A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate, page 13
“This message is for Adam only, dost thee understand?”
She gave a quick bob before walking thoughtfully home.
* * *
Later, Lucy lay in bed, huddled in her brown muslin dress, having foolishly made up her mind to follow Adam that night. When she had delivered the message to Adam that afternoon, he had simply nodded and then bent back over his thick law volume. Clearly, he was not interested in continuing any conversation with her.
She cracked open her shutters, peering down at the cobblestone street below. The rising moon was bright. Her heart beat quickly as she thought about leaving the safety of the house. For Bessie’s sake, she would do it. Her dreams of late had been restless. In them, Bessie kept coming to her, dressed in her green taffeta. Rather than the beautiful girl Lucy remembered, this specter had long jagged scars down her body and entrails spilling from her gown. Each time, the specter would stretch out her arms, searching, pleading. Lucy! Help me, please!
The last time Lucy had awoken, breathing heavily and sweating, a sheet wrapped around her neck like a shroud. To Lucy, the message of the dreams was clear. No matter her own fear, no matter who the murderer turned out to be, truth must out—and she had to play a role in its discovery. If Bessie’s murderer turned out to be Adam … Lucy shook her head. She didn’t know what to think. What could he be doing, so secretly, this late at night?
“He simply can’t be a Quaker,” she said out loud. The magistrate would throw his son into jail if he took up with that wretched sect. “It’s easier to believe him a murderer than a Quaker.” She laughed, without mirth, to herself. Yet, of course, it wasn’t easy at all to think Adam had killed Bessie. Because he was the magistrate’s son. Because he had once been kind. For other reasons, too, that she knew would be too heartbreaking to face.
Though Lucy could barely keep her eyes open, her patience was finally rewarded when she saw a furtive shadow slip from the house. Hurriedly, she laced up her shoes and tiptoed down the stairs. Hearing the reassuring sound of Cook’s and John’s snores from the kitchen, she pushed open the back door. As she stepped out, she made a small prayer that no one would awaken in her absence.
Lucy raced lightly down the street, thankfully bathed in moonlight, hoping that Adam was still heading in the direction she had glimpsed from the window. She was not sure where Jamison’s paddock was and was relieved when she caught sight of Adam’s tall, wiry form walking swiftly down the road. Lucy caught her breath. He was moving toward the fields where the tinker had found Bessie’s body. What was he doing?
Adam moved toward a farmer’s paddock, where Lucy saw that several people were already waiting. Puzzled, she stepped behind a tree to watch. No one greeted Adam when he approached, although a few glanced at him silently. All were dressed simply in Quaker garb. Lucy recognized the tall, thin man who had approached her earlier. Soon, eight people had gathered. One of the women held a sleeping child in her arms. Nervously, Lucy realized that this was indeed one of the secret conventicles banned by the king and the Church. For a long time no one spoke, although Lucy thought she heard a woman weeping. A moment later, someone spoke quietly. Adam kept his head bowed, as if in prayer.
Finally, another man spoke. Lucy had to strain to hear him. “The king has seen fit to cast another dozen of our brethren into jail. Mistress White is alone with three young babes. How can we help her?”
The woman shifted the sleeping baby in her arms and spoke quietly. “I can spare some victuals.”
Another man declared, “Myself and Garret here shall visit our brethren in Newgate and seek to sustain their spirits.”
One by one, each Quaker promised ways to help their imprisoned brethren. None looked very wealthy, so Lucy thought they could scarce afford it.
Throughout it all, Adam had remained silent. Finally, he spoke. “I shall draft a petition to the king and deliver it to Whitehall.”
The tall man nodded gravely. The group began to disperse, everyone sidling off in different directions, the meeting apparently over. The baby still slept sweetly in his mother’s arms. Adam said something else to the Quaker who had spoken to her, and she saw him nod.
Lucy pressed herself against the tree, hoping Adam would pass her by without noticing. As she shifted her weight, though, a twig cracked beneath her foot. Adam stiffened and stared into the copse where she stood hidden in the shadows. Lucy was glad that clouds were passing before the moon, offering some cover.
“Who’s there?” Adam called. “Show yourself!”
A long moment passed. Lucy longed to peek out from behind the tree trunk, but she was afraid he would see her. The chill of the night began to seep into her bones, and she desperately longed to move her legs and arms and to get some life back in them. Warily, she slid from her hiding spot, trying to avoid the great pools of light that spilled through the branches. Looking around, she heaved a great sigh. Adam had left. She started down the path.
The next instant, a man’s hand clamped tightly over her mouth, and an arm about her waist immobilized her. In her panic, she began to thrash about, remembering how Richard had attacked her.
Adam’s voice came angrily into her ear. “Lucy. It’s me! Stop it!”
She stopped squirming, and he let her go, standing a few feet from her. His clothes were rumpled as if he had not sat comfortably in a while, but his stance was watchful. He looked like he could knock her down without a second thought.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Spying? Certainly a foolhardy thing, to spy on a man who you believe to be a killer. I guess this is my chance, then. We’re alone. No one around.” Lucy gaped at him, at a loss for words. Adam went on, ignoring her distress. “Unfortunately, the opportunity will have to pass. I seem to have no knife, or rope, or even a bit of cloth. I suppose I could smother you with your cloak, but that seems a lot of trouble. Plus, I prefer to keep you alive.”
Adam ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Oh, come on, Lucy! Where is the intelligence my father alleges you to have? Or is it you are blessed with too keen an imagination? Please understand, I’ve no wish to kill you! Not now or ever!” In a different tone, he asked, “Now, will you please tell me what you are doing here, in the middle of the night? I trusted you enough to think the message could be relayed to you, but clearly I underestimated your distrust of me.” He shook his head. “What did you think you were going to find out? That we were meeting tonight to murder someone? There must be so many easier ways to go about it! Yet I did manage to lure you here, it would seem. So perhaps my plan was not so far-fetched.”
Although Lucy bristled at his mocking tone, she thought about how he had silently prayed with the Quakers. Something about the obvious trust they placed in him confused her.
He continued to wait for her answer, almost daring her to ask the question on the tip of her tongue. Still, she couldn’t very well probe him about his bloodied hands here in this desolate spot. Why else would she have come, if not to spy on him?
A sudden flash of inspiration came to her instead. “My conscience!” she declared, trying to keep the note of triumph out of her voice. “I knew that man was a Quaker. I knew you would be meeting with them, and my conscience told me to follow you.” She thought that was a safe enough answer. Everyone knew that Quakers were led in all their decisions by their conscience and did not feel the need to obey earthly authority or rules.
“Hmm,” he grunted, a disbelieving look on his face. “If that were true—”
Lucy sought to shift the conversation. “You’re a Quaker, then?”
A long moment passed. Lucy thought he wasn’t going to respond. When he did, it was in his old measured way. “No,” he admitted. “I’m not. But I do have some sympathy for their cause.” Then, unexpectedly, Adam began to talk, and kept talking as they walked home. He had long questioned the Church of England’s policies and doctrines on certain matters, and he certainly did not approve of King Charles’s hardening response to the nonconformists. He had, he admitted, written a tract or two pleading their cause. “Father would not much like that if he knew, Lucy,” he said, a warning evident in his voice. “Of course, I’m not too likely to use his name, am I?” he muttered more to himself than to her.
She nodded, uncertain what to say.
Adam glanced at her. “I must say, there is something else that interests me about these Quakers.”
“Oh?” she asked, pulling her thin cloak more tightly around her. For a moment, she was reminded of their walk from the Embrys’, although she thought it unlikely he would share his cloak again with her. “What is that?”
“They move in and out of the jails. They pick up information. That kind of information can be useful.”
“What kind of information?” Lucy asked.
Instead of answering her, Adam stopped and looked down at her, a questioning look on his face. “So, how can I account for this sea change?”
She stopped, too. “Sir?”
He moved slightly toward her. “You’re no longer looking at me so fearfully. Have you finally displaced the misbegotten fancy that I’m a murderer?”
For the first time in a long time, she smiled in his presence. “I’m not sure.”
She was unexpectedly gratified when he gave her a rare answering grin. “Well, so long as I know what you’re thinking.”
12
“I’m here to talk to Master Adam about the murder of Bessie Campbell.”
Lucy gasped. Constable Duncan was speaking to John just outside the kitchen. Had it only been eleven days since she had informed them of Bessie’s death? Casting aside the fine frock she had been mending, Lucy rushed into the hallway, Cook at her heels. Seeing the constable there, standing smartly by the door, reminded Lucy of the first time they had met—when he had come bearing news of the hapless Jane Hardewick. With a shiver, Lucy remembered how Bessie had flirted with the young constable. Now Bessie was gone.
“You have news?” she asked before she could help herself.
The constable glanced at her, his face stern. “Perhaps,” he replied. “Something new has come to light.”
John returned. “This way, sir, the magistrate is within.”
A moment later, Adam appeared, his face drawn and pale. As he passed, he raised his eyebrows at her, looking cool and arrogant. When the door closed behind him, Cook and Lucy unashamedly put their ears to a long crack in the wood. John settled onto a nearby bench, playing with his unlit pipe.
Then they heard Duncan speak. “I’m going to cut through the chaff. Can you explain, sir, why you arrived home, after having been out all evening, with torn clothes and bloody limbs, on the same morning that your servant went missing? This same servant who was later found murdered, having been run through and through with a knife. Can you explain this?”
They gasped. Lucy held up her hand for quiet so she could hear. How had the constable known? She looked at John, and he gave a slight shake of his head. No, the constable’s knowledge did not come from either of them. Dr. Larimer’s assistant, the surgeon who had tended Adam, she realized, might have come forward. Or perhaps one of her nosy neighbors had seen more than she knew.
Lucy’s mind was clear, but her stomach was churning. Somehow, now that Constable Duncan was there, questioning Adam, she could hardly bear it. He couldn’t have anything to do with Lucy’s death, he just couldn’t. Yet she had to have the answer that had been plaguing her for weeks.
“Pub fight.” Adam’s tone was terse, angry. “At the Muddy Duck. Plenty of oglers, I might add. A few might be coaxed to speak, if a few bits more found their way into some pockets.”
“Indeed,” Duncan said. “We did hear about that. Not too common for the magistrate’s son to be involved in an everyday brawl.” Though his tone was even, a note of disdain had crept into the constable’s voice. “Here’s the thing,” he continued. “We’ve heard tell that you, Adam Hargrave, threatened to kill the girl in question—”
“What!” Adam exclaimed. “That, my dear sir, is a blatant lie.”
“Do you deny, sir, that your brawl was over your serving wench, Bessie Campbell?”
Adam said something, but his voice was muffled. Cook and Lucy signaled the same confused question. What in the world—?
They scarcely had a chance to ponder, hearing Duncan speak again. “Can you explain, sir, your absence later that evening? Do not suppose, sir, that we do not have witnesses. I should like to hear your own accounting.”
Again the heavy oak door kept Lucy and Cook from hearing Adam’s response. Frustrated, Lucy could only press her ear more closely to the crack between the door and the frame. Here the constable evidently was reading something. “He did arrive home, at a most unseemly hour, blood all over his clothes, a crazed look on his face, like a man having spent the night satisfying unnatural cravings—”
“Unnatural cravings?” the magistrate shouted. “What nonsense is this?”
“—thereby being helped in by his servant,” the constable continued, “another hoyden by the name of Lucy Campion and—”
“Enough!” roared the magistrate, causing his listeners to jump. Lucy felt, rather than saw, Cook give her a sidelong glance.
Into his next statement, Master Hargrave put the full weight of his magisterial authority. “I’ll not let some prying neighbor with too much time on her hands impugn my son in such a way. Wild look in his eyes, indeed! Blood on his shirt! By God, I shall go to your superior this instant! His name, man!”
Adam said something then. They heard the magistrate sink heavily into a chair.
“Why in heaven’s name…?” they heard him say, his voice strangled. “Whose blood was it?”
Lucy pressed her ear so hard against the door that she began to hear ringing. Her fist was pressed just as tightly to her mouth. She was dimly afraid that she would burst the door open by accident, but she little cared about making a disturbance.
“My own blood, I swear,” Adam shouted, “and that of a dumb beast!”
Oh, he’s going to try telling them he ran into the butcher’s stall again, Lucy thought faintly. They won’t believe it. She could scarcely believe that she had accepted that nonsense as truth.
There was silence again. For a moment, all Lucy could hear was John’s slight raspiness as he breathed in and out. Then the constable said something. His words were inaudible, but the meaning was clear.
Adam seemed to be speaking to his father, not the constable. His voice sounded more pleading than confident. Certainly, he had dropped the self-mocking tone. Luckily, his voice was elevated, so they could discern almost everything. “Just hear me out, sir,” Adam said. “This will sound absurd, I know.” He paused. Lucy could imagine him running his hand through his hair. He seemed to be searching for words. Then he spoke again. “I was at a ring in Southwark the night Bessie, God rest her poor soul, disappeared.”
“A ring!” Master Hargrave exclaimed. “What were you doing, at such a low sport as that?”
Lucy strained to hear Adam’s next words. Whatever she had expected, it was not that Adam had spent time at a cock and dog fight. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and disappointment. Still, she wanted to hear his explanation.
“’Tis no sport!” Adam answered. “Putting a pea in a poor dog’s ears to make him mad! I believe such sport is wrong, and against God’s own law!”
Casting her mind back to that awful night, Lucy considered Adam’s words. Grudgingly, she realized that some of the cuts and blood could have been the result of a man’s being mad enough to step into the midst of such bloodlust. The fever that had followed would fit, for it was well known that those animals could sicken a man, and even kill him, even if he had not lost blood. But what about the odd slashes across Adam’s chest and arms? No animal had made those!
As if hearing her thoughts through the door, Duncan spoke again. “We have it on good conviction that those marks on your body were not from a beast.”
Adam murmured something that Lucy did not catch.
They all jumped as Master Hargrave roared, “Who dares whip my son?”
Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth.
“I think,” Adam said wryly, “there are many who would whip a man who busts up their sport. One in particular would be glad to have everyone know he had whipped me, if he had not perhaps preferred that I swing from the hangman’s noose.”
The constable said something. Adam raised his voice. “I should give you his name and address if I had it, but alas I do not. Perhaps if you asked around, down in Southwark, you might get proof of my innocence, but I think it will be unlikely, angry as they all were that I had ruined their sport. Now, sir, either arrest me or leave, I pray you. I’ve things to attend to here. Good day.”
Lucy and Cook tried to jump away as Adam threw open the door pretending they had not just been huddled with their ears pressed to the wood. Seeing them, he stopped short and glared. Lucy opened her mouth to speak but could make no words come out. Adam looked at her, his glance so contemptuous that a deep hurt arose within her chest.
She realized then that Adam thought she had informed the constable about his injuries. Then a deeper realization surfaced. Who will believe Adam’s story? Even she had thought Adam had been lying. He will likely be arrested, she thought, feeling her stomach twist. If that be the case, he is as good as tried and hanged.
* * *
Just before dinner, the magistrate called Lucy to his private study. The constable had left three hours before without arresting Adam, but she knew that a bellman had just delivered a note to the magistrate. He was holding it in his hand when she tapped on the open door.
“Sit down, my dear,” the magistrate said, gesturing to his own large comfortable chair. Lucy sat, perching uneasily. She did not come into this room very often, since the master did not like his stacks of paper to be disturbed, and she certainly never sat in the magistrate’s own chair.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said. “I just need to finish this letter.”
As Lucy waited, her gaze drifted to the portrait of the family above the fireplace. The magistrate was seated at the center, in his robes, taking the viewer’s gaze head-on. The mistress, looking lovely in a midnight blue gown, sat beside him, smiling warmly down at baby Sarah in her lap. Adam, dressed to imitate the magistrate, stood solemnly at his knee. Although he was looking up at his father, there was a slight smile on his lips.
