The Masque of a Murderer

by Susanna Calkins

  “So she lied in the letter to her parents?” Lucy asked, shivering in the cold. “Where is she, then?”

  Duncan shrugged. “Who knows? The question, of course, is whether Julia Whitby lied about where she was going and went somewhere else. Or did she truly intend to visit her friend and something—or someone—kept her from getting there?”

  Since there was no answer to the question, they fell silent. As the bitter wind blew, instinctively they moved a bit closer together. Lucy’s nose was running, and her feet were hurting a bit more than usual, another side effect of the cold. She could not help but look longingly at a covered hackney cab as it drove by.

  “Can you imagine being able to hire a hack anytime you wanted?” she asked. “At any time, anywhere you needed to go? Maybe I would never walk anywhere again. What about you?”

  Duncan scoffed. “I need to be on the ground to perform my duties. So I prefer walking to riding. As, I imagine, so do you. Or would you not still be a bookseller if you were rich enough to travel everywhere by hack?”

  Lucy giggled. “I could just hire someone to push me about in one of those wheeled chairs. I could bid him to stop whenever I reached a street corner I liked.”

  Duncan glanced down at her, smiling slightly. “I could not see you in such a contraption. Or you could just marry well.” His hazel eyes grew suddenly intent. “Or perhaps if you marry, your husband will not want you to keep traversing the city, selling tracts.”

  “Oh, no, I love being a bookseller!” She gulped. “I do not think my husband, if I had a husband, would ask me to stop.” Yet she knew that was not necessarily true.

  “You know,” Duncan said, “after my father left the army, he became a merchant and then married my mother. For many years she helped him, at first just managing the accounts, but later, when he grew ill, she took on much of the business herself. I always admired their partnership.” He blinked and looked off.

  Lucy wanted to touch his arm, but something kept her from doing so.

  He looked back down at her. “A man is lucky indeed if he has a wife who brings some fortune into the marriage.”

  That reminded her of something he had said earlier. “Constable Duncan, were you—are you—married? I thought you were not, but you mentioned your wife’s condition…?” Her voice trailed off.

  The look he gave her was inscrutable. “I am not married now, but I was.”

  Lucy looked down at the ground. His wife must have died, because a divorce was next to impossible for anyone to get. The Church was very clear on that point. She wondered if their child had died as well. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It was a long time ago. When I was still in York.” He changed the subject. “I am ready for my noon meal.”

  Lucy nodded, having been hearing little complaints from her own stomach as well. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  * * *

  When they neared the jail, Hank, the bellman, hailed the constable. He’d obviously been keeping an eye out for him. “A body has been found, sir,” he said. He gestured to an older woman who had followed him out of the jail, a slight limp to her gait. “Found by this woman.”

  Perhaps in her sixties, the woman was dressed as a widow, in all blacks and grays, with not a frill to be found on her woolen cloak or dress. Her hood was drawn close to her face to ward off the chill, but the eyes that peered out were dark and unafraid as she regarded the constable and Lucy. Not a Quaker, Lucy decided. Friends would not voluntarily approach the authorities unless they wished to be cast into jail.

  Taking in her stance, Lucy grimaced when she realized that the woman was gripping a bell in her left fist. A searcher! One of those fearful older women who spent their days searching and calling for the dead, all to make a few pennies on every body found. They would inform the local priests about any deaths that had occurred in their parish, whether from Divine Providence or from another’s hand. “Bring out your dead!” they would call, ringing their bells. The parish priests would use the information to compile the weekly Bills of Mortality, to inform the public of all deaths that had occurred throughout London and its suburbs.

  Though scarcely educated, and certainly with no medical training, the searchers would nonetheless render judgment on the nature of death. “A necessary evil,” Lucy had heard Dr. Larimer say once to Master Hargrave. “They would name every death consumption, should they find even a trace of spittle upon the victim’s lips, for they know no other disease. But they dare traipse where a sane man would not go willingly.”

  During the plague the searchers were particularly ominous, as neighbors would watch closely to see who might be hiding bodies and how many had died in the house next door. Because there were so many deaths during that terrible time and city officials just wanted the corpses gone, the seekers were usually accompanied by rakers, who would cast the corpses into a cart, to be buried in unmarked mass graves in Houndsditch or burnt in the fields outside the city. As the death toll lessened, the number of searchers did, too, but there were still some about, checking on the dead bodies.

  The bellman’s next words confirmed her opinion. “She is a searcher. Sadie Burroughs, widow.” In a lower voice, he said, “She did not want to speak to you, but I tried to keep her here so that you could talk to her.”

  Lucy winced when she caught wind of her. The woman frankly stank of something stale and horrid.

  “Mrs. Burroughs, why bring your news here?” the constable asked, trying to hide his own grimace. “Your business is with the parish priest. We have no money to pay you.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Burroughs wagged her finger at the constable. “This body is different. A young woman, stabbed she was. Gentry, I’d reckon, from the quality of her dress.”

  “Where’s the body?” Duncan asked, all trace of tiredness and hunger forgotten.

  “Shire Lane.”

  Hearing this, Lucy felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. That street was not too far from where Julia Whitby had lived with her parents. “Mrs. Burroughs,” she asked, “did this woman, this body, you found have light brown hair? Gray eyes?” She was imagining the portrait of Julia Whitby hanging in her parents’ drawing room.

  Narrowing her eyes, the searcher turned her whole attention toward Lucy. “Her hair was brown, from what I could see. As for her eyes, I could not say.” She lowered her voice. “Not a pretty sight.”

  Lucy felt another lurch to her stomach. Before she could say even another word, Duncan turned to her. “No,” he said. “You may not come.” Gripping her arm, he spoke in a lowered voice. “I know what you are thinking, Lucy. But I also saw the family portrait. I know what Julia Whitby looks like. So do not even offer that as an excuse.”

  “That’s fine,” Lucy said, trying to disguise her annoyance at the constable’s high-handed air.

  “Why would the young lady wish to view a dead body?” Mrs. Burroughs asked, watching the exchange in interest. She barked a short mirthless laugh. “Seeing a corpse is hardly merriment at a fair.”

  “I know that!” Lucy said, feeling stung by the woman’s comment.

  “She is looking for someone who has disappeared,” Duncan said shortly. Seeking to mollify Lucy, he added, “I will send word to Master Aubrey’s later.”

  Lucy turned away as Duncan walked off, a pace behind the searcher.

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon, Lucy carried out her tasks in Master Aubrey’s shop, setting letters, hanging papers, and other such chores. Lach tried to make fun of her once or twice, but when she ignored him, he stopped, looking at her in a puzzled way. She didn’t know if she was angry or worried. Worried, she decided.

  Around four o’clock, Lucy was preparing to shut up the shop when Duncan appeared in the entrance, looking weary. One look at his face and she knew what he had seen. “Was it Julia Whitby?” she whispered.

  Duncan nodded, sinking down onto a wooden bench. “I am afraid so.”

  Master Aubrey came in then. “Constable? What b
rings you here?” With a jovial laugh, he added, “Got a murder for us?”

  “Yes, he does,” Lucy said in a small voice.

  “Well”—Master Aubrey’s voice gentled somewhat, taking in both their demeanors—“how about you tell us all about it over some ale? I’ve got a jug just over there. Lach, go pour the good man a mugful.”

  Frowning, the apprentice pulled out the jug. As he passed the mugs around, Lucy asked again breathlessly, “For certain, the body is Julia Whitby?”

  Duncan nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid it was. Dr. Larimer said she’d been dead since yesterday at least.”

  “She didn’t make it very far after she left her parents’ house.” Lucy took a deep breath. “How did she die? The searcher said she had been stabbed.”

  Duncan took a deep swig. “We found her just inside an empty establishment on Shire Lane. Yes, she’d been stabbed several times.” Lucy waited. Duncan had always seemed fairly inured to the violence around him, and certainly he’d seen many dead bodies in his time. He seemed so protective, something truly unbearable must have occurred.

  Without meeting her eyes, Duncan finished. “She was encased in a scold’s bridle when she died. It had been affixed in such a way”—he swallowed—“that no one could hear her scream.”

  They all gasped. Lucy set down her mug, a shiver running over her. “A scold’s bridle? What could that mean?”

  Without thinking, Lach recited a bit of doggerel, probably from a ballad they had printed at the shop. “Woman, woman, take your bridle! Best curb that tongue that speaks too idle!”

  At Lucy’s glare, he fell silent, his grin fading.

  “That bridle is meant to shame its wearer, that is for certain,” Master Aubrey said.

  Lucy agreed with him. There were many stories of women being forced by their husbands to wear the iron contraption as a punishment for nagging them. Usually this would happen behind closed doors, in the privacy of their own home. Sometimes magistrates would even order a woman to wear the mask publicly, usually standing in a public square to humiliate her. Only once, though, had Lucy ever seen a woman wearing one. She was being paraded through the streets as a warning to all those women who would gossip and tell tales. She winced at the terrible memory of the woman’s mortification.

  “Miss Whitby was not married. So not a nag,” Lucy mused, still thinking about Lach’s rhyme. “Was she full of idle talk?” She looked at the constable. “Both her mother and her friend, Mrs. Wiggins, called her a secretive, private person. Evie the servant said she heard her talking to herself sometimes. Said she had a ‘tart tongue.’”

  “Certainly, she knew something that she wanted to tell her brother,” the constable reminded her. “Was it a coincidence that he was struck down before he could hear her message? I think not, given that she’s also been murdered.” He looked at her closely. “Lucy, tell me. Did Jacob say anything else before he died? Something you have not told us? Oh! I can see that is so! Tell me.”

  “I hadn’t wanted to say anything because Sarah had asked me not to, but—”

  “Yes?” Duncan asked. “Lucy, this is not the time to hold back.”

  “He said that his sister had told him, in the letter, that one of the Quakers was an impostor. But she didn’t tell him who it was.”

  “An impostor?” The constable stood up and walked over to the door. “What did he mean?”

  “I do not know. The ones I met all seem devoted to their faith.”

  “That tells me I need to learn more about these Quakers. I will speak to them tomorrow.”

  “You must not!” Lucy exclaimed. “They are so distrustful of the authorities. If you go in there asking questions, I know they will not speak to you at all.” Seeing him frown, she knew she had gone too far. He did not like feeling limited in his investigations. “You have the right to do so, of course,” she added hastily. “You could even haul them off to jail if you chose. But perhaps a lighter touch would help you get the information you need.”

  Duncan rapped his knuckles impatiently against the door. “What do you suggest?”

  “I could talk to them again? See if I could learn anything more?”

  Duncan looked down at her, considering her words. “Perhaps. You’ve certainly proved yourself to be very resourceful. Can you see a way in? A way that won’t raise suspicion?”

  “I was thinking I could go to a meeting, over at Devonshire,” she said slowly. “I was, er, invited to attend the meeting at Jacob’s funeral. I could take some tracts to share? While I make some general inquiries?” She glanced sidewise at Master Aubrey, who had a speculative look on his face. “If that is all right with you, sir.”

  “Oh, she thought to ask my permission, did she?” His words were jocular. Waving his hand he said, “Of course, why not? I have some of those last dying testimonials they always like to trade. Mind you, don’t give them away. I want coin or kind.” Something about his jovial manner made her look at him more suspiciously. She didn’t think the printer was being sarcastic, but there was a gleam in his eye that she couldn’t help notice.

  “Of course, sir,” she said. She turned back to the constable, who gave her a terse look.

  “Don’t put yourself into any danger,” he warned. His hand on the door, he leaned in closer to her. “Just talk to them. See what you can learn. Do not give any details about Julia Whitby’s death. For heaven’s sake, don’t let anyone know that you are making inquiries on my behalf.”

  A sudden shock of guilt coursed through her. “Constable?”

  “Yes, Lucy?”

  “Please wait. I have something to show you.” She ran upstairs to her chamber, returning a few minutes later. The constable was still standing by the door.

  Mutely, she handed him the packet of Jacob’s letters and the sketch she had discovered in Julia Whitby’s bedchamber.

  He glanced at them, his eyes widening. “Where did you get these?”

  Her head hanging a bit, she told him how she had acquired the pieces. “I don’t know if they mean anything, but in light of Miss Whitby’s death, perhaps you can find sense in them.”

  Crossing his arms, he regarded her with a scowl, then stepped outside into the wintry sleet.

  As she closed the door behind him, Master Aubrey stood up, rubbing his hands gleefully. “So we’ve stumbled upon another mystery, have we? I can see it now! A True and Terrible Account of a Scolded Scold? Or perhaps, more simply, The Scold’s Last Scold?” His manner grew brisk. “I’ll need it written and set in three days.”

  Lucy bit her lip. She thought of Julia’s mother, weeping in her bed. Would the true account add to her grief? Lay open the details of their daughter’s murder?

  Then a different memory came into her mind. Jacob Whitby, pleading with Lucy to help him, trying to protect his wife even as he lay gasping on his deathbed.

  Surely Julia Whitby deserved more, too. It would seem that the scold’s bridle had been used to punish her, perhaps because she had intended to tell her brother about who was the impostor among his acquaintance. Perhaps publishing the story of Julia’s death would shake something out. Such a thing had happened before. She nodded at Master Aubrey. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

  9

  The next morning, Lucy pulled her cloak tight around herself as she hurried toward Chancery Lane. The cold was even more biting today than it had been the day before. She had convinced Master Aubrey that it would be worthwhile to sell down by the Fire Court, although now she had to wonder how many people would be outside and in a buying mood. Regardless, she had filled her pack carefully. She had included pieces about the Great Fire, of course, such as The London Miscellany and From the Charred Remains, two pieces that Lucy had helped put together in her first few months working with Master Aubrey. She had also brought along a few murder ballads, and the last dying speeches of three criminals, since those would be of interest to a court-going crowd.

  As she turned down the lane, Clifford’s Inn—one of the original Inns of the Chancery�
��loomed before her, a somewhat ominous vestige of London’s medieval past. Stopping short, Lucy took in the building’s crumbling majesty, a bit fearful of its grace and beauty. The temporary Fire Court, she knew, was being held deep within the great stone walls. It had been sitting since the last few days of February, so only a handful of cases had been tried so far, although they expected many more in the upcoming months.

  Few people were outside the building. The cold had likely driven everyone inside, Lucy decided. She watched a young man in clerical garb scurry past her, one hand holding his wool hat tightly to his head while the other hand tried unsuccessfully to keep his robes from flapping in the wind.

  Since there was no sense trying to hawk outside, Lucy followed the man inside Clifford’s Inn to the courtroom, taking a seat at the back of the room after a quick look around.

  She noticed Adam right away, seated on a low stool near the front of the room. He would speak neither for the defendant nor for the plaintiff, he had told her, but for the “people.” Sometimes he might be asked to stand before the judges and read testimony that he had earlier taken from a witness who did not currently reside in London or who was physically unable to attend the session. Other times he might take the testimony of witnesses under oath and help ensure that the verdicts were issued properly by the court clerk.

  A sleepy-looking jury was seated on benches on the side of the room, situated in such a way that the jurors had a clear view of the proceedings without getting between the judges and the defendants.

  A man with a white beard rang a bell, and a judge dressed in full magisterial robes strode into the courtroom and seated himself on the elevated bench at the center of the court floor. Although Lucy had never met him, she knew it was Sir Matthew Hale, one of the three judges authorized by King Charles to preside over the trials. Unlike some justices of the peace, he was not one who had ever frequented the magistrate’s supper table. She knew that the magistrate did not approve of the Fire Court, and indeed had turned down the invitation to serve. When she had asked Adam about it once, his answer had been terse: “Father believes that the Fire Court will subvert the law, rather than uphold it.” Nor had the magistrate been pleased when his son agreed to help. Although Adam did not say much about it, she knew that it pained him to be on the outs with his father in this regard.