a KNOCK SOUNDED on the door. "Magistratei Master Bidwell sent me to tell you the guests are arrivin'."

"I'll be there directly," Woodward answered, recognizing the housekeeper's Scottish brogue. He recalled that the last time he'd heard a knock on a door, his life had been near snuffed. Of course the mere thought of that wretch wearing the gold-striped waistcoat was enough to make him fumble in buttoning the clean pale blue shirt he had recently put on. "Damn!" he said to his reflection in the oval wall mirror.

"Siri" Mrs. Nettles inquired beyond the door.

"I said I'd be there directly!" he told her again.

She said, "Yes sir," and walked with a heavy gait along the corridor to the room Matthew occupied.

Woodward completed the task of buttoning his shirt, which was a bit short at the sleeves and more than a bit tight across the belly. It was among a number of clothes - shirts, trousers, waistcoats, stockings, and shoes - that had been collected for himself and Matthew by their host, once Bidwell's fainting spell had been overcome and the man made aware of what had happened to their belongings. Then Bidwell, realizing his providence was at hand, had been most gracious in arranging two rooms in his mansion for their use, as well as gathering up the approximately sized clothing for them and making sure they had such necessities as freshly stropped razors and hot water for baths. Woodward had feared he'd never be able to scrub all the mud from his skin, but the last of it had come off by the administrations of a rough sponge and plenty of elbow oil.

He had previously put on a pair of black trousers - again, a shade snug but wearable - and white stockings and a pair of square-toed black shoes. Over his shirt he donned a pearl-gray silk waistcoat, loaned to him from Bidwell's own wardrobe. He checked his face again in the mirror, lamenting that he would have to meet these new people in a bareheaded and age-spotted condition, as a wig was such a personal item that asking the loan of one was out of the question. But so be it. at least he still had a head upon his neck. If truth be told, he would rather have slept the night away than be the centerpiece at Bidwell's dinner, as he was still exhausted; but he'd slumbered for three hours after his bath, and that would have to do until he could again stretch himself out on that excellent feather-mattressed four-poster behind him.

as a last precaution he opened his mouth and checked the condition of his teeth. His throat felt somewhat parched but nothing that a draught of rum couldn't satisfy. Then, smelling of sandalwood soap and lemon-oil shaving lotion, he opened the door of his spacious room and ventured out into the candle-illumed hallway.

Downstairs, he followed the sound of voices into a large wood-panelled room that stood just off the main entrance vestibule. It was arranged for a gathering, the chairs and other furniture shunted aside to afford space for movement, a polite fire burning in a white stone hearth as the rainy night had turned cool. a chandelier made of antlers hung overhead, a dozen candles flickering amid the points. Bidwell was there, wearing another opulent wig and a velvet suit the color of dark port. He was standing with two other gentlemen, and as Woodward entered the room Bidwell interrupted his conversation to say, "ah, there's the magistrate now! Sir, how was your resti"

"Not long enough, I fear," Woodward admitted. "The rigors of last night haven't yet been eased."

"The magistrate tells a remarkable tale!" Bidwell said to the other gentlemen. "It seems he and his scribe were almost murdered at a tavern on their way here! The rogue was evidently well versed in murder, isn't that right siri" He lifted his eyebrows, prompting Woodward to take over the story.

"He was. My clerk saved our skins, though that's all we came away with. By necessity, we abandoned our belongings. Oh, I look forward to the morrow, Mr. Bidwell."

"The magistrate has asked me to send a party of militia there in order to regain his worldly goods," Bidwell explained to the two others. "also to arrest that man and bring him to justice."

"I'll be going, too," Woodward said. "I wouldn't miss seeing the expression on Shawcombe's face when the iron's slapped on him."

"Will Shawcombei" One of the gentlemen - a younger man, perhaps in his early thirties - frowned. "I've stopped at his tavern before, on my trips back and forth to Charles Town! I had my suspicions about that man's character."

"They were well founded. Furthermore, he murdered the magistrate who was on his way here two weeks ago. Thymon Kingsbury was his name."

"Let me make introductions," Bidwell said. "Magistrate Isaac Woodward, this is Nicholas Paine" - he nodded toward the younger man, and Woodward shook Paine's outstretched hand -  "and Elias Garrick." Woodward grasped Garrick's hand as well. "Mr. Paine is the captain of our militia. He'll be leading the expedition to secure Mr. Shawcombe in the morning. Won't you, Nicholasi"

"My duty," Paine said, though it was obvious from the glint in his iron-gray eyes that he might resent these plans of arrest being made without his representation. "and my pleasure to serve you, Magistrate."

"Mr. Garrick is our largest farmholder," Bidwell went on. "He was also one of the first to cast his lot with me."

"Yes sir," Garrick said. "I built my house the very first month."

"ah!" Bidwell had glanced toward the room's entrance. "Here's your scribe!"

Matthew had just walked in, wearing shoes that pinched his feet. "Good evening, sirs," he said, and managed a wan smile though he was still dog-tired and in no mood for convivialities. "Pardon my being late."

"No pardon necessary!" Bidwell motioned him in. "We were hearing about your adventure of last night."

"I'd have to call it a misadventure," Matthew said. "Surely not one I'd care to repeat."

"Gentlemen, this is the magistrate's clerk, Mr. Matthew Cor-bett," Bidwell announced. He introduced Matthew to Paine and Garrick, and hands were again shaken. "I was telling the magistrate that Mr. Paine is the captain of our militia and shall be leading - "

" - the expedition to secure Mr. Shawcombe in the morning," Paine broke in. "as it's a lengthy trip, we shall be leaving promptly at sunrise."

Woodward said, "It will be a pleasure to rise early for that satisfaction, sir."

"Very well. I'll find another man or two to take along. Will we need guns, or do you think Shawcombe'll give up without violencei"

"Guns," Woodward said. "Definitely guns."

The talk turned to other matters, notably what was happening in Charles Town, and therefore Matthew - who was wearing a white shirt and tan trousers with white stockings - had the opportunity to make quick studies of Paine and Garrick. The captain of militia was a sturdy-looking man who stood perhaps five-ten. Matthew judged him to be in the vicinity of thirty years; he wore his sand-colored hair long and pulled into a queue at the back of his head, secured with a black cord. His face was well balanced by a long, slender-bridged nose and thick blond brows that settled low over his gunmetal gray eyes. Matthew surmised from Paine's build and economy of motion that he was a no-nonsense type of man, someone who was no stranger to strenuous activity and probably an adept horseman. Paine was also no clotheshorse; his outfit consisted of a simple gray shirt, well-used leather waistcoat, dark brown trousers, gray leggings, and brown boots.

Garrick, who listened far more than he spoke, impressed Matthew as an earthy gentleman who was probably facing the dusk of his fifties. He was slim and rawboned, his gaunt-cheeked face burnt and weathered by the fierce sun of past summers. He had deeply set brown eyes, his left brow slashed and drawn upward by a small scar. His gray hair was slicked with pomade and combed straight back on his skull, and he wore cream-colored corduroy trousers, a blue shirt, and an age-buffed waistcoat that was the bright yellowish hue of some spoiled cheese Matthew once had the misfortune to inhale. Something about Garrick's expression and manner - slow-blinking, thick and labored language when he did deem to speak - made Matthew believe that the man might be the salt of the earth but was definitely limited in his selection of spices.

a young negress servant appeared with a pewter tray upon which were goblets - real cut glass, which impressed Woodward because such treasures of luxury were rarely seen in these rough-edged colonies - brimming with red wine. Bidwell urged them all to partake, and never did wine flow down two more appreciative throats than those of the magistrate and his clerk.

The ringing of a dulcet-toned bell at the front door announced the arrival of others. Two more gentlemen were escorted into the room by Mrs. Nettles, who then took her leave to attend to business in the kitchen. Woodward and Matthew had already made the acquaintance of Edward Winston, but the man with him - who limped in his walk and supported himself on a twisted cane with an ivory handle - was a stranger.

"Our schoolmaster, alan Johnstone," Bidwell said, introducing them one to another. "We're fortunate to have Master Johnstone as part of our community. He brings to us the benefit of an Oxford education."

"Oxfordi" Woodward shook the man's hand. "I too attended Oxford."

"Reallyi Which college, may I aski" The schoolmaster's elegant voice, though pitched low and quiet, held a power that Woodward felt sure would serve him well securing the respectful attention of students in a classroom.

"Christ Church. and youi"

"all Souls'."

"ah, that was a magnificent time," Woodward said, but he rested his eyes on Bidwell because he found the schoolmaster more than a little strange in appearance. Johnstone wore a dusting of white facial powder and had plucked his eyebrows thin. "I remember many nights spent studying the bottom of ale tankards at the Chequers Inn."

"I myself preferred the Golden Cross," Johnstone said with a slight smile. "Their ale was a student's delight: very strong and very cheap."

"I see we have a true scholar among us." Woodward returned the smile. "all Souls' College, ehi I expect Lord Mallard will be drunk again next year."

"In his cups, I'm sure."

as this exchange between fellow Oxfordians had been going on, Matthew had been making his own cursory study of alan Johnstone. The schoolmaster, slim and tall, was dressed in a dark gray suit with black striping, a white ruffled shirt and a black tri-corn. He wore a simple white wig, and from the breast pocket of his jacket protruded a white lace handkerchief. With the powder on his face - and a spot of rouge highlighting each sharp cheekbone - it was difficult to guess his age, though Matthew reasoned lie was somewhere between forty and fifty. Johnstone had a long, aristocratic nose with slightly flared nostrils, narrow dark blue eyes that were not unfriendly but rather somewhat reserved in expression, and the high forehead of an intellectual. Matthew glanced quickly down and saw that Johnstone wore polished black boots ;ind white stockings, but that a misshapen lump on his right leg served him as a knee. When he looked up again, he found the schoolmaster staring into his face and he felt a blush spreading across his cheeks.

"as you're interested, young man," Johnstone said, with an uplift of his finely plucked eyebrows, "it is a defect of birth."

"Oh . . . I'm sorry. I mean ... I didn't - "

"Tut tut." Johnstone reached out and patted Matthew's shoulder. "Observance is the mark of a good mind. Would that you hone that quality, but be a shade less direct in its application."

"Yes, sir," Matthew said, wishing he might sink through the floor.

"My clerk's eyes are sometimes too large for his head," Woodward offered, as a poultice of apology. He, too, had noted the malformed knee.

"Better too large than too small, I think," returned the schoolmaster. "In this town at this present time, however, it would be wise to keep both eyes and head in moderation." He sipped his wine, as Woodward nodded at Johnstone's sagacity. "and as we are speaking of such things and it is the point of your visit here, might I ask if you've seen her yeti"

"No, not yet," Bidwell answered quickly. "I thought the magistrate should like to hear the particulars before he sets sight on her."

"Do you mean particulars, or peculiarsi" Johnstone asked, which brought uneasy laughter from Winston and Paine but only a slight smile from Bidwell. "as one Oxford man to another, sir," he said to the magistrate, "I should not wish to be in your shoes."

"If you were in my shoes, sir," Woodward said, enjoying this joust with the schoolmaster's wit, "you would not be an Oxford man. You would be a candidate for the noose."

Johnstone's eyes widened a fraction. "Pardon mei"

"My shoes are in the custody of a murderer," Woodward explained, and then proceeded to paint in detail the events at Shawcombe's tavern. The judge had realized that such a tale of near-tragedy was as sure a draw to an audience as was a candle-flame to inquisitive moths, and so began to bellows the flame for all it was worth. Matthew was intrigued to find that in this go-round of the tale, the judge was certain from the beginning that Shawcombe was "a scoundrel of evil intent," and that he'd made up his mind to guard his back ere Shawcombe sank a blade into it.

as the clay of history was being reshaped, the doorbell again rang and presently Mrs. Nettles reappeared escorting another guest to the gathering. This gentleman was a slight, small-boned man who brought to Matthew's mind the image of a bantam owl perched atop a barn's beam. His face was truly owlish, with a pale pursed mouth and a hooked nose, his large pallid blue eyes swimming behind round-lensed spectacles and arched brown brows set high on his furrowed dome. He wore a plain black suit, blue shirt with ruffled cuffs, and high-topped boots. His long brown hair -  streaked with gray at the temples - overhung his shoulders, his head crowned by an ebon tricorn.

"Dr. Benjamin Shields, our surgeon," Bidwell announced. "How goes it, Beni"

"an unfortunate day, I fear," the doctor said, in a voice very much larger than himself. "Forgive my tardiness. I just came from the Chester house."

"What is Madam Chester's conditioni" Winston asked.

"Lifeless." Shields removed his tricorn and handed it to Mrs. Nettles, who stood behind him like a dark wall. "Sad to say, she passed not an hour ago. It's this swamp air! It clogs the lungs and thickens the blood. If we don't have some relief soon, Robert, our shovels will see much new work. Hello!" He strode forward and offered his hand to Woodward. "You're the magistrate we've been waiting for. Thank God you've finally come!"

"as I understand it from the council in Charles Town," Woodward said after he'd shaken the doctor's hand, which he noticed was more than a little cold and clammy, "I am actually the third magistrate involved in this situation. The first perished by the plague back in March, before he could leave the city, and the second . . . well, Magistrate Kingsbury's fate was unknown until last night. This is my clerk, Matthew Corbett."

"a pleasure, young man." The doctor shook Matthew's hand. "Sir," he said, addressing Woodward again, "I care not if you are the third, thirteenth, or thirty-third magistrate involved! We just want this situation resolved, and the sooner the better." He punctuated his statement with a fiery glare over the rims of his spectacles, then he sniffed the air of the aroma that had been creeping into the room. "ah, roasted meat! What's on the table tonight, Roberti"

"Toss 'em boys in peppercorn sauce," Bidwell said, with less vitality than a few moments previously; he was pained by the death of Dorcas Chester, a grandly aged lady whose husband Timothy was Fount Royal's tailor. Indeed, the cloth of things was unravelling. The doctor's remark about the work of shovels also made Bidwell think - uncomfortably so - of alice Barrow's dreams.

"Dinner will be a'table presently," Mrs. Nettles told them, and then she left the room, carrying the doctor's tricorn.

Shields walked to the fireplace and warmed his hands. "a pity about Madam Chester," he said, before anyone else could venture off into new territory. "She was a fine woman. Magistrate, have you had much of a chance to inspect our towni"

"No, I haven't."

"Best hurry. at this rate of mortality, Fount Royal will have to soon be renamed Grave Common."

"Ben!" Bidwell said, rather more sharply than he'd intended. "I don't think there's any purpose in such language, do youi"

"Probably not." Shields rubbed his hands together, intent on removing from them the chill of Dorcas Chester's flesh. "Unfortunately, though, there's much truth in it. Oh, the magistrate will find out these things for himself soon enough; we may as well speed his knowledge." He looked at the schoolmaster, who stood nearby. "alan, are you finished with thati" Without waiting for a response, he plucked the half-full wineglass from Johnstone's hand and took a hearty swallow. Then he fixed his baleful gaze full upon Isaac Woodward. "I didn't become a doctor to bury my patients, but lately I should wear an undertaker's shingle. Two last week. The little Richardson child, bless his soul, was one of them. Now Dorcas Chester. Who shall I be sending off next weeki"

"This does no good," Bidwell said firmly. "I urge you to restrain yourself."

"Restrain myself." The doctor nodded and gazed into the glass's shallow pond of red wine. "Robert, I've restrained myself too long. I have grown weary of restraining myself."

"The weather is to blame," Winston spoke up. "Surely these rains will pass soon, and then we'll - "

"It's not just the weather!" Shields interrupted, with a defiant uplift of his sharp-boned chin. "It's the spirit of this place now. It's the darkness here." He drank again, finishing off the glass. "a darkness at noon the same as at midnight," he said, his lips wet. "These sicknesses are spreading. Sick of spirit, sick of body. They're linked, gentlemen. One regulates the other. I saw how Madam Chester's sickness of spirit robbed her body of health. I saw it, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do. Now Timothy's spirit has been blighted with the contagion. How long will it be before I'm attending his demisei"

"Pardon me, sir," Garrick said, before Bidwell could deliver a rebuke. "When you say the sickness is spreadin' ... do you mean ..." He hesitated, as he fit together exactly what he desired to say. "Do you mean we're facin' the plaguei"

"Careful, Benjamin," the schoolmaster cautioned in a quiet voice.

"No, that's not what he means!" Bidwell said heatedly. "The doctor's distraught about Madam Chester's passing, that's all! Tell him you're not speaking of plague, Ben."

The doctor paused and Matthew thought he was about to announce that plague indeed had come to Fount Royal. But instead, Shields released his breath in a long weary sigh and said, "No, I'm not speaking of plague. at least, not plague caused by any physical  power."

"What the good doctor means, I believe," said Johnstone to Garrick, "is that the town's current spiritual. . . um . . . vulnerability is affecting the physical health of us all."

"You mean the witch is makin' us sick," Garrick said, thick-tongued.

Bidwell decided it was time to stop these floodwaters, ere the dam break when Garrick - who was a proficient farmer but whose intellect in less earthy things was lacking - repeated these musings around the community. "Let us look to the future and not to the past, gentlemen! Elias, our deliverance is at hand in the magistrate. We should put our trust in the Lord and the law, and forbid ourselves of these destructive ramblings."

Garrick looked to Johnstone for translation. "He means not to worry," the schoolmaster said. "and I'm of the same opinion. The magistrate will resolve our difficulties."

"You put great faith in me, sirs." Woodward felt both puffed and burdened by these attentions. "I hope I meet your expectations."

"You'd better." Shields had put aside the empty glass. "The fate of this settlement is in your hands."

"Gentlemeni" Mrs. Nettles loomed in the doorway. "Dinner's a'table."

The banquet room, toward the rear of the house next to the kitchen, was a marvel of dark-timbered walls, hanging tapestries, and a fieldstone fireplace as wide as a wagon. above the hearth was the mounted head of a magnificent stag, and displayed on both sides of it was a collection of muskets and pistols. Neither Woodward nor Matthew had expected to find a mansion out here on the coastal swampland, but a room like this - which might have served as the centerpiece in a British castle - rendered them both speechless. above a huge rectangular table was an equally huge candlelit chandelier supported from the ceiling by thick nautical chains, and upon the floor was a carpet as red as beef-blood. The groaning board was covered with platters of food, principal among them the roasted toss 'em boys still asizzle in their juices.

"Magistrate, you sit here beside me," Bidwell directed; it was clear to Matthew that Bidwell relished his position of power, and that he was obviously a man of uncommon wealth. Bidwell had the places already chosen for his guests, and Matthew found himself seated on a pewlike bench between Garrick and Dr. Shields. another young negress servant girl came through a doorway from the kitchen bringing wooden tankards of what proved to be - when Woodward tried a tentative sip, remembering the bite of the Indian ale - cold water recently drawn from the spring.

"Shall we have a prayer of thanksi" Bidwell asked before the first blade pierced the roasted and peppercorn-spiced chicken. "Master Johnstone, would you do the honorsi"

"Surely." Johnstone and the others bowed their heads, and the schoolmaster gave a prayer that appreciated the bounties of the table, praised God for His wisdom in bringing the magistrate safely to Fount Royal, and asked for an abatement to the rains if that was indeed in God's divine plan. While Johnstone was praying, however, the muffled sound of thunder heralded the approach of another storm, and Johnstone's "amen" sounded to Matthew as if the schoolmaster had spoken it through clenched teeth.

"Let us sup," Bidwell announced.

Knives flashed in the candlelight, spearing roasted toss 'em boys - a title rarely used in these modern days except by sportsmen who recalled the gambler's game of setting dogs upon chickens to bet upon which dog would "toss" the greatest number. a moment of spirited jabbing by Bidwell's guests was followed by tearing the meat from its bones with teeth and fingers. Hunks of the heavy, coarse-grained jonakin bread that tasted of burnt corn and could sit in a belly like a church brick found use in sopping up the greasy juices. Platters of steaming beans and boiled potatoes were there for the taking, and a servant girl brought a communal, beautifully worked silver tankard full of spiced rum with which to wash everything down the gullet.

Rain began to drum steadily on the roof. Soon it was apparent to Matthew that the banquet had drawn a number of unwelcome guests: large, buzzing horseflies and - more bothersome - mosquitoes that hummed past the ears and inflicted itching welts. In a lull of the idle conversation - which was interrupted quite frequently by the slapping at an offensive fly or mosquito - Bidwell took a drink from the rum tankard and passed it to the magistrate. Then Bidwell cleared his throat, and Woodward knew it was time to get to the heart of the matter.

"I should ask you what you know of the situation here, sir," Bidwell said, with chicken grease gleaming on his chin.

"I know only what the council told me. In essence, that you have in your gaol a woman accused of witchcraft."

Bidwell nodded; he picked up a bone from his plate and sucked on it. "Her name is Rachel Howarth. She's a mixed breed, English and Portuguese. In January, her husband Daniel was found dead in a field with his throat cut."

"His head almost severed from the neck," the doctor added.

"and there were other wounds on the body," Bidwell went on. Made by the teeth or claws of a beast. On his face, his arms, his hands." He returned the naked bone to his plate and picked up another that still held a bit of meat. "Whatever killed him . . . was ferocious, to say the least. But his was not the first death in such a fashion."

"The anglican minister, Burlton Grove," Johnstone spoke up, reaching for the silver tankard. "He was murdered in a similar way in November. His corpse was found in the church by his wife. Widow, I should say. She very soon afterward left town."

"Understandable," Woodward said. "You have a minister at presenti"

"No," Bidwell said. "I've been presenting sermons from time to time. also Dr. Shields, Master Johnstone, and several others. We had a Lutheran here for a while, to serve the Germans, but he spoke very little English and he left last summer."

"The Germansi"

"That's right. at one point, we had a number of German and Dutch families. There are still. . . oh . . ." He looked to Winston for help. "How many, would you sayi"

"Seven German families," Winston supplied. He swung a hand at a mosquito that drifted past his face. "Two Dutch."

"Edward is my town manager," Bidwell explained to the magistrate. "He takes care of the accounting, a position in which he served for my shipping company in London."

"Would I know the name of your companyi" Woodward asked.

"The aurora. You might've come over on one of my ships."

"Possibly. You're a long way from the center of commerce here, aren't youi"

"Not so far. My two sons are now at the helm, and my wife and daughter remain in London also. But I trust the young men to do what has to be done. In the meantime, I am busy in furthering the future of my company."

"In Fount Royali Howi"

Bidwell smiled slightly, like a cat that has swallowed the canary. "It must be apparent to you, sir, that I hold the southernmost settlement in these colonies. You must be aware that the Spaniards are not too far from here, down in the Florida land." He beckoned for Dr. Shields to pass him the rum tankard. "It is my intent," he said, "to create a city out of Fount Royal that will rival... no, surpass Charles Town as a point of trade between the colonies and the Indies. In time, I shall base my company here to take advantage of such trade. I expect to have a military presence here in the future, as the King is interested that the Spanish don't pursue their territorial greed in a northerly direction." He grasped the tankard's handle and downed a swig. "another reason to create a naval base at Fount Royal is to intercept the pirates and privateers who regularly attack ships carrying freight from the Indies. and who should build those naval vessels, do you thinki" He cocked his head to one side, awaiting Woodward's reply.

"Yourself, of course."

"Of course. Which also means the construction of docks, warehouses, lumberyards, homes for the officers . . . well, you can see the profit in the picture, can't youi"

"I can," Woodward said. "I presume you would build a better road between here and Charles Town, as welli"

"In time, Magistrate," Bidwell answered, "the councilmen of Charles Town will build the road. Oh, I expect I'll meet them halfway and we'll make some kind of compromise." He shrugged. "But it will be obvious to them that Fount Royal is better situated as a port city and naval base, and they'll need the trade I send them."

Woodward grunted softly. "Lofty ambitions, sir. I suspect the councilmen must already know your plans. That may be part of why it took so long to get a magistrate here."

"Likely so. But I'm not planning on running Charles Town out of the shipping business. I simply saw an opportunity. Why the founders of Charles Town didn't elect to build as far south as possible, I don't know. I expect it had to do with the rivers there, and their need for fresh water. But the spring, you see, gives us all the fresh water we need. Plenty enough to fill barrels for thirsty sailors from the Indies, that's a certainty!"

"Uh . . . siri" Matthew said, scratching at a mosquito bite on his right cheek. "If these plans of yours are so clear . . . then why is it you haven't yet begun building your docks and warehousesi"

Bidwell glanced quickly at Winston. Matthew thought it was a glance of nervous communication. "Because," Bidwell said, directing a hard stare at Matthew, "first things are first." He pushed his plate of bones aside and folded his hands on the table. "It is just like the building of a ship, young man. You do not mount the mast first, you lay the keel. as it will take several years to drain the swampland and prepare the necessary details before construction of the docks can begin, I must make sure that Fount Royal is self-supporting. Which means that the farmers" - here he gave a nod of acknowledgment to Garrick - "are able to raise sufficient crops; that the cobbler, tailor, blacksmith, and other craftsmen are able to work and thrive; that we have a sturdy schoolhouse and church and an atmosphere of purpose and security; and that we have a yearly increase in population."

He paused after this recitation, and regarded the plate of bones as darkly as if they were the ribs of the burned houses that littered Fount Royal. "I regret to speak the truth," he said after a few seconds of grim silence, "but very few of those conditions have come to pass. Oh, our farmers are doing the best they can, as the weather is doing its worst, but the fight is all uphill. We have the staples - corn, beans, and potatoes - and the game is abundant. But as far as producing a commerce crop such as cotton or tobacco . . . the attempts have not met with success. We are losing our population at a rapid rate, both to illness and ..." again, he hesitated. He took a pained breath. "and to fear of the witch," he went on. Then he looked into Woodward's eyes.

"It is my passionate dream," Bidwell said, "to create a town here. To build from it a port city that shall be the pride of my possessions. In truth, sir, I have strained my accounts to see that dream become a reality. I have never failed at anything. Never." He lifted his chin a fraction, as if daring a blow from the fist of fate. Woodward noticed that on it was a large, reddening insect bite. "I am not going to fail here," he said, with iron in his voice, and this time he swept his gaze around the table to take in the rest of his audience. "I refuse to fail," he told them. "No damned witch, warlock, nor cloven-hooved ass shall destroy Fount Royal so long as I have a drop of blood in my body, and that's my vow to all of you!"

"Your vow finds a brother in mine, sir," Paine said. "I won't run from a woman, even if she is licking the devil's buttocks."

"More like sucking his cock," the doctor said. His voice was a little slurred, indicating that the wine and rum had together overrun his fortifications. "Isn't that right, Eliasi"

The attention of the magistrate and his clerk turned toward Garrick, whose weathered face had blushed a shade red. "Yes sir, it is," the farmer agreed. "I seen the witch on her knees, tendin' to her master in such a way."

"One moment." Woodward had felt his heart give a kick. "You mean to say . . . you actually witnessed such a thingi"

"I did," came the answer without hesitation. "I seen Rachel Howarth on her knees, in the dirt. He was standin' in front of her, with his hands on his hips. She had hold of. . ." He stopped, and squirmed uneasily on the bench.

"Go on," Bidwell urged. "Tell the magistrate exactly what you saw."

"It... it was . .. awful big," Garrick struggled onward, "and ... it was black and shiny. Wet-lookin', like a snail. and . . . the worst thing was that ... it ..." He glanced for help first to Johnstone and then to Shields, but both those gentlemen had chosen to stare at their plates. Garrick forced himself to look at the magistrate and finish what he'd begun. "It was covered with thorns," he said, and instantly he dropped his gaze to his own plate.

"Thorns," Woodward repeated; he felt a little lightheaded himself, whether from the rum or the impact of this testimony he didn't know.

"Mr. Garricki" Matthew leaned forward. "What did the man's face look likei"

"His facei"

"Yes, sir. I presume you saw his facei"

"Well . . ." Garrick frowned, his eyes downcast. "I was might scared. I don't reckon I got a good look at that part of him."

"Hell's bells, boy!" Shields said, with a harsh laugh. "If you'd taken a gander at a woman sucking a foot-long black pecker covered with thorns, would you have looked at the face hanging over iti"

"I don't know," Matthew replied calmly. "I've never been in that position before."

"He was wearing a cloak and a cowl over his head. Isn't that what you told me, Eliasi" Bidwell prompted.

"Yes sir, that he was. a black cloak, with gold buttons on the front. I seen 'em shine in the moonlight." Garrick paused once more; he swallowed thickly, his eyes glassy from the memory of what he'd witnessed. "Where his face was . . . was just dark, that's all. Like a hole you could look into and not see the bottom of. I was might scared, 'bout to wet my britches. I stood there, starin' at 'em. Both of 'em, right there behind the barn. Then all of a sudden he musta spied me . . . 'cause he said my name. Spoke it like he knew me. He said, 'Elias Garrick, do you like what you seei'" Garrick lifted trembling fingers and ran them across his lips. "I . . . wanted to run. I tried, but he had me rooted. He made me open my mouth. Made me say 'Yes.' Then he . . . laughed, and he let me go. I ran home, but I was too scared to wake up my 'Becca. I didn't tell her ... I couldn't bear to tell her. But I did go to Mr. Paine, and then he took me to see Mr. Bidwell."

"and you're positive the woman you saw ... uh ... in service to this creature was Rachel Howarthi" Woodward asked.

"Yes sir, I am. My farm's right next to the Howarth land. That night I had me some stomach trouble, and I woke up and went outside to spew. Then I seen somebody walkin' 'cross the Howarth cornfield, near where Jess Maynard found Daniel's body. I thought it was might strange, somebody walkin' in the dark with no lantern, so I crossed the fence and followed. Went behind the barn, and that's where I seen what I did."

"You saw the woman's face, theni" Matthew asked.

"Back to the face he goes again!" Dr. Shields scoffed.

"I seen her hair," the farmer went on. "I seen . . . well... by the time I'd got there, she was out of her clothes."

"The woman was nakedi" Woodward, on an impulse, reached for the tankard. There was a single drink left in it, which he made disappear.

"Naked, yes sir." Garrick nodded. "It was her, all right. Rachel Howarth, the witch." He looked from Woodward to his host and then back again to the magistrate. "Who else would it've beeni"

"No one else," Bidwell said flatly. "Magistrate, you do know your daemoniacals, do you noti"

"I do."

"The witch has all but admitted a hand in murdering Reverend Grove and her husband. She has the marks, and she cannot recite the Lord's Prayer. She has the evil eye, and - most telling of all - a number of straw poppets that she fashioned to trance her victims were found hidden beneath a floorboard in her house. Rachel Howarth is most certainly a witch, and she along with her black-cocked master have almost succeeded in destroying my town."

"Mastuh Bidwelli" The voice had come from the kitchen doorway. a man with flesh as black as polished ebony stood there, peering into the dining room. The sight of such a crow coming on the heels of the discussion was startling enough to drive spikes of alarm through both Woodward and his clerk.

"Yes, Goode! Come in, we need your talents!"

The black man entered the room. He was a carrying a wooden box and something bound in a burlap wrapping. Matthew watched as the man - white-haired and ancient but moving with strong purpose and youthful posture - set the wooden box down in a corner. His coarse-clothed suit of thin gray stripes against darker gray was damp, indicating a walk of some distance through the rain. He unwrapped the burlap, exposing a wheaten-colored violin and its bow; then he stood upon the box and began to pluck and tune the violin's strings, his lean black face tilted to one side to cup the notes in an ear. as the instrument was being tuned, two negress servants came in to clear away the plates, while a third carried a burning candle.

Bidwell had produced a golden snuffbox from his jacket. He opened it and placed a pinch into both nostrils. "Now," he said after he'd snorted, "I think she should be hanged here, instead of transported to Charles Town. I believe it will do the citizens well to see her swing, and know she's good and gone. Magistrate, I'll give you the day tomorrow, to go about your business of reclaiming your property from that villain tavern-keeper. But might you see fit to pass sentence on the following dayi"

"Well. . ." Woodward looked around the table. Dr. Shields was involved in his own ritual of snuff-pinching, both Johnstone and Garrick were lighting up pipes - the former a smooth briar and the latter a corncob - from the servant girl's candleflame, and Paine had drawn a leather holder from within his waistcoat. Only Winston watched the magistrate with full attention. "Well," Woodward repeated, "I. . . don't know if - "

"Mr. Bidwell, siri" Garrick interrupted, as one of the girls reached for his plate. "Could I ask you to let me take this here piece a' chicken home to 'Beccai She sure would like a taste of it."

"Yes, of course. Naomi, take that chicken and have it wrapped for Mr. Garrick. Put some beans and potatoes in with it as well, also a slice of the vanilla cake. Our excellent dessert shall be out shortly, gentlemen." Bidwell's eyes, still watering from the snuff's sting, swung back toward the magistrate. "Will you pass sentence on the witch day after tomorrow, siri"

"I . . . I'm afraid I can't." He felt the beginnings of a terrible itch at the back of his neck, and placing his fingers there he found he'd been pierced at least twice by a true leviathan.

"What, theni You need another day to compose yourselfi"

"No, sir," Woodward said; he saw a quick flash of flame in the other man's stare. "I am a servant of the law," he continued. "I am compelled to speak to the witch - the woman, I mean -  and also to witnesses both against her and in her favor."

"There's no one here in her favor!" Winston said, rather loudly; he too was feeling the rum sway his decks. "Excepting one, and I doubt you'd be pleased to be visited by such a witness!"

"Not only that," spoke Paine, who had withdrawn from his leather holder a slim brown cylinder, "but many of the people who saw her in the act of communion with her master have already fled." He put the cylinder into his mouth and leaned toward the offered candle, touching its tip to the flame. Blue smoke puffed from his lips. "Possibly there are two or three witnesses left, but that's all."

"She's a damn witch, and I seen her with my own good eyes!" Garrick said forcefully to Woodward. "Nicholas was the one found the poppets! I was right there with James Reed and Kelvin Bonnard, we seen him bring them poppets out of the floor! She can't speak the Lord's Prayer, and she's got the Devil's marks on her! What more do you need to hang heri"

"What more, indeedi" Shields's nostrils were flecked with snuff. The brown powder had dusted his lapels. "My God, man! The sooner she dances on the rope, the better we'll all - "

Scrrrowllllll, went a noise like a cat whose tail had been stomped. So loud and disagreeable was the sound that all present jumped in their seats and one of the servant girls dropped her plates. a silence remained, punctuated only by the rain on the roof.

"Beg pardon," Goode said, staring at the floor. His bow was poised over the quivering strings. "a bad note." Without waiting for a response, he lowered the bow and began to play in earnest -  quietly this time, and much more tunefully as well. Tones as sweet as butterscotch wafted through the smoky room, and as Goode played he closed his eyes to commune with the music.

Johnstone cleared his throat and removed the pipe from between his teeth. "The magistrate is correct, Robert. If the woman is to be hanged, it must be done by the letter of the law. I say bring the witnesses forward and let them speak. Let the magistrate interview Madam Howarth as well, and divine for himself whether she's a witch or not."

"Foolishness!" Garrick scowled. "It's just givin' her time to do more harm!"

"Elias, we are not uncivilized men." The schoolmaster's voice had softened. "We are in the process of building a vital city here, so the more reason not to sully its future with our present actions." He inserted the pipestem into his mouth again and drew on it, as Goode continued to display a wondrous pleasing knowledge of harmony and timing. "I suggest the magistrate handle this situation as he sees fit," Johnstone said. "How long can it takei a weeki am I correcti" He looked at Woodward for a response.

"You are," Woodward said, with a brief nod of thanks for Johnstone's smoothing of these rough waters.

Bidwell started to say something, his face blighted with frustration as well as with insect bites, but then he thought twice about it and his mouth closed. He dug out his snuffbox again and once more indulged. "Damn," he said quietly. "You're right." He snapped the box shut. "We don't want to become a mob here, do wei Then that black-cocked bastard would have the last laugh on us."

The violin's melody never faltered. Goode's eyes were still closed.

"Very well, then." Bidwell smacked the table's edge with his palm as a way of enforcing his judgment, much as Woodward would've used his gavel. "I grant you one week to interview the witch and the witnesses."

"Kindly appreciated," Woodward answered, not without a hint of sarcasm at being rushed into what he considered an odious task.

While this small contest of wills had been going on, Matthew had been interested in watching Nicholas Paine. In particular, Paine's method of partaking tobacco by lighting up a tightly rolled leaf. Matthew had seen this only twice before, as it was very rare in the English kingdom of snuff-pinchers and pipesmen; it was called, as he understood it, smoking in the "Spanish style."

Paine took a puff, released the blue smoke into the thickened air, and suddenly turned his head to look directly into Matthew's face. "Your eyes have gotten large, young man. Might I ask what you're staring ati"

"Uh . . ." Matthew resisted the urge to avert his gaze. He decided in another second that he didn't care to make an issue of this, though he didn't quite understand why his mind told him to make a note of it. "Nothing, sir," he said. "My pardon."

Paine lowered the smoking stick - Matthew thought it was called a "cigar" - and directed his attention to his host. "If I'm going to lead this expedition at sunrise, I'd best find two or three other men to go along." He stood up. "Thank you for the dinner and the company. Magistrate, I'll meet you at the public stable. It's behind the blacksmith's shop on Industry Street. Good night to you all." He nodded, as the other men - excepting Bidwell and Dr. Shields - stood as a matter of courtesy, and then he left the dining room with a brisk stride, the "cigar" gripped between his teeth.

"Nicholas seemed ill at sorts," Johnstone said after Paine was gone; he grasped his deformed knee for extra support as he eased himself onto the bench again. "This situation has gotten the best of all of us."

"Yes, but the dawn of our dark night has arrived." Bidwell looked over his shoulder. "Goode!" The black man immediately stopped playing and lowered the violin. "are there any more turtles in the springi" Bidwell asked.

"Yes, suh. They be some big ones." His voice was as mellow as the violin's.

"Catch us one tomorrow. Magistrate, we'll have turtle soup in our bowls for dinner. Would that suit youi"

"Very much," Woodward said, scratching another massive welt on his forehead. "I pray that all goes well with our hunting party on the morrow. If you want a hanging in your town, I'd be glad to pass sentence on Shawcombe as soon as we return."

"That might be splendid!" Bidwell's eyes lit up. "Yes! To show the citizens that the wheels of justice are indeed in motion! That would be a fine sippet before the main course! Goode, play us something merry!"

The black servant lifted his violin again and began another tune; it was faster and more lively than the one previous, but Matthew thought it was still more tinged with melancholy than merriment. Goode's eyes closed again, sealing himself off from his circumstances.

The vanilla cake arrived, along with another tankard of rum. Talk of Rachel Howarth dwindled, while Bidwell's talk of his plans for Fount Royal increased. Matthew found himself drifting, itching in a dozen places and longing for the embrace of the bed in his room. The candles burned low in the overhead chandelier. Garrick excused himself and went home, followed soon afterward by the schoolmaster. Dr. Shields, after imbibing much of the fresh tankard, laid his head upon the table and so departed the company. Bidwell dismissed Goode, who carefully wrapped the violin in the burlap before he braved the weather. Winston also began to drowse in his chair, his head thrown back and his mouth open. Woodward's eyes were heavy, his chin dropping. at last their host stood up, yawned, and stretched.

"I'll take my leave of you," Bidwell announced. "I hope you both sleep well."

"I'm sure we shall, thank you."

"If there's anything you need, Mrs. Nettles will be at your service. I trust your endeavors tomorrow will be successful." He started out of the room, then halted on the threshold. "Magistrate, don't put yourself at risk. Paine can handle a pistol. Let him and his men do the dirty work, as I require you for a higher purpose. Understandi"

"Yes."

"Good night then, gentlemen." Bidwell turned and left the dining room, and in a moment could be heard tromping up the staircase to his own quarters.

Woodward regarded the two sleepers, to make sure they were both unconscious, and then said to Matthew, "Nothing like a command performance to sharpen the wits, ehi One week to decide the fate of a woman I've never met. Even the cold-hearted murderers in Newgate prison are afforded more time than that. Well . . ." He stood up, his vision bleary. "I'm to bed. Good night."

"Good night, sir," Matthew replied. after the magistrate had trudged out, Matthew got up from the bench and retrieved the empty tankard near Dr. Shields's outstretched hand. He stared into it, recalling the tankard in which Shawcombe had dropped the gold coin. a Spanish coin, taken from an Indian. What was an Indian doing with a Spanish coini This question had needled him all day, daring him to find an answer. It was still there, something that required clearing away before he could fully concentrate on his clerking duties and the case of the witch. Possibly Shawcombe could be persuaded to shed more light on it, before he swung.

Tomorrow was sure to be an interesting day. Mathew returned the tankard to the table, then wearily climbed the stairs to his room. Within a few minutes he was asleep in his borrowed clothes.