A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (5 page)

“Mind the fresh ones,” they would poke each other, “lest you get a bit of gristle on your clothes.”

Instinctively, Lucy gripped Will’s arm and buried her face in his shoulder. She felt him pat her cheek and was comforted by his touch.

At the crossroads by St. Mary Overy dock, as Bessie was about to take her leave, William caught her hand. “Now, you will be careful, won’t you, lass? We can’t have our girls running about alone, can we?”

Lucy watched him then whisper in Bessie’s ear and saw her nod before she walked away.

Suddenly, she felt quite irritated with her brother. “Don’t you even remember Cecily at all? Weren’t you promised to her?” She stamped her foot.

Will kicked a tuft of dirt. “We were never promised, and you know it.”

“Are you courting Bessie now?”

“I like Bessie. She’s very sweet.” Will touched her shoulder. “Lucy, before Father died, long before the Troubles, he told me that he did not want me to be a farmer. He wanted me to learn a trade, make some money, and support Mother, you, and little Dorrie. That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m just not ready to settle down with anyone. Bessie understands that.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I am! Besides, Lucy, I want to master my own trade!” he said, throwing his head back, looking like a young lion. “I don’t want you to be serving gentry your whole life. I want something better for you, too. You should have a dowry.”

“Well, if I live with you, I won’t need a dowry,” Lucy said, catching his excitement, her earlier annoyance forgotten. “You can buy me books instead. I shall learn to write books myself. Then you can set me up as a lady pamphleteer, and I can bring in my own income.”

Will stopped and stared at his sister, horrified. “Lucy!”

Lucy giggled, lest he think her mad. “Nay, Will. I was just teasing. I think it’s quite unlikely I’ll become a petticoat author; I can scarcely write. Of course, I shall wed in time. Perhaps you can provide me with a dowry that will convince an earl to come a-calling.”

“Indeed, Lucy. Indeed.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Lucy was walking back from the market, just a few bruised apples in her basket. Hopefully Cook could make a pie. Though it was cold, she decided to take the long way home, sticking to the main roads, not crossing through the fields as she usually did. Jane Hardewick’s murder still sat uncomfortably on her thoughts. Why hadn’t she asked if Bessie or John could accompany her to market? she wondered. The road, though bright and sunny, was fairly desolate, and trees were thick in this part. Plenty of places for highwaymen and cutthroats to hide.

Then, to her dismay, Lucy heard someone cry out. She stiffened, looking this way and that. Was someone—crying?

Hesitating, she cocked her head toward the sound. It did not sound like a baby, or even a child. Taking a deep breath, she pulled aside a branch and peered into the brush.

Lucy stared. A man, tattered and mud splattered, was huddled in the dusty grasses, swaying back and forth and moaning. Controlling her enormous desire to flee, Lucy heard herself speak to the man. “Sir?” she asked. “Is there something the matter?”

At her voice, the man’s head popped up, his mouth slack jawed. Drawing back, Lucy recognized him. She had seen him before, in town, where small laughing boys had taunted him with sticks and rotten apples, making sport of his drooling lips, his missing fingers, and the frightening patch he wore over one eye.

Sickened now by the memory of the children’s cruel taunts, Lucy knelt beside him. “Why are you crying?” she whispered.

Not replying, he wrapped his arms around his knees and began to rock slowly back and forth. Lucy tried not to look at his maimed hand. “Avery has lost his kitten, and she but a wee little thing, too. She was here”—he patted his leather pouch, which lay open on the ground—“in Avery’s pocket. She just done gone and run off.” He blew his nose noisily into his sleeve.

Lucy sighed. His mind was no doubt touched, but she felt sorry for him. How could he take care of a kitten? He seemed hardly able to take care of himself. Lucy knew she shouldn’t tarry, but surely, she reasoned, she could spare a minute to help the poor addled soul.

Within moments of crawling through the brush, Lucy regretted her impulsive decision. Though Avery might be harmless enough, how could she be sure? What if this were a trap? Her mind flashed again to Jane Hardewick, killed in a field not so far away. Her heart started to pound. “I must get out of here,” she whispered to herself. “This is folly.”

She began to edge away but then heard a little mewing sound. Pausing, she watched a leaf move, and then a little white kitten popped up its head. Lucy scooped up the kitten, its orange and white tail wrapped around its frail, shivering body. Under her cloak, she felt the kitten begin to purr. “Avery, look here!” she called. “This must be your kitten!”

The big man bounded over, his face wreathed in smiles. “Kitty!” he scolded, gently taking the kitten from her outstretched hands. “Why did you run away? Avery missed you!”

Avery sat down with his back against the tree, stroking the kitten in his lap. “We take care of each other, me and Kitty. Avery had another cat once. During the war. But that one’s all gone now.” His face clouded over.

“You were a soldier?” Lucy asked, somewhat taken aback. Yet, as she admitted to herself, there were many men like Avery still about, scarred and missing limbs, at the edge of public places, not venturing much among the people, except to beg.

“Aye,” Avery answered. “One of King Charles’s own men. Avery dunna remember much. The cannon he was feeding did done blow up in his face.” He cocked his head, listening to the kitten purr. “’Twas lucky enough Avery lost only a few fingers. He’s still got the other hand to do his bidding. Some poor devils, the surgeons had to keep sawing and sawing.” Stroking the kitten, he added, “Avery still hears screams sometimes.”

Lucy shuddered, imagining the gore of battlefield surgery. A wave of sympathy poured over her as she thought bitterly of the blood that had ruined her father’s fields. Holding out her hand, she smiled gently. “I’m Lucy.”

He took her hand tenderly in both of his own—one hand perfectly formed, if grimy, and the other a claw—and a funny expression crossed his face. For a moment, she saw a glimpse of the man he once was. “You’re lovely.” She smiled and was about to thank him when he added, “Near as lovely as the other one.”

Lucy supposed he meant some long-ago sweetheart, and she felt sad. The war had robbed so many people of so much. She did not pretend to understand much about politics, but she did understand suffering. Idly, she wondered how the magistrate would explain the great conflict that had torn so many families and communities apart.

Avery’s dribbling mask returned, and he dropped her hand. They sat in silence for a moment, watching the kitten nestle on his knee. “That lass was an angel,” he said, stroking the kitten’s fur. “A fair angel.”

“Was she your beloved?” Lucy asked gently.

“Beloved?” He seemed confused by her words, and then his brow cleared. “No, Avery doesn’t have a sweetheart. Me and Kitty just have each other. Avery meant the girl sleeping in the field.”

“In the field?”

“She looked like a sleeping angel, she did. Her hair was spread out so fine. Me and Kitty were hid behind a tree, but we could see her, lying in the grasses. Peaceful, she looked. But Avery did not like that the witches stole her clothes while she was asleep.”

“She didn’t wake up? When people were taking her clothes?” asked Lucy, sitting straight up. Something seemed off.

Avery rubbed his nose in the kitten’s soft fur. “Like the men in the war. They didn’t wake up either,” he muttered. “All kinds of things happened to them.”

An unpleasant thought occurred to Lucy. Her heart tripped faster. “Asleep, like the men—you fought with?” Lucy asked casually. “Did those people—witches, did you say?—help her, the angel, er, fall asleep?”

Avery shook his shaggy head. “No, they just took her clothes. She looked cold and alone. Avery wanted to cover her up. Poor angel.” Then his face changed. He looked unbearably sad and fully comprehending. “She was dead.”

3

The next day, being Palm Sunday, the whole household rose early, good members of the king’s Church that they were. They walked together to St. Peter’s, Master Hargrave carefully guiding the mistress over mislaid stones and puddles in the street. A light mist drifted about them, softly billowing against the line of trees and the houses they passed. Adam and his parents were speaking in hushed tones. Lucy caught the word “plague.” She shuddered, focusing instead on the sweet smell of lavender coming from her hair and skin. She had been the last to use the bathwater the night before, and Bessie had added a few drops of her special perfume to freshen the cold tub.

Lucas and Sarah walked nimbly along, chattering about a gypsy who’d been fortune-telling at Covent Garden and was known to have set up camp in nearby Linley Park.

“Did she tell you about the man you were going to marry?” Lucas asked, guiding Sarah around a heap of still-steaming manure.

“Oh, yes,” Sarah said, giggling. “She said he would not be so handsome.” Then she remembered something else. “Oh, and Father! The fortune-teller told me that I am to travel a great deal, across many rivers, she said, but that you would not like it. I wonder why? I should always come back to visit.”

“I should hope so,” the magistrate said drily, turning to look at his daughter. “However, I do not think the goodly Reverend Marcus would like us talking about fortune-telling on the Sabbath. Especially now that Lucas has begun his studies with him.”

Lucas looked abashed. “Oh, yes, sir. You’re right, sir.”

Once inside St. Peter’s, a gray stone church built in the fourteenth century, the family took their seats in their accustomed row, with the Hargraves toward the front and the servants standing next to the pew, alongside the wall. When Lucy had first starting attending the parish church with the Hargraves, she had been glad to be able to hear the minister so clearly. Now she wished she could sit in the back of the church with the common folk, since the new minister had a way of staring at a body with a scorching gaze, verily reading one’s soul. His stories of hell and damnation made her heart beat painfully.

Lucy leaned against the oak wall, the stone floor hard on her feet. She shifted her weight carefully, so as not to attract anyone’s attention. Stifling a sigh, Lucy tried to focus on the minister’s words. Master Hargrave would question them on the walk home. He saw it as his godly duty, as head of the household, to make sure they were properly instructed in the faith.

Today, the reverend was speaking on the weakness of woman, one of his favorite topics. In his great voice, he pronounced, “Woman is a weak creature, not endued with the like strength and constancy of mind as men. They are prone to all manner of weak affections and dispositions of mind, that—”

Lucy had heard this opinion before. She thought of Avery, and other men harmed by war and illness who, if they were lucky, were housed by family or a kind neighbor. Who were the truly afflicted among them?

Her woolgathering was interrupted when the door at the back of St. Peter’s banged open, letting in a refreshing stream of chill air. Heads swung around, and murmurs arose from the pews.

Bessie nudged her, and Lucy’s mouth fell open. A woman, naked but for a bit of sackcloth covering her female parts, was striding down the center aisle. Her skin was rubbed dark with ashes, and her eyes were intent on the reverend at the pulpit.

Lucas looked stunned and angry. “How dare she?” Lucy heard him say to Sarah.

The congregation grew silent, watchful. Old men, slumping in their pews, sat up. Mothers covered their children’s eyes. A man’s low whistle carried in the silence, only to be hushed, probably by his missus. The reverend scowled.

Standing before the pulpit, the woman raised her hands heavenward. She laughed, but Lucy shivered at the sound. “Who amongst thee is not a sinner?” the woman hissed.

Lucy was struck by the woman’s unfamiliar form of address. Thee. The sackcloth and ashes. A Quakeress! One of that wretched sort who were always getting themselves dragged off by the magistrate’s men and hauled away in carts. Pitiful creatures really, some not so much older than herself. The strangeness of their faith made them outsiders, outcasts from the community that had raised them.

“I am the trumpet of the Lord! I am his handmaiden!” The Quakeress cried, her sackcloth slipping precariously down one shoulder. “Heed my words! His judgment is coming upon thee, all thee who are sinners, thee who are false pretenders! A great plague upon thee all!”

Aghast and captivated by the spectacle, no one moved. The reverend, whose face had been growing a more mottled purple with each passing moment, finally regained his senses. “Harlot!” he shouted, shaking his finger at her. “How dare you interrupt this holy service of the Church of England!”

The crowd began to mutter in the pews. “Abomination!” Lucy heard someone hiss.

“Quackers!” someone else called.

The minister jerked his head at two men seated nearby. Jumping up, they each grabbed the woman under an arm and hauled her from the church, her feet dragging against the stone floor. Lucy blushed to see the woman’s sackcloth ride farther up her legs. The woman’s screams were cut off as the great oak door slammed shut.

The buzz that filled the pews died down with a single glare from the minister. Lucy wondered what would happen to the woman. Hauled off to jail, she supposed, probably to Newgate.

Finally, the minister offered the closing prayer, and the congregation began to move out of the dim church. The mist had cleared, and the day was bright but chilly. Blinking, Lucy was pulled up short by the sounds of a woman wailing and bursts of raucous laughter. She turned to see several boys casting rotten tomatoes at a hunched gray figure.

Shocked, Lucy saw that the Quakeress had been tied to makeshift stocks, even in this freezing cold. As Lucy watched, a rotten egg hit the woman square on her forehead, so that egg and shell dripped into her mouth. Her face was flushed and bleeding. Wrinkling their noses from the stench, some of the crowd began to move away from the spectacle.