"Ah, proof." Now Matthew smiled slightly. "Yes, doctor, proof is at the crux of things, is it not?"

"It certainly is! And what you've proven to me is that you're not only bewitched, but a bewitched fool! And for the sake of G.o.d, what's happened to you? Did you fight with a demon to gain the witch's favors?"

"Yes, doctor, and I slayed it. Now: if it is proof you require, I shall be glad to satisfy your thirst." Matthew, for the fourth or fifth time, found himself absentmindedly scratching at the clay plaster that covered his broken ribs beneath the shirt. He had a small touch of fever and was sweating, but the Indian physician-through Nawpawpay-had this morning announced him fit to travel. Demon Slayer hadn't had to walk the distance, however; except for the last two miles, he'd been carried by his and Rachel's Indian guides on a ladder-like conveyance with a dais at its center. It had been quite the way to travel.

"It seems to me, " Matthew said, "that we have all-being learned and G.o.d-fearing men-come to the conclusion that a witch cannot speak the Lord's Prayer. I would venture that a warlock could neither speak it. Therefore: Mr. Winston, would you please speak the Lord's Prayer?"

Winston drew a long breath. He said, "Of course. Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done..."

Matthew waited, staring into Winston's face, as the man perfectly recited the prayer. At the "Amen, " Matthew said, "Thank you, " and turned his attention to Bidwell.

"Sir, would you also please speak the Lord's Prayer?"

"Me?" Instantly some of the old accustomed indignation flared in Bidwell's eyes. "Why should I I have to speak it?" have to speak it?"

"Because, " Matthew said, "I'm telling you to."

"Telling me?" Bidwell made a flatulent noise with his lips. "I won't speak such a personal thing just because someone orders me to!"

"Mr. Bidwell?" Matthew had clenched his teeth. This man, even as an ally, was insufferable! "It is necessary."

"I agreed to this meeting, but I didn't agree to recite such a powerful prayer to my G.o.d on demand, as if it were lines from a maskers' play! No, I shall not speak it! And I'm not a warlock for it, either!"

"Well, it appears you and Rachel Howarth share stubborn natures, does it not?" Matthew raised his eyebrows, but Bidwell didn't respond further. "We shall return to you, then."

"You may return to me a hundred times, and it won't matter!"

"Dr. Shields?" Matthew said. "Would you please cooperate with me in this matter, as one of us refuses to do, and speak the Lord's Prayer?"

"Well... yes... I don't understand the point, but... all all right." Shields ran the back of his hand across his mouth. During Winston's recitation he'd finished the rest of his drink, and now he looked into the empty gla.s.s and said, "I have no more wine. Might I get a fresh gla.s.s?" right." Shields ran the back of his hand across his mouth. During Winston's recitation he'd finished the rest of his drink, and now he looked into the empty gla.s.s and said, "I have no more wine. Might I get a fresh gla.s.s?"

"After the prayer is spoken. Would you proceed?"

"Yes. All right." The doctor blinked, his eyes appearing somewhat glazed in the ruddy candlelight. "All right, " he said again. Then: "Our Father... who art in heaven... hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy... will be done... on earth as it is... is in heaven." He stopped, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his sand-colored jacket and blotted moisture from his face. "I'm sorry. It is warm in here. My wine... I do need a cooling drink."

"Dr. Shields?" Matthew said quietly. "Please continue."

"I've spoken enough of it, haven't I? What madness is this?"

"Why can you not finish the prayer, doctor?"

"I can finish it! By Christ, I can!" Shields lifted his chin defiantly, but Matthew saw that his eyes were terrified. "Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our... forgive us our trespa.s.ses... as we forgive those who... who trespa.s.s... trespa.s.s..." He pressed his hand to his lips and now he appeared to be distraught, even near weeping. He made a m.u.f.fled sound that might have been a moan.

"What is it, Ben?" Bidwell asked in alarm. "For G.o.d's sake, tell us!" Dr. Shields lowered his head, removed his gla.s.ses, and wiped his damp forehead with the handkerchief. "Yes, " he answered in a frail voice. "Yes. I should tell it... for the sake of G.o.d."

"Shall I fetch you some water?" Winston offered, standing up. "No." Shields waved him down again. "I... should... tell it, while I am able."

"Tell what, Ben?" Bidwell glanced up at Matthew, who had an idea what was about to be revealed. "Ben?" Bidwell prompted. "Tell what?"

"That... it was I... who murdered Nicholas Paine." Silence fell. Bidwell's jaw might have been as heavy as an anvil.

"I murdered him, " the doctor went on, his head lowered. He dabbed at his forehead, cheeks, and eyes with small, birdlike movements. "Executed him, I should say." He shook his head slowly back and forth. "No. That is a pallid excuse. I murdered him, and I deserve to answer to the law for it... because I can no longer answer to myself or G.o.d. And He asks me about it. Every day and night, He does. He whispers... Ben... now that it's done... at long last, now that it's done... and you have committed with your own hands the act that you most detest in this world... the act that makes men into beasts... how shall you go on living as a healer?"

"Have you... lost your mind?" Bidwell thought his friend was suffering a mental breakdown right before his eyes. "What are you saying?"

Shields lifted his face. His eyes were swollen and red, his mouth slack. Saliva had gathered in the corners. "Nicholas Paine was the highwayman who killed my elder son. Shot him... during a robbery on the Philadelphia Post Road, just outside Boston eight years ago. My boy lived long enough to describe the man... and also to say that he'd drawn a pistol and shot the highwayman through the calf of his leg." Shields gave a bitter, ghastly smile. "It was I who told him never to travel that road without a prepared pistol near at hand. In fact... it was my birthday gift to him. My boy was shot in the stomach, and... there was nothing to be done. But I... I went mad, I think. For a very long time." He picked up the winegla.s.s, forgetting it was empty, and started to tip it to his mouth before he realized the futility of it.

Shields drew a long, shuddering breath and released it. All eyes were on him. "Robert... you know what the officers in these colonies are like. Slow. Untrained. Stupid. I knew the man might lose himself, and I would never have the satisfaction... of doing to his father what he had done to me. So I set out. First... to find a doctor who might have treated him. It took a search through every rumhole and wh.o.r.ehouse in Boston... but I eventually found the doctor. The so-called doctor, a drunken slug who tended to the wh.o.r.es. He knew the man, and where he lived. He had also... recently buried the man's wife and baby daughter, the first who'd died of fits, and the second who'd perished soon after."

Shields again wiped his face with the handkerchief, his hand trembling. "I had no pity for Nicholas Paine. None. I simply... wanted to extinguish him, as he had extinguished something in my soul. So I began to track him. From place to place. Village to town to city, and back again. Always close, but never finding. Until I learned he had traded horses in Charles Town and had told the stable master his destination. And it took me eight years." He looked into Bidwell's eyes. "Do you know what I realized, the very hour after I killed him?"

Bidwell didn't reply. He couldn't speak.

"I realized... I had also killed myself, eight years ago. I had given up my practise, I had turned my back on my wife and my other son... who both needed me, then more than ever. I had forsaken them, to kill a man who in many ways was also already dead. And now that it was done... I felt no pride in it. No pride in anything anymore. But he was dead. He was bled like my heart had bled. And the most terrible thing... the most terrible, Robert... was that I think... Nicholas was not the same man who had pulled that trigger. I wanted him to be a coldhearted killer... but he was not that man at all. But me... I was the same man I had always been. Only much, much worse."

The doctor closed his eyes and let his head roll back. "I am prepared to pay my debt, " he said softly. "Whatever it may be. I am used up, Robert. All used up."

"I disagree, sir, " Matthew said. "Your use is clear: to comfort Magistrate Woodward in these final hours." It hurt him like a dagger to the throat to speak such, but it was true. The magistrate's health had collapsed the very morning of Matthew's departure, and it was terribly clear that the end would be soon. "I'm sure we all appreciate your candor, and your feelings, but your duty as a doctor stands first before your obligation to the law, whatever Mr. Bidwell-as the mayor of this town-decides it to be."

"What?" Bidwell, who had paled during this confession, now appeared shocked. "You're leaving it up to me?"

"I'm not a judge, sir. I am-as you have reminded me so often and with such hot pepper-only a clerk."

"Well, " Bidwell breathed, "I'll be d.a.m.ned."

"d.a.m.nation and salvation are brothers separated only by direction of travel, " Matthew said. "When the time is right, I'm sure you'll know the proper road upon which to progress. Now: if we may continue?" He directed his attention to the schoolmaster. "Mr. Johnstone, would you please speak the Lord's Prayer?"

Johnstone stared intently at him. "May I ask what the purpose of this is, Matthew? Is it to suggest that one of us is a warlock, and that by failing to utter the prayer he is exposed as such?"

"You are on the right track, yes, sir."

"That is absolutely ridiculous! Well, if you go by that faulty reasoning, Robert has already exposed himself!"

"I said I would go back to Mr. Bidwell, and offer him a chance at redemption. I am currently asking you to speak the prayer."

Johnstone gave a harsh, scoffing laugh. "Matthew, you know better than this! What kind of game are you playing?"

"I a.s.sure you, it's no game. Are you refusing to speak the prayer?"

"Would that then expose me as a warlock? Then you'd have two warlocks in a single room?" He shook his head, as if in pity for Matthew's mental slippage. "Well, I shall relieve your burdensome worry, then." He looked into Matthew's eyes. "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in-"

"Oh, one moment!" Matthew held up a finger and tapped his lower lip. "In your case, Mr. Johnstone-your being an educated man of Oxford, I mean to say-you should speak the Lord's Prayer in the language of education, which would be Latin. Would you start again from the beginning, please?"

Silence.

They stared at each other, the clerk and the fox.

Matthew said, "Oh, I understand. Perhaps you've forgotten your Latin training. But surely it should be easily refreshed, since Latin was such a vital part of your studies at Oxford. You must have been well versed in Latin, as the magistrate was, if only to obtain entrance to that hallowed university. So allow me to help: Pater noster: qui es in caelis; Sanctificetur nomen tuum; Adventiat reg-num tuum-well, you may finish what I've begun."

Silence. Utter, deadly silence.

Matthew thought, I I have you. have you.

He said, "You don't know Latin, do you? In fact, you neither understand nor speak a word of it. Tell me, then, how a man may attend Oxford and come away an educator without knowing Latin."

Johnstone's eyes had become very small.

"Well, I'll seek to explain what I believe to be true." Matthew swept his gaze across the other men, who were also stricken into amazed silence by this revelation. He walked to the chess set near the window and picked up a bishop. "Reverend Grove played chess, you see. This was his chess set. Mr. Bidwell, you informed me of that fact. You also said the reverend was a Latin scholar, and liked to infuriate you by calling out his moves in that language." He studied the bishop by the lamplight. "On the occasion of the fire that burned down a house that same night, Mr. Johnstone, you mentioned to me that you and Mr. Winston were in the habit of playing chess. Would it ever have happened, sir, that-this being a town of rare chess players and even more rare Latin scholars-Reverend Grove challenged you to a game?"

Bidwell was staring at the schoolmaster, waiting for a response, but from Johnstone there was no reply.

"Would it have happened, " Matthew went on, "that Reverend Grove a.s.sumed you knew Latin, and spoke to you in that language during a game? Of course, you wouldn't have known if he was speaking to you or announcing a move. In any case, you wouldn't have been able to respond, would you?" He turned toward Johnstone. "What's wrong, sir? Does the Devil have your tongue?"

Johnstone simply stared straight ahead, his fingers gripping the cane's handle and the knuckles bleached.

"He's thinking, gentlemen, " Matthew said. "Thinking, always thinking. He is a very smart man, no doubt of it. He might actually have become a real schoolmaster, if he'd chosen to. What exactly are you, Mr. Johnstone?"

Still no response or reaction.

"I do know you're a murderer." Matthew placed the bishop back on the table. "Mrs. Nettles told me she recalled Reverend Grove seemed bothered about something not long before he was killed. She told me he spoke two words, as if in reflection to himself. Those words were: No Latin. He was trying to reason out why an Oxford man didn't know the language. Did he ask you why, Mr. Johnstone? Was he about to point out the fact to Mr. Bidwell, and thus expose you as a fraud? And that's why Reverend Grove became the first victim?"

"Wait, " the doctor said, his mind fogged. "The Devil killed Reverend Grove! Cut his throat and clawed him!"

"The Devil sits in this room, sir, and his name-if it is is his real name-is Alan Johnstone. Of course he wasn't alone. He did have the help of the ratcatcher, who was a..." He stopped and smiled thinly. "Ah! Mr. Johnstone! Do you also have a background in the theater arts? You know, Mt. Bidwell, why he wears that false knee. Because he'd already visited Fount Royal in the guise of a surveyor. The beard was probably his own, as at that point he had no need for a disguise. It was only when he verified what he needed to know, and later returned, that a suitable masking was necessary. Mr. Johnstone, if indeed you were-are-an actor, did you perchance ever play the role of a schoolmaster? Therefore you fixed upon what you already knew?" his real name-is Alan Johnstone. Of course he wasn't alone. He did have the help of the ratcatcher, who was a..." He stopped and smiled thinly. "Ah! Mr. Johnstone! Do you also have a background in the theater arts? You know, Mt. Bidwell, why he wears that false knee. Because he'd already visited Fount Royal in the guise of a surveyor. The beard was probably his own, as at that point he had no need for a disguise. It was only when he verified what he needed to know, and later returned, that a suitable masking was necessary. Mr. Johnstone, if indeed you were-are-an actor, did you perchance ever play the role of a schoolmaster? Therefore you fixed upon what you already knew?"

"You, " Johnstone said, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, "are quite... raving quite... raving... mad."

"Am I? Well, let's see your knee then! It'll only take a moment."

Instinctively, Johnstone's right hand went down to cover the misshapen bulge.

"I see, " Matthew said. "You wear your brace-which I presume you purchased in Charles Town-but you didn't put on the device you displayed to the magistrate, did you? Why would you? You thought I was long gone, and I was the only one who ever questioned your knee."

"But I saw it myself!" Winston spoke up. "It was terribly deformed!"

"No, it appeared terribly deformed. How did you construct such a thing, Mr. Johnstone? Come now, don't be modest about your talents! You are a man of many black facets! If I myself had wished to make a false knee, I might have used... oh... clay and candle wax, I suppose. Something to cover the kneecap, build it up and make it appear deformed. You chose a time to reveal the knee when I was unfortunately otherwise occupied." He swung his gaze to Dr. Shields. "Doctor, you sell a liniment to Mr. Johnstone for the supposed pain in his knee, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. A hogsfat-based liniment."

"Does this liniment have an objectionable odor?"

"Well... it's not pleasant, but it can be endured."

"What if the hogsfat is allowed to sit over heat, and become rancid before application? Mr. Winston, the magistrate mentioned to me that you were repelled by the odor. Is that correct?"

"Yes. Very quickly repelled, as I recall."

"That was a safeguard, you see. To prevent anyone from either looking too closely at the false knee, or-heaven forbid- touching it. Isn't that true, Mr. Johnstone?"

Johnstone stared at the floor. He rubbed the bulge of his knee, a pulse beating at his temple.

"I'm sure that's not very comfortable. Is it intended to force a limp? You probably really can't climb stairs with it on, can you? Therefore you removed it to go up and look at the gold coin? Did you mean to steal that coin, or were you simply surprised at being caught in the act? Did your greedy hand clutch it in what was for you a normal reaction?"

"Wait, " the doctor said. He was struggling to keep up, his own brain blasted by the rigors of his confession. "You mean to say... Alan was never educated at Oxford? But I myself heard him trading tales of Oxford with the magistrate! He seemed to know the place so well!"

"Seemed to is right, sir. I expect he must have played a schoolmaster's role in some play and picked up a modic.u.m of information. He also knew that by pa.s.sing himself off as having an Oxford education, the town would more readily dismiss the efforts of the man who served as the previous teacher."

"But what about Margaret? Johnstone's wife?" Winston asked. "I know her bell seemed cracked, but... wouldn't she have known if he wasn't really a schoolmaster?"

"He had a wife?" This was the first Matthew had heard of it. "Was he wed in Fount Royal, or did he bring her with him when he arrived?"

"He brought her, " Winston said. "And she seemed to despise Fount Royal and all of us from the beginning. So much so that he was obliged to return her to her family in England." He shot Johnstone a dark glance. "At least that's what he told us."

"Ah, now you're beginning to understand that what he told you was never necessarily the truth-and rarely so. Mr. Johnstone, what about this woman? Who was she?"

Johnstone continued to stare at the floor.

"Whoever she was, I doubt she was really wed to you. But it was a clever artifice, gentlemen, and further disguised himself as a decent schoolmaster." Matthew suddenly had a thought, a flashing sun of revelation, and he smiled slightly as he regarded the fox. "So: you returned this woman to her family in England, is that correct?"

Of course there was no answer.

"Mr. Bidwell, how long was it after Johnstone came back from England that the ratcatcher arrived here?"

"It was... I don't know... a month, possibly. Three weeks. I can't recall."

"Less than three weeks, " Winston said. "I remember the day Linch arrived and offered his services. We were so glad to see him, as the rats were overrunning us."

"Mr. Johnstone?" Matthew prompted. "Had you, as a thespian, ever seen John Lancaster-and that was his true name- performing his act? Had you heard about his magnetism abilities while your troupe was travelling England? Perhaps you'd already met him?" Johnstone only stared blankly at the floorboards. "In any case, " Matthew continued with authority, "you didn't go to England to return that so-called wife to her family. You went to England to seek a man you thought could help carry out your scheme. You knew what it would take. By then you had probably decided who the victims were going to be-even though I think your murder of Reverend Grove had more to do with hiding your falsehood than anything else-and you needed a man with the uncommon ability to create perceived truth from wholesale illusion. And you found him, didn't you?"

"Mad." Johnstone's voice was husky and wounded. "Mad... G.o.dd.a.m.ned mad..."

"Then you convinced him to join your mission, " Matthew went on. "I presume you had a trinket or two to show him as proof? Did you give him the brooch? Was that one of the things you'd found during those nights you posed as a surveyor? As you declined Mr. Bidwell's offer of a bed and pitched your tent right there beside the spring, you could go swimming without being discovered. What else did you find down there?"

"I'm not..." Johnstone struggled to stand. "I'm not staying to hear this madman's slander!"

"Look how he remains in character!" Matthew said. "I should have known you were an actor the first night we met! I should have realized from that face powder you wore, as you wore it the night of the maskers' dinner, that an actor never feels truly comfortable before a new audience without the benefit of makeup."

"I'm leaving!" Johnstone had gained his feet. He turned his sallow, sweating face toward the door.

"Alan? I know all about John Lancaster." Johnstone had been about to hobble out; now he froze again, at the sound of Bidwell's quiet, powerful voice.

"I know all about his abilities, though I don't understand such things. I do understand, however, from where Lancaster took his concept of the three demons. They were freaks he'd seen, at that circus which employed David Smythe's father."

Johnstone stood motionless, staring at the door, his back to Matthew. Perhaps the fox trembled, at this recognition of being torn asunder by the hounds.

"You see, Alan, " Bidwell went on, "I opened a letter that Matthew had left for the magistrate. I read that letter... and I began to wonder why such a demon-possessed boy would fear for my safety. My safety, after all the insults and taunts I hurled at him. I began to wonder... if I had not best take Mr. Winston and go to Charles Town to find the Red Bull Players. They were camped just to the south. I found Mr. Smythe, and asked him the questions that were directed in that letter."

Johnstone had not moved, and still did not.