Lucy smiled for a moment, remembering that desperate, wonderful moment when Adam had pronounced his love for her. In the moment, life had seemed uncomplicated. Uncorking a small vial of ink, she started to write a note, asking if they could meet on the morrow.
Her good mood dissipated though when Master Aubrey returned to the shop a few hours later. He’d been hawking out by Westminster, where he learned that the watchmaker had once again proclaimed his guilt in burning down London. The man had begged to be hanged in the morning, and naturally the courts had happily obliged. It seemed that Adam’s defense had come to naught.
“There’s nothing else to be done for Master Hubert, I’m afraid.” The bookseller moved to pour himself some ale from a large jar on the wooden table. Seeing Lucy clench her fists, Master Aubrey patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “London doesn’t need a martyr, Lucy,” he said, “but it does need blood.”
15
Lucy brushed away some of the dried leaves that had blown into the printer’s shop, and took a deep breath. A week or so had passed since the witless watchmaker had been executed, and a little bit of life seemed to be returning to London. No longer did people seem to be rootless, like so much drifting fog. Indeed, the beginning of October had proved to be quite pleasant, and the heavy smoke smell that had long lingered over London seemed finally to be lifting as well.
Lach and Master Aubrey were both out selling, so it was a rare day that the press was not going. Lucy was about to shut the door, to keep more dirt and leaves from blowing in, when a woman called her name. It was Rhonda Water, looking slightly more disheveled than Lucy had ever seen her. Her fine gray traveling gown looked wrinkled, even a bit stained, as if she’d been moving roughly. Looking closer, Lucy was surprised to see a trickle of sweat on her forehead, a far cry from the collected woman she’d seen before.
“Miss Water.” Lucy kept her tone civil, although her cheeks burned a bit from the memory of the gentlewoman calling her a pauper in the Oxford churchyard. “Is there something you want? Something I can fetch for you?”
Miss Water twisted her skirt a bit in her hands. “You were right. I knew you were right. May I sit down?” Without waiting for Lucy to respond, she plopped heavily down on the low bench by the printing press. “As you walked away that day, outside the church, I knew you were right. Tahmin deserves more. He was a good friend.”
Without warning, tears began to flow down Miss Water’s cheeks. She accepted the cup of chamomile, sprigged with a bit of lavender, which Lucy pressed into her hands. Smiling weakly, she said, “You always tend to me. Thank you.”
“You look exhausted,” Lucy said. She felt a little less miffed than she had when Miss Water first walked into the shop, but she still did not feel overly courteous. Pauper indeed!
“I am, at that,” Miss Water said, setting the cup down. “I’ve not slept well since you left. I could not help but wonder, not just who killed Tahmin, but—”
“What happened to Darius,” Lucy finished. “You’ve not heard from him, I take it?”
Miss Water shook her head. “I fear, you see, that he died in the Fire too. Why else wouldn’t he have tried to contact me? I cannot send word to him myself. Indeed, Tahmin was the one who arranged our correspondence. Nor can I send word to Tahmin’s family. I thought perhaps I could contact the local imam—he is similar to a parish priest—who might be able to pass on the sad ending for their son. But there are many imams in Isfahan, where they both lived. I wouldn’t know where to start. And of course, I cannot ask Father.” She looked around the shop, her eyes taking in the half-folded sheets. “I’m afraid that I am keeping you from your work.”
“Miss Water, what can I do for you?” Lucy asked again, trying to keep her impatience from showing. She began to lay the text for their latest tract, a sermon titled A Good Minister’s Intonation to the Ungodly Sort.
“Well,” Miss Water said, “you’ve spoken with some of the people who were at the tavern the night Tahmin was killed. It occurred to me that perhaps one of them would remember something about Tahmin that would indicate where Darius is.” She looked hopeful. “Does that make sense?”
“Possibly. One of them could also be the murderer,” Lucy pointed out, as she began to sort through the italic type. She was trying to find a fifteen-point letter “U” to completely the word “Ungodly,” and all she could find were twelve- and sixteen-point letters.
Miss Water looked crestfallen. “You’re right, of course. I should have thought of that.”
Seeing Miss Water’s disappointment, Lucy hesitated. “I need to sell by St. Martin’s today. Perhaps we could stop in to see Constable Duncan along the way. He might have some news.”
* * *
Within a few moments of locking up the shop, they arrived at Duncan’s little jail and headquarters. Today, he had a few lady-birds in the cell, two of them looking a bit haughty and defiant, their lips and cheeks reddened with berries and their eyelashes darkened with kohl. A third young woman, clad oddly in sackcloth and ashes, stood a few steps away, wide-eyed but not overly fearful of her cell. A Quaker, no doubt, picked up for disturbing the peace.
Seeing Lucy and her companion, Duncan came over right away. “Ladies!” he said, his eyes darting over to Lucy. “What brings you to my little jail?”
Lucy presented him to Miss Water, who looked a bit wide-eyed herself. Clearly, this was the closest the demure young woman had ever come to the criminal world, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Lucy wondered if she’d ever had that same innocence, and then decided she hadn’t. Or at least not in the four years since she’d left her family farm in Lambeth. Living in London changed a person, and hardly ever for the better.
Upon hearing what they wanted, Duncan was silent for a moment. Then, he pulled out an iron key from a cord around his waist, and unlocked a metal box atop his simple wooden desk. He withdrew the small bag found at the Cheshire Cheese, and emptied the contents.
“May I?” Lucy asked. When Duncan nodded, she began to sort the items into four piles. “The cards belonged to Jacques. Tahmin put in the rook and the letter to Miss Water. The Earl put in the ring, and maybe a few of the coins.”
Miss Water stared at the items for a moment, before picking up two of the copper coins. “These are called pul, or kasbeki, and they are as common as our penny. Each region of Persia has its own kasbeki. See the imprint of the lion? These are from Isfahan, Darius and Tahmin’s city. That is the main city of commerce and trade. They are worth very little.” She slid the small silver coin along the table until it fell into her cupped hand. She held it up to the light. “This one, however, is worth much more. It is called an Abbas, named for the Shah.”
Miss Water then touched the little green rook. “Dear Tahmin. Faithful friend.” She dropped her hand.
Lucy pushed the brooch to make a fourth pile. “Ashton Hendricks put in this brooch—said it belonged to his recently deceased daughter. He said he wanted the Earl to look at it, to understand what the Earl’s son had done to his family. Unfortunately,” Lucy continued, watching Miss Water slide her finger along the delicate flowers of the brooch, “we think Hendricks had the brooch made from his dead daughter’s bones.”
Miss Water jerked away her finger. “Why would he defile her in such a way?” She looked like she was going to spew whatever she had eaten for her noon meal.
Lucy shrugged, having wondered the same thing many times over.
All three fell silent. Clearly, they were at a standstill. “Is there nothing else?” Miss Water asked, her voice showing her intense disappointment. “I had thought there would be something more. Something that would help.”
“I did discover something,” Duncan said, pulling out the tracts Lucy had given him the week before. “This past week, I journeyed to Carlisle.” He tapped on the broadside that described how the Earl of Cumberland’s son had been poisoned. “I wanted to learn more about the circumstances around this act.”
“Did you talk to the Earl’s
son?” Lucy asked eagerly.
Duncan shook his head. “No, he was no longer in Carlisle. Apparently he’s here in London. While I was there, however, it got me thinking about Hendricks’s claim that the Earl’s son had married his daughter. Had to be in secret, of course, since the Earl won’t acknowledge the marriage. So, I thought I would check the marriage registers at the local parish churches. Seems a few of the churches had been broken into recently, and a priest had even been murdered by thieves.” He pointed to the other broadside Lucy had given him. A True and Horrible Account of a Good Preacher, Ill Met by Vandals.
“Oh, I remember reading that piece,” she exclaimed. “Do you think this priest’s death was connected to the secret marriage? Did the church have a marriage certificate?”
“None that I could find,” Duncan replied. “But when I looked in the parish register, where the priest records weddings, burials, baptisms, and the like, I could see someone had torn out all the pages from the last few months. If I had to guess, I would say that the marriage did occur, and someone else was trying to hide all evidence of that fact.”
“So who murdered the priest? The Earl?”
Miss Water, who had been silent during Lucy and Duncan’s exchange, gave a disbelieving little laugh. Clearly, in her world, earls did not go about committing acts of murder. Especially against men of the cloth. “I should hardly think so. Whatever would have been his motive?”
“Perhaps the Earl didn’t murder the priest. I don’t know,” Duncan said. “He certainly did not wish to see the marriage acknowledged. To what extents he would go to preserve this secret, I cannot imagine. I do believe, however, that the Earl’s son did give Hendricks’s daughter that ring. Just as Hendricks claimed. This means, according to local inheritance law, the ring, as a piece of movable property, would pass to her son, upon her death. As such, the ring would be held in the care of her father until her son came of age.”
“Why do you believe this?” Lucy asked. “You said the records had been destroyed.”
For the first time since they had stopped by, Duncan grinned. “Just went to the local tavern. Bought a few rounds of drinks, and I got them talking soon enough. Found out they didn’t consider the babe to be a bastard. No one claimed to have witnessed her wedding, but she wasn’t a harlot, no matter what Lady Cumberland had said.”
That was interesting. Lucy knew enough of small town beliefs to know that the young woman would surely have been shunned by their neighbors if they thought she’d lost her virtue, and had a babe out of wedlock. This certainly suggested they believed she had been wed before bearing the child. She said as much, and then asked, “Did they know who the babe’s father was? Whom she had married?”
“No one would say for sure, but there were some hints that she had married a gentleman, but without the priest’s word or the parish register, she could not be buried in hallowed ground.” Duncan responded. “It appears she did not talk to people much, particularly after she took ill. The Quakers who took her in certainly weren’t going to talk to me. All I know is that they buried her themselves, in a Quaker churchyard, with only her maiden name upon the stone.”
Lucy nodded slowly. She knew the Quakers tended to be a close-lipped bunch, particularly around the authorities. She felt they were at an impasse.
“If only we could talk to the Earl’s son,” she said. Then she remembered what he had said a few minutes before. “You said he was here in London! Where?”
Duncan smiled at Lucy. “At The Sparrow, no less.”
“I knew it!” Lucy snapped her fingers, not feeling all that surprised. “So not the Earl, but his son,” Lucy mused. “I suppose his son has his reasons for not wanting to lodge at his parents’ home in London?”
Duncan opened the door, and let out the Quakeress, looking like a little gray dove freed from a fox’s snare. Once again, Lucy was reminded of Sarah. She hoped that America was kinder to conventiclers than they were to them here in London, although she’d heard enough stories to know that was unlikely. Stocks, if they were lucky. Tar and feathers if they were not. And in some cases, hanging, like poor Mary Dyer in Boston.
On a whim, Lucy placed a tuppence from her own pocket into the Quaker woman’s hand. “Godspeed,” she whispered. “I pray you do not see the stocks anytime soon.” Seeing Miss Water eye her curiously, she spoke airily to the rest of the room. “I must get back to work.” Lucy said, gathering up her pamphlets and woodcuts. “Master Aubrey won’t be too keen to find out I’ve not peddled these. Thameside today, I think.”
“Of course, Thameside,” Duncan said. “By the Embankment. Rather near The Sparrow too, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is it?” Lucy asked, blandly. “I had no idea.”
* * *
Lucy had scarcely taken a few dozen steps down the street when she realized Miss Water was striding after her, seeming not to be hampered by her long skirts. Lucy quickened her pace, even though Miss Water easily matched her steps. She sighed. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“You can’t go alone,” Miss Water said.
“Miss Water, I don’t think you should come with me,” Lucy said. “Thameside’s no place for a lady such as yourself.”
“Fine enough for you though?” Miss Water asked. “Why is that?”
Lucy glanced down at her tattered skirts. They contrasted sharply with Miss Water’s more elegant traveling costume, which despite its mild stains, still marked its wearer as gentry.
“How do you plan to talk to him?” Miss Water persisted. “That’s what you’re planning, isn’t it? And what if it turns out that he murdered poor Tahmin? What will you do then?” She touched Lucy’s elbow. “Do you fancy being trapped inside an inn with a man you do not know? I hardly think Constable Duncan would approve.”
She said the last in a teasing way, but Lucy whirled around. “Why should I care what Constable Duncan thinks of me?” she demanded. “Believe it or not, I’m already betrothed.”
Even as the rash words flew from her lips, Lucy flushed painfully. She looked around, hoping no one had heard her. For a moment, she stared helplessly at Miss Water, knowing the next questions would be ones she couldn’t answer. Who are you bethrothed to, Lucy? Have the banns been read? When are you getting married?
But Miss Water surprised her. “Forgive me, Lucy. I was speaking in jest. My concern is only for your safety.”
Lucy started to walk again. “No, you’re right, Miss Water. Many times I’ve been told I’m too foolhardy. Headstrong too. I’ve no wish to be trapped inside the inn with a murderer. We’ve no reason to think the Earl’s son murdered Tahmin though.”
“It’s always a possibility,” Miss Water insisted. As they walked, the smell of the Thames grew stronger. A combination of dead fish, smoke, and the moldy stench of the river itself hung heavily in the air.
Lucy glanced at the stately woman walking beside her. Her face had whitened slightly and seemed to be taking teeny breaths. Clearly, she was ill at ease in their surroundings. Miss Water’s eyes were slightly puffy. Yet she seemed so resolute, Lucy was unwittingly stricken with a flash of admiration. “Tell me about him,” Lucy said, touching Miss Water’s arm. “About Darius.”
A jolt of emotion flooded Miss Water’s face, and her eyes misted over in memory. For a moment, Lucy thought she was not going to talk at all. Then the woman smiled. “We had been at the Shah’s court only a few days, Father and me,” she began. “Everything was so strange there. My maid could not stop crying at the strangeness of it all. So Father dismissed her. He couldn’t bear her weeping, you see.” Hearing Lucy’s choked cry, she hastened to explain. “No, pray, do not look so stricken, Lucy. He arranged for her safe passage back to her home in London. Even he would not be so heartless as to leave her stranded in a foreign land.”
“Yet he left you alone,” Lucy murmured, edging around a pile of horse manure still steaming in the road. “Without anyone to attend to you.” She tried to imagine how her former mistress would have fared in a f
oreign land, without a maid. Not well, she thought. “What did you do?” she asked.
“Father did procure me a maid, to dress my hair and look after my clothes. Her name was Amah. She was how I came to meet Darius.” Miss Water needed no prompting from Lucy to continue. “She was hired, in part, to help me understand the customs of the land, and to finesse my Persian. Yet her English was not up to the task, and Father needed me to help with some translations. So he arranged for Darius to tutor me. He was one of the Shah’s scribes, I think. I know he also served as a translator and would accompany the Shah on diplomatic missions. I never knew for certain his exact position in the Shah’s court.” She blushed. “His English was exquisite.”
A potter’s cart rumbled by them, the pots clanking in every direction, making a considerable din. Miss Water did not seem to notice, fully gone in her reminiscing. “Darius was so handsome, so kind, simply different from other men I’d known. The poems he would recite to me, from Rumi and others, spoke so eloquently of grace and beauty. Our English poets, save the good bard of Stratford, never could compare.” She smiled distantly, longing in her voice. “Every day, when we met, I’d show him the passages I was having trouble with. After he’d helped me, he’d have me close my eyes. Then, he would slip something wonderful into my hands—nuts perhaps, sometimes a piece of fruit, but most often flowers, clipped from the Shah’s gardens. And he’d write me the most delightful letters—” her voice trailed away.
“What did you know of Tahmin?” Lucy asked. “Did he ever come to your meetings?”
“Tahmin nearly always accompanied Darius. Yet he always stayed a respectful distance away. We did not speak to one another directly, other than pleasantries.” Her face had turned rueful. “I wish I had gotten to know him better. He seemed a strong kindly sort. There were a few occasions when Darius couldn’t meet me, and Tahmin would bring me the note. That’s how I knew about the rook, you see.”
From the Charred Remains (Lucy Campion Mysteries) Page 19