owlish eyes bright. "What are these questions about, Isaac? May I call you Isaac?"

"Yes, of course. And may I call you Benjamin?"

"Absolutely. So: Isaac, my friend, why these questions pertaining to Johnstone's knee?"

"A thief entered Mr. Bidwell's house early this morning," Woodward said, leaning his head forward. Smoke moved sinuously between himself and the doctor. "Whoever it was, he stole a gold coin from my clerk's room-"

"Ah, yes." s.h.i.+elds nodded. "The famous coin. I heard about it from Malcolm Jennings when he came to have a boil lanced."

"I encountered the thief in the hallway," Woodward continued. "He was a big man, with the strength of a bull. I fought him as best I could, but as he had caught me from behind I was at the disadvantage." It seemed more true now in his recollection that this had occurred, and who was to say it had not? "Everything happened so quickly," Woodward said. "I didn't see his face. He knocked a lamp from my hand and fled down the staircase. Of course I know Mr. Johnstone's deformity is severe, but... my clerk wanted to learn whether you've inspected his knee, and if he's capable of such an action."

s.h.i.+elds laughed. "Surely you're not serious! Alan Johnstone a thief! thief! I should say that in all of Fount Royal there's no one who'd be less a thief! The man's from a wealthy family!" I should say that in all of Fount Royal there's no one who'd be less a thief! The man's from a wealthy family!"

"I presumed so, since he did attend All Souls' College at Oxford, but one never knows."

"I've personally seen his gold pocket watch, inscribed with his initials. He owns a gold ring with a ruby in it the size of a man's fingernail!" s.h.i.+elds laughed again, rather giddily. "A thief indeed! No, it wouldn't be possible for Alan to run down a staircase. You've seen how he depends on his cane."

"Yes, I have. But the theory that I believe my clerk is advancing-and understand, please, that he's young and his imagination roams unrestrained-is that Mr. Johnstone's knee appears appears to be malformed, but is in truth-his-theory, now-as normal as yours or mine." to be malformed, but is in truth-his-theory, now-as normal as yours or mine."

s.h.i.+elds blinked, took a sip of smoke, blinked again, and then his face broke into a merry grin. "Oh, you're wearing a jester's cap now, is that it?"

Woodward shrugged. "My clerk is quite serious. Therefore I had to make the inquiry."

The doctor's grin faltered. "This is the most... unbalanced thing I've ever heard! You can see the deformity of his knee through his stocking! He's been in Fount Royal for three years! Why in the world would it serve him to devise such a pretense?"

"I have no idea. Again, please understand that Matthew is a very intelligent young man, but that sometimes his mind is unfettered by common sense."

"I should say so!" s.h.i.+elds smoked his remedy some more, and so did the magistrate. Woodward was feeling quite better now, most of the pain having left his throat and his breathing pa.s.sages much clearer. The movement of the smoke entranced him, and the quality of the light entering the room was like gray silk. "I will will tell you something about Alan that you might find of interest," s.h.i.+elds suddenly confided. "About his wife, I mean." He pitched his voice a little lower. "Her name was Margaret. She was... how shall I say this... of a peculiar character." tell you something about Alan that you might find of interest," s.h.i.+elds suddenly confided. "About his wife, I mean." He pitched his voice a little lower. "Her name was Margaret. She was... how shall I say this... of a peculiar character."

"In what way?"

"A lovely woman, no doubt. But... her bell was somewhat cracked. I never witnessed any of her outbursts, but I heard from reliable sources that she was quite the h.e.l.lion, with a penchant for throwing whatever came to hand. Winston witnessed it, one night at Bidwell's house. The woman flew into a rage and smashed a platter of chicken against the wall. And there was the other thing." s.h.i.+elds let his sentence hang while he puffed his hemp stick, which was beginning to burn down between his fingers. "One moment." He got up, went to the workbench, and returned with the small stub of hemp clamped in the probe as the cotton had been. He sat down again, a mischievous s.h.i.+ne in his eyes. "Mrs. Johnstone and the husband of that poor woman in the infirmary..." He motioned with an angling of his head in the direction of the other room. "They had a number of a.s.signations."

"Noles and Johnstone's wife?"

"Correct. And quite bold about it, as I recall. Many knew what was going on-including Noles's wife. In time someone told Alan, but I think it came as no surprise to him. Well, Margaret despised Fount Royal anyway-she made no secret of that-and so Alan took her back to England to live with her parents. She was of wealthy stock too-her father was in the textile business-but I believe she was a trifle overbred. A few months later, Alan returned here and the matter was forgotten."

"Adultery is a serious offense," Woodward said. "Did he not wish to press charges?"

"I honestly think he was relieved to be rid of the woman. She was a menace to his reputation, and certainly lacking in decorum. Alan is a quiet, thoughtful man who keeps to himself for the most part, but he does have a cutting wit."

"He must be a dedicated teacher, to have returned so soon to Fount Royal."

"That he is. He's taken it upon himself to educate not only the children here, but many of the farmers who can't read. And of course the salary Bidwell pays him is hardly enough to buy a needle and thread, but as I say the schoolmaster has money of his own."

Woodward nodded, drawing once more on his hemp stick; it had burned quite well down, and he could feel its heat between his fingers. In fact, he felt very warm all over now, and was perspiring. This was a good thing, he thought. It must mean that he was sweating out the bad humours. His eyes felt heavy-lidded, and without much prompting he could lie down and take a nap. "What about Winston?" he asked.

"What of him?"

"I mean, what do you know about him?"

s.h.i.+elds grinned, smoke leaking between his teeth. "Am I on the witness stand, sir?"

"No, and I don't intend to sound like a magistrate. I'd simply like to know more about the people here."

"I see," s.h.i.+elds said, though from his tone of voice it was clear he still believed court was in session. After a pause of deliberation, he said, "Edward Winston is a loyal mule. You know that Winston was Bidwell's office manager in London, don't you? He's an excellent administrator, organizer, and bean counter. He, too, keeps quite to himself. I think in his case he's a bit uncomfortable around people. But it was was his idea to bring the maskers here." his idea to bring the maskers here."

"The maskers?"

"Yes. The actors, that is. Bidwell's fond of the theater. For the past three summers, a travelling company has come to enact a morality play. It does seem to bring some culture and civilization out here in the wilderness. At least, the citizens have something to look forward to every year. They come in mid-July, so it's a pity you won't be present to see them." s.h.i.+elds took one last puff and realized he had reached the end of his stick. "Then again," he said, "Fount Royal may not be here in mid-July, either."

"What of Nicholas Paine?" Woodward asked. "Do you know him well?"

"Nicholas Paine," the doctor repeated. He smiled slightly. "Yes, I do know him well."

"He seems an able man." Woodward was thinking of that term Paine had used: black-flagger. "What do you know of his history?"

"I know he has one. A history, I mean."

"I'd call that a cryptic remark," Woodward said when s.h.i.+elds lapsed into silence.

"Nicholas is a very private man," s.h.i.+elds offered. "He has been a jack-of-all-trades. Was a seaman for a number of years, I understand. But he's not open to discussing his past at much length."

"Is he married? Does he have a family?"

"He was was married, when he was a younger man. His wife perished from an illness that caused her to suffer fits until she died." married, when he was a younger man. His wife perished from an illness that caused her to suffer fits until she died."

Woodward had lifted the small stub to his mouth for a final inhalation; now, however, his hand froze. "Fits?" he said. He swallowed thickly. "What kind of fits?"

"Convulsions, I suppose." The doctor shrugged. "Some form of fever, most probably. Or the plague. But it was long ago, and I'm sure Paine wouldn't care to speak about it. In fact, I know he would not."

"The plague," Woodward repeated. His eyes had become glazed, not entirely from the bitterly compelling smoke of his remedy.

"Isaac?" s.h.i.+elds, noting the other man's vacant stare, touched the magistrate's sleeve. "What is it?"

"Oh, forgive me." Woodward blinked, waved some of the fumes away from his face, and brought himself back to his surroundings. "I was thinking, that's all."

s.h.i.+elds nodded, a sly smile twisting his mouth. "Yes. Thinking of whom you might ask questions about me, is that correct?"

"No. About something else entirely."

"But you are are planning on inquiring about me, are you not? It would only be fair, since you've pumped the well concerning the schoolmaster, Mr. Winston, and Mr. Paine. Ah, I believe you're done with that! May I?" He took the burnt-down stub from Woodward's hand and placed it, along with the remnant of his own, into a small pewter jar, which he then closed with a hinged lid. "Are you feeling better now?" planning on inquiring about me, are you not? It would only be fair, since you've pumped the well concerning the schoolmaster, Mr. Winston, and Mr. Paine. Ah, I believe you're done with that! May I?" He took the burnt-down stub from Woodward's hand and placed it, along with the remnant of his own, into a small pewter jar, which he then closed with a hinged lid. "Are you feeling better now?"

"Yes. Remarkably so."

"Good. As I said, you might have to repeat the treatment according to your const.i.tution. We shall see." s.h.i.+elds stood up. "Now allow me to escort you to Van Gundy's tavern for a cup of his excellent hard cider. Also he has a stock of peanuts on hand, as I'm feeling quite hungry. Will you join me?"

"I would be honored."