A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate, page 16
Quickly he pointed to the different parts of London, showing her the Tower of London, Whitehall, Buckingham Palace, St. Giles, and the main thoroughfares, Fleet Street, Newmarket, and Burrough High Street. “Here on the other side of the Thames, to the south”—he pointed at the bottom of the map—“is Winchester Palace, St. Mary Overy, Shakespeare’s Globe, and the Rose.”
“Where,” Lucy broke in, “would one find Lambeth Palace?” After he showed her, she ventured, “And how would one get there? Take London Bridge, I suppose?”
“Aye,” he agreed. Then he looked at her, his face grave. “How is your brother William holding up?”
Tears blurred her eyes. “He didn’t do it, sir! I know he didn’t.”
He nodded. His eyes were kind, but Lucy could tell he didn’t believe her.
* * *
As she walked to Southwark, Lucy worked out her story, munching on a bit of bread and cheese from a sack, thinking through her plan. Although a godly respectable household would be unlikely to take in a stranger with no references—indeed, even in the city, people looked askance at strangers outside the local community—she had thought of a way to get around that natural distrust.
Lucy had decided she would tell them her mum had died. Even thinking this terrible thought made her cross her heart and look for forgiveness toward the heavens. The fog that swirled about her was an ever-present witness to her feckless acts.
Before long she had crossed the Thames into south London. After pausing a moment to admire Lambeth Palace, she finally found her way to Walworth. She was terribly thirsty but had not seen any public wells along the way. She fingered the coins in her pocket. She hated to use them so frivolously, but she thought she might find a place to stop in for a pint and cool off.
There were a few shops and taverns, and she soon found the Elephant and Castle. A little nervous about being in a public house by herself, she scooted into a table in a dimly lit corner.
A tavern girl, little older than herself but far more worn in spirit, approached her with a friendly smile. “What will it be, miss?”
Lucy ordered a pint of ale and pulled out her bite of bread and cheese. Looking around the dimly lit pub, she saw there were only a handful of people in the room. There were a few women, Lucy was grateful to see, for she did not think her mother would approve if she could see her right now. A snatch of conversation from a group of young men in the corner caught her attention. Although they were not in scholars’ robes, she guessed they were students from Cambridge or Oxford.
“This was most certainly a stop in Canterbury Tales,” one man said, gesturing to the room. “Chaucer’s pilgrims were definitely here.”
Lucy looked around the room, noting the careworn timbers and uneven stone floor. She’d heard of Canterbury Tales, from listening to Sarah’s tutor. Indeed, these young men reminded her of him—young, passionate, conversant in literature and philosophy. Now they seemed to be debating whether Chaucer had been influenced by Aquinas, another scholar she had learned about from her brief time in Sarah’s classroom.
Lucy envied them. She’d seen a picture of Oxford once, and the image of its graceful spires had filled her with a great longing. Not just to see the university, though of course the notion drew her, but to be a part of it. To live and dream, to study and share her thoughts, to ponder the words of great men. Lucy scarcely dared to think of it. To be a man, to be a scholar—she could only imagine the freedom and the headiness of reading and writing without being encumbered by scullery duties.
The clamoring of nearby church bells brought Lucy up with a start. “Make haste, Lucy!” she scolded herself. “You’ve got work to do!”
Finding Effie’s house required a little ingenuity and even more luck. Lucy did not want to make it obvious that she was seeking Effie’s house specifically, so she found herself making conversation with different shopkeepers and sweeps to find their house. She didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions by her questions, or worse, become an object of gossip. She varied what she asked, taking different approaches that she thought would give her more information. To some, she pretended to be Effie’s cousin (“Oh, you poor thing!” the older women would cluck). To younger men sweeping stoops or working leather, she batted her lashes a bit, saying she was really hoping to find work in the neighborhood.
As she slowly gathered information, she finally stood before the house on Queen’s Row that the young tanner had pointed out to her. “They doubtless need help in that house,” he had said. Though the white house he indicated was one of the biggest on the street, the magistrate’s home was far more fine. “I know they’ve had a hard time keeping a serving lass since their one girl got herself killed.”
“Killed!” Lucy feigned surprise. “In the house?”
“Oh, no! Not in the house! In some park, she was!” Suitably impressed with himself, the boy added, “But don’t you worry, miss. I’ll be glad to keep watch, neighborly like, you understand. You won’t likely be running into the same fate poor Effie ran into, not when Roger is around!”
“Who killed her?” Lucy asked, as casually as she could. “The girl, I mean. Effie, did you say?”
Roger looked mysterious. “No one knows for sure. My money’s on the master. He’s a mean sort, he is.”
Lucy’s face blanched, but she kept walking, resolute. Roger, taking a moment to catch up, said, “Wait a minute. Maybe you’d best work somewhere else.”
“I’ll be fine,” Lucy said curtly, wanting to shake him off.
Roger even wanted to come to the house with her. That she could not let him do, of course. “Don’t you worry, Roger dear,” Lucy said, repeating firmly. “I’ll be fine.”
At his dismayed look, she added, “If I get the job at the house, maybe we can go walking where no one’s like to kill me.” Giving what she hoped was a sufficiently flirtatious giggle, Lucy walked away without looking back.
Going around back to the kitchen, she knocked firmly on the stout oak door. Just as she’d hoped, an elderly servant opened it. She looked cross and sweaty. “What do you want? We’ve no deliveries expected today.”
Bobbing a quick curtsy, Lucy took a deep breath. “If you please, ma’am. I am looking for work.”
The woman, who looked to be in her sixties, stared at her, mistrust evident in her wrinkled face. She sniffed. “Who was so bold as to send you to us in this manner? I was not aware the master had gotten around to hiring a new lass.”
Something flashed over the woman’s face. Something Lucy caught but could not quite grasp. Fear? No, it looked more like guilt, and it was gone in an instant.
Lucy gave her brightest smile. This was not going as she had hoped at all. “I know, Missus—?”
She waited for the servant to supply her name. When she didn’t, Lucy went on, her words more hurried. “Well, it’s like this. My mum did die, just a few weeks back, and my dad did run off when I was just a babe. She used to do some odd jobs, laundry, sewing, and the like, but now I’m out on my own. I just thought I could work here a few days, not for pay but for a bit of food. Then I could get a reference and maybe set myself up proper. I’m a hard worker, I am.”
Toward the end of her little speech, Lucy let her voice shake. The servant crossed her arms, filling the whole doorway. “The master, he ain’t running no charity here. You’d best be off to the poorhouse, then, or I’ll be calling for the constable. This ain’t the place for you. You’d best run off.”
“Missus Jones?” a man called from within the kitchen.
The servant stiffened, glaring at Lucy. “Now you’ve done it,” she whispered.
A heavyset man in his thirties appeared behind Missus Jones. “What have we here?” he asked.
“A girl, sir. Looking to work here. Without no friends or family to vouch for her, either.”
“Is that right?” he asked. His eyes were small and greedy, and his face was fleshy and round. The overall effect was that he looked like a pig her family had once owned.
Lucy nodded. “Just for a little while, in exchange for food and a good reference, so I can get set up proper. I had heard you might be needing a maid.”
The man laughed in a way that made Lucy nervous. “Yes, that’s true. I think you’ll do just fine. Come on in. I’m Anders, Samuel Anders.”
“And does the young lady,” the servant nearly spit out, “have a name?”
This Lucy had already prepared. “Sarah Johnson,” she said quickly. “My mum and me, we used to live by Walworth. I’ve lots of neighbors who can vouch for me there.”
The man laughed. She was starting to wonder what she had gotten herself into. “Jones here, she can show you around. Do some scullery tasks for her; the good Lord knows we haven’t had the grates and pots cleaned in some time. Then, in about two hours’ time, come see me, and we’ll decide about your reference.”
Lucy spent the next two hours scrubbing and cursing herself. Jones seemed to take a great pleasure in bringing her the most disgusting things to clean. What maid in her right mind would go do another full day’s work for free?
After a while, Jones left Lucy to her efforts. By comparison, the pots at the magistrate’s house were a pleasure to clean and polish. This house, too, was somber and chilly, and compared ill to the magistrate’s warm and cheerful household.
Finally, Jones came back in with a pot of tea and some hard rolls. “I reckon you’ve worked hard enough,” she said gruffly. “Come sit with me.”
Lucy sat down, holding her cup of tea gratefully in her cold fingers, well aware of Jones’s scrutiny.
“I’m wondering why you came to this house. Surely, other homes are closer?”
Taking a bite of the roll, Lucy just shrugged. “I did hear tell that a maid who had worked here left sudden-like. So I thought—”
“Left sudden-like!” Jones exclaimed. “You cannot tell me that is what they”—she gestured angrily at the other homes on the street visible through the window—“are saying.”
“Yes, all right. I did hear that your maid—Effie, was it?—had been killed. In a field some miles off…?”
Unexpectedly, Jones seemed to choke up. “The girl was dirt stupid, that’s true enough. To run off with a lover? I do not believe it to be true. More like run off from him!” she hissed.
“Him?” Lucy asked. “Who? I don’t understand.”
“The master, of course. I knew it was only a matter of time before she fled. Taking up with all sorts, she was. I thought for a time she’d even become one of those dratted Quakers, but she was hardly the godly sort, if you catch my drift. Still, she did not deserve what happened here, or in that there field. The master, he did on more than one occasion—”
She broke off, hearing a door shutting in the hallway. Lucy looked at her in sudden fear. “He’ll be waiting for you. If you want a good reference, best do what he asks. Better yet, take yourself out of here, fast as you can. Make your bed, as it were.”
Afraid, all Lucy wanted to do was to bolt out of the kitchen and run all the way back to the magistrate’s household. Yet if she wanted answers, this was the best chance. “I think I’d like the reference,” she said.
Jones’s face was set back in her hard mask. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She went into Anders’s drawing room, noting with distaste how dirty it all was. The dust was thick, the grate had not been cleaned, and the chairs looked in sad array. Clearly, little effort had been made to keep the house tidy.
Anders cleared his throat, sounding a bit like a bullfrog Lucy would hear at the lake. “Jones tells me you’ve been cleaning pots all morning and have met Jones’s particular standards. I can assure you, she is most discerning.”
Lucy somehow doubted that, but who would turn down free labor?
“However, I must see you clean before I can lend my good name to a recommendation. I see you still have your apron on, and a clean rag. Let me see you clean that grate. On your hands and knees, my lass.” He laughed jovially.
She looked at the grate and back at Anders. He was perspiring. Lucy remembered the stable, and what had nearly happened there. Shakily, she knew no one would heed her screams. Missus Jones was not like to help. It was bad enough for a young woman without a friend in the world, but for an old woman that could be the end. Jones probably overlooked her master’s transgressions. Perhaps that was why she looked guilty when she mentioned Effie. Poor Effie! Had she been trying to escape the master’s household when death caught up with her anyway?
Anxious to get away herself, Lucy began to cast about for an excuse to leave the room. “Let me get a bin,” she suggested, trying to stall. “This grate looks like it has not been cleaned in some time.”
“Never mind the bin,” Anders said, his voice growing gruff and his body flushed. “Lift your skirts.” He lunged toward her, his movements bovine and lumbering. Lucy nimbly jumped aside, but he still stood between her and the door.
“Help!” she screamed. “Oh, help!”
“There’s no one to help you, my dear. Do let me take this moment”—he grabbed her with great meaty hands—“to thank you for first servicing my house and then servicing me. It’s been so long since my Effie left. I’ve been craving female company.”
Hoping to divert him, she screamed, “Was it you? You who killed Effie? That’s what they all think, you know!”
Momentarily startled, he stopped. “What?” he roared. “I did not kill Effie! ’Twas those damn Quakers, I have no doubt! Why would I kill the best lay I’m likely to get—”
His face, already a mottled purple, started to twitch. Dropping her arms, he began to claw at his throat, gasping for air, flopping about on the floor. “Did—not—kill—Effie.” He groaned softly, spittle dropping from his lips.
Hesitantly, Lucy looked at him. “Uh, Missus Jones?” she called.
The door opened. The servant must have been listening at the door. She came in and calmly regarded Anders, who was still twitching, but less violently than before. They both watched him in silence. Then he stopped.
“Is he dead?” Lucy whispered.
“Let us hope so.” Jones bent over the body. “He’s not breathing, and I can’t hear his heart. Good thing, bloody bastard.” She straightened up and glared at Lucy. “Look, girl. He was a bad one, he was. I heard you asking him about Effie, and I don’t know why. I will tell you, though, that there’s no way that he, bullying coward that he was, told you a lie on his deathbed. He didn’t kill her.”
Lucy gulped. “Do you know who did it, then?”
“One of those blasted Quakers. She was mad about one of them, stupid git. Didn’t know, did she, they’re all touched in the head. Found out too late, didn’t she.” Jones shook her finger at Lucy. “Best you count yourself lucky and hightail it back to where you came, and pretend you never set foot in this misbegotten house. I’ve some things to take care of here.”
Lucy got her meaning full and clear. Jones wanted Lucy to go so she could pick through Anders’s belongings for anything of worth, a common enough practice, to be sure. Indeed, Jones had already pulled out a sack and started to fill it with things she could easily peddle. Likely as not, she’d tell no one of Anders’s death until she had near robbed him blind. She could clear out, a richer woman than she’d ever been, with none the wiser about her criminal misdeed.
Lucy fled, saying a small prayer for Effie, who had not been protected as she should have been. As she passed the Thames, she longed to jump in and wash away the vile aura that enclosed her.
15
May Day came and passed. The grimness in the city kept people out of the streets, a heavy fog further quelling the Londoners’ spirits. No blooming bouquets, no dancing, and nary a maypole in sight, only withered dried flowers keeping death at bay. Every time Lucy went to market, she heard gossip about the spreading distemper. Spotted fever, some called it.
“It’s them godforsaken lot in St. Giles,” one neighbor sniffed, a burly woman known to everyone as Goodwife Cruff. “We know they have the sickness. I heard tell of near three dozen secret burials, just last week.”
“The mayor should just board the whole lot of them, and let them rot,” another fishwife added. “We’ve no need of their sickness here.”
The master insisted that the household keep to its schedule the best they could, so he and his wife sometimes still dined with friends and neighbors. Lucy was helping the mistress for supper at the Drakes’.
“Nothing too fancy,” the mistress said to Lucy. “We are a household in mourning, even though Bessie was but a servant, she was one of us for five years now. It would be unseemly to dress too fine.”
Lucy nodded, absently smoothing her mistress’s hair into a knot pinned securely onto her head. She was still preoccupied with what she had learned, or rather what she hadn’t learned, from being at Effie’s house. What had the Quakers to do with this? Would it be worth asking Adam about it? Surely, he would laugh at such wild accusations. Besides, weren’t there hundreds of Quakers all over London, holding their secret conventicles, preaching in the streets, filling the jails? The whole day had been for naught, having brought her no closer to understanding what had happened to Bessie. Her thoughts were jumbled, flashing back to Anders’s dead body. I’ve got to get a hold on myself, she sighed.
“The black combs tonight, I think, dear. The red roses do something wondrous to my hair.” The mistress reached into the small box on the dressing table that held her most precious earbobs, combs, and jewelry. “You know, I find that I miss Bessie quite dearly. Does that surprise you?”
