There it was again. That bitterness toward her father.
“I think,” Lucy said carefully, “your father would have been unhappy if he knew you’d been punished in such a way. Not just because you are his daughter. I’ve seen him speak out against such punishments for Quakers.”
Sarah’s eyes welled with tears, which she angrily brushed away. “Perhaps,” she said.
Seeing that Sarah had no more inclination to talk, Lucy bid her farewell and headed back to Fleet Street and Master Aubrey’s shop.
6
“Which woodcut shall I use?” Lucy muttered to herself as she looked at each of the wooden blocks in turn. Master Aubrey and Lach were both out selling, and she had been left to finish composing a single-sheet ballad about a monstrous birth in Leicester. As was common, they would use the same images over and over, so long as there was some tenuous connection to the tale at hand.
As she was trying to decide, Adam unexpectedly strode into the printer’s shop, his dark blue eyes crinkling when he saw her. “Good afternoon, Lucy.”
“Oh, Adam, I am so glad you are here,” Lucy said, returning his smile. She held out two woodcuts for him to inspect. “Do you think we should use this woodcut of a witch giving birth to a monster? Or this one, of the devil singing to a baby?”
Adam took them both, taking his charge importantly. “Oh, the devil, to be sure!”
“What brings you here today?” she asked.
His manner turned serious. Setting the woodcuts back on the table, Adam grasped Lucy’s hands gently in his own. She noted that the hand he had injured last November seemed to be completely healed. As on his face, though, there was still a scar from the shrapnel that had struck him when a gun had exploded unexpectedly. She knew that sometimes his injuries still ached a bit, but today he seemed to be without pain. Still, his face was sorrowful.
“Sarah told me that Jacob Whitby has passed,” he said. “That you’d been with him at the last.” From his tone she could tell that Sarah had not shared Jacob’s wild accusation with him. Perhaps that was better, for now.
“I am so sorry, Adam. I know Mr. Whitby’s passing must be difficult for you.”
“Yes. Certainly. His death is a great loss,” Adam said, shifting uncomfortably. Reluctantly, he dropped Lucy’s hands. “He was a young man. Newly married. Not yet a father. He died before his time, that’s the truth.”
“He said to me, as he was dying, that—” She hesitated, trying to decide how much to say. “That he was your friend, though he had not spoken to you in a long time. Was it because he…?” She did not finish her thought, but Adam seemed to understand.
“Because he had become a Quaker? No. To be honest, from what Sarah told me, he became a better man.” He looked uncomfortable.
“He said that he regretted a disagreement that the two of you had?”
Now there was definitely something odd about Adam’s demeanor. He looked guilty, almost.
“What is it?” She searched his face, noting how tired he looked. Working at the Fire Court, taking the testimony of witnesses, was surely taking its toll.
He ran his hand through his dark hair. “I do not wish to discuss it. Not right now.” He changed the subject. “Sarah also said that Jacob had a message for his sister. To be conveyed by you.” He looked at her questioningly.
“It’s a simple enough message,” she said. “You could easily deliver it on my behalf. Wait, why are you smiling?” Adam was grinning at her fondly again. “Oh, I see. A chambermaid ought not to be bidding her former master to deliver her messages.” There was a time she would have flushed at the seeming impropriety of such a thing, but now she just grinned back impudently.
“I can only think of how changed you are,” he said before a shadow returned to his eyes. “I should like you to accompany me to the Whitbys’ home. Deliver the message yourself. Besides, Sarah said Master Aubrey has asked you to add to Jacob’s story. What better way than to speak to his family?”
Lucy hesitated, feeling conflicted. Sarah had pleaded with her to say nothing about Jacob’s dying accusation. But Jacob had made her promise that she would bring Adam to see his sister.
Remembering the man’s tortured face and horribly twisted body, Lucy nodded. “I will speak to Master Aubrey. I think he will allow me to leave at half past four, since we will have little enough daylight left. So long as the typesetting is done and I’ve set a pot on the stove for supper, I think he will be pleased that I have finished this Monstrous Birth.”
* * *
Indeed, just past four o’clock, as the shadows lengthened around them, Lucy and Adam walked to the home of Jacob Whitby’s sister. As she had imagined, Master Aubrey had consented to her request, although he had mopped the sweat from his ruddy head a few times while he listened to her, a slightly confused expression on his face. After all, he’d already given her leave to see Jacob Whitby’s wife yesterday, after church. She could almost guess his thinking, having thumbed through The Apprentice’s Duty to His Master. Where in that lengthy pamphlet did it say that an apprentice could be given such freedoms twice in as many days? Nowhere, that was certain. Only when she said that she was going at the special request of the Hargraves did he finally just wave his hand at her. “Go!” he’d said, half exasperated, half befuddled. That’s when it came in handy that she was not a full-fledged apprentice.
Now Adam gave her a sidelong glance. “I noticed that you are not wearing the bracelet I gave you for your birthday,” he said. Lucy could hear the note of disappointment in his voice. “Did it not fit? Or—” He paused, searching her eyes. “Do you not still like it?”
Her hand flew guiltily to her wrist, for she knew full well that the bracelet was in a lovely wooden box on a shelf in her bedchamber. “Oh, Adam! It is a beautiful bracelet,” she said hurriedly. “I … I treasure it, I do.”
“Why then do you not wear it?” he asked. “It looked beautiful on you. It pleases me when you wear it.”
“Oh!” She swallowed. He could be so gallant. “I just worry that it will catch in the press when we are pressing the paper across the type, or that I will lose it when I am tending the porridge, or that it will catch the eye of a filcher when I am out selling or—” She broke off, then repeated what she had said before. “It is not because I do not treasure it.”
Or you, she almost added. How could she explain how often she had fallen asleep, holding the bracelet in her hand or pressed against her heart? But, truth be told, he could not have given her a less practical gift. “I would wear it on my day off, except…”
Again she trailed off. Unlike women of Adam’s circle, who seemed to live more leisurely lives, her time away from the printer’s shop consisted of attending church, or visiting Annie and Cook at the Hargraves, or on occasion walking to Lambeth, where her mother lived. In the past, she’d even used her rare mornings or afternoons off to investigate something curious, a trait that both baffled and amused him. There were no elegant dances or masques or even fancy dinners for her to attend that would require her to don a more luxurious style of dress. That he did not, could not, truly understand that a silver bracelet did not belong in her everyday life endeared him to her, even though it also tore at her heart.
Lucy’s attention was diverted, though, when they turned the corner onto Chancery Street. A simple glance told her straightaway where Jacob Whitby’s family lived. Rush matting had been laid in the street in front of the house, to dull the sound of the horses clip-clopping as they passed the house. There was no doubt that a family member had recently died.
Nervously, Lucy stood beside Adam as he knocked on the front door. A young servant with red-rimmed eyes opened it. “Yes, sir?” she said to Adam with a quick bob, having correctly identified him as a member of the gentry.
“We are here to see Miss Julia Whitby, if you would,” Adam replied. Lucy smiled inwardly at his courteous manner with the young girl.
The maid opened her mouth and then shut it again soundlessly, looking rath
er like a fish. Adam and Lucy exchanged a glance. It was a bit surprising that the Whitbys had employed such a dull-witted servant, especially one who would be charged with answering the front door. They might have been calling a little later than was common, but surely the family was not yet sitting down for supper.
“Is something wrong?” Lucy asked the girl kindly. “I know the family has recently suffered a loss. That is why we are here. We should very much like to pay our respects to Miss Julia Whitby and her parents.”
“Miss Whitby’s not here,” the servant said, her eyes darting about wildly. “And no one knows where she is! Been missing since Saturday, she has!”
“Oh, dear!” Lucy cried. “Has the constable been summoned?”
“Indeed he has,” called a familiar Yorkshire voice from within the drawing room. “He is here!”
“Constable Duncan!” Lucy said, unable to keep from smiling when she saw the red-coated soldier come stand behind the maid. Like Adam, Jeb Duncan was just a few years older than herself, having been made a constable at a fairly young age. She had first met the constable three years ago, when he had brought news of a terrible murder to the magistrate’s household, when she was still employed as a chambermaid. After Duncan arrested someone she loved for the crime, her feelings toward him had been far less friendly than they were now. However, their paths had crossed once again, just after the Great Fire, and she helped him right a terrible injustice. Since then, something subtle and unspoken had changed between them. Comments he had made here and there, looks he had given her, had made her heart beat a little faster, even though she tried to put them out of her mind, being unsure of her own feelings toward him.
Right now, the constable wore a quizzical look on his face. She felt, rather than saw, Adam stiffen beside her. He did not appreciate the constable’s interest in Lucy, which had become more apparent in recent months.
“The question, of course, is what are you doing here, Lucy?” Duncan asked. His eyes flicked toward Adam, nodding slightly. “Mr. Hargrave.”
Adam nodded in return. “Constable.”
Lucy glanced at Adam. “We’re here to pay our respects to Miss Julia Whitby. Her brother, Jacob, was just killed in a terrible accident.”
“Yes, I heard about his death. Rotten luck.” The constable was still looking at Lucy, clearly trying to make sense of her presence in the household. “Is Miss Julia Whitby an acquaintance of yours, Lucy?”
At his tone, Lucy flushed slightly. Although he sounded more surprised than disrespectful, the insinuation was clear. Why are you here, Lucy? Former servants do not call on the friends of their employers, and certainly do not make condolence calls with members of the gentry.
Adam spoke then. “Lucy was with Jacob Whitby when he died. He asked her to bring a message for Jacob’s sister.”
“What? I just knew it,” the constable muttered, putting his hand to his head. He gestured to the maid to leave. The girl scurried out without another glance. “Pray tell me, Lucy. Under what possible circumstances were you with that man when he died?”
“He had asked for Miss Sarah, Adam’s sister. The magistrate asked me to accompany her, as he was not comfortable letting his daughter attend a sickbed alone,” Lucy said. She thought about saying more but decided against it. It still did not seem to be the right time to say anything about Jacob Whitby’s claim that he had been deliberately pushed in front of the cart. “Please, what happened to Julia Whitby?” she asked. “The maid said she was missing.”
Constable Duncan rubbed his eyes in a tired way. “’Tis the damndest thing,” he said quietly so that his voice would not carry. “She seems to have taken off just after she was informed of her brother’s death. The maid said she fell into a great state, throwing clothes into a satchel, running this way and that. She left this note, before heading off to hire a hackney.”
He held the letter open for them to read. Unlike most servants, Lucy had learned to read fairly well, a skill that now helped her at the printer’s. “Mother, Father,” she read out loud, squinting a bit. “Her writing is very ill indeed. She must have been writing very hastily. Pray do not worry,” she continued. “I am going to stay with Elizabeth Wiggins, to help her through her confinement. I will mourn my brother there. I will send you a note when I have arrived safely. Your loving daughter, Julia.”
“That seems straightforward enough,” Adam said. Lucy nodded, equally puzzled.
“Except that her parents sent a note around to Mrs. Wiggins. She’d not seen Julia Whitby, nor had she asked her to visit,” the constable replied. “Now she is missing.”
“Perhaps she’s run off? Eloped?” Adam asked.
The constable shook his head. “There was no indication of a romance, although I can’t rule that out completely. It is the timing that strikes me as strange. That she would run off so soon after the news of her brother’s death. Could a daughter be so heartless as to leave her mother when she needs her most?”
“It is strange,” Lucy said slowly. “She must have been very afraid, to leave so suddenly.”
Both men looked at her. “Afraid?” Adam asked. He took a step closer to Lucy. “Afraid of what? Do you know something more than what you’ve already said?”
“Jacob told me something before he died,” Lucy whispered. “I am sorry I did not tell you.”
“What did he tell you? Something about his sister?” Constable Duncan asked, his gaze sharpening. Adam was frowning slightly.
“Yes. No. Not exactly.” Lucy replied reluctantly. She looked at the constable. “Mr. Whitby claimed that his pending death was no accident. He said he’d been pushed deliberately in front of that horse. Someone wanted him dead.”
They both stared at her. “Did he know who pushed him?” Adam asked.
Lucy shook his head. “He wasn’t sure. He had received an urgent letter from his sister, Julia, though, bidding him to come see her. That’s where he was going when he was struck by the cart. He said that I needed to speak with her. He said she might know something more about who had pushed him, and why.”
She stopped at that point. To protect Sarah, she just could not bring herself to share the other thing Jacob had said—that the impostor might be among the Quakers.
They didn’t seem to have noticed the abrupt end to her explanation. The constable clicked his tongue. “Assuming it was no accident, and that he had been targeted, it is likely that he knew his killer. A business acquaintance, perhaps? An enemy of some sort? His wife? He was married, you say?”
“Yes, he was,” Lucy said. She thought about how distraught Jacob Whitby had been, thinking that the killer might be in their community. “He was very concerned about his wife. He told me that he was worried she might be in danger, too.”
Adam mused, “I could look into his will. Perhaps the bequests will shed light on who may have wanted him dead.”
Lucy thought about the sparseness of Jacob Whitby’s house, feeling doubtful. “Jacob seemed to have given most of their possessions away,” she said. “Do you think that we might be able to speak to his parents for a spell?”
Constable Duncan frowned. “They have not been very forthcoming, at least not with me, I’m afraid. Mrs. Whitby, Julia’s mother, had just sent for me before her husband came home. She is convinced that her daughter has been abducted, so I came here to look into the matter. Now her husband claims the girl ran off of her own volition, and he wants nothing more to do with her. I was about to leave when you came.” He frowned. “Now, of course, I have to wonder, given what you’ve just told me.” He jerked his head at Adam. “I suppose with him at your side they’ll talk to you.”
Adam looked angry, but Lucy put her hand on his arm. “Well, Adam is an old friend of Jacob Whitby’s. I should think they would.” She beckoned to the maid, who had just stepped back into the room. “Pray, take us to your mistress. Tell her that Mr. Adam Hargrave wishes to pay his respects.”
Lucy and Adam were ushered into a luxurious drawing room. As was the cu
stom when someone died, the great mirror hanging above a long side table had been draped with a black cloth. The silver candlesticks on the mantel, as well as the silver platter on the table, had been similarly draped. Lucy’s mother had done the same thing when her father died. “Keep the evil spirits away,” her mother had insisted. “They come to us when we mourn the dead, and use the mirrors to reflect their way into our homes.” Master Hargrave had never put stock in such notions, of course, so they had not upheld such traditions when his wife and other members of the household had died.
Adam and Lucy waited in a tense silence. He and the constable always rubbed each other the wrong way, she had noticed. Neither seemed like himself when around the other. Adam grew stiffer and more clipped, making him seem arrogant, which did nothing to endear him to the constable. For his part, Duncan became resentful, although he remained outwardly respectful in his words and tone. To make matters worse, she knew that neither man trusted the other’s intentions toward her.
Lucy could not worry about that now, though. Looking around at the elegant furniture, she wondered if she should sit. Seeing that Adam had remained standing, she did the same. She gazed at the large family portrait above the hearth. A father staring sternly down at them, with his wife beside him. A young woman stood behind him, and a younger boy, maybe around twelve, stared in admiration at his father, a sword at his side. Lucy looked closer. The boy looked like a younger version of Jacob. Lucy wondered if the girl might be his sister, Julia.
The maid reopened the door, ushering in an older woman and man, whom Lucy took to be the Whitbys. The woman wore a full mourning dress and clearly had been weeping. The man looked somber, but his wool suit was gray rather than black.
As Adam stepped forward, the woman gracefully extended both her hands in greeting. “Adam,” she murmured. “We’re so pleased to see you.”
The Masque of a Murderer Page 7