Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

When Johnstone didn't answer, Matthew said, "You, I think. I presume you then applied the five-bladed device to Daniel's dead or dying body? I'm sure Lancaster never would have imagined he'd meet his end the same way. He panicked when he learned he'd been discovered, didn't he? Did he want to leave?" Matthew smiled grimly. "But no, you couldn't have that, could you? You couldn't let him leave, knowing what he knew. Had you always planned to murder him, after he'd helped you remove the treasure and Fount Royal was your own private fortress?"

"Damn you, " Bidwell said to Johnstone, his face reddening. "Damn your eyes, and heart, and soul. Damn you to a slow death, as you would have made me a murderer too!"

"Calm yourself, " Matthew advised. "He shall be damned, as I understand the colonial prison is one step above a hellhole and dungheap. Which is where he shall spend some days before he hangs, if I have anything to do with it."

"That, " Johnstone said wanly, "may be true." Matthew sensed the man was now willing to speak. "But, " Johnstone continued, "I have survived Newgate itself, and so I doubt I shall be much inconvenienced."

"Ahhhhh!" Matthew nodded. He leaned against the wall opposite the man. "A graduate not of Oxford, but of Newgate prison! How did your attendance in such a school come about?"

"Debts. Political associations. And friends, " he said, staring at the floor, "with knives. My career was ruined. And I did have a good career. Oh… not that I was ever a major lamp, but I did have aspirations. I hoped… at some point… to have enough money to invest in a theater troupe of my own." He sighed heavily. "My candle was extinguished by jealous colleagues. But was I not… credible in my performance?" He lifted his sweat-slick face to Matthew, and offered a faint smile.

"You are deserving of applause. From the hangman, at least."

"I take that as a backhanded compliment. Allow me to deliver one of my own: you have a fair to middling mind. With some work, you might become a thinker."

"I shall take such into consideration."

"This beast." Johnstone put his hand on the convexity on his leg. "It does pain me. I am glad, in that regard, to get it off once and for all." He unbuttoned the breeches at the knee, rolled down the stocking, and began to unstrap the leather brace. All present could see that the kneecap was perfectly formed. "You're correct. It was candle wax. I spent a whole night shaping it before I was satisfied with the damn thing. Here: a trophy." He tossed the brace to the floor at Matthew's feet.

Matthew couldn't help but think it was much more palatable than the trophy of a carved-out, horrible-smelling bear's head he'd been presented with at the celebration last night. Also a much more satisfying one.

Johnstone winced as he stretched the leg out straight and briskly massaged the knee. "I was suffering a muscle cramp the other night that near put me on the floor. Had to wear a similar apparatus for a role I played… oh… ten years ago. One of my last roles, with the Paradigm Players. A comedy, actually. Unfortunately there was nothing funny about it, if you discount the humor of having the audience pelt you with tomatoes and horse-shit."

"By God, I ought to strangle you myself!" Bidwell raged. "I ought to save the hangman a penny rope!"

Johnstone said, "Strangle yourself while you're at it. You were the one in such a rush to burn the woman." This statement, delivered so offhandedly, was the straw that broke Bidwell's back. The master of dead Fount Royal gave a shouted oath and lunged from his chair at Johnstone, seizing the actor's throat with both hands.

They went to the floor in a tangle and crash. At once Matthew and Winston rushed forward to disengage them, as Green looked on from his position guarding the door and Shields clung to his chair. Bidwell was pulled away from Johnstone, but not before delivering two blows that bloodied the actor's nostrils.

"Sit down, " Matthew told Bidwell, who angrily jerked out of his grasp. Winston righted Johnstone's chair and helped him into it, then immediately retreated to a corner of the library as if he feared contamination from having touched the man. Johnstone wiped his bleeding nose with his sleeve and picked up his cane, which had also fallen to the floor.

"I ought to kill you!" Bidwell shouted, the veins standing out in his neck. "Tear you to pieces myself, for what you've done!"

"The law will take care of him, sir, " Matthew said. "Now please… sit down and keep your dignity."

Reluctantly, Bidwell returned to his chair and thumped down into it. He glowered straight ahead, ideas of vengeance still crackling like flames in his mind.

"Well, you should feel very pleased with yourself, " Johnstone said to Matthew. He leaned his head back and sniffled. "The hero of the day, and all that. Am I your stepping-stone to the judicial robes?"

Matthew realized Johnstone the manipulator was yet at work, trying to move him into a defensive position. "The treasure, " he said, ignoring the man's remark. "How come you to know about it?"

"I believe my nose is broken."

"The treasure, " Matthew insisted. "Now is not the time to play games."

"Ah, the treasure! Yes, that." He closed his eyes and sniffled blood again. "Tell me, Matthew, have you ever set foot inside Newgate prison?"

"No."

"Pray to God you never do." Johnstone's eyes opened. "I was there for one year, three months, and twenty-eight days, serving restitution for my debts. The prisoners have the run of the place. There are guards, yes, but they withdraw for their own throats. Everyone-debtors, thieves, drunks and lunatics, murderers, child fuckers and mother rapers… they're all thrown together, like animals in a pit, and… believe me… you do what you must to survive. You know why?"

He brought his head forward and grinned at Matthew, and when he did fresh crimson oozed from both nostrils. "Because no one… no one… cares whether you live or die but yourself. Yourself, " he hissed, and again that vulpine, cruel shadow passed quickly across his face. He nodded, his tongue flicking out and tasting the blood that glistened in the candlelight. "When they come at you-three or four at a time-and hold you down, it is not because they wish you well. I have seen men killed in such a fashion, battered until they are mortally torn inside. And still they go on, as the corpse is not yet cold. Still they go on. And you must-you must-sink to their level and join them if you wish to live another day. You must shout and shriek and howl like a beast, and strike and thrust… and want to kill… for if you show any weakness at all, they will turn upon you and it will be your broken corpse being thrown upon the garbage pile at first light."

The fox leaned toward his captor, heedless now of his bleeding nose. "Sewage runs right along the floor there. We knew it had rained outside, and how hard, when the sewage rose to our ankles. I saw two men fight to the death over a pack of playing cards. The fight ended when one drowned the other in that indescribable filth. Wouldn't that be a lovely way to end your life, Matthew? Drowned in human shit?"

"Is there a point to this recitation, sir?"

"Oh, indeed there is!" Johnstone grinned broadly, blood on his lips and the shine of his eyes verging on madness. "No words are vile enough, nor do they carry enough weight of bestiality, to describe Newgate prison, but I wished you to know the circumstances in which I found myself. The days were sufficiently horrible… but then came the nights! Oh, the joyous bliss of the darkness! I can feel it even now! Listen!" he whispered. "Hear them? Starting to stir? Starting to crawl from their mattresses and stalk the night fantastic? Hear them? The creak of a bed-frame here-and one over there, as well! Oh, listen… someone weeps! Someone calls out for God… but it is always the Devil who answers." Johnstone's savage grin faltered and slipped away.