A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate, page 9
Lucy looked at Adam doubtfully. She looked at John, and he shook his head slightly. There did not seem to be much more she could do. “As you wish, sir.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, as Lucy tried unsuccessfully to polish the pewter in the drawing room, John touched her shoulder. He looked worried.
“Yes, John? What is it?” she asked.
He grimaced. “It’s Master Adam. He seems to have taken a fever.”
Lucy shrugged. “Are you sure you haven’t mistaken a touch of brawling and drinking for a sickness?”
John knitted his brow, looking doubtful. “Just come see him, would you, lass? Mary is out visiting old Missus Healy, who took sick last week. I could sure use some help.”
When they entered Adam’s room, her tone changed. Lucy was not prepared for how much more ill he looked than he had in the morning. He looked young, with his tousled chestnut hair, even though he was a good five years older than herself. His face was a deep red with fever, and the cuts on his arms looked angry and raw. When the blanket moved, she saw he had more cuts across his chest. His gaze was wide and unfocused.
Lucy pulled herself up. “Cook must make a bit of a poultice as she did for me—a bit of a bread mold and spiderwebs as I’ve seen her do with scabby sores. John, you will fetch the surgeon. I think he needs to be bled.”
After the surgeon tended to him, Adam fell into a deep sleep and did not revive for a full day. Mistress Hargrave walked around wringing her hands, and the magistrate retreated to his study in a black funk. His servant had run off, his silver was missing, and his son was worse the wear for drink. Not a godly household, indeed.
* * *
Proper inquiries into Bessie’s disappearance yielded no results over the next few days. Lucy knew that Bessie’s sister and mother in Lambeth were questioned and their houses searched. After Constable Duncan talked to the Hargraves’ neighbors, Bessie’s absence was discussed with great glee.
The night Del Gado had joined them for supper was the last anyone remembered seeing her. No one could remember exactly, but several neighbors claimed to have seen her walking down the street that evening. The bootmaker said that when Bessie reached the corner she had turned west toward town, while the soap seller insisted she had turned east toward the forest. No one had seen her past the fork in the road. Depending on who was telling the story, Bessie had either been brandishing a small cutlass or nervously clutching her reticule, and had either been alone or skulking in the shadows with several nefarious sorts.
Everyone agreed, though, that swallowed up she had been, at a time when only the criminal sort walked and God-fearing folk slept easily in their beds.
Easily Bessie had moved from being a simple maid who sought to better her lot in life with the theft of the spoons to being a scofflaw’s moll, the likes of Moll Cutpurse robbing gentlemen at knife’s point.
“It’s lucky she didn’t murder you all in your sleep,” they hissed at Lucy. “She’s a right sneaky one, she is. ’Tis a good thing she took off with just your spoons!”
“She’ll be caught sure enough,” Janey said with a sniff. Lucy scowled at her, remembering her words at the Embrys’ Easter masquerade.
“And she won’t look so fine, will she, when she’s carted off to Newgate!” chimed in her sister Emma. “Those curls won’t be so gorgeous, will they!”
“I’ll pull them myself!” Janey shrieked, clearly delighting in Bessie’s comeuppance. “Serves her right! Dirty beggar!”
“Imagine! In the magistrate’s own household! A little thief!”
“A laughing-stock that magistrate is! Keeping order in his house, I think not!”
“Could not see past the end of his nose, to be sure. The tart must have had him magicked by her pretty ways. Could not even see her for the guttersnipe she was.”
“’Twas as bad as being cuckolded!”
Lucy kept her head up, trying to shut out the uglier servant voices that she heard along the street, malevolent as only the most sniping fishwives could be. Echoing what they heard whispered in the withdrawing rooms, they could barely contain their delight at a good family being brought down by scandal.
Thankfully, some voices were kind. Those who liked Bessie and respected the family just shook their heads. “I’ll pray for the lass,” good Mistress Fields told Lucy, pressing her hand as she passed her on the curb. “Your poor master. He does not deserve this. I should not have taken her for a thief. Let us just pray she’s come to no harm.”
During these fretful days, Lucy had seen Will only once, and he was so angry and sullen he scarcely spoke a word. Like so many of the neighbors, he believed Bessie had run off with another man.
Returning from market, Lucy stopped to look at a crocus just popping its head out of the thawed earth. She was glad spring was finally upon them; winter had seemed so long and dark. Pausing at the back gate, she could see Constable Duncan speaking to Janey.
Seeing Lucy, the constable strode across the grass toward her, Janey at his heels. “Lucy, a word if you will,” he called.
“What is it?” Lucy asked, running up the back path.
“I’ll tell you!” Janey sounded triumphant. “Bessie, the hussy! She’s been found. Oh, yes, indeed!”
Duncan grimaced, but stepped back when Cook came racing out of the house, a mass of aprons and pushed-up sleeves. “No, oh, no, you don’t, Janey Miller! You wait here, Constable! I’m going to tell her myself!”
“Cook, you’re weeping! Why are you weeping?” Lucy asked, increasingly frantic, letting the old servant pull her into the house. An unpleasant tingle ran over her skin.
Cook slammed the door, the pots and pans rattling with the blow. The smell of something burning assaulted Lucy’s nose. John was looking helplessly at a steaming mess in the pot, which he had evidently tried to quench with water. He stood up, casting a sorrowful look at Lucy as he passed out of the kitchen.
“The stew, Cook. I think it’s burn—”
“Never mind that!” Cook said, scrunching the muslin of her skirts with nervous fingers. She added softly, “Pray, child, sit down, here by the fire.”
Lucy sat down on the bench, her fingers clenched in her lap. She felt like a jumbler was tossing things around inside her stomach. She fixed on Cook’s red-rimmed eyes. “Is she in jail? Is she to stand trial?” A vision of Bessie getting egged in the stocks made her sick.
“No, no, child.” Cook gulped. “Heaven help us! Bessie, our sweet Bessie! She’s dead.”
“Dead?” Lucy repeated. A dull rushing sound filled her ears. How could she be dead? Bessie, so full of life and love and laughter, how could she be dead? She swallowed. “What happened?”
“Found in Rosamund’s Gate, she was, by a passing tinker. Her body had been hidden under snow and leaves. That’s why it took so long, to find her, I mean. The magistrate and Adam just went to identify her.”
Cook gripped both Lucy’s hands in hers. “’Twas no accident. Do you understand? Her death was not natural.”
“Not natural! But that would mean—did she kill herself? Self-murder?” Unbidden, the minister’s warnings about the torments of hell flashed into her head. Tears began to flow again. “Oh, Bessie, why?”
“No, dear. ’Twas unnatural, to be true, but she died at the hands of some rotter.”
Lucy could not speak.
Cook nodded. “A knife through her organs, no less.”
Numbly, simply, Lucy heard how Bessie’s body had been found, stabbed, in a secluded grove. Rosamund’s gate. A lover’s park, some called it, for along time ago, a man had killed his beloved and then himself, for reasons now long lost. She and Bessie had once talked about the legend. How romantic, Bessie had thought. Romantic that lovers would rather commit suicide to be together in death than be separate in life. Romantic! Ha! All she could think of was Bessie, freezing and alone in the brush, the March snow melting all about her. She didn’t even have her Bible.
Lucy barely noticed Cook holding her, barely heard someone howling. Was it herself? She could not tell.
And oh! That wretched foul-burning stew! Throwing off Cook’s arms, she grabbed the boiling pot and heaved it into the muck outside. She then sagged down beside the steaming pile, passing into unheeding oblivion.
9
Lucy woke with a start, blinking at the sun streaming through the cracks of her bedchamber shutters. Not sunrise, but rather the full sun of midmorning. Why hadn’t anyone awakened her? Why had she been allowed to sleep so late? Bessie should have woken her—
She sat bolt upright. “Oh, Bessie,” she moaned. For a moment she could scarcely breathe as her throat clenched with tears. The last day and night had passed in a blur. She’d stumbled downstairs a few times to dump her chamber pot into the great barrel. Cook would press something hot into her hands, but she didn’t remember eating much, or doing much of anything. Snatches of conversation, hushed remarks from the neighbors, wafted by her, but nothing made sense. She felt like leeches had been placed all over her body, draining her of blood and spirit.
The emptiness of the bed nearly got her weeping again, but with some labor, Lucy pushed her legs over the edge and stood up. “The day must start,” she said to the wooden figures on her shelf, for a moment envying their place in the world.
When she entered the kitchen, Cook took in her neat dress and apron. “That’s a good girl,” she said. She seemed about to say something else, then stopped. Instead, she gestured to a tray of bread and hot mead. “Could you take that up to Master Adam?”
Lucy found Adam already up, sitting in his chair. A book lay open in his lap, but he was idly poking at the cold ash in his fireplace. When she set the tray on a little table beside his bed, he reached for a bun but did not bite into it. Instead, he crumbled it in his hand.
“Shall I light the fire for you, sir?”
He did not answer, seemingly deep in thought. She shrugged. Fine. As if she cared. “All right then, sir. Good morning.”
Just as she reached the door, Adam called out to her. “Lucy, wait.”
She paused but kept her tear-stained face slightly away from him, not in a mood to be doing anyone’s bidding, certainly no special requests. She just wanted to lie down and hold a sachet to her temple, which had just begun to throb.
“Tell me what you know about Bessie’s death.”
“Sir?” Lucy asked. “To be sure, I know as much as you.” Even those small sentences required a great deal of effort. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from weeping openly.
Adam might have seen that, because he abruptly stopped sounding like a barrister. He jumped from his chair and touched her arm. “Please, Lucy. Sit down for a moment. Here, by the fire.” They both glanced at the cold grate. “Well, all right, no fire, but please sit down. I didn’t mean to distress you further. Indeed, I am terribly sorry that you lost a friend. I know she was a companion to both you and my sister, and she will be heartfully missed.”
Well, that was better at least. Less like a noble. Barely listening, Lucy concentrated instead on a dark knot on the wood floor. It looked like a mushroom, she thought idly. She despised mushrooms.
“I’ve no news of the outside,” Adam said, making an impatient gesture. “This sickness has kept me abed, and I’ve not seen Father. I need to know what is being said of Bessie’s death. Who are they saying did it?”
Lucy made a face. “It’s all fantastic nonsense.”
“Yes, and?” Adam prompted. “What are they saying?”
She bit her lip. “Well, that Bessie had been in league with the devil.” Seeing his brow raise, she gave the slightest of smiles. “Not the real devil, of course, but some devilish man who seduced her. Convinced her to steal the silver spoons. And then he killed her.”
“Oh?” Adam prompted.
“He must have taken the spoons, you see. Because the spoons weren’t found where she was … killed. At Rosamund’s Gate.”
“How singular. Who was this supposed devilish man?”
At this, Lucy could not help but sneer. “Janey supposes a highwayman.”
“Of course. And what say the constable?”
“He thinks maybe it was the gypsies encamped to the south. He knew that Bessie had visited them a few times.” How tongues do wag, Lucy thought. An image of Maraid’s beautiful and wild face came to her then, asking for silver.
Adam seemed to follow her thinking. “The gypsies do require silver, do they not? Had Bessie particular need for their services?”
Lucy thought about this. Bessie had wanted something from the gypsies but had not confided in her, to be sure. Truly, her manner had been strange for some time—and what about the red lacquered box? If only she could just go somewhere and think. She scratched her arm, waiting for permission to leave the room.
Adam wasn’t done. “So Bessie was wearing a green silk dress when she was murdered?” Seeing her flinch, he added, “I’m sorry, Lucy. That was thoughtless of me. When she passed on, I mean. But the dress? What do you make of that?”
The question gave Lucy pause. Certainly, the green taffeta was not a dress to travel in. “Yes,” she said slowly. “It was one of her favorite dresses. She wore it to Lady Embry’s Easter masquerade. She looked lovely.”
Lucy gulped, recalling a vision of Bessie, beautiful in the green taffeta, generously lending Lucy her perfume. Lost in the past, she barely heard Adam comment, “I’m afraid I did not notice her.”
The memory was too raw to think of now. Lucy pushed it aside to concentrate on what Adam was asking her, but she kept thinking about the dress. She herself would have worn a more practical work dress, one of her gray muslins, if she were taking a journey. Bessie must have hoped to meet someone, nay, to impress someone. Perhaps those nosy neighbors were right. She sighed.
“What is it?” Adam asked gently. “I can see something has occurred to you. Will you tell me?”
His unexpected kindness loosened her tongue somewhat. “It’s just that this was a special dress. Not a dress she would have wanted to walk very far in, especially in such cold weather. She looked so beautiful in it. Not like a servant at all, sir. So she’d have worn it to impress someone.” Not some made-up highwayman, either. Someone more like Will, Lucy realized. Someone Bessie cared about.
Adam tapped his fingers on the wall, musing out loud. “Exactly. My thoughts as well. The constable could not be too aware of women’s clothes if he didn’t know that it was a servant girl’s best dress. Of course, it was no doubt the worse for wear when he saw it.”
Lucy had only half heard him, as she remembered Will whispering into Bessie’s ear. She put a hand over her mouth, the bile rising in her throat.
Adam saw the gesture. “Oh, I am a cad. Forgive me.” He paused. “So the dress suggests that she was planning to meet a sweetheart, not have an assignation with a highwayman. Why would he kill her?”
“Perhaps someone else killed her,” Lucy said. “Someone else she encountered on the way.”
“Perhaps. Did she have a lover, do you know?”
Lucy narrowed her eyes, not wanting to speak of her brother’s relationship with Bessie. She’d already been forced to mention it to the constable. Adam seemed tense, and his questions did not appear to stem from mere curiosity. She watched him trace a crack in the wall. As she gazed at his bandaged hands and body, she could not suppress the ugly and dark thoughts. What had he been doing to get himself all bloodied? The stories he had told, about running into a butcher’s stall, seemed far-fetched. She spoke carefully. “Oh well, you know Bessie. She had an eye for the lads, as they did for her. Now, sir,” she said, rising from the chair, “I really must get back to my duties.”
Adam scowled at her, his mood changed. “You’re not telling me something.”
Her heart jumped at how easily he seemed to see through her. “No, sir, there’s nothing else,” she said.
He jerked his head toward the door, and she scurried out. Rather than going down to the kitchen as she ought, instead she crept to her little chamber, trying to push away dreadful, ill-formed thoughts.
* * *
Bessie’s death gradually sank in, like a stone slipping into a pond’s deepest muck. At night, Lucy slept in fits and starts, lying alone in the chamber she had shared with Bessie, sobbing her way through several handkerchiefs. During the day, she tried to hide her tears in front of the family, but little things could set her weeping afresh. The iron that Bessie had cursed, a bit of ribbon that she might have worn in her hair, an untouched treacle tart that they might have shared when the chores were done—all shredded her deeply. Every movement was an effort, the most simple exchange a chore. She felt she couldn’t remember the most routine tasks.
“More ale, did you say, sir?”
“I forgot to light the hearth, sir? I’m sorry, I’ll get right to it.”
“Pardon me, mistress. I thought you wanted the brocade this evening.”
Lucy thought the magistrate might have awkwardly patted her arm once or twice, but she could not be sure. The mistress she saw weeping, sitting at her mirror, just staring at the brush Bessie would use to stroke her hair. Lucy wanted to go to her, but she did not quite dare. Only with Sarah did Lucy cry outright.
Once, in the courtyard, Lucas slung his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “Our dear merry girl is gone, ’tis true, but as the good Reverend Marcus would say, she lies sweetly in the Lord’s own hands.” This gave Lucy little comfort, but she nodded at the thought.
Only Adam remained aloof, although she looked up once to see his eyes upon her, as if measuring her in some way. That so unnerved her that she dropped her spinning wool and had to spend quite a long time to get it unknotted.
Lucy hardly dared put into words the ill feelings Adam stirred in her. Something was clearly amiss. The memories of that shared moment in the hallway, and later, when they walked home on Easter night, were images she fought to suppress. Instead, she forced herself to think about the last few weeks of Bessie’s life. Bessie had been acting strangely, but what about Adam? Could they have been sweethearts? She thought about how he had questioned her, his bloodstained clothes, his injuries the night of Bessie’s disappearance. All pointed to something that pained her deeply.
