Hosier Lane was not a very long street, consisting of a few homes and a few shops. Though it had long been associated with stocking-makers, now she saw only one sign that indicated cloth and thread. There was an instrument-maker’s shop and at the corner a printer’s shop as well, which she noted with great interest. “So that’s where Master Blackwell works,” she said to herself.
Passing by the shop, Lucy knocked. No one appeared to be in. No doubt he was out selling. She continued on, resolving to stop in the printer’s shop on her return, since she had promised Master Aubrey that she would do so.
She walked up to the hosier’s shop first. This shop was much older than the others on the street, more like a merchant’s stall. The merchant had hung cords from the edge of the shutters to a pole several feet away. Along the cords hung all sorts of woolen and embroidered silk stockings for men and women, as well as children. There were even some tiny ones for infants, although only the richest sorts would purchase such finery for babes still in arms.
Seeing Lucy, a man standing beside the shuttered windows called over to her. His face brightened when he saw her. “New stockings, miss? Some hose for your master?” he called, his tone friendly if a bit pleading. “Some warm woolens for yourself? Couldn’t hurt on a day like today!”
As if confirming his words, the wind picked up then, blowing a few stockings from the line. Bending over, Lucy helped pick up a few stockings that had fallen so that they would not grow sodden in the mud. She handed them to the merchant.
“I was wondering, sir,” she said. “Did you know the Beetners? They used to have a shop here on Hosier Lane.”
“Can’t say I ever knew ’em,” he said cheerfully. “Bought this establishment a year and a half ago. After the plague was sorting itself out, and before the Fire. Young woman sold me the place and the livelihood. I’d just become a master, you see, though I had not yet had a chance to establish myself.”
Lucy couldn’t explain it, but from the look on the man’s face, she suspected he was lying. Probably he wasn’t truly a master in his own right. Since Guildhall had succumbed to the Fire, it was unclear how many of the guild records had survived. Fishing out a coin, she bought a pair of bright red woolen stockings.
Taking the coin, he relaxed a bit and became more talkative. “From what I understand, the Beetners succumbed to the plague. Only their loyal servant survived. They had willed everything to her when they knew they were likely to die. She then was able to sell everything to me.”
“Did you know her name?” Lucy asked eagerly. “The woman who sold you the place? How did she approach you?”
Instead of answering her question, he blew warm air onto his hands. “Sometimes I don’t know what I was thinking, buying this place. Not too many sales in winter, I can assure you of that.” He said the last meaningfully.
Lucy took the hint. If she wanted more information she would have to buy something else. Looking through a straw basket on the floor, she picked out another pair of gray woolen stockings that she thought would suit Will.
Accepting the coin Lucy passed to him, the hosier smirked at her. “Her name was Esther Grace. We met at the Ivy and the Oak. Burnt to a crisp now.” He held up his hand to ward off her next questions. “That’s all I can tell you.”
Thoughtfully, Lucy went into the instrument-maker’s shop next door. Unlike the hosier’s shop, this store was not quite so old. She was able to press open the door and walk in. The welcome warmth of the room engulfed her, and she breathed in hungrily. Somewhere in the house, someone was making bread.
She looked around the quiet room, noting the instruments hanging from nails on the walls, stacked in the corners, and laid out on the overfull shelves. “Good day!” she called out. “Is anyone here?”
“Yes, yes, here I am,” said a voice from a far corner near the hearth. Peering behind a great harp, she spied an old man sitting in a soft embroidered chair, a lute or some other stringed instrument in his lap. A large dog lay companionably at his feet. “Are you interested in a musical instrument, my dear?” the man asked. “Or were you hoping to warm yourself on this chilly winter’s day?”
“I am very cold,” Lucy admitted, looking longingly at the fire in the hearth. “I was also wondering if you knew the Beetners? They used to own the shop next door.”
“The Beetners! Oh, a lovely family, they were. Oh, where are my manners? Pray warm yourself by the fire. Martha,” he called to someone in the back room, “we have a visitor! She wants to know about the Beetners.”
“Well—” Lucy started to say, although before she could finish her thought, an old woman came out.
“The Beetners!” she exclaimed. “Dear me! Sit down, my dear! I’ll bring you something warm to drink.”
Before long Lucy was settled on the low bench by the fire, appreciatively sipping a mug of hot mead. The honey soothed her throat. The old man and woman, she had learned, were the Fletchers, and they had owned their shop for nearly thirty years. They had lived above the shop for the same length of time, having survived the plague as well as the recent exodus from the city following the Great Fire.
“I did not actually know the Beetners,” Lucy began, wanting to make her intentions clear from the start. “I was just interested in someone who used to work for them. Esther Grace?”
The Fletchers exchanged a glance. “Yes, we knew her.” They looked disgusted. “What do you want to know of her?”
“Well, her husband passed away recently and—”
“Did she kill him?” Mrs. Fletcher interrupted with a humorless laugh.
“Now, now, Martha,” her husband chastised her while Lucy stared at her.
“Why ever would you think that?” she asked.
“Because I’m fairly certain she killed my dear friend. May she rot in hell.”
“I thought the Beetners died in the plague,” Lucy said, gripping her cup more tightly.
“So she claimed!” Mrs. Fletcher said, crossing her arms. “All I know is that I had stopped in the night before to see her, find out where they planned to go. Mr. Fletcher and I were planning to leave London, stay with my kin out in Bath. I knew they had no other relatives in England, being Dutch, you know. We’d heard the sickness was bad in Holland, too, so we didn’t think they’d be going there.”
She stopped, closing her eyes as she recollected those dreadful days. Lucy remembered them, too, and it was all she could do to keep her own terrible memories clouding over her. Though her own mother and sister were safe, countless other acquaintances had not survived the scourge.
“You saw them and—” Lucy prompted gently.
“I saw them and they were not the slightest bit sick. Not a bit of it. You can’t tell me that they all succumbed so rapidly. All I know is, when the searchers came by, ringing their bells, she declared all three bodies. The Beetners had an older unmarried daughter, Gretchen, who’d been living with them. Recently back from service, she was. We saw the bodies laid out, in their sheets. Dumped onto the back of the cart, taken to the plague-pits.” Mrs. Fletcher sniffed. “Not even a proper burial. Good God-fearing folks they were. They deserved better, even if they were foreigners.” Tears filled her eyes.
Something wasn’t making sense. “If they were shrouded, why did you think they were murdered?” Lucy pressed. “The plague could take its victims rapidly. I saw that myself. Sometimes a body looked healthy, even though it was not. The sickness had already sunk in.”
Master Fletcher glared at his wife. “Martha,” he said, “let the dead lie. No good can come from speaking now. Pray, keep silent.”
“I’ve been silent for too long!” Yet after that outburst, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap and pursed her lips, clearly heeding her husband’s admonishment.
Lucy was looking back and forth between them in bewilderment. “Please,” she said, unable to keep a slightly desperate note from climbing into her voice. “I promise that I am not here to take your time with idle gossip. I sought you out because I a
m concerned for someone I hold dear.”
The Fletchers glanced at each other. At Mr. Fletcher’s nod, his wife continued, speaking now in a low, angry tone. “I will tell you, I could not understand it. I wanted to look upon their faces. She told me not to, that the Black Death had done terrible things to them. She said it would be better to remember them as they’d been in life. I thought that was true.” Her voice trembled. “As we waited for the raker, I asked her what she planned to do. She pulled out the Beetners’ will. It seemed they had left everything to her. Livelihood, shop, movables. Said she’d met a nice man who wanted to marry her, so she thought she’d sell everything off and leave. That’s exactly what she did, too. Got a taker for the business even in the middle of the plague!”
“Of course, we didn’t know that until we returned a few months later,” Mr. Fletcher interjected. “We had a new hosier then. Doesn’t seem to know much about the trade, though. Seems to be selling everything the Beetners made before they died. Not seen him do any sewing or weaving, or even mending, for that matter.”
“Probably not a member of the guild,” Lucy murmured. It seemed her assumptions about the new owner were correct. Louder, she said, “I can see why Esther Grace’s actions seem suspicious, but murder? Why did you think such a thing?”
“I tell you, I know the Beetners were murdered!” Mrs. Fletcher declared, her voice shaking from deep emotion. Standing up, she looked down at Lucy, tears filling her eyes. “As the raker hoisted Miss Gretchen’s body into the cart, the sheet fell off her face. I could see her throat had been slit, or my name isn’t Martha Fletcher!”
Lucy gasped. “What?”
Mrs. Fletcher went on, her trembling voice growing in strength. “The plague didn’t take Miss Gretchen! Nor do I believe it took her parents! Their throats were likely cut, too!”
Lucy looked back and forth between the pair, her heart starting to pound. Mr. Fletcher nodded sadly, confirming his belief in his wife’s story.
“What did you do? Did you tell anyone?” she asked.
“I started to call out to the raker, to tell him that there had been a murder,” Mrs. Fletcher said, a remembered terror shining from her eyes. “Then Esther Grace turned to me and stared at me with those cold violet eyes. She put her finger to her lips and—I’ll never forget this—smiled at me. Smiled! That’s when I knew for sure she had killed them.” She sat back down and grasped Lucy’s wrist. “Then, still smiling, she said to me, ‘You’ll be off now, I suppose? Get yourself out of harm’s way. If you stay here, who knows what will happen to you?’” Lucy felt Mrs. Fletcher shudder at the memory. “I remember her voice was so pleasant, so friendly. Yet I know what she was telling me: If I said anything about what I had seen to anyone, she would kill me. We left that afternoon.”
She slumped back in her chair. Reaching over, Mr. Fletcher patted his wife’s hand.
“Did you ever tell anyone?” Lucy asked.
“No,” Mrs. Fletcher replied. “When the cart moved away, I knew it would be too late. Even if I had been able to summon the constable, the bodies would have long been dumped in the plague-pit. There was nothing we could do, nothing we could say.” She took a long sip of her mead, clearly trying to steady her nerves.
After a pause, she continued. “Tell me,” she said to Lucy, “you said her husband had just died. Was he murdered?”
Both Fletchers looked at her expectantly.
Lucy weighed whether to tell them her thoughts. Then, after a long moment, she nodded. “I think so. On the first of the month, he fell in front of a cart.” She hesitated. “Before he died, he told me he’d been pushed.”
“Was it her?” Mrs. Fletcher asked, sounding a bit short of breath. “Expecting to live off her husband’s fortune, I suppose?”
Lucy shook her head. “No, she was nowhere near him when it happened. Besides, he was worried about her, to be truthful. I do not think he suspected her at all.”
Mrs. Fletcher looked doubtful. “What was her husband like? She must have married well. She’s the sort that could trick a rich man, with scarcely a second glance.”
“Oh, no,” Lucy said, thinking of Jacob Whitby’s plain home. “I mean, Mr. Whitby was a gentleman, to be sure. It’s just that he became a Quaker, gave up all his finery and all that. She became a Quaker, too, and—”
She was interrupted by a great burst of laughter from the Fletchers.
“Esther Grace, a Quaker?” Mrs. Fletcher exclaimed.
Shaking his head, her husband added, “That just doesn’t seem possible. Although”—he cocked his head thoughtfully—“I remember her going over to the Bull and Mouth a few times. That’s where the Quakers gather, you know,” he said to Lucy, who nodded. “Though she was no Quaker, I can assure you, when she lived next door. Too fond of her trifles, she was.”
“If you don’t think Esther Grace killed her husband, what brought you here?” Mrs. Fletcher asked.
Lucy remained deliberately vague. “I’d just like to know more about her. Could you tell me when she started working for the Beetners? Anything else about her?”
“She was a hoity-toity sort. Lord knows how she became a Quaker,” Mrs. Fletcher said, refilling Lucy’s cup. “She’d only been with the Beetners for about six months. Convinced them to take her on, she did.”
“How did she do that, do you suppose?” Lucy asked.
Mrs. Fletcher snorted. “Had Mr. Beetner wrapped around her finger right quick, she did. Of course, this was before Miss Gretchen returned from service.”
“Esther Grace did know the trade,” Mr. Fletcher said.
Mrs. Fletcher nodded. “That’s true,” she said grudgingly. “She knew her stitches. I know they were pleased with her when she first came. Mrs. Beetner had been having trouble with the finer handwork, you see. Noblewomen and soldiers alike used to seek them out, and Mr. Beetner was anxious that they not lose the business of good-paying and steady customers.”
“How did they come to hire her?” Lucy asked, taking a sip.
“Well, it’s a funny thing, that,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “Mrs. Beetner said she just came to the shop one day, seeking employment. A bit of saucy baggage she was, too. Still, Mr. Beetner hired her.”
“How odd,” Lucy commented. “Who had referred her, do you know? Did she have a letter?”
Mrs. Fletcher shook her head, snorting her head again.
“Batted her eyes at him, she did,” Mr. Fletcher said.
“More than that,” his wife returned crossly. “I’m of the opinion that Mr. Beetner already knew her.” She lowered her voice and leaned in toward Lucy. “In the biblical way, at that.”
Lucy set down her cup. This was not what she had expected. “Do you have any idea where she and Mr. Beetner could have met? How they might have become, er, acquainted?”
Mrs. Fletcher shook her head. “I don’t. I have my suspicions, of course. I do know that, within not two weeks of her moving into their home, he began to bed her. My dear friend was beside herself!” She clutched her hands together. “Her husband was lovesick. Besotted, she said. Oh, the tears she would spill in that very chair you’re sitting in now.” She nodded toward Lucy, who shifted uncomfortably. “That’s why Gretchen returned. Her mother had summoned her. I think she was hoping that with Gretchen there, she’d have the strength to cast the vixen out.”
“Instead the Beetners died. Or were killed.” Lucy was silent, thinking about everything she had just learned. She looked at Mrs. Fletcher. “You said you thought you knew where they may have met.”
“I think it was fairly obvious, my child. They met at a brothel.” She sniffed contemptuously. “Had to have been so. Mr. Beetner was not charming or handsome enough to get a woman without having to pay. She wasn’t in love with him, that’s for certain.” She looked at her husband. “You’re quiet, Hiram,” she said, nudging him with the side of her hand. “Do you know anything more?”
Her husband shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed. Still, despite his discomfort he answer
ed them. “He told me once that he fancied a cathouse over on Leather Lane. A big house, at the end of the street. Can’t say that’s where he met her, of course.”
“Thank you for the mead,” Lucy said, rising. “I must be heading home now.” She began to wrap her scarves around her body, in preparation for her cold journey home.
Mrs. Fletcher clutched her hand. “I hope you stay away from that Esther Grace,” she said. “No good can come from crossing that woman.”
* * *
Thoroughly shaken, Lucy hurried away from the instrument-maker’s house. She was horrified by what Mrs. Fletcher had told her. Could it be true? Had Esther Grace killed her employers’ family? A far-fetched notion, to be sure. The woman scarcely seemed able to kill a mouse. Still, there was definitely something suspicious about how she’d come to the Beetners’ household. How had Esther Grace come by the Beetners’ trade? The more she thought about it, the sicker she felt.
Lucy walked back down Hosier Lane as she had come. As she passed by Blackwell’s shop, she stopped. Although the store looked closed, she thought that perhaps Master Blackwell had known the Beetners. Maybe he could answer some of her questions. Knocking again, she felt the door move slightly. It appeared to be shut, not locked, and she was able to open it.
As Lucy stepped into the shop, she nearly gagged at the wretched smell. As in Master Aubrey’s shop, there was a press at the front of the room, and great cases stacked high on tables, most likely full of lead type and woodcuts. That’s about where the similarities ended, though—printer’s tools were strewn about the room, and there were no great sheets drying. And while Master Aubrey’s shop was certainly no haven of cleanliness, it would seem practically godly in comparison. There was a general forlorn quality to the shop, as if no one had been in there for some time.
The Masque of a Murderer Page 20