A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate, page 3
“I don’t mind telling you, Christopher, I don’t like it. Not one bit,” Larimer said, pulling at his beard. “Two young women in the last few months, taken nearly the same way. What monsters walk among us!” The physician frowned at Lucas. “And no, young man, not one of them a known lady of the evening.”
“Similar deaths, you say?” Adam asked, glancing at his father. “Could they be connected in some way?”
“Young man, I think it highly unlikely that two monsters met together to plan out these young girls’ deaths. Dashed near impossible, one might say.” Larimer took a drink. “I say, is this your Cambridge education showing? We Oxford men would not make such wild speculations.”
“But,” Adam persisted, “you would agree, perhaps, that one man may have seen the popular accounts of the first murder and then—”
“Copied the other?” Larimer stared at Adam. “How strange. I cannot presume to know the mind of a murderous criminal. Would one copy the heinous acts of an irrational man?”
“Or it was the work of one man,” Lucas suggested. “But I’m afraid I’ve neither Oxford nor Cambridge to blame for my irrational views.”
“One deranged man? Stalking the lasses of London?” Mistress Larimer shivered. “How singular.”
“And quite unlikely, my dear,” the physician reassured his wife. He turned back to the magistrate. “Have you heard what Sam Pepys had to say today?”
With that, the conversation turned to lighter topics, though a slightly bilious feeling remained in the room.
* * *
The next day, after wiping her brow, Lucy poured hot water into a great tub set out in the courtyard. As the day was bright and fine, Mistress Hargrave had declared it perfect for the monthly washing. Even Sarah had to pitch in for the day’s labors, although she would usually disappear once her mother had left.
It fell to Lucy to bring down pile after pile of shirts, shifts, and drawers from throughout the household. Thinking Adam was with his Cambridge mates, Lucy boldly pushed into his room to retrieve his linens, then drew back in dismay.
Adam was sitting at his small desk by the window, regarding a portrait that fit into the palm of his hand. Lucy could not see the image, but she supposed it was a young woman he fancied. Or even just her eye, as was sometimes the custom, if the woman was married or sought to conceal her identity.
His pen and ink jar were out, as if he had been writing. She could see a long sheet of notes in his careful, elegant script. Startled, Adam closed his hand over the miniature.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir. Pardon me! I didn’t know you were in here, I thought…” She trailed off. It was one thing to talk to the magistrate’s son in the drawing room, or even on a trip to the market, and quite another to be alone with him in his bedchamber.
“Yes?” he asked, trying to mask his annoyance. “Is there something you need?”
Unbidden, Lucy recalled how Miss Sarah’s nurse used to say, A maiden who does not protect her virtue will soon see it lost. Maybe that was just for gentry, but she thought her mother would agree.
She ducked her head. “’Tis washing day.”
Barely sparing her a glance, Adam stood up and thrust a pile of linens into her arms. As she backed from the room, she saw him slip the miniature into a box on his desk.
* * *
Once outside, Lucy tossed the linens onto the sticks that lay across the buck tub, placing the cleaner clothes on top, still thinking about Adam’s miniature. Together, Lucy and Bessie poured in the lye, their eyes stinging from the mixture of urine and ashes. Despite the chill in the air, the hard work and the fire kept them warm.
As they worked, Janey stopped by, holding a smudged penny piece out to Lucy. “Read it,” she demanded.
Lucy rolled her eyes but took the paper. “‘Jane Hardewick, a servant from a good house in Lincoln Fields but a trollop by any measure,’” Lucy read, “‘was found stabbed in the glen by her master’s household, that of the good family Elton.’”
“Jane Hardewick!” Bessie exclaimed, clutching her knotted skirts. She sat down on an overturned pail.
“Oh, no!” Lucy said. “Bessie, did you know this poor woman?”
Bessie frowned. “Yes, I did. She was no trollop, or at least, not as I’ve heard tell.”
John brought buckets of cold water then, dumping them into the tub. Lucy and Bessie, sweat trickling unpleasantly under their clothes, took turns vigorously pulling the staff as they stirred the garments together. Cook helped pull and twist the heavy linen, squeezing away the water. Even Lucas came out to help.
Janey watched, tapping her foot. “Read the rest!” she urged, her eyes gleaming. “Tell ’em about what she was wearing.”
Lucy wrinkled her nose but, seeing that everyone was waiting, continued. “‘Though last seen in a gray muslin dress and an embroidered red sash, the serving wench was found only in her underskirts—’” Lucy and Bessie looked at each other. The rumor they had heard seemed to be true. “‘She had no coin upon her person,’” Lucy continued, her voice dropping at the dramatic bits, “‘but upon closer inspection of the grounds, the constable did find a handkerchief embroidered with the letter R and a note—’”
“A note!” Bessie exclaimed. “How odd!”
“‘—a note addressed to the unfortunate girl,’” Lucy read. “‘This note implored her to meet the same-said R in that very field upon which she did encounter her most treacherous fate.’”
“R,” Bessie breathed. “Who could that have been?”
Lucy read through the account carefully. “‘The local constable who found her said that R may have referred to one Robert Preswell, who had of late pressed his suit upon her, despite being “of the married state himself.” However, it was just as likely that she may have been set upon by ruffians or highwaymen.’
“Oh, look!” Lucy exclaimed. “Here’s something about Sir Herbert.” She read, “‘The good Dr. Larimer, a royal physician, examined her and duly avowed, “She was not heavy with child, but no doubt was expecting a babe in arms in four or five months’ time.’”
“Oh, that’s a shame.” Cook clucked. “What else does it say?”
Only that the Eltons’ neighbor, one Goodwife Croft, had long warned that the trollop would come to no good end. Lucy thought about that for a moment. Every community seemed to have a Goodwife Croft or a Janey, women who carried tales, whispered stories, and always assigned the most sinister of motives to the most innocent of actions.
Lucy turned back to the account. The author, identified only as J.L., wrapped up by offering several opinions about the murderer’s motives. He seemed certain that “R” had most likely murdered Jane to conceal their liaison from his wife. On the other hand, as J.L. jested, “‘R’s wife had threatened to take a rolling pin to his head, if he did not take care of his mistress.’”
Lucy raised her eyebrow. “His wife asked him to kill off his mistress in such a way? Does that even make sense?”
John chuckled. “A mistress and a wife? The man would do better to kill himself.”
“Think that’s funny, do you?” Cook asked, frowning at her husband. “I ought to take a rolling pin to you.”
Ignoring Cook and John’s playful squabbling, Lucy skimmed the last paragraph of the broadside. Here, J.L. delivered his judgment on the criminal and offered his readers a customary warning.
On a whim, Lucy climbed upon the bench, mimicking Master Aubrey’s expression. “‘R must be apprehended. He must be brought to justice.’” With a great flourish of her hands, she read the final words. “‘He must be hanged—ere he strike again!’” Stepping down to mock applause, she caught sight of Bessie’s expression.
Bessie’s rosy cheeks had completely drained of color. “Make fun, will you?” Bessie asked. “Poor, poor Jane. She was one of us.”
* * *
Lucy could tell that Jane’s murder continued to weigh heavily on Bessie’s thoughts. Throughout the next day, every time she saw Bessie pull the broadside out and look at it, she felt her friend’s rebuke sting her heart. When she tried to express her sorrow, Bessie had just shaken her head. “Don’t you understand, Lucy? Jane Hardewick had her whole life in front of her, and now it’s gone. And no one cares, because they think she deserved it.”
“I didn’t think she deserved it—” Lucy began, but Bessie cut her off.
“There’s Evensong,” Bessie said, hearing St. Peter’s bells chime. “Time to ready supper. The Embrys have been invited to dine.”
Already out of sorts because of her tiff with Bessie, Lucy felt her mood sink even lower knowing the Embrys would be joining the family for supper. When Lord Embry and his friends had visited before, they’d spent most of the evening drinking the magistrate’s finest madeira, with no care to depleting his stores. She’d also spent most of the evening fending off their roving eyes and hands in the corridors; when out of sight of the Hargraves, they’d try to catch her unaware.
Their noble status notwithstanding, Lucy wondered what the magistrate saw in the Embrys. Lord Embry did not seem clever or interesting, and indeed often said things that she could see made the magistrate flinch. To her surprise, Mistress Hargrave asked her to bring out the best pewter goblets and plates and the real silver emblazoned with the family’s mark.
She understood later, though, when she overheard a whispered conversation between the mistress and Sarah. “Lord Embry is bringing his wife and daughter,” the mistress said. “Your father is hoping that Adam will get on with Lady Judith.” She pressed her hand to her forehead, sounding ever so slightly puzzled. “I suppose since her father is so important in the House of Lords.”
Ah, that’s it, Lucy thought. They are hoping a match with the Embrys’ daughter will help advance Adam’s career. Such arrangements were customary among the gentry, of course, but she could not help but curl her lip for a man who would make a match for such reasons.
Although nervous of grasping fingers, Lucy quickly realized that Lord Embry was all courtesy and good manners before his wife and daughter. As she filled goblets and plates, Lucy studied the Embrys under her lashes.
Lady Embry was crisp and polite, sitting straight-backed in her chair. Judith was lovely, her blond hair pulled on top of her head, revealing fine, if icy, features. Her teeth were even but overlarge, Lucy thought, somewhat crossly. She did not like how mother and daughter looked about in a calculating way. When they thought no one was watching, they seemed to be appraising the magistrate’s furniture, the flagons on the table, the tiny silver spoons. Throughout supper, Sarah twisted the linen in her lap, obviously disconcerted by the elegance of the Embrys, and the mistress kept a distant smile on her face, inclining her head courteously to Lady Embry. Lucas chatted amiably enough with Judith while Adam spoke with his father and Lord Embry.
When the company moved to the drawing room, Sarah tried to engage Judith, but Judith seemed more interested in talking brightly to Adam. “This is lovely wine,” Judith said, looking meaningfully at the jug in Lucy’s hand.
“Oh, let me fill that for you,” Lucy said, moving across the room. In her haste, a bit of wine sloshed onto Judith’s silk dress.
“Stupid!” Judith exclaimed, jerking back in her chair. “Look what you’ve done!”
“Oh, miss, I’m so sorry!” Lucy stammered, her face red. She looked about for a bit of linen to dab at Judith’s dress.
“I should say you are,” Judith said, smoothing her skirts, conscious that the men had stopped talking. To Mistress Hargrave she said, “Your servant has spilled the wine. In our household, she’d be discharged for such sloppiness. So uncommon is it for us, I daresay it surprises us when we come upon it elsewhere.”
“Yes, my dear,” Lady Embry purred, with a quick glance at her daughter, “but we should not expect servants to be so well trained as ours. We get ours early on indeed, sometimes as young as nine or ten, and train them from the start. This way, they know how to handle themselves in the presence of their betters. A few were even from the palace, where such happenstance is unheard of.”
Lucy looked down, her cheeks burning.
Master Hargrave coughed slightly. “Indeed,” he said, smiling at Lucy. “Such accidents are rare here, too. In any case, we should not like to sack a lass like Lucy, for such loyal and trustworthy servants are worth far more than the trouble a few drops of wine can bring.”
“Moreover,” his wife put in, “I know how to take that stain out.” Mistress Hargrave then dabbed a clean piece of linen into her goblet before carefully rubbing at the stain on Judith’s dress. As if she had performed an act of sorcery, the stain disappeared. “See, the white Rhenish wine takes out the red straight away.” She laid the linen on the table. “A little trick I learned at the palace.”
Judith and her mother exchanged glances. “At the palace?” Lady Embry asked, her haughty tone catching a bit.
“Yes, when I was one of Her Majesty’s own ladies-in-waiting. I was but a young girl, of course, not much over twelve when I first came.” The mistress smiled blandly at her guests. Lucy could have hugged her. “And I can tell you, during the time of Charles and Henrietta, there was no small amount of wine spilled at the palace, by nobles and servants alike.”
The mistress sat back, dabbing her mouth daintily. Lucy could have sworn she was hiding a smile but was far too well bred to show it. To have served the queen as a beautiful lady-in-waiting was no small honor. Few could say the same, and this was quite a triumph. Lady Embry nodded slightly, acknowledging the added status of her hostess, and seemed to lose her chill somewhat.
The rest of the night passed pleasantly enough with Master Hargrave pulling out the fiddle and passing it around for the household to play a merry tune. He had long insisted his children and ward learn to play. Sarah was quite good, Lucy noted with a little smile. Sarah’s music teacher had been attractive enough to keep her interest. Lucas, too, though coming to the instrument a bit late, played a few quick jigs passably.
Dutifully, Adam took his turn, his eyes half shut, ignoring Judith’s rapt attention. He seemed neither interested nor disinterested in the piece but played with little of the fervor she had seen in him on some evenings. Indeed, he seemed distracted.
Placing the violin back in the case, he caught Lucy’s eye. She raised an eyebrow, and he gave a little shrug. I do not perform for strangers, he seemed to say.
Especially ones that insult a hardworking lass in his household, Lucy added mentally on his behalf. Whether that gallantry was true, she did not know.
* * *
The next morning, Bessie and Lucy stepped out of the magistrate’s house, eager to have a day off. The mist today was tentative, a few wisps that the wind easily chased away. Since both were visiting their families south of London, the girls planned to walk together as far as Southwark. Although they didn’t admit it, neither wanted to walk alone. There were several long, lonely fields ahead of them, and Jane Hardewick’s death reminded them how vulnerable they were on their own.
Lucy was glad that their tiff had smoothed over, and Bessie seemed to feel the same way. By unspoken agreement, neither mentioned the murder again.
“Shall we pass through Aldgate?” Bessie asked.
“Aldgate?” Lucy asked, surprised. “That will add nearly three-quarters of an hour to our journey.”
“Well, I thought perhaps your brother, Will, might have the day off, too,” Bessie said, a trifle too carelessly. “We could all journey through Lambeth together.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. She knew Will had taken Bessie to the plays a few times, but she also knew that her brother had a roving eye. “He did not mention his next day off, so I do not know his plans,” she said.
Seeing Bessie smirk out of the corner of her eye, Lucy added, “However, I’m sure if he is free today, he will be quite eager to see Cecily, his sweetheart from home. They are all but promised, you know.” She wasn’t trying to be unkind, but she did hope to dampen Bessie’s hopes about Will.
“I don’t think they are promised,” Bessie said.
Lucy snorted, but pretended she had sneezed when she saw Bessie’s hurt expression. “You may be right,” she said, trying to make amends.
“I am right,” Bessie said smugly. “You’ll see.”
* * *
When they arrived at the smithy, Lucy was irritated to see that Will, indeed, was waiting for them. Clearly, he and Bessie had arranged to meet, and neither of them had told her. For a little while Lucy pouted, but then gave up when neither seemed to notice. Finally, when Will stopped to buy them some apples, Bessie linked her arm in Lucy’s. “Do you mind? About Will?” Her blue eyes seemed enormous in their worry as she waited for Lucy to respond.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lucy whispered.
Bessie shrugged. “I should have. You are my own true sister.” She paused. “There’s something else, too,” she began, but broke off when Will tossed them both an apple.
By and by, Lucy gave in to the pleasure of spending time with her brother. She could not help but eye him happily. Truly William, with twenty years behind him, was fast becoming the handsomest man she knew. His boots were of fine black leather, and his cloak was of soft spun linen.
When she remarked upon his finery, he laughed. “Yes, my master often allows us to trade our services to men in town. He let me work for Master Brumley, whose good wife made me this cloak. I brought something for Mother, too.” This spoke well of Will, for most guildsmen were strict about allowing their apprentices to work for themselves.
The three continued on, chattering all the while. Several young men, making merry with a leather flask, passed by them, no doubt off to the playhouses for a bit of afternoon fun. Since the Puritan ban on theatergoing had been lifted four years ago, plays were even allowed on the Lord’s Day and during Lent.
Lucy sighed, wishing she could spare the three shillings required to attend, but such coins came dear. Will went frequently, but she suspected that he might have been less drawn to the plays and more to the actresses who cavorted about. The only time he’d taken her to the Globe, he’d also pointed out a comely orange seller who might have been another of his lady loves. Perhaps, Lucy thought, in that regard Bessie would be good for her brother, although she could not imagine he’d be ready to settle down.
