A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (23 page)

Adam’s words shocked her. “That’s not fair!”

“No, Lucy, it isn’t. After all,” he said, pacing around the room, studiously avoiding her stare, “what is a serving girl to anyone in the privileged ranks? Indeed, it was foolish for her to have believed he would marry her; society would never condone such a match.” He held up his hand at Lucy’s hiss. “There’s no denying Del Gado’s of noble blood, though I daresay there’s nothing noble about him. The reputation and standing of his family make him still notable in society, even though he’s no doubt run through his inheritance and seems to laugh off his title. Indeed, for him, such an attachment would be a laugh, as he is unlikely to settle down with one girl when so many throw themselves before him for the taking.”

Tossing some kindling on the fire, he continued. “Indeed, I am sorry to say that a rake like him might well see his reputation bolstered by his philandering. His art will only become more fascinating and sought after by foolish women with indulgent husbands.” He stirred the fire with a poker. “And Bessie, little twit she could be, how would she not know this! She could not have expected marriage! There was nothing she could do to him, nothing with which she could entice or threaten him. Nothing that would induce him either to marriage or to murder.”

“She was not a little twit!” Lucy said hotly.

Ignoring her, Adam said, “He is a man whose passions run deep, yet he is a man so self-interested that he will only pursue a woman until he has grown tired of her. As I suspect he did with our Bessie, and with my mother, another good-hearted but silly soul. It’s good that you are so little likely to tempt a man like him, or you, no doubt, would be his next prey.”

Stung by that last remark, and by what he said about Bessie, Lucy drew herself up in barely contained fury. “Bessie and me, maybe we’re just simple girls. Bessie was just a bit dumb, getting herself mixed up with a member of the gentry who would cast her off. Perhaps that’s what men of your kind do to a poor lass who has naught to offer but love.” Her voice became shrill. “We’ve got feelings! And Del Gado
said
he wanted to paint me, he said so! So I guess he sees something in me, even if I am not tempting to some!” Stifling a sob, she added, “If there is nothing else, sir, I am off to bed.”

Adam looked taken aback. “Lucy, I want to help, but I can only do what I can.”

Her fury blazed again, true and full. “I do believe, sir,” Lucy began hotly, “that you say you love the law and have studied all these wonderful books”—she waved her arm around the study—“and yet I do not think you can get beyond those words to see that the heart and soul, nay, the very life, of a good man are at stake.” She wiped away a tear. “William may not be the best man, but he is a good man, and honest and true, and he deserves that the law regard him as such. And Bessie, whatever you think of her, was a good and true lass, too, who deserves the same justice as the very highest of high. Our lot in life may be to serve the likes of you, but we deserve more, sir. We deserve more!”

Her voice having broken at the last, she fled, not daring to see the effect of her words. Running up the steps to her little room at the top of her house, she moaned, her face in her hands.

“What did I just say?” She groaned. She did not think Adam would have her discharged, but would he refuse to help William now? She cursed her heedless tongue and spent a restless night hearing her words repeated in her mind, until the sun bid her to her Sunday morning chores.

*   *   *

As the family was leaving the church the next morning, Lucy edged up to Adam, her cheeks flushed. The words she had said—nay, shouted—yesterday still echoed in her ears, but she had to know how her brother was doing. “I was wondering, sir, how is my brother? I forgot to ask when we,” Lucy stammered, “when we spoke yesterday.”

“As well as can be expected, Lucy,” he said, his tone cool. Clearly, he did not want to continue their conversation.

“I am seeing him today—”

“Lucy! Alone? That’s hardly wise!”

“Oh, no,” she said hastily. “Lucas is going to accompany me.”

“I see. Well, take care. You can let him know that I shall, of course, come with him on Tuesday morning.”

And then be done with him, and by extension be done with her as well, Adam’s tone seemed to imply. Their growing friendship had been checked; no doubt, the right and proper thing to do. An unexpected wave of sadness washed over her as she watched him leave the churchyard.

Within a few moments, Lucy found herself alone, waiting for Lucas, as the other parishioners climbed into waiting carts or passed down the dusty paths toward town or their homes. Walking among the peaceful stones and crosses, Lucy read the names and epitaphs on the graves.
MARY WORTHINGTON, BELOVED WIFE. ELIZABETH MOORE, DEAREST MOTHER.

Lucy wondered idly about their lives. She wondered if that would be her one day, someone’s wife and mother, buried after a life of love and happiness. Such a life would probably not be surrounded by books. Her husband was not too likely to read much, just the Bible or some dreary sermons. She would miss the magistrate’s household, she thought, and though it was like to be a long way off, she already resented her future husband for taking her away from the security and happiness she found living with the magistrate.

She heard someone calling her name, interrupting her reverie. “Who’s there?” she asked, peering among the white alabaster angels that gracefully protected the bones of long-dead parishioners.

Avery popped his head from behind one of the graves. Fingers on his lips, he waved her over.

“What’s wrong, Avery?” she asked. “Did you lose your kitten again? I’m sorry, I’ve no time to help you to find her today.”

He shook his head. “Kitty is here.” He patted his pocket. Sure enough, there was a movement, and a little white head popped out. Lucy petted it. “I’m to tell you, someone wants to talk to you.”

Lucy studied him. His gray hair was matted about his face, but his eyes seemed clear. “I’m waiting for Lucas right now, Avery. Who wants to speak with me?”

“I don’t know her,” he said. “It’s about your brother. Me and Kitty, we’re so sorry, miss, that he’s in Newgate.”

“My brother? What news?”

“Will was with me,” said a woman, flouncing toward them, “the night that the cheap vixen was killed.”

The orange seller! From the theater! Lucy grew excited. “He was with you? When? What is your name, by the way? I’m sorry my brother never told me—”

The woman sniffed. Up close, Lucy could see she was not as young as she had appeared when she was bantering with customers at the Globe. She could see lines around the woman’s mouth and a single gray strand in her brown hair. Avery faded away, leaving them alone.

“Name’s Maggie Potts.” She licked her lips. “That’s right, I was with Will all day, all night. Your brother, he’s a swell lad. I shouldn’t like to see him swing, especially for a daft git such as her that got herself killed.”

Lucy frowned. “When? He was with Bessie—I’m sorry, but it’s true—and then at the Muddy Duck, which is where he was, sousing himself silly, until Richard came back to the pub, and they seem to have had a bit of a brawl. Many people saw it, I heard tell—”

Maggie put her hands on her hips. “Well, it was after that. No matter. I’ve got some girls who can swear to the same.”

“So he was with you?” Lucy pressed. “That night?”

The woman smirked. “Sure. For a few sovereigns, I can say whatever.”

“A few sovereigns?” Lucy echoed, startled.

“Pay me five and I’ll even testify in court. I can be real convincing.” She swung her bodice a bit. “I can get them jurors to like me, no problem. They’re just men, right? I should have been a player myself, not just selling stupid oranges all day.”

Lucy hesitated.

“Look,” Maggie said, pulling out a flimsy pamphlet. “Do you want Will to end up like this poor sod?”

With shaking fingers, Lucy pulled open the crumpled bit of paper. “‘Order Regained, or The Last Dying Speech of Robert Preswell, convicted of murdering Jane Hardewick of Lincoln Fields, before he was hanged at the Tyburn Tree.’”

Lucy skimmed the document, feeling a bit faint. Apparently, several neighbors had heard Preswell confess to fathering Jane Hardewick’s child, while another neighbor testified that he had borrowed a knife just that morning and “had an evil glint in his eye when he did ask for it.” While even in his last dying speech Robert denied murdering her, everyone agreed that justice had been achieved, and order restored.

“Hanged Friday last, he was,” Maggie said, looking at Lucy. Her eyes seemed to gleam.

Lucy could only shake her head helplessly. “I don’t understand. If you were with Will, you must come forward! ’Tis the honorable thing to do. Please! If you care two bits for my brother.”

“I’ve given you my terms. Five sovereigns.” Maggie looked around. “I’ll be serving at the Anchor tomorrow night. Don’t tell anyone.”

Before Lucy could speak again, Maggie melted away as Lucas appeared.

“Ah, Lucy,” he said, holding out his arm. “Shall we take a turn here in the churchyard?” He looked ruefully at the stones that lay cracked and fallen all about them. “Morbid though it may be, there are some interesting words among them to be read.”

Lucas grinned in the old way, pausing before a modest gravestone.

“Here’s my favorite,” he said.

Lucy read the inscription aloud. “‘Here lies dearest mother, who was verily poisoned by her serving maid who she had beaten for many a year, who then herself fell into the hearth and died.’” She looked at Lucas. “
This
is your favorite?”

“Divine atonement, do you suppose?” he asked. “Who says the good Lord does not have a sense of humor.”

“Or at least he who makes the stones,” she added with a slight smile.

“I do believe that sinners get what they deserve. I also believe that sometimes the good Lord in his wisdom uses man to enact his justice on this our earthly plane.”

Lucas’s bald words drew Lucy up short and reminded her of why she had come. “The hour is growing late, sir, and I fear we shall not have time to get to Newgate and back without the mistress missing me very much.”

As they walked down the cobblestone streets, she related what Adam had told her about Will’s defense.

Lucas nodded. “The neck verse,” he said, “was probably not a very good idea. Upon reflection.” He changed the subject. “Lucy, who were you talking to, back at the church? Before I walked up? Avery I know, of course, poor soul, his mind addled by the war. Who was the woman? She looked familiar, but I can’t quite place her.”

“Oh, that’s Maggie Potts. She’s, er, a friend of Will’s.”

“Indeed?”

“She says she was with Will the night of Bessie’s death and would swear to it in court.”

Lucas gave a low whistle. “That would save Will, to be sure.” He glanced at Lucy. “Tell me, Lucy. Why, then, do you not look more overjoyed? When Miss Potts’s testimony could set him free? Or,” and he looked at her shrewdly, “is there a fee to be had for this helpful testimony?”

Lucy hung her head. “I’m to meet her at the Anchor with five sovereigns. She tends the tavern there when she’s not working the plays.”

“Pray, do not resort to desperate measures, Lucy,” he said, putting his arm around her slumped shoulders. “God, and I, will help you through this terrible time.”

Lucy began to weep in earnest then, and she scarcely knew for what she was crying. Bessie’s death, the strain of Will’s trial, and even Adam’s disdain … all of it overwhelmed her. Lucas let her weep, and she was grateful that he asked her no questions.

17

Lucy and John walked to the Old Bailey Tuesday morning, the morning of Will’s trial, with heavy hearts. A light drizzle chilled Lucy, yet she felt too numb to care. Neither said anything, but John kept his hand at Lucy’s elbow to help her along the muddy path. Adam, she knew, had gone early to be with William and to accompany him on the short walk from Newgate to the Old Bailey. Sunday’s visit with Lucas to see Will had left her more afraid than before. Will seemed so dispirited, a grayness in his very soul.

As they approached the great medieval fortress, the bells of St. Sepulchre began to toll. A small group of dirty children, laughing and chasing each other through the square, began to shriek and clap their hands.

“‘Oranges and lemons!’ say the bells of St. Clement’s,” one little boy called, running away from the group.

As they sang, Lucy found herself humming along, a distant chant from her childhood; yet she soon found their words and game to be far bleaker than what she remembered.

“‘You owe me five farthings!’ say the bells of St. Martin’s,” the rest of the children called, lining up on the other side of the square.

“‘I do not know,’ say the great bells of Bow,” the boy chanted back.

Then the children started racing toward the boy, their arms chopping through the air. “Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head! Chip chop chip chop! The last man’s
dead
!!!”

Lucy turned away, slightly sickened. It was like the stories they all had heard. The bellman would bring his candle to the accursed prisoner’s cell and lead him to his execution. Not to have his head chopped off, of course, yet surely to be hanged.

Once at the Old Bailey, John found them a seat on a crowded bench. He’d been to sessions before and seemed to know what was going on. The sessions were full; Will’s was one of ten trials before this particular magistrate. Among ordinary cutpurses and forgers, Will’s trial stood out. No monstrous mothers here; no women accused of killing their babes. His was the trial the muttering crowd had pushed into the courtroom to see.

Soon the jury filed in and seated themselves in two long rows of six on either side of the judge. Lucy recognized a few tradesmen and merchants, as well as two or three nobles, clearly bored by their civic duty. As regular members of the jury, they could supplement their wages or, in the case of the nobles, cover their losses. Most judges preferred their own jurors so they would not have to explain court procedures over and over again.