She nodded. “Do you know Octavia Belasysse? Have you met her? Or maybe her brother?”
He shook his head. “No. I have met Lord Belasysse, who would be this woman’s father, if her identity is true. But he is in Tangier now, from what I understand.” He furrowed his brow. “Although he might have returned. Has anyone sent word?”
“I imagine that Dr. Larimer and Constable Duncan have thought to do so. I believe they have sent messages to the family, here in London and at the family seat,” Lucy replied.
“Duncan? You have spoken with him about all this, have you?”
“Yes,” she said hurriedly. “He was summoned here this morning.”
Molly opened the door that led out to the courtyard. “If you would, miss, the woman is awake again. We need you.” She darted back inside the house, leaving the door open.
“I am sorry, Adam, I must leave.”
He nodded. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do in this matter. Other inquiries I could make.” He seemed about to say something else, but did not. “You must go. I shall show myself out.”
* * *
As Lucy approached the bedchamber, she wondered if she would be met with another dramatic hue and cry. Instead, when she opened the door, she found the woman lying on her stomach on the floor. She was not suffering from convulsions; she was just tracing a crack on the floor with her fingernail, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
“Miss,” Lucy said, kneeling beside her, “may I help you back into the bed? It is too cold to lie here.”
When the woman did not reply, Lucy sighed and began to tug the straw pallet from the bed onto the floor. The woman’s eyes flickered over to her, but she seemed otherwise wholly disinterested in what Lucy was doing.
Without saying anything more, Lucy rolled the woman on top of it. After covering her with a blanket, Lucy finally crept back into her own room, keeping the door open between them, so that she could listen for the woman’s breathing. Finally the woman began to breathe more deeply and, except for some odd grunting and exclamations, soon fell into a mostly sound sleep.
Lucy, however, found it hard to grow accustomed to the strange bed, and could not keep from tossing and turning. Eventually she went over to the small window and unlatched the shutters so that she could peer out at the moonlit world below. For once, the fog was not rolling in, and she could see the shadows of houses and church pinnacles in the distance, beyond the branches of the apple tree.
She sighed. It was not just the strangeness of her surroundings and the oddly sleeping woman in the next room that were keeping her awake. Seeing both Adam and Duncan earlier that day had brought up feelings that she was still not ready to address.
* * *
By morning, the woman’s lethargy had deepened, and she would answer only yes or no or shake her head. She seemed unable to eat or drink on her own, as if all the energies from the day before had been spent.
Even using the chamber pot became an ordeal, because the woman suddenly seemed completely unable to tend to even her most private acts. Dr. Larimer said that she was entering a melancholic state, which was common with those who had experienced great anxiety, trauma, and loss.
“We must tend to her carefully, Lucy,” he said. “I fear now that her moroseness will weigh her spirit down so that she may not ascend again. I have seen such despondency precede the most wicked act, that of self-murder.”
Lucy shuddered. The Church did not look kindly on those who took their own lives, refusing to bury them in sacred ground. She did not wish such a sorry fate to befall the woman in her charge. “I will be mindful, sir,” she said. “You may depend on that.”
* * *
At around eleven o’clock, the constable returned to the house. Lucy heard him at the door when she was ladling some stew into a bowl for the woman. Stepping into the corridor, she saw him disappear into the physician’s study, a grim look on his face. A short while later he opened the door. He did not seem surprised to find her loitering in the hallway.
“I thought you might be out here,” he said, beckoning her to join Dr. Larimer and himself inside.
“What is it?” Lucy asked. “Have you heard from her family?” She looked at Dr. Larimer. “Sir?”
The physician frowned. “In a manner of speaking.”
“I do not understand, sir.” Something about his demeanor seemed unnatural. “Are they coming to fetch Miss Belasysse? Or were you unable to locate them?”
Constable Duncan coughed. “I was able to send a message from the physician to the Belasysse family. The reply came this morning.”
Dr. Larimer held up a note. “These circumstances are dashed odd. I trust, Lucy, that you will be discreet about what we are about to tell you.”
At Lucy’s nod, he opened the note. “Dear Dr. Larimer,” he read out loud. “I must say, we are quite puzzled by your note. My dear daughter Octavia entered the embrace of the Lord some Ten Months ago.”
“What? She is dead?” Lucy exclaimed. “They are saying Miss Belasysse is dead?”
With a frown, Dr. Larimer continued to read. “She is buried in St. Paul’s Churchyard. Or at least her poor body was interred there, before the Fire overcame us all. God rest her soul. Yours, Lady Belasysse.”
Lucy stepped back. A momentary remembrance of how the woman had emerged like a specter from the ruins flashed into her mind. “Oh!” she said.
“I see you have grown pale, Lucy,” Dr. Larimer said, chuckling. “I hope you do not believe that the woman lying in the room upstairs is anything but flesh and blood?”
Seeing that everyone was regarding her with an amused air, Lucy giggled, too, though she was a bit embarrassed by how transparent her absurd thought had been to the others. “No, sir. I know now that she is no specter, but very much of this earth.” She paused. “Does that mean, sir, that Mr. Sheridan was mistaken when he identified her?”
“That is a far more plausible resolution to this quandary, I would presume,” the physician replied. “Besides, it is not the first time that my assistant has blundered, although never before in such an issue as this.” Though his last words were spoken in jest, there was a thoughtful look in Dr. Larimer’s eye. Like Lucy, he had seen the start of recognition when his assistant had first seen the woman, as well as his protective manner around her later.
The constable sighed. “Well, if she is not Miss Belasysse, we will have to find a different way to determine this woman’s identity. And for now, I am stumped. All we know about her—her fancy amulet, her undergarments, her manners—none of that is enough to identify her, as far as I am concerned. It seems cruel to have a member of the Belasysse family travel here to verify the woman is not Miss Belasysse, but that is what we may need to do.”
“What about the servants who maintain the London home?” Lucy asked. “Could one of them identify her?”
“No,” Dr. Larimer said, wagging his finger at them. “We owe it to the Belasysse family to keep this scandal suppressed, should she prove to be their missing member. We do not know who among the servants might be trusted.”
Lucy and the constable exchanged a glance. Even Dr. Larimer, good man that he was, seemed to believe that servants were naturally of a less sturdy character than the gentry.
“Maybe,” Lucy ventured, “someone was commissioned to paint her likeness?”
“A good thought,” Duncan replied. “I shall check their London home. Discreetly, of course,” he added hastily when Dr. Larimer gave him a warning look. Duncan frowned. “It is likely that their daughter is indeed dead, and I should hate to trespass on their grief. There might be others who knew her. I will make inquiries with the Lord Mayor, and approach only those individuals who might be discreet.”
Dr. Larimer rubbed his nose. “Thank you, Constable. Perchance, though, there is another way to lift the fog from her memory,” he said.
“How?” Lucy asked, cocking her head. She was always fascinated by what Dr. Larimer was able to do.
“If
we had other objects of hers, that might possibly help,” Dr. Larimer explained. “Objects, especially those that the woman may hold dear, may prompt a sensibility or other emotion that may help bring to the surface those memories that have been suppressed.”
Lucy nodded. That made sense. But what other objects could she have? They had none, save the amulet and her undergarments. She thought about how she had first encountered the woman wandering around in the rubble by the River Fleet. She started to speak and then dropped off.
“What is it?” Duncan asked her.
“My suggestion is foolish. I thought we might bring her back to where I first encountered her. Maybe there are other objects of hers there. We might find something that might prompt her memory?”
“Splendid suggestion,” Dr. Larimer said. “Even the location itself could be enough to spur memory. Familiar locations, like personal belongings, have been known to stir powerful memories. Smells, too.”
“I should not like to re-create the smell by the River Fleet,” Lucy said, wrinkling her nose as she recalled the horrid stench.
“Nevertheless, I think it is a good idea to take her back to where you first found her. Tomorrow,” he added firmly, as he saw the constable about to speak. “She must rest today.”
“I will accompany you,” the constable said. “I do not think it is safe for you to go back there alone. I will be making inquiries in the morning, but would be free to join you later in the day.”
“If I were not seeing patients all day tomorrow, I would accompany you myself,” Dr. Larimer said. “Lucy, if you do take her over to Holborn Bridge, it is imperative that you ensure that she takes her tincture first and remains well rested enough for the walk. You must refrain from agitating her; we have seen how her spells are brought on when she is distressed.” He paused. “There is something about this young woman that concerns me greatly, and the sooner we can sort it out, the sooner we may return to the more trifling matters that fill our days.”
* * *
After the constable left, Lucy returned to the woman’s bedchamber. There she discovered Mr. Sheridan sitting on the bed beside the sleeping woman, staring down at her. The room was dark; the windows were shuttered so that very little of the late-morning light could find a way inside. Lucy thought the physician might have been holding the woman’s hand, but then saw that he was holding her wrist. The woman, breathing deeply, appeared to have fallen into a deep slumber once again.
“How is she?” Lucy asked softly, not wishing to disturb the woman.
Mr. Sheridan scowled at her. “She is much the same as she has been. I gave her another tincture to ease her mind—she was restless and full of terrors. Perhaps it has something to do with this.” He ran his finger along the rope marks that encircled her wrist.
“These rope marks are quite deep in places,” Lucy said. “Who would have tied her up like that?”
He flinched. “I do not know who would have done such a terrible thing.”
“She told me the devil was chasing her,” Lucy commented.
He looked disgusted. “Poppycock. Miss Belasysse was not one for such fancy.”
Lucy pulled the chair closer to the bed so that she could keep her voice low. “So you still believe that this woman is Miss Belasysse? Do you believe the letter Dr. Larimer received from her family to be untruthful?”
“Of course I do not believe such drivel,” he said. “I know without a doubt that she is Octavia Belasysse. I am quite certain of it. Unfortunately.”
“How can you be so certain?” Lucy whispered.
“Because of the falling sickness,” he replied, reaching down to smooth a hair away from the woman’s forehead. “Known in the Latin tongue as epilepsia and in Greek, epilepsis. Octavia always did suffer from the malady. ’Tis a marvel she has lived this long.” Then he pointed to the woman’s wrist. “She has a birthmark here. Though I have not seen her in some time, I remember it clearly.” He frowned again. “It seems like a lifetime ago.”
“Did you know her family well?” Lucy asked.
“Yes. As one does, you know. Her brother Henry and my older brother, Dennis, went to university together. We moved in the same circles,” he explained, seeming to have forgotten to whom he was speaking. “Sometimes her family would come visit and we would all take supper together. That sort of thing.”
He dropped off then. The conversation seemed to be over, but Lucy would not be deterred. She thought she might not get the chance to ask her questions if she waited for him to speak again. “If you are certain that this woman is Octavia Belasysse, why then would her family say that she had died? What kind of grievous mistake has been made?” she asked. “Can you explain that?”
Mr. Sheridan shrugged. “The madness of the plague and the Great Fire no doubt resulted in many unmarked deaths.” His manner grew more abrupt. “It may be, too, that they cast her off, when her sickness grew too great.” He gently laid the woman’s arm back along her side. “Is it any wonder that they will not extend familial accord to such a shameful and woeful creature?” he asked, his voice taking on its usual biting tone. Lucy did not know, however, whether his anger was directed at herself or at the Belasysse family, or even the woman stretched out on the bed before them.
“I will send another letter to her brother, and get to the bottom of this.” He stood up and moved to the door.
“But if they cast her out, will they admit it?” Lucy asked, before he could leave.
“We will make them admit and acknowledge their sins,” he said, staring back at the woman. “It is a grievous thing they have done, and an act not easily rectified.”
When the door shut, the woman gave a deep sigh. “Leave me be,” she murmured fearfully, her voice heavy in sleep. Then, one last whispered word, more like a sigh. “James.”
Lucy froze. “Miss? Miss? Do you know that man?”
But the woman just rolled back over, taking in the deep heavy breaths of one lost to the world.
7
“I wager that creature is still sleeping as one dead,” Molly whispered to Lucy the next morning around eight o’clock, as they passed each other in the hallway. “’Tis not right, I tell you. Unnatural,” she hissed.
“Dr. Larimer said that the melancholia which has gripped her spirits may make her too fatigued to move,” Lucy replied, shifting the hot bowl of stew in her hands. “He said such deep sleep is not uncommon for one in such a state. Mayhap she’s awakened by now, though.”
“I doubt it. That’s the devil working through her,” Molly scoffed.
Lucy rolled her eyes and continued to the woman’s bedchamber. When she opened the door, however, she found her lip curling when she saw that the woman was still sound asleep. Even though she had just defended her actions to Molly, it was hard not to be annoyed by such seeming indolence. Even her late mistress, who could be a bit flighty, had never slept so late into the morning. Idle hands are the devil’s tools, she could almost hear the minister’s voice intone.
Setting the bowl on the table with a loud thud, Lucy gazed down at the woman. She wanted to wake her up, ask her about the name she had uttered before she fell into her deep sleep. “James,” she had said. “Let me be.”
Did she mean James Sheridan? If so, why did she wish him to leave her alone?
“Miss!” she said.
The woman did not reply.
“Miss!” she said again, this time more loudly.
Still the woman did not stir. Sighing, Lucy was about to turn away when she caught sight of the amulet where it gleamed softly against the woman’s throat. Where had the woman gotten such a precious piece? she wondered.
Then another thought occurred to her. Perhaps she could learn something about the woman if she learned more about the beautiful gemstone.
With a wary eye on the woman, Lucy grasped the amulet with three fingers and, holding her breath, slipped it over the woman’s head, taking care not to pull her tresses.
Lifting her own skirts, Lucy placed th
e amulet in her hidden pocket so that she would not draw the attention of thieves. Hopefully I am not the one thought to be the pilferer! Lucy thought to herself, a bit guiltily. If she were caught, she would have a little trouble explaining to Dr. Larimer why she had taken the amulet.
Moving quietly into the kitchen, she encountered Mrs. Hotchkiss, who was examining her besom. The cord tying the heather, broom, and other twigs to the handle had come apart, and little pieces from the bundle were all over the floor. “It seems I need a new besom to sweep up my old one,” she remarked drily to Lucy. “And I cannot spare Molly today, for she will dawdle for sure at the market.”
Lucy seized on the woman’s words, seeing an opportunity. “By your leave, ma’am. I should very much like to see my brother, Will,” she said. Truth be told, as a nursemaid she only needed Dr. Larimer’s permission, but she did not wish to make an enemy of the housekeeper. “I promise I shall not be gone long. I should be happy to stop at the market to get a new besom. A good haggler I am, too.”
With Mrs. Hotchkiss’s grudging consent and a coin in her pocket, Lucy set out.
Instead of heading straight to the printer’s shop, however, Lucy stopped first at the shop of a goldsmith she knew, to inquire about the amulet. Like many other guilds, the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths had seen most of their members lose their shops and livelihoods during the Great Fire. Originally, all the goldsmiths’ shops had been located near St. Paul’s, to the south of Cheapside, but now they were spread throughout the city. Ogden Dalrymple had been the first to resettle on a side street off of Fleet. She knew him to be reputable and, as rumor would have it, quite knowledgeable in jewelry.
When she walked in, Mr. Dalrymple looked up. He was a short, rather sickly-looking man, who moved as if every joint pained him. When Lucy had met him before, she recalled, he always had a bit of a smile on his face, but now he looked world-weary.
“Good morning, sir,” she said. She noticed then a huge man sitting in the corner, who opened his eyes when she walked in. He was dressed as a simple tradesman, but she suspected that he was employed by the jeweler to protect him from bodily harm and theft.
A Death Along the River Fleet Page 6