A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate, page 2
Just then, one of the boys grabbed her purse, snapping the flimsy cord. The other boy scooped up two of her packages, and they took off, out of the market, in separate directions.
The woman, first stunned and mute, shook herself and began to wail, a shrieking, piteous sound. Nearby faces turned and conversations stopped, but after a moment, everyone returned to business. Pickpockets were a fair menace to the streets, but as the woman was a stranger, no one raised a hand to help her.
Shocked, Lucy turned to Adam. Had he witnessed it? It seemed he had.
“Come on. There’s no constable about.” His tone, like his face, was flat. “No bellman at hand, no soldiers. There is nothing to be done.”
Her uncertain protest quelled, Lucy picked up her basket again. She could not stop looking back at the woman, who had begun to weep openly. With her purse and day’s purchases gone, she might have little left. Her husband or master, unless he was a particularly forgiving man, might well beat her for her loss. Or worse. Lucy shuddered.
When they turned the corner, though, Lucy noticed that one of the young pickpockets had circled back, slinking among the crowded stalls. Without saying anything to Adam, she kept her head down, watching the lad as he helped himself to an apple here, a scrap of cloth there. He stood for a moment before an enormous leg of mutton. For a crazy moment, Lucy thought he was actually trying to figure out how to get the gamy leg inside his knapsack. The woman’s purse, she imagined, was still inside his doublet.
“I’m to get some eggs and a bit of coffee,” she told Adam, her eyes not leaving the boy.
Adam nodded, looking toward Fleet Street. Lucy had rarely been on the long, winding street where the printers and booksellers lived and hawked their wares.
“See that shop there?” Adam asked, pointing halfway down the narrow road. “The fifth one in from the corner? ’Tis Master Aubrey’s. Join me there in a quarter hour’s time, and I shall see you home.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, distantly wondering at his grim tone. Right now, she was thinking about something else. Seeing that Adam was waiting for her to respond, she added, “Yes, sir. A quarter hour. I’ll be there.”
When Adam had walked away, Lucy looked again at the boy. She did not see his partner, but that was better for what she was about to do. Saying a soft prayer to her patron saint, she opened her pocket as if searching for a coin, walking straight toward the boy. An instant later, she collided with him, her hands right on his chest, then slipping easily into his shirt, where she seized the woman’s purse and whisked it from view.
“Oh, my,” Lucy said, so he could feel the full effect of her gaze. His frown was replaced by a look of confusion, under the onslaught of her smile. Lucy spent little time before a looking glass, but his somewhat dazed response gave her an unexpected sense of satisfaction. “I’m so sorry. I should have been paying more attention,” Lucy said, tucking a loose strand of hair back under her muslin cap. For a moment, she wished she had Bessie’s great blond curls, but no matter, she seemed to be doing fine.
The boy rubbed his hand against his shirt. “Oh, yes, miss, I mean, no, miss,” he stammered. “A comely lass like yourself, you must watch for cutthroats. There’s them that would take advantage of you, burying your nose down like that.”
Lucy widened her eyes. “Oh, my. I hadn’t thought of that. Cutthroats! In the market! To be sure, my dear aunt always says I must take more care, lest something dreadful happen.”
“Indeed, you must, miss.” He looked her up and down, taking in her servant’s garb. He seemed to like what he saw, and he took a step closer. Lucy had to keep herself from stepping back, for his teeth suddenly looked a little sharper, a little more predatory, than they had a moment before. He went on, puffing up his chest. “Shall I walk with you a bit? Perhaps you’d like an ale? The Cheddar Cheese is just ahead.”
Protect me from the likes of you, Lucy thought spitefully. Out loud, she said, “Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t even know your name, and my auntie—”
“My name’s Sid, miss. Sid Petry, miss.” He squeezed her upper arm.
His sudden liberty made her feel afraid and anxious to get away. What if Sid discovered what she had done? She looked about. “I have a friend meeting me, and he’ll be wondering where I am. Sorry again, Sid, for being so careless.”
It took all she had to get away from Sid’s wheedling, and she was afraid he would follow her. Moving quickly through the stalls, Lucy stepped over piles of dung and refuse that lay scattered across the cobblestones. Looking about, she finally spied Sid’s victim, now sitting dully at the edge of the cobblestone street, her arms wrapped around her skirts. No one was paying her any mind, and she looked quite forlorn indeed. Lucy strode up to her. “Pardon, ma’am.”
“What do you want?” the woman growled. “Can’t you see I’m not in a good way? Just got my pocket stolen and two good bones. What I shall tell my master, I don’t know.”
Lucy held out the woman’s worn pocket. “Yes, I saw what that witless lad did. But wouldn’t you know it? He dropped your pocket, the clumsy oaf.”
The woman’s mouth parted, but she said nothing.
Lucy turned away. Before she had taken two steps, however, she felt a hand claw at her elbow, forcing her to turn around. The woman twitched the left half of her lips in what might have been a smile. Lucy nodded. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.
* * *
Doubling back, Lucy entered the print shop where she was to meet Adam, a heavy acrid smell jolting her nose. Two men were working the presses, shouting back and forth. Adam was nowhere to be seen. As she waited, she read haltingly through some of the ballads and broadsides drying on the great racks. All told stories of monstrous births, unnatural events, and the like, or else offered quick recipes or advice. Having gone to petty school as a girl, Lucy had learned her letters and numbers but little else. Only in the last two years, when she’d found ways to listen to Sarah’s tutors in secret, had she figured out how to pick through her letters and read at a reasonable pace.
The title of one of the woodcuts now caught her eye. “‘Murder, or a Vengeance Cast upon a Candlemaker,’” Lucy read out loud.
“Murder most foul,” said a man stepping into the room, followed by Adam. Lucy guessed he was Master Aubrey. A fat and balding man, the printer had spilled ink all across his person, so that it had stained his beard, his forehead, and his smock, as well as his hands. “But fortunate, too,” he added. Seeing Lucy’s quizzical look, he explained, “The dismal act of murder—vile, disgusting, monstrous—will make this piece easy to sell. Watch.”
Stepping out of his shop, Master Aubrey climbed onto a small bench. Adam and Lucy followed him outside. “Good people!” the printer called. “Let me tell you the true and most horrible story of Anne Johnson of Scarsbruck, a she-devil who poisoned her husband with an ill-begotten stew.”
Hearing Master Aubrey’s call, several passersby stopped to listen. A good story was always a treat, a murder even more enjoyable. Pushing up his sleeves on his heavy, sweaty arms, Master Aubrey launched into a sordid tale of greed, lust, and murder—the desperate plot of a woman weary of her husband’s adulterous ways. “The moral of this candlemaker’s sad end?” The printer wagged his finger at the men in the crowd. “Do not dip your wick in the neighbor’s tallow!”
The crowd let out a collective satisfied sigh. A few people cheered. The story complete, the people began to drift away, returning to their homes and stalls, with details of the murder carefully memorized. Master Aubrey and one of his printer’s devils scurried about, collecting coins from people who purchased the penny broadside to share with their families and neighbors, or even to post on their walls at home.
As they took their leave, Master Aubrey murmured something to Adam that Lucy did not catch. Lucy wondered what his business with the printer had been, but she knew she could not be so forward. Instead, she asked Adam how he knew the man.
“What? Oh, I’ve known Aubrey for some time now,” he said, sidestepping the question. “Say, Lucy, you have a brother? Will, is that right?” When Lucy nodded in surprise, he continued. “I know Aubrey’s looking for an apprentice, a turner. He wants an eager lad who knows his letters and who could belt out a right good story. Father says you’re quick enough, so I thought it might run in the family.”
Lucy shook her head. “Will cannot read so well. ’Sides, he’s fair settled with the smithy. I thank you for thinking of him, sir.” Her lips twisted ruefully. “Although if I were a man, I could think of no finer trade in which to apprentice.”
They fell silent as they walked along. Adam glanced at her. “So there was no coffee to be had at the market?” He looked pointedly at her basket.
Lucy flushed. Had he seen her talking to that rogue Sid? No, he could not have, he’d have been with the printer. The lie came out quickly. “No, the price was too dear. I should not like to waste the magistrate’s money.”
“No eggs to be had either?”
Lucy glanced at him, but his tone was casual, disinterested. “No,” she said. “I got to looking at a piece of Holland cloth for the mistress and forgot to get the eggs.”
Her cheeks burned, but she kept her gaze straight ahead. She thought he did look at her then, but he just said, “That’s too bad. I should have liked an egg at supper.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Indeed. So am I.”
They did not speak again, each lost in thought, for the rest of the walk home. Back at the magistrate’s house, Adam disappeared. Lucy had barely had time to pass the shilling she had saved to Cook when Bessie pulled her aside. “Did you hear about the body?” she whispered, her whole face animated. “The woman who got herself murdered?”
2
Lucy leaned back against the larder, pushing aside several jars of dried fruits and spices, thinking about the true account she had just heard from Master Aubrey. “Well, I did hear tell of Anne Johnson, who did poison her husband, a candlemaker—”
“No, no, not a candlemaker. Not a monstrous tale!” Bessie interrupted. “I mean a real murder. Happened in these parts.”
“Truly?” Lucy asked, studying Bessie’s face. The girl was alight with excitement. “Who was it?”
“No one knows,” Bessie said. “The watchman found her body last night in the north fields. That’s why the constable was here. To bring the magistrate the news.”
Instinctively, Lucy made the sign of the cross over her heart. The old faith stayed with them all when confronted by ungodly acts. Bessie nodded at the gesture and continued. “Edna—you know, the Thompsons’ maid?—said she heard it was a woman, but no one could be sure if she was from around these parts.”
“But why say murder?” Lucy pressed, seeking to find sense in Bessie’s words. “Could it have been an accident?”
Certainly the field in that area was generally flat, but tall grasses often hid rocks and small hillocks that made any false step treacherous. She said as much to Bessie.
Bessie smirked, reveling in the best part of the story. “Unless she ran her own innards through with a knife, certainly ’twas no accident!”
“No!” Lucy’s hands flew to her mouth. “How awful!”
Bessie continued, happy with the effect of her words. “Yes! Edna said Tom said there was blood everywhere and”—her voice lowered significantly—“she was near naked! Clad only in a few bits of cloth!”
That did not suggest a virtuous woman. Still, Lucy felt a pang of sorrow for this luckless person who had met such a fate. No one deserved such a death.
“And the north fields are not so very far away,” Bessie whispered.
Lucy shivered. What if the murderer had come their way instead? Now that she knew what had happened, she was grateful that Adam had walked her to and from town earlier. There were many empty, desolate fields between here and there. Many fields where a stranger could wait. She shook her head, trying to clear the disturbing images from her mind.
The girls continued to speculate in hushed tones until they heard Cook’s footsteps by the pantry. “Plenty of time for your tongues to wag later, girls,” the older woman said, bustling about. “Supper is upon us, and we’re hardly ready for the master’s guests. The brawn is ready, but the cabbage is not done, and I’ve not even started the pancakes. And surely,” Cook looked hard at Bessie, “I didn’t see you press the mistress’s new India silk. Would you have her wrinkled before the Mistresses Larimer and Chalmers?”
Bessie bobbed her head, mindful of her charge. Despite her flippant ways, she took her duties as the mistress’s lady’s maid as seriously as she took anything. Her good intentions did not keep her on the path to their mistress’s chamber, however, when she encountered Lucas just returning home. Lucy could hear Bessie whispering fervently to him in the hallway, rather than collecting the mistress’s gown. Lucy could not see them, but she could imagine Lucas nodding, a slight smile on his face as he took in Bessie’s excitement.
Lucas was a friendly sort, a lively presence in the household. Although the red of his cheeks might have been more becoming on a lass, he was handsome enough, even if his slight plumpness kept him from cutting as fine a figure as Master Adam. Lucy knew the local gossips whispered about Lucas’s history—“Was he from the wrong side of the blanket?”—yet the truth was far more sad than sordid. Bessie had told her, in confidence, that Lucas’s mother, dying of pleurisy, had begged the magistrate to take her son as his ward. Apparently there was some distant relationship to the family. Having shown no inclination to be a soldier, Lucas had only one other option: to enter the clergy, a decision he accepted easily enough. “Treat me with respect,” he would tease the girls, “or when I deliver my sermons, I’ll have you cast from the Church.”
Laying out the pewter in the dining room, Lucy fought a small pang of disappointment. When the family did not have guests, the servants were allowed to join them for the evening meal and sit together afterward, provided the day’s chores were done. That was Lucy’s favorite part of the evening. Or at least it had been, before Adam had returned to the household. Before, the magistrate would read passages from the Bible and, more interestingly, from other texts. She didn’t always understand what he was reading, but she always attended to his words and on occasion ventured a question. She’d stunned everyone, including herself, the first time she’d spoken up during his reading. The magistrate had been talking about how a man freed from prison would be hard-pressed to regain his liberty. “Because no one would ever trust him again,” she had murmured. No one else had been listening—Sarah, Bessie, and Lucas had been playing jackstraws, Cook was dozing in the corner, and the mistress had already retired—but when she whispered these words, everyone had stared at her, causing her to flush painfully. The magistrate had paused and peered at her, his expression in the candlelight inscrutable, although his eyes were kind. “That’s right, Lucy.” Before long, the magistrate would regularly query her. The rest of the household had taken notice, amused at his interest in his chambermaid’s opinions. Still, as Sarah said, “At least Papa has someone to discuss those deadly dull texts with him.”
This all had changed when Adam had returned and real debates between son and father ensued. Lucy would usually take her little stool from the kitchen and sit by the women, positioned so that she could sew in the light of the hearth while she listened to them debate politics, religion, and the law. Shy before Adam’s superior words, Lucy stopped venturing her point of view. Only once did the magistrate ask her for her opinion straight out. “What say you, Lucy?” the master had asked. When father and son looked at her, she grew tongue-tied, staring at the mending in her lap. Adam and the magistrate were both surprised, Adam that his father was seeking the serving girl’s opinion, and the magistrate at Lucy’s silence. After that, Master Hargrave never pressed her again.
This evening, Lucy brought fruits and sweetmeats to the withdrawing room, lingering as much as she dared, hoping to hear some interesting conversation. Sarah and Lucas were playing draughts at a small table in the corner while Adam and the magistrate conversed quietly with their guests, Sir Herbert Larimer, an important physician from the Royal Academy, and Sir Walcott Chalmers, a barrister at the Inns of Court. Their wives sat with Mistress Hargrave in another corner, engaged in their own private conversation, which as far as Lucy could gather seemed to be something about a recent scandal involving one of the king’s mistresses.
Accepting a mug of beer from Lucy’s carefully polished tray, Sir Walcott turned to the bespectacled man sitting in an embroidered chair by the hearth. “Well, Larimer, what do you make of this recent business? Who was this lass found in the field?”
At the barrister’s words, the women abruptly stopped their own conversation. “A horrible business,” Mistress Hargrave sniffed. Lady Chalmers murmured agreement, but both women hung on the physician’s response. He was often called to serve as coroner for suspicious or important deaths and could offer some fascinating detail that did not make it to the printed account.
Lucy lit another candle and brought it over next to Adam. He nodded at the gesture but was intent on hearing what Dr. Larimer had to say.
Larimer leaned back in his chair, touching his pipe stem to his lips. “’Tis an odd thing, that is certain. The body is being brought around to my office tomorrow morn; I will conduct my investigation then.”
“A doxy, do you suppose?” Lucas asked from the corner, chewing on a date.
“Lucas!” both the master and mistress cried at once.
Master Hargrave jerked his head at his daughter. “We’ll have no such talk here!”
Catching Lucy’s eye, Sarah giggled behind her handkerchief. They’d certainly heard of women who sold their bodies for a bit of gold. Lord, didn’t the Reverend Marcus speak of whores and lust and temptation every Sunday? He had done as much to inform them of the wages of sin as any boys joking about could have done.
