A Death Along the River Fleet

by Susanna Calkins

  Harlan Boteler picked up the story. “Susan, Hetty, and I searched everywhere, trying to find some clue to what might have happened to her. For hours we searched, and into the night we waited.”

  His eyes flicked back to Susan, who gave him a slight nod. “The next morning,” he continued, “I received word that a body matching my lovely niece’s description had been found. Drowned. I accompanied the parish priest—of St. Giles—to the pond where they had found the poor woman’s body. I went and looked at the body—”

  Here, he covered his eyes. “But I did not study the poor soul’s face, as I ought to have done, may the good Lord forgive me. So distraught was I by the stillness of the form before me that I closed my eyes when they pulled back the sheet.” He paused. “I told the priest that the dead woman was indeed my niece. God forgive me for the lie that I told. I truly believed, in that moment, that she was dead, and that her death was upon my head.”

  “What?” Dr. Larimer exclaimed. “You did not look upon her countenance?”

  Mr. Boteler stood up and began pacing about the room. “I was so devastated by guilt and anguish—how can I make you understand? I rushed away from the pond, leaving the priest along the swollen banks with that fair corpse.” He glanced at Susan Belasysse, who made a funny sound, before continuing. “By the time I returned, the priest had already disposed of the body, sending it to a pauper’s grave.”

  “After the plague, bodies were no longer left untended for long,” Dr. Larimer commented.

  Mr. Boteler looked at his sister. “I lied about the nature of her death because I was ashamed of the truth—that I had not looked after her as I had been expected to do.”

  Lady Belasysse’s face grew pinched. “I received your letter, saying that she had been buried in a common field. The daughter of Lord Belasysse! That could not be borne. We had a private funeral where we lived, at the family seat in Worlaby, in Lincolnshire. Suffice it to say, the casket was empty.” Again she looked at Mrs. Larimer, who nodded.

  Mr. Boteler turned back to his sister and took hold of her hand. “Forgive me, Sister. Believe me, this has been a terrible source of anguish for me these long months.”

  “That is all fine and good,” Susan Belasysse burst out. “I am quite glad that Octavia is not dead at all. But now we must deal with a more pressing concern. Namely—where is my husband?”

  “Hush, Susan,” Lady Belasysse hissed at her. “Now is not the time.”

  Everyone turned to stare at Susan Belasysse then.

  “My brother?” Octavia said, her face growing ashen. “Whatever do you mean?” she whispered. Lucy could see her hands starting to tremble in her lap.

  “Your husband is missing?” Lucy asked.

  Susan Belasysse sat back on the bench. “I have not heard from Henry in over a week. He left our home rather abruptly and journeyed to London. He said he had an important matter to take care of that could not wait. I thought he would be staying at the family’s London home. Only when we arrived the dim-witted servants said they’d never seen him. Where is he?”

  “Perhaps he was delayed, or he had another stop to make before arriving in London,” Mrs. Larimer said. “When did he tell them he expected to arrive?”

  “That’s just it,” Mr. Boteler said. “They had received no such missive from him, nor has he set foot in the house.”

  Lucy pondered this for a moment. Usually, if a family was away and servants were left to tend the house in their absence, word would be sent prior to their return, so that the rooms could be aired and the bedding turned. And as if answering her thoughts, Mr. Boteler added, “The message that we had sent to him announcing our impending arrival we found sealed on the table.”

  From her seat, Lady Belasysse sniffed loudly. “The servants were quite unprepared for our arrival.”

  Susan Belasysse stood up then and stared at her sister-in-law. “Do you not think it strange, that you appear from God-knows-where, and your brother disappears, in the same week?”

  Though the question was not addressed to her, Lucy could not but nod in agreement, particularly when she thought of the bloodied state in which she had found Octavia Belasysse four days before. And to think Henry Belasysse, her brother, was now unaccounted for, was rather odd indeed.

  Dr. Larimer gave her a shrewd glance, and in that look she knew he was thinking the same thing. He shook his head in silent warning. Now was not the time to speak, Lucy knew that.

  “I do not know—it is strange,” Octavia Belasysse said, faltering. “I have not seen my brother for these last ten months.”

  Lady Belasysse stiffened in her chair and gave her daughter-in-law a hard stare. “It is not for a wife to question her husband’s whereabouts,” she said. “I have no doubt that you misunderstood what my son told you. He is likely attending to business that was not fitting for your sensibilities.” She gave the others a tight smile. “I just wish Susan had seen fit to inform the servants of our arrival.”

  “Such a shame,” Mrs. Larimer murmured. She was clearly affronted by the idea that a baroness might be treated in such a scandalous fashion, and in her own home, no less. Then, more brightly, she turned toward Lady Belasysse. “Well, you simply must join us for our Easter dinner. Dear Octavia is not yet fit to travel, and I cannot bear the thought of you being separated from her for even a moment longer.”

  Lady Belasysse inclined her hand graciously. “You are very kind. Given the unfortunate state of our London home, we shall be very glad to accept your kind offer.”

  For the next few minutes, the two women and Susan Belasysse continued on in this stilted way, while everyone else sat silently, listening to them speak about the queen and the recent goings-on at court as if this were an ordinary social call.

  Throughout the conversation, Octavia sat with her eyes tightly closed. When the women began discussing fans, Mrs. Larimer excitedly recounted how she had just received the most darling lace fan from Spain. “A man-tee-ya, they call it,” she said. “Let me fetch it.”

  With that, the physician’s wife scurried out of the room.

  Lucy glanced over at Octavia Belasysse again. The woman had paled further, and her eyes were starting to flutter. This was a look Lucy had seen before, one that she knew foretold the onslaught of the falling sickness.

  “Sir,” Lucy whispered to Dr. Larimer, jerking her head toward his charge so that he could take note of his patient’s state.

  The physician took action at once. “Please, everyone. I must tend to Octavia. She is unwell. Lucy, would you please escort our guests to the drawing room?”

  “I wish to stay with my daughter!” Lady Belasysse replied.

  “No!” Miss Belasysse replied, through clenched teeth. “Mother, I beg you. Leave me.” She gave Lucy a pleading look.

  Gently, but firmly, Lucy began to usher the women to the drawing room before they could protest further.

  Hetty, looking quite affronted, gave her a sour look. “Refreshments for my lady?”

  “Most certainly,” Lucy said. “I shall have one of the servants bring something in while you wait.”

  But the door opened then, and Dr. Larimer entered the room. “I am afraid that Octavia needs to rest,” he said to Lady Belasysse. “I do not think she can withstand any more visits today. Forgive me, but I do believe it is in your daughter’s best interest.”

  Mr. Boteler took his sister’s elbow, and within a few moments they had gathered their belongings and stepped back outside the physician’s home.

  Their carriage was still outside. A man in livery was standing smartly beside the horses. As Lady Belasysse and Susan Belasysse were being handed into the carriage by Hetty and the driver, Mr. Boteler turned to Lucy. “We will be at the Belasysse home, awaiting Henry’s return. Summon us at once, if you will, when Octavia’s health has improved.” At Lucy’s nod, he swung himself into the carriage after the women.

  As the driver moved a limb of a tree branch out of the horses’ path, Lucy heard angry voices starting to r
ise from the carriage. With a quick look about, she sidled alongside the rear wheel of the carriage so that she could hear what they were saying. She had learned a long time ago that having a quick ear and a guarded tongue was to the advantage of every servant. There was something odd about the way the Belasysses were behaving that made her especially curious. She sidled closer, silently so that no one would notice her.

  Lady Belasysse hissed something that Lucy did not catch, although she did hear Mr. Boteler’s peevish reply. “I believed it was for the best,” he snapped. “Let us not discuss it further.”

  “I want to know what happened to my husband!” Susan cried out. “Do you know where he went? Is that why you won’t help me find him?”

  “My son has likely left you!” Lady Belasysse snarled. The venom in her tone caused a chill to run up and down Lucy’s back. “You may be young enough to bear him an heir, but with too little of grace and charm that he should want you at his side.”

  At that, the coachman snapped the reins, and the horses jerked forward and began to trot down the cobbled street.

  Lucy stared after the disappearing coach until it turned a corner at the end of the road. What had that exchange meant? She shook her head. Something was clearly amiss in their family.

  11

  When Lucy stepped back into the physician’s household, Mr. Sheridan was carefully guiding Miss Belasysse up the long set of stairs to her bedchamber above. She had evidently recovered enough to walk, but her face still looked pale. Lucy could see that the young physician was holding her firmly, as if afraid she would break away from him. The sense of possession was once again there, and it made Lucy uneasy.

  Mrs. Larimer descended then, a black Spanish mantilla in one hand. “Whatever has happened?” she asked, looking about. “Where is Lady Belasysse? Mr. Boteler?”

  Dr. Larimer was watching their slow ascent, a rueful look on his face. “Yet another fit,” he said. “Our guests have departed.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Larimer said, looking disappointed. “They will still join us for Easter dinner?” When her husband shrugged, she frowned. “I will send around a note to them, inviting them properly. I am certain they will come.” She turned around then, disappearing back toward her chamber, presumably to write the letter of invitation.

  “Poor Miss Belasysse. I am starting to wonder if we will be able to help her at all.” Dr. Larimer sounded sad. “That is the part of my profession that I do not like so well.” He turned and walked into his study, although he did not shut the door behind him.

  Although Lucy wanted to rush up the stairs after Mr. Sheridan and Miss Belasysse, she did not wish to irk the physician’s assistant further. Instead, she impulsively followed Dr. Larimer into his study, having taken the open door as an invitation to continue the conversation.

  Standing in the doorway, she very nearly told him about the exchange she had just heard out by the carriage, but then hesitated. She did not wish to be thought a gossip.

  Instead, she asked him about Miss Belasysse’s condition. “Is there no hope, then, sir?” she asked, feeling a flash of pity for the creature upstairs. “Is she truly too ill to cure? Is there no solace to be found for her condition?”

  “I am rather afraid not, Lucy,” Dr. Larimer said, seating himself at his table, pushing aside some sheaves of papers that lay scattered about the surface. “All these scholars”—he waved at a row of leather-bound books on the shelf beside the table—“and even these less learned sorts”—he shoved at the loose stack of papers—“and I can find nothing that will truly cure the lass. It is a puzzle indeed.”

  “But you can solve it, surely?”

  Dr. Larimer sighed. “I have made every tinctura cephalica—tincture for the head—I can think of.” He gestured to his rows of leather-clad books. “I have examined any medicine that makes claim to cure the distempers of the head and brain. Headaches, vertigo, palsies, lethargies, frenzies, coma, dullness of the senses, thickness of hearing, noises in the head, convulsions, weakness of the neck, drowsiness, glimmering of sight, and apoplexies. And I have found no help in dealing with the falling sickness.”

  Here he pointed to a stack of printed papers, much like the type that Lucy would sell on a street corner. “Those tell me what astrologers say I should do—tie an astral talisman about her neck.” He pulled out another. “This one says I should tie bits of the Latin liturgy into a small bundle, and place it within a leaf of St. John’s wort or a leaf of mugwort. All tied with taffeta! Tell me! How will tying something with a bit of taffeta—not wool, mind you—keep that poor woman from falling into convulsions every bloody hour?”

  “I could not say, sir,” Lucy replied. “Do you know anything about what brings them on?”

  “We know so little,” he said. “A stressful moment, a harsh smell, a flickering light, a loud noise. Any or all of those things.”

  Stretching out his hand, the physician plucked one of the books from the shelf and opened it to where a piece of paper had been laid inside. “Listen to what Bruel has to say of the falling sickness,” he said to Lucy, before proceeding to read. “‘When he is deprived of his senses he falls to the ground with a violent shaking of his body, his face is wrested, his eyes turned upwards, his chin is sometimes driven to his shoulders, and oftentimes he voideth seed, odor, urine against his will.… They do often snort and cry out in their sleep.’”

  Lucy nodded. “I have witnessed Miss Belasysse do as he describes.”

  Turning the page, Dr. Larimer continued to read. “‘They oftentimes thrust out their tongues and it is to be feared, that sometimes they bite them with their teeth. There is likewise a gentler kind of falling sickness which doth not differ much from giddiness.’”

  “I have seen that as well,” Lucy said. “He is most apt, from my limited view.”

  “There are some new treatments for epilepsis that some Dutch physicians have encountered,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table. “Truth be told, I am at my wit’s end. I will even look to what the Persians have to say on the subject. A few pieces have been translated by scholars at Cambridge, and they offer some interesting remedies, even if they are of a heathen sort.”

  Taking a deep breath, Lucy asked the question that had been plaguing her. “Where do you suppose Miss Belasysse has been these last ten months? She could not have been stumbling about the rubble this whole time. Indeed, she managed to stay safe from the Fire.”

  “Indeed. She seems to have been eating regularly and, while a bit jaundiced, does not have the abysmal health of one who has lived without shelter or nourishment. I believe that someone has taken care of her.” He frowned, falling silent. “And not a Gypsy either. Someone familiar with bloodletting.”

  Like Mr. Sheridan? Duncan’s comment popped into her head. “A physician such as yourself, sir?”

  Dr. Larimer gave a short laugh. “Unlikely, Lucy. We physicians are too civilized. We deal with the internal ailments; we leave the more barbaric practices of cutting and purging to the surgeons.” He began to line up his medical instruments so that they lay neatly across his table, continuing to speak of the woman’s condition as he did so. “Moreover, I believe this woman’s frenzy and memory loss to be a more recent phenomenon, explained by whatever trauma she experienced before you found her by Holborn Bridge. Although these holes in her memory may be connected to her illness as well.”

  “Her mother did say that her daughter had always had these fits, even as a child,” Lucy said.

  “Yes,” Dr. Larimer said. “It seems clear that Miss Belasysse has no awareness of what is happening to her—or around her, for that matter—while a fit is upon her. Nor does she seem able to recall events that immediately precede a fit.”

  Lucy thought back to the odd conversation she had heard just now among the Belasysses out by the carriage. “Do you think that Mr. Boteler’s account of her disappearance was a bit strange? Do you think it as he described?”

  He frowned. “His account seemed plausible enough to me
.” Dr. Larimer might have said more had his wife not sailed in then. “If you will excuse me, Lucy,” he said. “I should like you to stay with Miss Belasysse now. And if you would, please send Mr. Sheridan back to me.”

  When Lucy entered Miss Belasysse’s bedchamber a few moments later, Mr. Sheridan stepped hastily away from the bed where Octavia was reclining. Lucy thought he might have been holding the woman’s hand again, but he released it when she came in.

  “Checking the movement of blood in her veins,” Mr. Sheridan said. “She is improving.” Without looking at Lucy he said, “No need for your ministrations.”

  “Dr. Larimer has sent me to keep watch over Miss Belasysse, and he wishes you to rejoin him downstairs,” she said.

  “Pray tell the good doctor that I shall look after her, should she suffer another fit. Having suffered a seizure of the sort we just witnessed, we must assume that she might suffer another in short order.”

  Lucy nodded. “Let me help her rest more comfortably.” Quickly she took out the pins she had only just put in the woman’s hair a short time before, so that her long tresses came unbound and fell about her shoulders. She thought she heard Mr. Sheridan sigh.

  “Mr. Sheridan,” Octavia Belasysse murmured, “you may leave. Lucy can tend to me well enough. I am certain she will call for you, should she require your assistance. Is that not so, Lucy?”

  It was clear from her tone that she did not wish to be with Mr. Sheridan any longer. Lucy opened the door wider. “If you would, sir,” she said firmly.

  Reluctantly, Mr. Sheridan left the room, but not before giving Lucy a warning look. “I expect you to watch over her. Do not let her leave, or grow overexcited. I shall be quite unhappy if you take her on another excursion.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said stiffly. “I shall look after her as I would my own family members.”

  To her surprise, his arrogant expression relaxed, and for a moment something like gratitude appeared in his eyes. “Thank you, Lucy,” he said, before stepping out into the corridor.