“I assure 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 regnum tuum—well, you may finish what I’ve begun.”
Silence. Utter, deadly silence.
Matthew thought, I 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 assumed 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 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 hoarse whisper, “are 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 modicum of information. He also knew that by passing 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.
“Whoeve
r 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…goddamned 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.
“Sit down,” Bidwell commanded. “Whatever your name is, you bastard.”
forty-two
MATTHEW AND THE OTHERS now witnessed a transformation.
Instead of being cowed by this command, instead of slumping under the iron fist of truth, Alan Johnstone slowly straightened his spine. In seconds he seemed an inch or two taller. His shoulders appeared to widen against the fabric of his dark blue jacket, as if the man had been tightly compressing himself around his secret core.
When he turned toward Matthew again, it was with an unhurried grace. Johnstone was smiling, but the truth had delivered its blow; his face was damp, his eyes deep-sunken and shock-blasted.
“Sirs,” he said, “dear sirs. I must confess…I never attended Oxford. Oh, this is embarrassing. Quite so. I attended a small school in Wales. I was…the son of a miner, and I realized at an early age…that some doors would be closed to my ascent, if I did not attempt to hide some…um…unfortunate and unsavory elements of my family. Therefore, I created—”
“A lie, just as you’re creating now,” Matthew interrupted. “Are you incapable of telling the truth?”
Johnstone’s mouth, which was open to speak the next falsehood, slowly closed. His smile had vanished, his face as grim as gray stone.
“I think he’s lived with lies so long they’re like a suit, without which he would feel nude to the world,” Matthew said. “You did learn a great deal about Oxford, though, didn’t you? Did you actually go there and tour the place when you returned to England, just in case you needed the information? It never hurts to add details to your script, does it? And all that about your social club!” Matthew shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Are the Ruskins even really in existence, or is that your own true name? You know, I might have realized I had proof of your lies that very night. When the magistrate recited the motto of his own social club to you, he spoke it in Latin, believing that as a fellow Oxford brother you would need no translation. But when you recited back the motto of the Ruskins, you spoke English. Have you ever known the motto of a social fraternity to be in English? Tell me, did you make that motto up on the spot?”
Johnstone began to laugh. The laughter, however, was strained through his tightly clenched teeth, and therefore was less merry than murderous.
“This woman who was purported to be your wife,” Matthew said. “Who was she? Some insane wretch from Charles Town? No, no, you would have had to find someone you at least imagined you could control. Was she then a doxy, to whom you could promise future wealth for her cooperation?”
The laughter faded and went away, but Johnstone continued to grin. His face, the flesh drawn over the bones and the eyeholes dwindled to burns, had taken on the appearance of a truly demonic mask.
“I presume you made quick work of the woman, as soon as you’d left sight of Charles Town,” Matthew ventured. “Did she believe you were returning her to the dove roost?”
Johnstone suddenly turned and began to limp toward the door, proving that his kneebrace enforced the fiction of his deformity.
“Mr. Green?” Matthew called, in a casual tone. The doorway was presently blocked by the red-bearded giant, who also held at his side a pistol. “That weapon has been prepared for firing, sir,” Matthew said. “I don’t for an instant doubt your ability to inflict deadly violence, therefore the necessary precaution against it. Would you please come back to your chair?”
Johnstone didn’t respond. Green said, “I ’spect you’d best do as Mr. Corbett asks.” The air had whistled through the space a front tooth used to occupy.
“Very well, then!” Johnstone turned toward his tormentor with a theatrical flourish, the death’s-head grin at full force. “I shall be glad to sit down and listen to these mad ravings, as I find myself currently imprisoned! You know, you’re all bewitched! Every one of you!” He stalked back to the chairs, taking a position not unlike center stage. “God help our minds, to withstand such demonic power! Don’t you see it?” He pointed at Matthew, who was gratified to see that the hand trembled. “This boy is in league with the blackest evil to ever crawl from a pit! God help us, in its presence!” Now Johnstone held his hand palm-upward, in a gesture of supplication. “I throw myself before your common sense, sirs! Before your decency and love of fellow man! God knows these are the first things any demon would try to destr—”
Smack! went a book down onto Johnstone’s offered palm. Johnstone
staggered, and stared at the volume of English plays that Matthew had devoured, and that Mrs. Nettles had returned to the nearby bookcase.
“Poor Tom Foolery, I believe,” Matthew said. “I think on page one-seventeen or thereabouts is a similar speech, in case you wish to be more exact.”
Something moved across Johnstone’s face in that instant, as he met Matthew’s gaze. Something vulpine, and mean as sin. It was as if for a fleeting space of time the animal had been dragged from its den and made to show itself; then the instant passed, and the glimpse was gone. Johnstone’s countenance had formed again into stone. Disdainfully, he turned his hand over and let the book fall to the floor.
“Sit down,” Matthew said firmly, as Mr. Green guarded the doorway. Slowly, with as much dignity as he could cloak himself, Johnstone returned to his chair.
Matthew went to the fanciful map of Fount Royal that hung on the wall behind him. He tapped the spring with his forefinger. “This, gentleman, is the reason for such deception. At some time in the past—several years, I believe, before Mr. Bidwell sent a land scout to find him suitable property—this spring was used as a vault for pirate treasure. I don’t mean just Spanish gold and silver coins, either. I mean jewels, silverware, plates…whatever this pirate and his crew managed to take. As the spring was likely used by this individual as a source of fresh water, he decided to employ it for a different purpose. Mr. Johnstone, do you know this individual’s name?” No response. “Well, I’m assuming he was English, since he seemed to prefer attacking Spanish merchant ships. Probably he attacked a few Spanish pirates who were themselves laden with treasure. In any case, he built up a wondrous fortune…but of course, he was always in fear of being attacked himself, therefore he needed a secure hiding-place for his loot. Please correct me, Mr. Johnstone, if I am mistaken at any of these conjectures.”
Johnstone might have burned the very air between them with his stare.
“Oh, I should tell you, sir,” Matthew said, “that the vast majority of the fortune you schemed to possess is now lost. In my investigation of the pond, I found an opening to an underground flow. A small opening but, regretfully for you, an efficient one as to the movement of water. Over a period of time, most of the loot went down the hole. I don’t doubt that there are a few items of value remaining—some coins or pieces of pottery—but the vault has been emptied by the one who truly owns it: Mother Nature.”