“What’s this?” she asked the seller, when he was done placing cabbage in a young woman’s basket.
“Dried pineapple,” he said, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. “All the way from the New World, these are.” Seeing that no one was at his cart, he seemed more than happy to tell the pineapple’s trip to London. “I’m the only one who sold them, even before the Fire. I always have the best fruits.” He waved his hand expansively around Covent Garden. “Those markets aren’t even around anymore. Everyone’s coming here. But no one but me can afford these finer bits.”
Annie came over to pay for her apples. When she sniffed the pineapple appreciatively, as Lucy had done a few minutes before, the man seemed pleased. “Want to try a tiny bit?” he asked. “Just a taste, mind you,” he added hastily.
“Oh yes!” Lucy and Annie exclaimed in unison.
The seller winked. “Thought you might. Just so long that you don’t tell anyone I’m letting the customers sample my wares for free.”
“We won’t tell anyone!” Lucy said. Annie echoed her words, hopping up and down in excitement.
The fruit-seller handed them each a small chip of the pineapple. Annie ate hers straightaway. “Oooh,” she sighed in satisfaction. “That was delicious.”
Closing her eyes, Lucy put hers on the tip of her tongue, experiencing a great rush of sweetness. Rather than chewing, she sort of rolled the pineapple about in her mouth, savoring the taste, thinking about the odd bit of fruit. She could almost feel how the warm breezes from the New World had touched it, could feel the weight of its four-month journey, as it traveled in crates across the Atlantic. Her thoughts drifted to the magistrate’s daughter, wondering how Sarah had fared crossing the ocean to the New World. Where was she living now? What was she doing? She knew that Sarah, traveling to the Massachusetts Bay Colony, was unlikely to have been anywhere near the origins of this pineapple, but she felt a momentary closeness to her far-traveling friend.
Then, something Annie said snapped her back to her present surroundings. “What did you say?”
“I just said,” Annie repeated, “that ever since we read that poem from the Fire, I’ve been wanting to try a pineapple. And the other thing too, but I can never remember that one.”
“Pomegranates,” Lucy said distantly, her mind suddenly racing. “The poem mentioned pomegranates.”
The fruit-seller shook his head. “No pomegranates here.”
“Pineapples too!” Annie insisted. “I remember it distinctly.”
“No, no. That is so!” Lucy said, realizing Annie was right. She turned back to the fruit-seller. “When do pineapples bloom, do you know?” she asked, following a different thought.
The man frowned, as he took some coins from a woman buying some herbs. “I don’t know exactly, but I think I have something here—” He began to rummage through a much-worn leather bag hanging at the side of his cart. “Hold on a moment, I can tell you exactly.” He pulled out a stack of folded papers, which Lucy immediately recognized. All pamphlets and broadsides. It was like looking in the jumble in her own pack.
“Are you a bookseller too then?” she asked with a smile, watching him thumb through the flimsy pieces.
He grunted. “Wouldn’t touch such a livelihood. Prefer my honest fruits and vegetables to the nonsense and frippery they push. Don’t need no stories of horned women or monstrous births. Just pick these up from time to time. Useful stuff about herbs and plants. Oh, here it is!” He pulled out a small pamphlet with pictures of plants and vegetables.
Lucy read the title out loud. “The Garden of Eden, or, An accurate description of all flowers and fruits now growing in England.”
The fruit-seller glanced at the book. “This fellow Hugh Plat says pineapples must be planted in August. They bloom in spring and summer. These here they dried and packed in sugar. Otherwise, they wouldn’t make the long trip.”
“So they don’t bloom in ‘the first freezes of autumn.’” Lucy thought about the poem again. “Are many pineapples grown in England?”
“As far as I know, only in one hothouse, outside Cambridge.” Seeing Lucy’s puzzled face, the fruit-seller explained, “Hothouses are special places where they can grow plants not natural to England. They grow things from the New World and the Indies. I got a mate there who sold me a fresh one a few months back. I was quite famous for a while. Someone even wrote a ballad about me.” He chuckled at the memory. His chest pressed out slightly. “Everyone knew me, Elias Greenleaf. The seller of pineapples.” He gestured to his stall. “Greenleaf, green leaves, you get it?”
He moved over toward a woman holding out a coin and some apples. “You can look at the penny piece,” he said to Lucy over his shoulder. “Just leave it here when you’re done.”
Lucy read through Plat’s description of pineapples. He seemed to be quite a knowledgeable gentleman. Other than learning more about the pineapple’s size and appearance, though, she discovered nothing more than what the fruit-seller had already told her.
Annie tugged at her sleeve. “Lucy, aren’t you due back to Master Aubrey’s?”
Thoughtfully, Lucy laid the tract under a basket of rosemary so that it would not blow away in the gentle autumn breeze. On a whim, she pulled out her treasured half crown. “How much pineapple can I get for this?” She glanced at Annie. “Perhaps Master Hargrave would like to try it.”
Master Greenleaf grinned. “For such appreciative young ladies, I’ll give you the lot. Perfect for a fruit cake. I’d say a treat made for a king, but King Charles himself has not yet had this delicacy!”
Pushing their way past all the people milling about, Lucy finally found a bit of grass under a spreading oak tree whose leaves had not yet fallen. “Let’s rest here for a bit.”
Annie immediately began to gnaw on a bit of bread, following the servant’s common habit of eating whenever there was a break in duties. She seemed put out about something, but Lucy wanted to focus on what was puzzling her. Pulling out the poem, which she always kept in her hidden pocket, she read the last part aloud. “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.”
Annie scratched her head. “Still fiddle-faddle,” she said, impatiently. “I need to get home. Shall I bring Cook the pineapple?”
“No, let’s keep it a surprise for the family. I do not want to burden Cook. How about I make the fruitcake and bring it over myself, after supper? I’ll see if Will can bring me. I don’t think Master Aubrey will mind, so long as I get his supper ready.” Finally she took in Annie’s hangdog expression. “Wait, what’s wrong?”
“I wanted to make the magistrate a special apple pie. Your fruitcake will be better than mine.”
Lucy groaned at her own blindness. Of course Annie wanted to make something special for the magistrate. “I won’t make the fruitcake then. I’m just bringing the pineapple.” Seeing Annie still looking down, she added, “It’s just an excuse, Annie. I just need to speak to the magistrate.”
“Master Adam won’t be there, you know,” Annie said bluntly.
Lucy flushed. “I know that.” She had a moment’s misgiving, then shook herself. “I truly want to speak to the magistrate.” She said again firmly, giving Annie’s shoulders a little hug. “You’ll make a wonderful pie, I know it.”
Annie shrugged, unconvinced. “Whatever you say.” Yet she looked a little more pleased, and Lucy hoped their conversation would soon be forgotten.
* * *
A few hours later, Lucy arrived at the magistrate’s kitchen door, carrying the basket of pineapple. Not Will but a fairly grumpy Lach had accompanied her for the long walk after supper. Will had gone off to see one of his ladyloves, a habit Lucy hoped he would tire of soon. Only the promise of a bit of Annie’s apple pie had convinced the redheaded apprentice to trot along beside her, and he had grumbled nearly every step of the way. He held his tongue only when they arrived at the relative grandeur of the magistrate
’s household.
As always, Cook and John were glad to see her, although neither showed it directly. Thankfully, the magistrate had no visitors that evening, and he had taken his supper in his little study. With great pride, Annie showed Lucy her apple pie, which she had yet to slice.
“It’s beautiful,” Lucy breathed, admiring the plump slices as they fell onto the plates.
“I thought for sure I’d forgotten an ingredient, but for the life of me I could not think of what,” Annie chattered happily under the admiration of the other servants. She held up A True Gentlewoman’s Delight, a pamphlet of recipes that the late Mistress Hargrave had long ago purchased at the market. “See, I followed it exactly. Take apples and pare them. Chop them very small. To the rosewater, I beat in the cinnamon, a little ginger and some sugar, uh oh!” She looked up in despair. “I think I forgot the sugar!”
“No, dear, you didn’t,” Cook said reassuringly, standing behind Annie. Catching Lucy’s eye, she pantomimed how she had added the sugar when Annie wasn’t looking.
Lucy stifled a giggle. Thank goodness Cook had realized the missing ingredient in time. She was grateful, too, that Cook had spared the sugar, as it’s cost from the grocer was dear. But the master, they’d discovered, had a sweet tooth, and they all liked to please him.
“Shall I take the pie to the master?” Annie asked, picking up the small silver tray.
“May I come with you?” Lucy asked, carefully filling a goblet of Master Hargrave’s Rhenish wine. On a second plate, she placed a few pieces of the pineapple.
When she knocked on his study door, the magistrate’s eyes widened with real delight when he saw Lucy. He glanced at Annie then, his brows rising slightly when he took in her anxious eyes, her hands tightly gripping the tray. He looked back at Lucy for an explanation.
“Annie made you her first apple pie,” Lucy said, carefully unloosing Annie’s fingers from the tray, and setting it down on master’s table. “I’m sure you will find it delicious.”
“Indeed!” the magistrate exclaimed, picking up his fork. “Let me make haste!” He took a bite, and both Annie and Lucy watched him carefully. “Delicious, just as you said. Thank you, Annie.” Lucy beamed under his warm words, as if she’d made the pie herself. She was glad he understood what his words would mean to the lass.
Annie bobbed, her face bright and happy. She backed out of the room, no doubt back to the kitchen to flirt a bit with Lach, who’d been clearly bewildered by her ways.
The magistrate smiled at Lucy. “I thought for a bit she sought to poison me, she looked so frightened of putting the tray down before me.” He took in her basket. “Have you something else?”
Lucy set down the small plate. “A bit of dried pineapple. I bought some at the market today. It’s not nearly as nice as fresh apple pie, mind you. I thought you might like it,” she said.
Standing up, the magistrate surprised her by clasping both her hands in his, before saying in his grave way, “Thank you, my dear. Please join me.” He pulled the other chair next to his.
Sitting back down, he took a bite. Like herself, he savored the first bite without chewing it straightaway. “Pineapple! Delicious! Thank you, Lucy. This was quite kind of you. I’ve heard the King himself has not yet tried this delicacy. To his credit, he made it clear that he is waiting to try the pineapple until his colonies in the New World can produce it. If that is true, he is truly missing out, for this dessert is fit for a king!” He paused. “I seem to recall a fresh pineapple had been sold here in London.”
“Yes,” Lucy said eagerly. “In Covent Garden. It came from a hothouse in Cambridge. It seems that Master Greenleaf was quite famous at one point!”
“Ah, I see.” The magistrate took another careful bite, and then another. Lucy watched him fondly as he took the last crumb of the apple pie from the small silver salver, and laid his fork down with satisfaction. “My dear. Thank you. Now, before you tell me why you’ve actually come, I have something for you.”
To her great surprise and delight, Master Hargrave pulled out a small leather-bound book and set it in front of her. “I happen to know that today is your twenty-first birthday. I thought you might enjoy this piece.”
Lucy picked up the slim volume carefully. “The Two Gentlemen of Verona? Shakespeare? You’re giving this to me?” She felt her throat catch. “That is very kind of you, sir. How can I accept it?” She could hardly put it down, wanting to tear into it straightaway.
“Ah, Lucy. ’Tis no kinder than you stopping by to cheer an old man with a bit of pineapple.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now tell me, why do I suspect this was more than a social visit?”
Lucy had to hide a smile. How preposterous it was that a former servant would ever call on a magistrate. And yet, wasn’t that what she was doing? As always, her heart warmed a bit when she regarded the magistrate. He certainly had never held her lowly station against her.
Lucy pulled out the London Miscellany again. Seeing the well-worn piece again, the magistrate shook his head slightly in wonder. “I declare, Lucy. I can’t remember anyone ever as interested in sorting out puzzles as you.”
“Excepting yourself, sir.” She rushed along.“I just think there’s more to this poem than what we’ve seen.” She pointed to the line about pineapples. “I think he was telling Miss Water something.”
“About pineapples? Are they usually available in the ‘first freezes of autumn?’” The magistrate looked at the poem again and then squinted at Lucy. “That may be true, but we’ll never know. Wasn’t this poor man killed in the Fire?”
“Oh no, sir! As it turns out, that man was not Darius at all, but rather his manservant, or something like that—Miss Water wasn’t sure. His name was Tahmin and—”
“I see there’s a bit more story here.” His eyes twinkled. “Let me first have another piece of this most excellent apple pie.”
He rang for Annie, who brought him another large slice of apple pie and some more wine. Her smile was wide and happy. When Annie left, Lucy told him everything she had learned over the last fortnight. As always, the magistrate listened attentively, his eyes slightly closed. She knew from seeing him at court that this was how he listened to testimony after testimony, seeking the truth from the great mounds of evidence that came before his bench.
When Lucy finished recounting everything, the magistrate remained silent for a moment. Then his eyes opened. “You think there is one more puzzle in here?”
Lucy nodded. “I know it sounds odd. I think Darius was telling her something specific, without her father discovering their relationship. He had to disguise his words, in case his poem fell into the wrong hands.”
“Which it did.”
“Which it did”—Lucy sighed—“when I asked Master Aubrey to print it.”
“Are you telling me that you think this love poem is a real invitation? Not just a reminder of their romance, but a real reminder to her? Why ever do you think so? Forgive me, but the verse is a bit vague.”
“I think when he wrote ‘I’m here,’ he wanted Rhonda, Miss Water, to know he was in London. The fruit-seller mentioned that there are some hothouses near London that grow pineapples, which is the only way they might be able to bloom in autumn.”
“Ah, I see.” Master Hargrave sat back in his chair. “You believe that Darius was telling Miss Water where to meet him? Interesting.” He spooned some tobacco into his clay pipe from a small silver box on his desk. Unlike other men of his acquaintance, he had not yet taken to snuff. “How could she possibly know when?”
The magistrate looked at Lucy with a half smile. She got the feeling he already knew the answer to the question, and wanted to see what she had figured out. “The last line,” she said. “I think there is another puzzle here. ‘Even kings can wrong a fey duet.’ That doesn’t sound right, does it?”
“Well, perhaps. Let’s look at that line a little more closely. Bring that candle over, would you, my dear?”
After Lucy set a second taper
down on the table, he smoothed the much-wrinkled verse. “First there is the notion of a king, and then a ‘fey duet’ being wronged. He may have been apologizing for something he did.”
“What do you mean? Is that referring to His Majesty?” Lucy asked. “I don’t see anything about an apology.”
“No, I shouldn’t think that by ‘king’ he was referring to our king of England. Darius was the name of a fifth-century Persian king. Perhaps he was alluding to a wrong he did to her, to ruin their ‘fey duet.’”
“So, you think the letter was simply an apology? That he wasn’t planning to come at all?” Lucy suddenly felt disappointed, thinking about Miss Water, whom she knew missed Darius terribly.
“No, let’s not jump to conclusions.” The magistrate took a sip of his wine. “Indeed, I think you are right. There is one last message hidden here, even if there was also an outward apology. Another anagram, perhaps.”
“That’s what I was thinking!” Lucy said, regaining her earlier excitement. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Well, let’s ascertain your first guess. You said that the pineapple was grown in a hothouse outside Cambridge. Perhaps the name ‘Cambridge’ can be found here. Why don’t we see?”
Just as he had done before, when they discovered Miss Water’s name hidden in the first line, Lucy carefully copied out the last line. Rose, my love—Even kings can wrong a fey duet.
She then crossed out the letters C-A-M. She stopped. “There’s no “B” in this line. So not Cambridge.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe the word London is here. L-O-N-D-O-N,” she spelled. “The letters are all here!”
“And what letters remain?”
Lucy read them out loud. “R-S-E-M-Y-V-E-E-V-E-K-I-C-A-N-W-R-O-N-G-A-F-E-Y-U-E-T.” She looked at the magistrate doubtfully. “That’s a lot of letters still. And ‘London’ seems so vague.” She thought back to her conversation with the fruit-seller. “Wait a minute!” she exclaimed. She grabbed the quill again without thinking. The magistrate watched her as she worked it out. “The fruit-seller said pineapples had only been sold in Covent Garden, even before the Fire.” Carefully she crossed out C-O-V-E-N-T-G-A-R-D-E-N.
From the Charred Remains (Lucy Campion Mysteries) Page 21