From the Charred Remains (4 page)

“There’s something in here,” Annie squealed. From beneath the layer of wool, Annie extracted a woman’s brooch made of a smooth white wood. Three roses interlocking with a heart had been carefully carved from a single piece. An iron pin in back had been attached, so that one could hold a cloak together with the piece.

“Oh! How beautiful!” Anne breathed. She traced the delicate lines. “So smooth! What kind of wood is this, do you suppose?”

Peering over her shoulder, Sid looked at the brooch. “Not oak, cherry, or ash, I’d say. Ivory?”

“It does look like the pianoforte keys,” Lucy said, reaching for the brooch. She certainly owned no jewelry as fine as this. Like Annie, she could not resist running her fingers along the heart and flower petals. “What an odd jumble this all is. It’s amazing this pouch survived with the miscellany intact. I suppose the leather protected it.”

“Or it was divine providence,” Annie ventured. “The body should have been burnt up too, but the flames skirted the barrels.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Lucy said, wrapping the brooch carefully back in the wool. She was always uncomfortable with the notion of providence. Why should some people have lost everything, while others lost nothing? She shook her head; twas not the time to question the way of the world. “We must take this to the constable in the morning,” she declared. “Someone must be missing these things.”

Sid’s face dropped. “Everything?” he asked, disgruntled.

“Everything,” she said. “I mean it, Sid.” She looked at him meaningfully.

Reluctantly, he put two coins back on the table, near the pouch.

“And the rest?” She drummed her fingers on the table.

Sid laid out the other coins. Altogether, there was a gold sovereign, two shillings, and four coins of a type she’d never before seen. Lucy fingered them. “I wonder where they’re from.”

“These two are French,” Sid said, with surprising authority. Seeing Lucy raise her eyebrows, he defended himself. “What? I know a gent who collects coins. I, er, come across French coins from time to time.”

“But these two.” He tapped the coins on the table. “I’ve never seen the likes. I know they’re not German or Dutch, or even Spanish.”

“Look at this,” Annie said, examining the ring. “Look, it flips, see?” she put the ring on her finger where it easily slid around. It fit a little better on Sid’s hand when he tried it. Clearly, it was intended for a man’s hand.

Sid passed the ring to Lucy. She studied it carefully. The ring was unusual, completely unlike anything Lucy had ever seen. The surface swiveled so that the ring’s wearer could choose to display either side. One side seemed to be a coat of arms, while the other showed a hunter chasing a boar. Surrounding each surface was a blue dial, allowing the owner to flip the ring as he chose.

Setting the ring aside, Lucy picked up the elephant. Painstakingly carved from a bit of green rock, the elephant’s smooth surface suggested it had been much handled. It reminded her of the door above the comb-seller’s shop, down by Cloake Lane, which sold beautifully carved ivory combs and pendants, far too costly for Lucy to ever imagine buying. Or at least, it had sold combs before the Fire. Now, the sign and shop were probably burnt away, or buried under the rubble like so much of that part of the City.

Sighing, Lucy picked up the oilskin package again. The seal was definitely broken. Carefully, Lucy withdrew a bit of paper, with Sid and Annie watching closely. Unlike the paper used by printers for broadsides, ballads, and pamphlets, this paper was thicker and smoother to the touch. Slowly, she unfolded it. Right away, she could see it contained a bit of verse. Having lived in the magistrate’s household for several years, Lucy had learned to read very well, beyond the capacity of most servants. Glancing at the words, however, she was at first excited, then puzzled.

“What’s it say?” Sid asked. “I’m not so good with my letters.”

Annie leaned forward, as Lucy read the words aloud.

Now, Dear Hart—

As the poet says, come to the garden in spring. There’s wine and sweethearts in the pomegranate blossoms.

Remember!

If you do not come, these do

Not matter.

If you do come, these do not matter.

My rose will bloom, among the

Hearty pineapples,

even in the first freeze of autumn.

Rose, my love—.

Even kings can wrong a fey duet.

Sid stopped chewing on a piece of rye bread. “What’s that mean?”

Lucy shrugged. “I have no idea. A love letter I guess. No one signed it.”

“Pfff,” Sid said, unimpressed. “Not much point if the bird don’t know who’s writing them fancy words, now is it?”

“Sometimes people have to hide their love, I suppose,” Lucy said, putting everything carefully back into the little leather pouch. “Now off to the woodshed with you. You’ll be off in the morning. And Sid,” she added sternly, “we’d best not find anything missing. The magistrate’s not likely to take a theft in his own household very kindly.”

Ignoring Sid’s protestations of innocence, Lucy pushed him outside. Before she went to bed, she carefully wrote down a list of everything that had been in the small leather bag, including the words to the letter. As she drifted off, her last thought was that she’d never seen a pomegranate or a pineapple, but the garden sounded lovely.

*   *   *

At the site of the Cheshire Cheese the next morning, she found Constable Duncan scribbling notes in his book. The body had been removed, and he was carefully sifting through the timbers and stone. He looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep. For a moment, she wondered what his home life was like, whether he was married, had children. She’d seen him in court, when he had presented a devastating case against her brother. For her part, she’d only had three or four conversations with him over the last three years—two in which she’d protested her brother’s innocence, and a more recent conversation she preferred not to think about.

“Constable Duncan,” Lucy called, his name ending in a bit of a cough. Her throat was a bit scratchy from the smoke she’d been breathing in all week. Not surprisingly, he didn’t hear her above the din. Moving closer, Lucy called his name again.

Hearing her, he gave her a quick harried grin. “Coming to tell me who killed the poor sot?” he asked.

“Do you know who he was?” she asked.

“No, not yet. But I’ve sent word to the innkeeper—he might know something about him.” Duncan paused. “I tell you, Miss Campion, this is a bad business. I’ve had the physician look at him. He was fairly well beaten before being stuffed in that barrel. A couple of bones and ribs broken. And he was definitely killed before the Fire, but probably not long before.”

“That makes sense,” Lucy agreed. “Otherwise, I would think his body would have been discovered when they had to refill the barrel with malt.”

“I’m afraid of what London is becoming.” He shook his head. “Since the plague, and the Fire. ’Tis as if men can’t control themselves.” Duncan glanced at her. “I assume you didn’t come to chat about murder. You were coming to see me though?” He looked wary. “Not another death to report, I hope?”

Lucy laughed. “No, but I’ve come across something that may be of interest.” She held out the bag. “This was found by the barrels. It may well have been on the body.”

Duncan scowled. “Miss Campion. Looting is a serious crime—”

“I know, I know,” she said hastily. “Twas a mistake. One of my young acquaintances sort of, ahem, just walked off with it. By happenstance, I assure you. Thus, I brought it back.”

“By happenstance. Hmmm.” Duncan looked skeptical. “Alright. I’ll try to ignore that part. What’s in the bag?”

“Some odd stuff. A ring, some coins, an ivory brooch. A poem. Or perhaps it is a letter. I can’t rightly tell.”

Duncan turned two of the barrels over. “Here. Sit.” Thoughtfully the constable pulled each item out of the pouch, turning it this way and about in his hands. Silently, he examined the brooch and the coins. He whistled when he looked at the elephant carved in the green rock. “This is a rook. From chess. Made of jade. Quite valuable, I should think.” Setting the rook aside, he went on. “Five playing cards. A jack, a queen, a ten, a king … a winning hand?” He carefully opened the letter, skimming its contents. “Nothing identifying here.” Carefully, he placed everything back in the bag and retied the strings. “Thank you, Miss Campion. And no more of your friends accidentally walking off with items from the Fire.”

“Of course not, Constable Duncan.” Lucy stood up. “Well, I’ll be off now. I’m not working at the Fire site anymore. The master thought that Annie and I needed some time to rest.”

“Still working for the Hargraves, are you?”

Something about his steady gaze made her flush unexpectedly. “Um, yes. I enjoy working for the magistrate. He’s a kind man. He treats me well.”

“I’m sure Master Hargrave does treat you well. How does his son treat you, if I may ask?”

“Adam? I mean, Master Hargrave?” She said in a stumbling away, aware of the constable’s raised eyebrow. “He treats me well. Very well. I don’t see him very much these days, of course. He’s been helping out with the Lord Mayor’s surveyors. He may even advise the King,” she added proudly, before flushing even more deeply. Why had she added that last part? She sounded like she was boasting.

“Has political ambitions, does he?” the constable asked drily. “I guess that’s the way of men of his station. Secure a good post, marry well, and he’ll be all set.”

“It’s not like that! He’s a good man. He’s trying to help!” Lucy protested, hotly. Then she stopped, seeing the constable’s pitying gaze. His mention of Adam “marrying well” made her stomach lurch. Without thinking, she added, somewhat defensively, “I’m going to be leaving the Hargraves myself, soon, though.”

“Oh?”

Duncan’s keen look disconcerted her. Her next words came out in a rush. “Yes, I’m to keep house for my brother, as soon he finds some rooms to let. He’s a journeyman now; he received his letter for the smithy’s guild just before the Fire.”

For a moment her thoughts flashed to her brother Will, laughing and handsome. Fortune’s wheel had surely spun in Will’s favor recently. No longer was his life so wretched as it had been the year prior. During the fire, Will had worked ceaselessly to save his master’s tools and goods, and in exchange the smithy had released Will from his apprenticeship, which, truth be told, should have run for three more years. In addition, his former master had written a coveted letter to the guild, proclaiming her brother a journeyman in his own right. With that letter, her brother would be officially recognized by the guild, once Guildhall was restored. This meant too that as a journeyman, he could now work for more than one master, and could live where he pleased. “He’s doing very well for himself,” she said.

“Is that so? I’m glad to hear it. Very glad,” the constable replied. “There’s a world opening up out there, Lucy. You can see that, can you not?”

Hearing him call her by her first name startled her for a moment, but she found she didn’t mind the familiarity. Duncan seemed to be studying her, waiting for her to respond. When she nodded, he added, “A dangerous world too. I hope you’ll let me know where you set yourself up.” He coughed slightly. “I would rest easy, knowing you are safe.”

As she walked away, Lucy kept her head high in case the constable was watching her. His comment about Adam needing to marry well rankled her. Her thoughts swirled. Only two weeks before Adam had assured her that he had no interest in marrying for political gain. Or to enhance his career. Yet a sneaking little voice tugged at the back of her mind, saying that the opposite was also true. Wouldn’t marrying poorly hurt his career?

The wind picked up, and unexpectedly, a tear slipped from her eye. “Dratted smoke,” she muttered, not looking back.

*   *   *

Since she did not have any particular duties to attend to, Lucy decided to venture down Fleet Street to see how far the damage from the fire had extended. Within a few steps, she thought the bellman had surely turned the clock back, to the day before the Fire. Halfway down the street, she could see that along with a dozen other narrow three-story dwellings, The George had remained intact. Will would be glad to know this, The George being one of his favorite alehouses. Next to it, the apothecary and bakery were open, their painted signs depicting their wares as they had for a hundred years.

Several of the printers’ shops were open, and booksellers were hefting packs of broadsides and ballads to hawk their tales throughout London. Mercifully, Master Aubrey’s shop had not been touched. Indeed, the man himself was standing atop his customary wooden box, narrating the details of a broadside. As always, his face seemed a bit flushed, and his balding head was glistening with sweat. “Hear the story of a most fantastic birth, here among the ruins!” Master Aubrey boomed.

Lucy ventured closer. That story didn’t seem to be particularly interesting—why did he think anyone would pay a precious penny for this tale? Of course, she had not taken into account Master Aubrey’s considerable skill at weaving in details, making even the most banal story exciting. She’d also forgotten his penchant for a final twist—with the rest of the crowd, she discovered that the baby was not a human child, but rather a monster born of a witch and a papist.

Clapping and laughing, even the poorest among them was soon coughing up a penny to bring the story home to share with their families. Others would just paste the woodcut on their walls, to have something to enjoy during the long winter nights that lay ahead.

Lucy hung back while Master Aubrey was collecting his pennies. When the crowd dispersed, she followed him into his shop. Inside, she breathed deeply, always surprised at how the whiff of the printing press gave her such pleasure.

Master Aubrey, returning to his press, glanced at her when she came in, but did not stop what he was doing. Fascinated, Lucy watched him unroll a sheet, lay it down, and then roll it over the inked typeset letters.