A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (20 page)

“Adam thinks so, too,” she whispered. The contents of his tobacco bag suggested this to be true. The murders had to be connected. Unless there truly were three monsters running about, as Dr. Larimer would believe. Lucy laughed uncomfortably to herself.

Still in her shift, she rummaged through her trunk and found the crumpled penny piece that related the sad but true tale of Effie’s murder. She smoothed it out and found what she was looking for. Queen’s Row in Southwark.

It seemed less risky to go to a stranger’s house in a distant part of London rather than to Jane Hardewick’s old employers, the Eltons, who might recognize her from church. “Since I’m planning to be a servant for hire, I can’t have them carrying tales back to the magistrate,” she said to herself. “I just need to find out how to find Queen’s Row.”

Before she could lose her nerve, Lucy tiptoed to the master’s private study. To her surprise, she saw a light from under the door. The magistrate must still be awake. Trying to avoid a pang of conscience, she filled a tray with some rolls, a bit of Cook’s jam, and a draft to keep the chill away. “Here you are, sir,” she said, placing the tray on his desk. As she suspected, he had not lit his hearth, and she bent quickly to take care of it.

“Oh, Lucy, I was just thinking how I’d like a bite to eat. These briefs can be quite dry and cumbersome. You must have read my mind.”

Madame Maraid’s knowing face, poised over her crystal, passed into Lucy’s thoughts. If he had been almost anyone else, she would have done the same silly impression of the fortune-teller. Instead, she suppressed a smile and concentrated on getting the information she needed from the magistrate. “Indeed, sir, ’twas no trouble. I’m sorry you’ve been up all night, sir.” Lucy fidgeted a moment, looking at the map on the wall behind him. The details were hard to make out from across the room.

“Yes, Lucy?” the master inquired politely, shifting the papers on his desk. He followed her gaze. “Ah, you are looking at the map of London.”

“Oh, well, sir, the map, sir,” she stumbled. “Well, I’ve never really looked at a map up close, sir. I’ve never put it all together.”

The magistrate put down the quill he had been rolling in his fingers and shook his head. “We must rectify this situation immediately. Come here, Lucy, let me show you how it all fits together.” He beckoned to her, and she shyly stood beside him.

“I don’t want to be a bother, sir. I can see you have work to do.”

“Pah!” he exclaimed. “I should rather talk about this map anytime.” He pointed to the middle of the map. “First, let me show you the Thames, one of the most important rivers in Europe. And here, you see”—he moved his hand toward the middle left—“is the original Old London, Londontown as the Romans called it.” As he talked, he grew more excited. “Have you ever seen the Roman wall? No? You must stop by, the next time you are at market. I would show you myself, had I the time. But I shall show you how to find the original fortresses.”

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.