Speaks The Nightbird Part 56

"You need never ask apology of me to reflect on Oxford, Magistrate, " Johnstone said with what seemed to Matthew an admirable grace. "I too still walk those halls in my memory. Now... if you'll please forgive me... my knee also has a memory, and it is calling for liniment. Good night to you all."

"I'll walk with you, Alan, " Winston offered, and Johnstone accepted with a nod. "Good night, Mr. Bidwell. Magistrate. Mt. Corbett."

"Yes, good night, " Bidwell replied.

Winston followed as Johnstone limped out of the room, leaning even more than usual on his cane. Then Bidwell poured himself the last few swallows of wine from the decanter and went upstairs to avoid any discourse or possible friction with Matthew. As Woodward half-dozed in the chair, Matthew awaited the arrival of Dr. s.h.i.+elds.

The question of Linch Lancaster was uppermost in Matthew's mind. Here, at last, might be some hope to cling to. If Smythe could positively identify Linch as this other man, it would be a starting point to convince Bidwell that a fiction had been created around Rachel. Was it too much to hope for that all this might be accomplished on the morrow?

Thirty-Four.

A pa.s.sing thundershower had wet the earth just before dawn, but Sat.u.r.day's sun shone through the dissipating clouds, and the blue sky again reappeared before the hour of eight. By then Matthew had finished his breakfast and was on his way to the maskers' camp.

He discovered-by sense of hearing before sense of sight- Phillip Brightman in discourse with two other thespians, all of them sitting in chairs behind a canvas screen, reading over and reciting pages from one of their morality scenes. When Matthew asked where he might find David Smythe, Brightman directed him to a yellow awning set up to protect a number of trunks, lanterns, and sundry other prop items. Beneath it Matthew found Smythe inspecting some brightly hued costumes that one of the troupe's women was adorning with rather used-looking peac.o.c.k feathers.

"Good morning, Mr. Smythe, " Matthew said. "May I have a word with you?"

"Oh... good morning, Mr. Corbett. What may I help you with?"

Matthew glanced quickly at the seamstress. "May we speak in private, please?"

"Certainly. Mrs. Prater, these are coming along very well. I'll speak with you again when the work is further advanced. Mr. Corbett, we might go over there if you like." Smythe motioned toward a stand of oak trees about sixty feet behind the encampment.

As they walked, Smythe slid his thumbs into the pockets of his dark brown breeches. "I think an apology is in order for our behavior last night. We left so abruptly... and for such an obvious reason. At least we might have tempered it with a more diplomatic excuse."

"No apology is necessary. Everyone understood the reason. And better the truth than a false excuse, no matter how diplomatic."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate your candor."

"The reason I wished to speak to you, " Matthew said as they reached the oak trees' shade, "concerns Gwinett Linch. The man you believe to be Jonathan Lancaster."

"If I may correct you, not believe to be. As I said last night, I would swear to it. But he appears... so different. So changed. The man I knew would not be... well, would not be caught dead in such dirty rags. In fact, I recall he had a marked affinity for cleanliness."

"And order?" Matthew asked. "Would you say he had an affinity for that as well?"

"He kept his wagon neat enough. I remember one day he complained to my father about not having a supply of wheel grease on hand to silence a squeak."

"Hm, " Matthew said. He leaned against the trunk of an oak and crossed his arms. "Exactly who was... I mean, who is... Jonathan Lancaster?"

"Well, I mentioned he had an act that involved trained rats. He had them jump through hoops and run races and such. The children loved it. Our circus travelled through most of England, and we did play London on several occasions but we found ourselves restricted to a very bad part of the city. So we mostly travelled from village to village. My father was the manager, my mother sold tickets, and I did whatever needed doing."

"Lancaster, " Matthew said, guiding Smythe back to the subject. "He made his living with this trained rat show?"

"Yes, he did. None of us were exactly wealthy, but... we all pulled together." Smythe frowned, and Matthew could tell he was forming his next statement. "Mr. Lancaster... was a puzzling man."

"How so? Because he worked with rats?"

"Not only that, " Smythe said. "But because of the other act he performed. The one that was done... well... that was done only behind closed curtains, for a small audience of adults-no children allowed-who wished to pay an extra coin to see it."

"And what was that?"

"His display of animal magnetism."

"Animal magnetism?" Now it was Matthew's turn to frown. "What is that?"

"The art of magnetic manipulation. Have you not heard of such a thing?"

"I've heard of the process of magnetism, but never animal magnetism. Is this some theatrical whimsy?"

"It's been more popular in Europe than in England, I understand. Particularly in Germany, according to what my father told me. Mr. Lancaster was once a leading light of the cult of magnetism in Germany, though he was English-born. This is also according to my father, who if nothing else has a fortune of friends in the craft of public entertainment. That was, however, in Mr. Lancaster's younger years. An incident occurred that caused him to flee Germany."

"An incident? Do you know what it was?"

"I know what my father told me, and wished me to keep secret."

"You are no longer in England and no longer under your father's jurisdiction, " Matthew said. "It is vital that you tell me everything you know about Jonathan Lancaster. Particularly the secrets."

Smythe paused and c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "May I ask why this is so important to you?"

It was a fair question. Matthew said, "I'm going to trust you, as I hope you will trust me. Obviously Lancaster has hidden his true ident.i.ty from Mr. Bidwell and everyone else in this town. I wish to know why. Also... I have reason to believe that Lancaster may be involved with the current situation in which this town finds itself."

"What? You mean the witch?" Symthe offered a nervous smile. "You're joking!"

"I am not, " Matthew said firmly.

"Oh, that can't be! Mr. Lancaster may have been strange, but he wasn't demonic. I'd venture that his closed-curtain talent appeared to some to be witchcraft, but it was evidently based on principles of science."

"Ah." Matthew nodded, his heartbeat quickening. "Now we approach the light, Mr. Smythe. What exactly was his closed-curtain talent?"

"Manipulation of the mind, " Smythe answered, and Matthew had to struggle to suppress a victorious grin. "By the application of magnetic force, Mr. Lancaster could deliver mental commands to some members of his audience, and cause them to do, believe, and say things that... um... would probably not suit the eyes and ears of children. I have to admit; I sneaked behind the curtains and watched on more than a few occasions, because it was a fascinating show. I recall he would cause some to believe day was night, and that they were getting ready for their beds. One woman he caused to believe was freezing in a snowstorm in the midst of July. A particular scene I remember was a man he caused to believe had stepped into a nest of biting ants, and how that man jumped and hollered was nothing short of ludicrous. The other members of the audience laughed uproariously, but that man never heard a giggle of it until Mr. Lancaster awakened him."

"Awakened him? These people were put to sleep in some way?"

"It was a sleep-like state, yet they were still responsive. Mr. Lancaster used various objects to soothe them into this state, such as a lantern, a candle, or a coin. Anything that served to secure their attention. Then he would further soothe and command them with his voice... and once you heard his voice, it was unforgettable. I myself would have fallen under his magnetism, if I hadn't known beforehand what he was doing."

"Yes, " Matthew said, staring past Smythe in the direction of Fount Royal. "I can well understand that." He directed his gaze back to the man. "But what is this about magnetism?"

"I don't quite fathom it, but it has to do with the fact that all bodies and objects hold iron. Therefore a skilled pract.i.tioner can use other objects as tools of manipulation, since the human body, blood, and brain also contain iron. The attraction and manipulation is called magnetism. That, at least, is how my father explained it when I asked him." Symthe shrugged. "Evidently it was a process first discovered by the ancient Egyptians and used by their court magicians."

Matthew was thinking 7 have you now, Sir Fox.

"This must be very important to you indeed, " Smythe said, dappled sunlight falling through the oak branches and leaves onto his face.

"It is. As I said, vital."

"Well... as you also said, I am no longer in England or under my father's jurisdiction. If it's so vital that you know... the secret my father asked me to keep concerns Mr. Lancaster's career before he joined the circus. In his younger years he was known as a healer of sorts. A faith-healer, I suppose, in that he could use magnetism to deliver people from illnesses. Apparently he travelled to Europe to practise this art, and drew the attention of a German n.o.bleman who wished Mr. Lancaster to teach him and his son how to be magnetizers themselves. Now... be aware that all this I recall my father telling me, and I might have garbled it in the retelling."

"I shall, " Matthew said. "But please continue."

"Mr. Lancaster did not speak German, though his host spoke a little English. There was a translation problem. Whether that had anything to do with the results, I don't know, but my father told me Mr. Lancaster had fled Germany because the n.o.bleman and his son were adversely affected by their studies. The latter killed himself with a poisoned dagger, and the former went half-mad. Which I suppose testifies to the power of magnetism falling into the wrong hands. In any case, a bounty was offered on Mr. Lancaster's head and so he returned to England. But he obviously was a changed man, too, and he sank to the level of trained rats and a few magnetist's tricks behind closed curtains."

"Possibly he wished to keep a low profile, " Matthew said, "for fear that someone would seek him out and claim the bounty." He nodded. "Yes, that explains a lot. As, for instance, why Goode told me no Dutchmen or Germans had seen the Devil. It was because Lancaster feared Germans and likely is limited to only the English tongue."

"Goode?" Smythe asked, looking perplexed. "I'm sorry, I'm not following you."

"My apologies. My thoughts became words." Matthew, his nervous energy at high flux, began to pace back and forth. "Tell me this, if you will: what caused Lancaster to leave the circus, and when was this?"

"I don't know. My family and I left before Mr. Lancaster did."

"Oh. Then you haven't seen Lancaster since?"

"No. Certainly we didn't wish to return to that circus."

Matthew caught a hint of bitterness. "Why? Was your father discharged?"

"Not that. It was my father's wish to leave. He didn't care for the way Mr. Cedarholm-the man who owned the circus-had decided to run things. My father is a very decent man, G.o.d love him, and he bridled about bringing in the freaks."

Matthew suddenly stopped his pacing. "Freaks?"

"Yes. Three of them, to begin with."

"Three, " Matthew repeated. "May I... ask what they were?"

"The first was a black-skinned lizard, as big as a ram. The thing had come from some South Sea island, and it near made my mother faint to look upon it."

"The second, " Matthew said, his mouth dry. "Might it have been an imp of some kind? A dwarf, possibly, with a childlike face and long white hair?"

"Yes. Exactly that. How did..." Now Smythe truly appeared confounded. "How did you know?"

"The third, " Matthew prompted. "Was it... an unspeakable thing?"

"The third one was what made my father pack our bags. It was a hermaphrodite with the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of a woman and... the tools of a man. My father said even Satan would shrink to look upon such a blasphemy."

"Your father might be interested, Mr. Smythe, to know that all three of those creatures have lately found work in Fount Royal, with Satan's blessing. Oh, I have him now! I have him!" Matthew couldn't restrain himself from smacking his palm with his fist, his eyes bright with the fire of the hunt. He immediately reined in his enthusiasm, as he noted that Smythe took a backward step and appeared concerned that he might be dealing with a lunatic. "I have a request. Again, a very important one. I happen to know where Lancaster lives. It's not very far from here, at the end of this street. Would you go there with me-this moment-and look upon him face-to-face and tell me you positively know he's the man you claim him to be?"

"I've already told you. I saw his eyes, which are as unforgettable as his voice. It is him."

"Yes, but nevertheless I require you to identify him in my presence." Matthew also wanted Lancaster to know before another hour had pa.s.sed that a blade had been thrust into his repugnant, inhuman plans, and twisted for good measure.

"I... do have some work to get done. Perhaps later this afternoon?"

"No, " Matthew said. "Now." He correctly read the reticence in Smythe's eyes. "As an officer of the court, I must tell you this is official business. Also that I am empowered by Magistrate Woodward to compel you to accompany me." It was an outright falsehood, but Matthew had no time for dawdling.

Smythe, who obviously had well learned the lessons of decency from his esteemed father, said, "No compelling is necessary, sir. If this has to do with a matter of law, I should be glad to go."

Matthew and Smythe proceeded along Industry Street-the former in expectant haste and the latter more understandably moderate in his willingness to advance-toward the house of the formerly known Gwinett Linch. Smythe's pace slowed as they reached the execution field, and he regarded the stake and pyre with dread fascination. An oxcart had been pulled up beside the woodpile, and two men-one of them the giant Mr. Green, Matthew saw-were at work unloading another cargo of witch-burning fuel.

Yes, build it up! Matthew thought. Waste your muscles and your minutes, for when this day is done one less nightbird shall be confined in a cage and one more vulture there in her place!

Further on stood the house. "My G.o.d!" Smythe said, aghast. "Mr. Lancaster lives there?"

"Lancaster lives within, " Matthew replied, his pace yet quickening. "The ratcatcher has groomed the exterior."

He felt a gnaw of disappointment. No smoke rose from the chimney, though indeed the breakfast hour was long past. But all the shutters were closed, indicating that Lancaster was out. Matthew inwardly muttered a curse, for he'd wished to have this identification promptly done and then escort Smythe directly to see Bidwell. It dawned on him that if Lancaster was indeed in there, closed up from the sunlight like a night-faring roach, he might turn violent, and they had no weapon of defense. Perhaps it would be best to go fetch Mr. Green as a precaution. But then another thought hit Matthew, and this one had terrible implications.

What if Lancaster, upon knowing he'd been recognized, had fled Fount Royal? He would have had ample time last night. But what was the procedure for getting out the gate after sunset? Surely such a thing was unheard of. Would the watchman have allowed him to leave without informing Bidwell? But what if Lancaster had saddled a horse and gone yesterday afternoon while it was still light?

"You're near running!" Smythe said, trying to keep up. Without Lancaster, Rachel's fate was still in doubt. d.a.m.ned right Matthew was nearly running, and he did break into a run the final twenty yards.

He slammed his fist on the door. He had expected no answer, and therefore was immediately prepared to do what he next did: open the door and enter.

Before he could cross the threshold, Matthew was struck in the face.

Not by any physical fist, but rather by the overwhelming smell of blood. He instinctively recoiled, his mouth coming open in a gasp.

These were the things he saw, in a torrent of hideous impressions: light, streaming between the shutter slats and glistening off the dark red blood that had pooled on the floorboards and made large brown blotches on the pallet's sheet; Lancaster's corpse, lying on its right side on the floor, the left hand gripping at the sheet as if to pull itself up, the mouth and icy gray eyes horribly open in a slashed and clawed face, and the throat cut like a red-lipped grin from ear to ear; the formerly meticulous household ravaged as if by a whirlwind, clothes pulled from the trunk and strewn about; desk drawers wrenched out and upturned, cooking implements thrown hither and yon; hearth ashes scooped up and tossed to settle over the corpse like grave dust.

Smythe had also seen. He gave a choked moan and staggered back, and then off he ran along Industry Street in the direction of his companions, his face bone-white and his mouth trailing the shattering cry, "Murder! Murder!"

The shout might have alarmed everyone else who heard it, but it served to steady Matthew's nerves because he knew he had only a short time to inspect this gruesome scene before being intruded upon. He realized as well that the sight of Lancaster lying dead and so brutally disfigured must have been the same sight viewed by Reverend Grove's wife and by Jess Maynard, who had discovered Daniel Howarth's body. Little wonder, then, that Mrs. Grove and the Maynards had fled town.

The cut throat. The face savaged by demonic claws. And, it appeared, the shoulders, arms, and chest also slashed through the b.l.o.o.d.y ribbons of the man's s.h.i.+rt.

Yes, Matthew thought. A true Satan had been at work here.

He felt sick to his stomach and scared out of his wits, but he had time for neither debility. He looked about the wreckage. The desk's drawers, all the papers and everything else dumped out, the inkwell smashed. He wished to find two items before Mr. Green surely arrived: the sapphire brooch and the book on ancient Egypt. But even as he knelt down to negotiate this mess of blood, ink, and blood-inked papers he knew with a sinking certainty that those two items, above all else, would not be found.

He spent a moment or two in search, but when he suffered the smear of blood on his hands he gave up the quest as both impossible and unreasonable. He was fast weakening in this charnel house, and the desire for fresh air and untainted sunlight was a powerful call. It occurred to him that Smythe had been correct: Lancaster would indeed not be caught dead in his ratcatcher's rags, as he wore what had once been a white s.h.i.+rt and a pair of dark gray breeches.

And now the need to get out was too much to withstand. Matthew stood up and, as he turned to the door-which had not opened to its full extent, but rather just enough to allow his entry-he saw what was scrawled there on its inner surface in the clotted ink of Lancaster's veins.

My Rachel Is Not Alone In the s.p.a.ce of a hammered heartbeat Matthew's flesh p.r.i.c.kled and the hairs rose at the back of his neck. The first words that came to his mind were Oh... s.h.i.+t.

He was still staring numbly at that d.a.m.ning declaration a moment later when Hannibal Green came through the door, followed by the other rustic with whom he'd been working. At once Green stopped in his tracks, his red-bearded face twisted with horror. "Christ's Mercy!" he said, stunned to the soles of his four-teen-inch boots. "Linch?" He looked at Matthew, who nodded, and then Green saw the clerk's gore-stained hands and hollered, "Randall! Go fetch Mr. Bidwell! Now!"

In the time that ensued, Green would have thought Matthew a b.l.o.o.d.y-handed murderer had not David Smythe, pallid but resolute, returned to the scene and explained they'd both been together when the corpse was discovered. Matthew took the opportunity to wipe his hands on one of the clean s.h.i.+rts that had been so rudely torn from the trunk. Then Green had his own hands full trying to keep people who'd been alerted by Smythe's cry-among them Martin and Constance Adams-out of the house.

"Is that Lancaster?" Matthew asked Smythe, who stood to one side staring down at the corpse.

Smythe swallowed. "His face is... so... swollen, but... I know the eyes. Unforgettable. Yes. This man... was Jonathan Lancaster."

"Move back!" Green told the onlookers. "Move back, I said!" Then he had no choice but to close the door in the gawkers' faces, and thereupon he saw the b.l.o.o.d.y scrawl.