The Masque of a Murderer

by Susanna Calkins

  11

  “Miss Campion?” a young boy called, poking his face into the printer’s shop. Two days had passed since Jacob Whitby’s funeral and Lucy’s conversation with the searcher. Lucy and Lach were both engaged in small tasks set them by Master Aubrey. Seeing Lucy’s startled nod, the boy moved to where she was standing by the printing press. “I have a message for you. Already paid.” He handed her a note that had been sealed with red wax and left the shop. From the elegant script bearing her name, she knew the note was from Adam.

  Before Lucy could read the message, however, Lach snatched it from her hand, breaking open the seal. He skimmed the contents, despite her indignant protests. “Quack, quack, quack! More stuff about the Quakers.” He tossed her the note.

  Lucy threw a wooden block at him, which narrowly missed his head. She picked up the note, reading it to herself.

  Sarah has just informed us, Adam wrote, that she can no longer stifle her conscience. As we feared she might do, she has left my father’s home and has taken up residence with Esther Whitby. We are hopeful that she will return soon. If she does not, perhaps you might be so good to stop by the Whitbys’ tomorrow after church, and do what you can to prevail upon her to forgo this independent spirit. We should like to mend this divide before it is too late. Yours, etc., Adam Hargrave.

  “I do not know that I can help them,” she said softly. Though her words were not intended for Lach, he heard them anyway.

  “Why bother? Quackers quack the loudest when people try to silence them. Why not let her leave? Be done with her?” Lach said, beginning to quack like a duck again.

  “Lach! Stop that nonsense!” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “If you could only see how Sarah’s decisions have pained the magistrate and Adam, you would not mock them. If you cared about anyone other than yourself, you would understand how they worry when she is away, walking unprotected in the world.” She stared down at the note. “I will do what I can to help them.” She looked back at Lach. She knew her voice was rising. “And I will not let you mock them or me for doing so!”

  The apprentice just shook his head at her. “Adam Hargrave is besotted with you, Lucy. Why, I have no idea. But I know he will not be besotted forever, if you stay the harping shrew you are now.”

  She was about to retort when the constable opened the door to the shop and stepped inside. His eyes flitted from one to the other, and Lucy wondered if he had heard any of her conversation with Lach. Their odd encounter from the other day still entered her thoughts, and she did not know what—if anything—it could mean.

  Naturally, at the sight of Duncan, Lach immediately began to hum a mocking tune.

  “The Constable Cozened, Lach?” Duncan asked, his eyebrow raised. “I think I have heard that one.”

  Lach grinned impishly. “The Constable’s Cod-Piece, actually.”

  “Ah!” Duncan replied. “So many. It is hard to keep them straight. I suppose you know them all, though.”

  “I do indeed,” Lach said. “Shall I teach you the words?”

  Getting up from her stool, Lucy kicked the apprentice in the ankle as she walked toward the constable. “Lach,” she asked over her shoulder, “did Master Aubrey not tell you to fetch the ingredients from the cellar to make a new batch of red ink?”

  He rubbed his ankle, glaring at her. “Don’t have to do it now, do I?” he asked.

  She glowered back at him, hands on her hips. “Lach!”

  “All right, all right! Remember what I told you!” The printer’s apprentice began to sing as he moved toward the steps descending to the cellar below. “Oh, harping shrew! Harping shrew! Who in the world will marry you?”

  Lucy looked back at the constable. “I seem fated to always apologize for that scoundrel,” she said.

  “No matter,” Duncan said. He seemed amused.

  She set down the cloth she was using to clean the press, taking in the constable’s appearance. He was not dressed in his usual uniform; instead, he was in the nondescript clothes of an ordinary tradesman. He seemed to be off duty. She’d rarely seen him this way, and she was not sure what to make of him.

  “Constable,” she said, “what has brought you here?”

  “Fancy going to the theater this afternoon?” he asked.

  Taken aback, Lucy searched for a reply even as Lach let out a great whooping sound from the cellar stairs. Apparently he had remained near the top in order to eavesdrop on them.

  “The plays!” Lach whooped again. “Oh, that is rich! Whatever will your poor besotted suitor say to that?”

  “Hush!” Lucy hissed, her cheeks flushing. “I, er … do not have a day off today,” she said hesitantly.

  “Hank informed me about the conversation you had with Mrs. Burroughs,” the constable said, his easy manner growing brisk. As he spoke, the door behind him opened and Master Aubrey walked in, a question in his eyes when he saw the constable.

  “Some of our questions about Julia Whitby’s murder may well be answered by a visit to the Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theater,” Duncan continued. “I should like you to accompany me, if you would. With two sets of eyes and two sets of ears, I am less likely to miss something important.” He looked toward Master Aubrey, who seemed a bit puzzled. “That is, if you would allow it, sir.”

  “You wish to take my apprentice to the plays?” he asked, looking from one to the other. Clearly, The Good Master’s Guide to the Godly Training and Disciplining of Apprentices could not possibly explain such a situation. Lucy nervously stifled a smile.

  “In truth, we would not be attending a performance,” he said, glancing at Lucy. To her surprise, the constable then explained what they had learned from the searcher. “I thought we might be able to speak to the players. This is why I am not wearing my uniform.”

  Lucy could see that Master Aubrey still needed some convincing. “We shall include what we learn for The Scold’s Last Scold,” Lucy said. “This information will help the tract about Julia Whitby’s death sell even better.”

  Master Aubrey’s brow cleared. “Ah, yes, by all means, go,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll get the jump on Roger L’Estrange yet, when we write the strange tale of the scolded scold!” Then he frowned. “A murder at the plays, you say? I seem to recall—”

  He ran his fingers over the press while he was thinking, pushing a temperamental bodkin into place. “I seem to recall selling a piece about that very murder.” He straightened up. “Let me check.”

  As the master printer disappeared down into the cellar, where he kept old printed pieces, Lach turned indignantly to her. “I suppose you want me to finish your work as well,” he hissed at Lucy. “While you are escorted about by your other suitor.” He jerked his head toward the constable.

  If she had not already been flushed, she certainly was now. And Lach’s emphasis on “other” had certainly not been lost on the constable either.

  Master Aubrey returned then. “I could not find the piece I was looking for. No matter.” He waved his hand at them. “Off you go. Lach will take care of cleaning the press.”

  Lucy hesitated, seeing Lach’s downcast face. “Master Aubrey, perhaps Lach could accompany us,” she said. “We would not be gone very long, and certainly we could sell along the way.” She did not look at the constable to see if he was disappointed.

  Master Aubrey sighed. “I suppose.” He seemed a bit defeated. But then he wagged his finger at them both. “I expect you to figure this out. I’ll not have L’Estrange putting something out about Julia Whitby’s murder before I do!”

  * * *

  A short while later, after some squabbling between Lucy and Lach, the three arrived at the Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theater. Neither she nor Lach had ever been there, although the constable seemed to be familiar with the building.

  “This playhouse was originally Lisle’s Tennis Court,” he explained as they looked up at the building. “William Davenant owns it—you can see his house, just there.” He pointed to a smaller build
ing adjacent to the theater. “I saw Hamlet, by the Bard, played here, four years ago when I first arrived in London. Now they’ve been playing The Humorous Lovers, by Cavendish. The company is called the Duke’s Players.” Seeing Lucy’s look of surprise, he added, “I like to keep track of the goings-on in the community.”

  As Lucy and Lach began to walk toward the front entrance, the constable pointed to a side door. “Let’s try that one. They are unlikely to be open to the public. I am sure they are rehearsing, or at least sleeping off a night of tippling down.”

  Sure enough, the door was open. As they stepped inside, Lucy looked around in amazement. She’d been to a theater down in Southwark, on the other side of London Bridge, but never one like this. Long wooden benches stretched across what used to be the tennis court floor, interrupted by aisles that ran the length of the playhouse. Three tiers of box seats rose along on the sides and facing the stage, with the middle tier likely offering the best view of the stage. For the nobles and wealthier gentry, Lucy surmised. See and be seen. One box close to the stage looked particularly lavish, full of embroidered pillows and satin seats.

  “For the king,” the constable said by her ear, having followed her gaze.

  The stage itself was quite elaborate, with doors on either side, for quick exits and entrances by the players.

  “Look,” she whispered, pointing at the great columns on either side of the stage doors. “That looks like the column that the searcher drew in her sketch.”

  “That would mean the murder happened on the stage,” the constable said thoughtfully, in his regular voice. It carried easily through the entire theater.

  “That, indeed, is the sad truth of the matter!” came a great sonorous voice from behind them.

  Lucy jumped, turning around to find a portly man standing there, regarding them with an amused look on his face. He was wearing the elegant ensemble of a gentleman, which Lucy suspected was a costume, not his own dress.

  “The vicious event happened right there on the stage! Luckily, there wasn’t so much blood.” He lowered his voice now, in a conspiratorial way. “Cleaned it up, right quick. We didn’t even have to cancel a performance.” The man appraised them in a friendly way. “It’s been a while since we’ve had any blood-seekers touring the playhouse. When it first happened, two years ago, we had them in droves.”

  “Oh, we’re not—” Lach began to say when Lucy pressed his foot in warning.

  “Thank you! We’ve only just heard about his untimely demise. Who was he, anyway?”

  “Basil Townsend. One of the duke’s own players. Missed, to be sure. Though there were many others, including myself, who could play his parts.”

  “Oh, my! Are you one of the Duke’s Players, too?” Lucy asked, looking up at the man under her eyelashes, with what she hoped was a coquettish smile. She didn’t spend a lot of time looking in mirrors, so for all she knew she could be looking at him as if struck by indigestion. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lach and the constable exchange a glance, and then each take a casual step away.

  The man gave a lavish bow. “Herbert Bligh, my lady,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it with an exaggerated flourish. “I’ve been one of the Duke’s Players for four years, and I was here the day that poor Basil Townsend was struck down by that villain.”

  “What happened?” Lucy asked breathlessly, resisting the urge to snatch her hand away. Instead, she touched the man’s sleeve and was rewarded by his tucking it in his arm companionably. She allowed herself to be led down the aisle to the stage, the constable and Lach following a half step behind them.

  “Two years ago, it happened,” Mr. Bligh began, his voice so loud that Lucy was sure that it could be heard from every seat in the playhouse. “Two weeks before the plague struck and the king shut down the theaters. Poor Basil was standing there”—he pointed at the column—“when a ruffian entered the theater, demanded his money, and stabbed him. There he died.” He made a terrible choking sound to illustrate his point.

  “Did anyone witness this terrible act?” the constable asked.

  “Yes, several of my company, including a female player,” he said. “Basil, it seemed, had been making wagers with the wrong people. Eventually, one of them came to collect their money.” He turned back to Lucy. “Now enough about the past. Let us talk about the present.” For the next few minutes, he pointed out the different machines and scenic devices and trapdoors. Lucy was just wondering how they might be able to break away when he turned to her again. “Would you care to see me perform tonight? You could be my special guest. We could get a bite to eat after the performance.” He leaned in a bit more, all the while rubbing his thumb across her fingers. “I promise, it will be well worth your while.”

  The constable jumped in then. “Alas, we must be off. Thank you, sir, for your time. Our visit has been most … interesting.” Taking Lucy’s other arm, he pulled her away and rushed them both out of the playhouse.

  “So what connects Basil Townsend’s murder to Julia Whitby?” Lucy mused, lifting her face to welcome the light mist upon her cheeks. The theater had been a bit warm and stuffy. “The searcher, Sadie Burroughs, said Julia Whitby had come to her and asked her about it. Why was she interested in a murder of a player that happened two years ago?”

  Lach pushed past them then, jostling them against each other. “You are missing an even stranger question.”

  The constable and Lucy exchanged a glance. “What?” Lucy asked. When the apprentice just gave him an impudent smile, she stamped her foot. “Lach, tell us! What are we missing?”

  “How did Julia Whitby know to ask Sadie Burroughs anything at all? Why her? It’s not like she is the only old woman out there searching for dead bodies.“

  Stopping short, Lucy put her hand to her forehead. “Lach, you are right.” The more she thought about it, the more odd it was. “Julia Whitby knew something that connected Sadie Burroughs and that player’s murder.”

  Duncan shook his head. “There seem to be many links on a chain that we cannot see.”

  Whether that chain would ever become visible, Lucy was beginning to have her doubts.

  12

  The next day, after the Sunday service concluded, Lucy made her way over to Esther Whitby’s home as Adam and his father had requested that she do. At her knock, Joan opened the door.

  “Welcome, daughter,” the Quaker said. “I am glad that thy conscience has bid thee to come here.”

  Lucy smiled weakly. She wasn’t trying to pass herself off as a Quaker, she told herself. If letting them believe she wanted to join the sect would give her access to Sarah, well, she would not gainsay the claim.

  Joan led her into a room that had likely once been a drawing room—the same room where Lucy had spied the conventicle, if that’s what it had been. Sarah and Esther were sitting together, sewing with Theodora and Ahivah, the latter still garbed all in white. Perhaps I can speak to Ahivah later, Lucy thought, remembering how the Quaker’s warnings had appeared in the tract found in Julia Whitby’s effects.

  Deborah was sitting beside the women, a torn garment in her lap, although she did not appear to be sewing. Sam, Gervase, and Devin were all there as well. Sam appeared to have been reading a tract out loud, which he set aside when she entered the room.

  “Lucy?” Sarah asked, standing up. “What has brought thee here? Did my father send thee to convince me to come home? If that is why thou hast come, then I beg thee to leave now.”

  “I-I wanted to see for myself how you fare,” Lucy said, a bit stung by Sarah’s words. She turned to leave.

  Esther Whitby stood up. “No,” she said to Lucy. “I cannot let thee leave in such a forlorn state. Pray, sit down, Lucy. Yes, there by the fire. Joan, wouldst thou be so kind as to fetch a hot drink for our guest? She looks half frozen and could stand to be warmed up some.” Leaning over, she patted Sarah’s shoulder. “Sarah, my dear sister, thy family has been blessed with friends who care for thee.”

  Lucy sat dow
n gratefully next to the stone hearth, warming her hands over the low fire. Although she would have preferred to speak to Sarah in private, it seemed that she would not be able to do so.

  Awkwardly, she leaned toward Sarah, speaking softly. “Your father and brother are concerned for your well-being, as am I.” Hearing her words spoken out loud, though, Lucy looked around at the Quakers in chagrin. “I do not mean to offend you. I am sure you are treating her well.”

  However, no one looked offended. Indeed, the Quakers were regarding her with approval. “Thy words do not offend us,” Joan explained. “Rather, they lift us up and nourish us. Such friendship should not be cast aside, even if thy father has cast his daughter out. ’Tis a blessing to us all that thou hast joined us here.”

  “I do not think your father has cast you out—” Lucy began, before being stopped by the intensity of Esther’s sorrowful gaze.

  “She will be cast off soon enough,” Esther said firmly, “as so many others have been who are called to be handmaidens and servants of the Lord.” The others nodded at the authority in her voice.

  “Lucy, I know that my family has been castigated by the other judges. He is all but harboring a criminal in his household if I am there,” Sarah said. “There is no use denying it. My very existence puts him at odds with the law. ’Tis better for everyone that I did not remain in his household. Indeed, I feel certain that the Lord has moved me to be here.”

  “I think your father would rather you return home to keep you safe,” Lucy said in a low tone.

  “It sounds like he wants her to go against her conscience,” Sam said. “It is better that she stay here with us.”

  “You know that he does not approve of the way Quakers have been treated and—” Lucy pleaded. As she looked around, she could see the other Quakers looking at her skeptically. “I know that her father is a magistrate, but he does not wish them to be persecuted or injured.”

  “He does nothing to change the laws, does he?” Theodora said, apparently voicing what everyone in the room was thinking.