The Masque of a Murderer

by Susanna Calkins

  “Did you learn anything more?” Adam asked her. Turning to the constable, he added, “Lucy was kind enough to help Mrs. Whitby upstairs after the madness overcame her.” His tone was amused.

  The letters were now painfully rubbing against her. She wanted to tell Adam and the constable about what she had discovered, but truth be told, even the thought of telling them about this rash theft made her cheeks flame. She knew neither man would take kindly to her little theft. Best be prudent, she warned herself. I will read through the letters first. No point in telling anyone about her transgression unless she discovered in them some news to share.

  Still, she could not help wondering. Why had Julia Whitby possessed those tracts? Had someone—perhaps her brother—given them to her to read? Seeing Mr. Whitby’s angry response to the Quakers, it was obvious why she would have kept such pieces away from his eyes. But why keep them at all?

  She realized both men were looking at her, waiting for her to reply to Adam’s query.

  Gulping, she spoke quickly. “Mrs. Whitby thinks her daughter is hiding at Mrs. Wiggins’s,” she said. “Or else that she has run off with the Quakers. Although I told her that seemed unlikely. Thankfully she didn’t ask me why I thought so.”

  The constable looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. “I cannot make inquiries now, that’s for certain.” Stopping, he said to Lucy, “Perhaps Master Aubrey would not mind you selling out in Bishopsgate? I could come by for you around nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Is it not on Tuesdays when you make your longer journeys?”

  Before Lucy could reply, Adam broke in. “Constable,” he said, clearly irritated, “why ever would you expect Lucy to accompany you on such an investigation?”

  Constable Duncan smirked slightly. “This is Lucy we’re talking about.” He turned to Lucy. “Tell me you weren’t thinking of making this inquiry on your own.”

  Feeling slightly abashed, Lucy nodded. Indeed, she’d been thinking about how she could speak to Mistress Wiggins that very minute.

  “Just so,” the constable said, squaring his shoulders. “I think you would agree that Lucy should not go to this house unaccompanied.”

  Adam straightened up. “Well, that may be so. As it happens, I was planning to make the inquiries myself. I will accompany Lucy.”

  Lucy looked at him in surprise. He had not indicated anything of the sort when they were in the Whitbys’ home.

  Adam went on. “Indeed, I am sure that Jacob’s mother would expect no less of me, as an old family friend.” His emphasis on the last few words seemed deliberate.

  “Are you not expected at the Fire Court in the morning?” the constable asked. His manner had once again grown stiff.

  Adam looked slightly defeated. “Yes, I am. I thought I could see the Wiggins family afterward. But,” he said, “I suppose we would not want to delay so long.” Looking pointedly at Duncan, he added, “Good night, Constable.”

  Still smirking, Duncan saluted them with an exaggerated military gesture and strode off to the makeshift jail on Fleet Street where he’d lived since the Great Fire.

  Lucy and Adam continued on to Master Aubrey’s shop. The sky was darkening rapidly, although a few kind souls had put lanterns in their windows to assist those who dared venture out after nightfall.

  As they walked, Adam drew her hand into the crook of his arm, carefully steering her around a steaming pile of manure in the road. She looked up at him, admiring the clean lines of his face.

  He looked down at her, smiling slightly. “So you do not mind taking this journey with the constable?” His tone was gentle, not accusing. “I know he was glad enough to accompany you.”

  Mrs. Whitby’s sorrowful face flashed into her mind. “I do not mind being with the constable,” she said, without realizing how it might sound to Adam.

  At his silence, she glanced up at him and saw that he had lost his earlier smile. Hurriedly, she sought to explain. “I mean, it is the least I can do for Jacob Whitby and his mother.”

  He frowned now. “Lucy,” he said, “why do you suppose Jacob Whitby wanted to speak to me specifically?”

  “You and he were good friends, were you not?” Lucy asked, not following. He seemed a bit perturbed.

  “Well, that’s just it,” he replied. “Jacob and I were never very good friends. I knew him at Cambridge. He dined with us on a few occasions, too, although that may have been before you entered my father’s employ. He and I”—he paused—“enjoyed different sorts of amusements. Indeed, we nearly came to blows once.”

  Lucy gave him a quick measured glance. “Over Sarah?” she guessed.

  Adam frowned. “Yes. Do you remember how my sister was? A bit flighty? Impetuous? Do not mistake me. Jacob was never a bad man, but I did not like his interest in my sister.” He shook his head. “I never dreamed he would become a Quaker. Of course, I still find it hard to believe that Sarah became a Quaker.”

  “You believe in their cause, though,” Lucy said. “I remember that you wrote several petitions to the king and Parliament in the Quakers’ defense.”

  “Yes, because I do not believe men and women should be persecuted for their religious beliefs. That is different than supporting their faith or the actions they take on behalf of their faith.”

  “Maybe that is why Jacob wanted to see you. He knows you’ve been a friend to their cause. Perhaps he wanted to make amends.”

  “Perhaps.” But Adam did not seem convinced. Having reached Master Aubrey’s shop, they turned to each other. Gazing down at her, he brushed away a strand of her brown hair that had come loose from her cap. She thought for a moment he might forget they were on a public street and kiss her. But honor and decorum won out.

  “Be careful, Lucy” was all he said before walking off toward home.

  * * *

  At nine o’clock that evening, after she had finished cleaning all the pots from supper and had tidied up the workroom, Lucy finally was able to retire to her bedchamber. Closing the door behind her, she pulled out the packet of Jacob’s letters she’d hidden under her straw pallet. Sitting at the table, a thin wax taper at her side, she carefully untied the string around the packet. There were six letters altogether, three that were dated, three that were not. All were in that same educated hand that reminded her of how the magistrate and Adam fashioned script.

  In the first one, Jacob must have been writing shortly after he became a Quaker and was repudiated by his father. Dearest sister, he wrote, I cannot tell thee how thoroughly thy letter did give me hope and comfort. It gives me great pleasure to know that thou hast survived the plague and returned to London, safe from harm. I do not understand why our father has forsaken me, but I know now to seek solace in the Lord and to be nourished by the Inner Light that resides within us all.

  It went on like this at great length, ending with a great flourish. Thy Loving Brother, Jacob. A quick read of the second letter revealed much of the same sentiment, describing how he exulted in the love of Christ, and then spoke of meeting George Fox, the founder of the Friends. The third letter was different in tone. Jacob seemed more despairing. I thank thee, dearest sister, for trying to arrange reconciliation with our father. It is enough to know that we shall be reunited in heaven one day. Please, Julia, thou must ask Mother to stop paying tithes to the church on my behalf. It makes the other Quakers doubt my conviction, and I feel I must share in the same imprisonments as the others. If I do not have my faith, and the companionship of those who share my convictions, then I have nothing else.

  The next letter she read more slowly, a familiar name having caught her eye. This letter seemed more buoyant. Toward the end he described, with great rapture, a woman whom he had recently met. Her name is Esther Grace, he wrote, and as her name suggests, she has transformed me, helped me regain what I believed I had lost. It may seem rather fantastical to say, but she has woven a spell—not of magic, but of God’s love—over me, which I shall not likely recover from soon. The letter continued in this vein for a few more sent
ences before his customary signature.

  The fifth letter was the most ebullient by far. He and Esther Grace had gotten married. By her suggestion, we moved to the house in which I have been living. We have talked about selling everything and starting our life together, maybe even in the New World. I should hate to leave thee. I would very much like for thee and my sweet Esther to meet.

  In the sixth letter, he seemed a bit sad, even apologetic. I am sorry that Esther was unable to meet with thee. I should very much have liked her to make thy acquaintance. She was moved by the Lord to speak at the Devonshire Meeting. The movement of the Lord within us cannot be verily understood. I myself have been moved by the Lord to rid myself of my last possessions.

  Thoughtfully, Lucy retied the string around the letters. Unfolding the sketch, she stared at the dead man resting against the column. She could not keep herself from whispering aloud the words that had been scrawled at the bottom of the sketch. “This is the dandy I told you about. Set upon and killed.”

  Even as she blew out the candle and climbed into her bed, her thoughts continued to swirl. Who was this man? Where had he been killed? Who had killed him? And perhaps most unsettling of all: Who had sent this message to Julia Whitby—and why?

  8

  “Hang on. Let me sell here for a b-bit,” Lucy said to the constable the next morning, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. Although it was early March, it was still one of the coldest days she could recall. Certainly, no spring in sight. She and Duncan were still a ways from Bishopsgate, but they’d come to a small market where people were peddling spices, soaps, and baskets. She had stopped in a spot that gave them some protection from the bitter chill, since no innkeeper would let her hawk her wares inside his establishment.

  Not giving the constable a chance to disagree, Lucy began to rifle through her pack for a few pieces that she knew would sell easily.

  “The Constable Cozened!” she read aloud before hastily stuffing it back in her pack, hoping Duncan had not heard the title. Glancing at another, she groaned. “The Cuckolded Constable!” She looked at another, her mortification growing. “The Constable’s Cod-Piece! Lach!” She swore. “I am going to kill him!”

  Constable Duncan peered at the pieces with a wry smile. “I take it that Aubrey’s other devil packed your sack? I suspect these kinds of merriments are to his liking.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I was still typesetting another piece, and Lach offered to put my sack together. He said he’d put in some that always sold well.” Sheepishly, she added, “These do sell well.”

  “Especially if I’m nearby? I suppose that’s what he wanted. Perhaps I should stand here slack-jawed and stupid, so I can truly play the role of—what is it?” He looked at one of the penny pieces. “The ‘Confounded’ Constable?”

  Lucy grinned. It was true that Lach had little admiration for the constable, or most authorities, for that matter. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  For the next thirty minutes, the constable watched her sell the pieces, but from a goodly distance away. Finally, when Lucy felt her sack had been significantly lightened, they were able to move. When they reached the Wiggins house in Bishopsgate a short while later, Lucy carefully hid her pack in a low hedge. It wouldn’t help to have the Wigginses question her presence at their door before she’d even had a chance to explain.

  A smiling maid answered the door, returning shortly to the drawing room with Mrs. Wiggins, heavy into her confinement.

  “My maid said you have a message for me?” Mrs. Wiggins asked.

  Duncan stepped forward. “Not exactly. The message is for your friend Julia Whitby. Your mother thought she might be here.”

  To Lucy’s dismay, Mrs. Wiggins paled and sank down in a soft cloth-covered chair. “Are you all right, mistress?” Lucy asked. “May I get you some water, or some other refreshment? Do you need assistance?”

  The woman waved her hand, then dropped it onto her bulging belly. “No, I’ll be fine. I just felt a wave of dizziness. The baby is very active today.” She flushed slightly, with a glance at Duncan. Respectable women were not supposed to discuss their condition, especially in the presence of men.

  “I remember my wife’s confinement,” Duncan said unexpectedly. “Resting a short spell would often help her.”

  Lucy stared at him. She’d never heard the constable speak of a wife or child. When he met her gaze, his face was expressionless. She could not tell what he was thinking.

  Anxiously, Lucy and Duncan waited in silence. When Mrs. Wiggins finally took a deep breath, her face had resumed a more healthy color. “I’m so sorry to tell you that I haven’t seen my dear friend Julia Whitby in quite some time. I was ever so puzzled when I received that urgent message from her parents. I did send a reply with the same messenger, saying I had not seen her, nor, truth be told, had I invited her to stay with me.” She looked from Lucy to Duncan. “What is going on? Why did her mother think she would be here?”

  As she spoke, Lucy watched Mrs. Wiggins closely. The woman seemed genuinely anguished. She hated to distress her further, but she thought the woman might be able to shed some light on Julia Whitby’s disappearance.

  “I’m afraid Miss Whitby has fled her parents’ home,” Lucy said quietly. “She left a letter saying that she was planning to stay with you.”

  Tears welled in Mrs. Wiggins’s eyes. “I wish she had come to me.” She ran her hand along a porcelain vase on a low table next to her chair. “I knew something was bothering her, you see. I wanted to come and see her, but—” She waved expansively again toward her belly.

  Duncan nodded. “Why do you think something was bothering her?” he asked.

  “Because she wrote me a letter. I received it just three days ago, by messenger.”

  The same day Julia had summoned her brother to come see her, Lucy thought. The same day her brother was struck by the cart.

  Mrs. Wiggins continued. “She was concerned about her brother, but she would not say why.”

  “Because—” Lucy began before Duncan cut her off.

  “Because he was a Quaker?” Duncan asked blandly, darting a quick warning glance at Lucy.

  Mrs. Wiggins didn’t see their exchange. She was still gazing sadly at the vase. “No, I do not think so. Something else.”

  “Do you have the letter now?” Lucy asked. She knew that in many families, letters were passed from hand to hand, often until they were far gone from the intended recipient’s keeping. Some people, though, would use the extra paper for kindling, particularly in this cold winter.

  To Lucy’s relief, Mrs. Wiggins nodded. “I do have it. I shall fetch it.”

  When she returned with the letter, she handed it to the constable. Lucy could not resist peering over his arm to read the message as well.

  “Dearest Elizabeth,” Lucy read out loud, “I so long to see you, not the least because of your— What are those words?” She squinted, trying to make out Julia Whitby’s script, which was hurried and difficult to read.

  The constable continued where Lucy had left off. “Not the least because of your confinement. I hope you are well and in good spirits. I should very much like to see you, but I fear I have some business I must attend to first.” He broke off. “Madam, are you all right?”

  Mrs. Wiggins had closed her eyes. “Yes. Pray, continue.”

  “Something has occurred, however, that I should not like to detail for you, given your present delicate condition. Suffice it to say, I am very concerned for my brother”—here Lucy and the constable exchanged a glance before Duncan continued—“and there is something pressing I must address. I pray you do not go into your travail before this unfortunate matter is resolved, for I should very much like to join you in your lying-in. Yours truly, etc., Julia Whitby.”

  Duncan handed the letter back to her. “You have no idea about the matter to which she was referring?”

  Mrs. Wiggins shook her head. “No, I wish I did. That’s how Julia was, even when we were children. Always on
the secretive side. That was just her nature.” She placed the letter inside her bodice, beneath the ecru scarf that crisscrossed her chest. She patted the seat next to her. “Pray, sit.”

  “So you must have known her brother, Jacob, then?” Lucy asked, sitting gingerly beside her. Duncan gave her a look before he stepped out of the room. He must want to look around, to see for himself whether Julia Whitby was on the premises, Lucy thought. She turned back to Mrs. Wiggins. “You grew up together?” she prompted.

  Mrs. Wiggins rubbed her extended belly. “Yes, but I didn’t know him all that well. He was a few years younger than us, had his own tutors, went to Cambridge, and so on. I couldn’t have had more than half a dozen conversations with him in all the time I knew him. He was a little on the wild side, as most men are when they are young.” She lowered her voice, looking a bit mischievous. “Especially those university sorts. Not that we ladies are supposed to know of such things.”

  Lucy paused. Although she had been about to ask Mrs. Wiggins another question, her words died on her lips as she pondered what the woman had just said. She’d heard enough bawdy tales about the scholars and tutors at Cambridge and Oxford to know that most did not comport themselves as they did in the company of ladies. Not for the first time she wondered how Adam had passed his time when not at his studies.

  Duncan returned then, interrupting her thoughts. He seemed ready to leave, and there seemed little else of importance to learn from Mrs. Wiggins.

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Wiggins,” he said. “If you do hear from Miss Whitby, will you please send me a note?” He gave the location of his makeshift jail on Fleet Street before they left. “And I will inform you, should we learn anything of her whereabouts.”

  Once they were a few steps away from the Wiggins home, Lucy looked at Duncan expectantly. “Well?”

  “Julia Whitby was not there, I am certain of that,” the constable replied. “I talked to the servants—they had not seen her. I do not think she was hiding there, either.”