Slowly, Lucy closed the door behind him. His response was not as she had expected.
When she turned back, she found that Miss Belasysse had curled herself into a ball on the straw pallet, blankets pulled to her chest, staring straight in front of her. Alarmed, Lucy could see that tears were once again flowing from her eyes.
“Miss Belasysse,” Lucy asked gently, “are you in pain? What can I do to help you?”
“No, Lucy,” she replied, with a heavy sigh. “I do not think that there is anything that can be done. Every breath I draw is a torture for me, and I cannot but wonder why the good Lord has sought to trouble and afflict me in this manner.”
“Would you like me to bring a clergyman here?” Lucy asked. “Surely if you are in need of spiritual solace and comfort—”
“No more clergy! There are many who have sought to relieve me of the demons who anguish me. Since my childhood, I have had people pray over me, run their hands over my body, ply me with terrible treatments, fill me with the most dreadful concoctions. Quacks all!”
Lucy could not help but take a step back. For a moment, the woman seemed as Lucy had first met her—strange, tormented, possessed. She shuddered despite herself. “Is there no one who can bring you a bit of cheer?”
The woman’s voice grew stony and flat. “I have no one in this world who cares for me in the manner you suggest.”
“Surely your family? Your mother, or your uncle? Or even your sister-in-law? They came here because they are worried about you—”
“No!” Miss Belasysse interrupted, sitting bolt upright in the bed. “I do not know why they have come, but it is not because they are concerned for my health or my well-being.”
“Why ever not?” Lucy asked. “They should like to nurse you, and who better but your own mother?”
“Oh, Lucy, how little you know!” The woman’s words were not haughty, Lucy could see, but rather sprang from a place of deep melancholy.
Lucy knelt down on her knees beside the woman. To her surprise she leaned over and put her head on Lucy’s shoulder. “I must admit to you that some of my memory has returned,” she whispered. “There is much of my youth I can now recall. Winters in London, summers in our family seat.” Her voice, though muffled, was bitter. “I can tell you that my mother kept me hidden away from others for much of my childhood, for fear that my illness would be discovered.”
“Mr. Sheridan said he recalled meeting you in Cambridge a few times,” Lucy said.
“Ah, yes. I think my memory had begun to stir when I met James, er, Mr. Sheridan.” She smiled to herself. “Henry had insisted to my parents that I be allowed to join them when they came to visit him at university. Mr. Sheridan was on hand once when I had one of my spells at Cambridge. It was a crowded tavern, and the noise and the sounds just began to overwhelm me.”
“Did Mr. Sheridan help you?” Lucy asked.
“Well, he was still a student then. I remember great shouting when I came to—he thought they should have been tending to me with more care. Poor Mr. Sheridan, he did not know then what my parents and other doctors have long known—there is no real cure for the falling sickness.”
“Then you must remember where you have been these last ten months!” Lucy said eagerly.
“Alas, that I do not. I cannot explain how strange it is that such a hole remains in my memory.”
“Well, what is the last thing that you do remember?” Lucy asked.
“I remember journeying to London with my uncle and Susan, and our maid, Hetty. I remember that people were just returning to London after the sickness had subsided. Uncle Harlan told me that my father wished to see me before he left for his post at Tangier. Susan came as my companion, I recall, with the hopes she would be reunited with Henry. I was hoping we would see Henry in London as well.”
A shadow crossed her face. “She was so very young when they married, you know. She is not even Henry’s first wife. He only married her for her fortune, which is considerable. She has very little wits or charm.” That was what the tract had said of Susan Belasysse, and for the first time Lucy wondered how the author of the piece had come by that description.
But she did not state what she was thinking. Instead, she asked Miss Belasysse, “Do you remember what London was like then, after the plague? Perhaps you can remember the Great Fire?” she asked. “Maybe that will prompt a memory.”
Miss Belasysse looked up at the ceiling. “I do not remember the Fire. Or do I? Watching the smoke from the distance—did I do that?” She shook her head. “I do not know. Pray, let us remove ourselves from this cumbersome talk.” She gestured to the great Bible on the table beside the bed. “I know that you can read, Lucy,” she said. “Read some passages from the Bible. That will distract me from my ills.”
Lucy complied, but was little able to focus on the words. It did not help when Miss Belasysse said, “Lucy, I may seem addled to you, but even I know that you have just read the same passage twice now.”
“What you said just now puzzles me,” Lucy said, setting the Bible aside. “When I served in the magistrate’s household, we only returned to London after the plague because Master Hargrave believed it was right and proper for us to do so. As a magistrate, he thought it was his duty to help restore London to order. Those who could stay away most certainly did.”
“I see,” Miss Belasysse said. “That was most sensible.”
Lucy’s next words flew out before she could keep them reined inside her wayward mouth. “Forgive me, but I find it so strange that your father would have requested that you return to London at such a perilous time. Or that your brother would wish that of his wife.”
Even though she could see that Miss Belasysse had begun to breathe faster, Lucy continued on. “How is that your father felt no such compunction? Why was it so important for you to see him before he left for his post? Why, in the name of heaven, would your uncle have thought it proper to bring two gentlewomen such as yourselves into the city at such a time, when anyone who could kept away?”
“I do not know!” Miss Belasysse replied, moving her hand to the Bible. “I remember seeing the sick and dying,” she whispered. “When we four arrived in London, gathered by the churches, they were. I was fearful, I remember now. Uncle Harlan said it was not the plague that was making them sick, but another sickness that followed. So long as we stayed away from them, he said, we would be fine.”
“Do you remember seeing your father then?” Lucy asked.
“I do not remember anything more!” Miss Belasysse said through clenched teeth. Then, without warning, she pitched the heavy Bible as hard as she could across the room, so that it struck the wall and crashed loudly to the wood floor.
For a moment, both women stared at the leather-bound volume lying facedown, its pages terribly crumpled. Lucy could almost hear the minister intone from the Book of Isaiah: Thus saith Hezekiah, This day is a day of trouble, and of rebuke and of blasphemy. Without saying a word, Lucy knelt down to pick up the Bible.
Miss Belassyse sank to the floor. “Good Lord, I am accursed. I know it now to be true.” And she began to sob.
After smoothing out the yellowed pages the best she could, Lucy placed the Bible gently back on the table and then helped the woman back into her bed. She then poured the last of the tisane into the woman’s cup.
“Drink this,” Lucy said. When the woman’s sobs had subsided, she said, “I shall ask Dr. Larimer to mix you up another batch. Please just lie down now while I fetch it.”
As she was about to walk out the door, Miss Belasysse weakly called her name. “Lucy,” she said. “Please, I beg you. Do not tell anyone that some of my memories have returned. Promise me.”
Against her better judgment, Lucy nodded and hurried out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
When Lucy entered Dr. Larimer’s study a few moments later, she found the physician and Mr. Sheridan in quiet conversation. They looked up expectantly when she came in. The woman’s sad plea in her t
houghts, she simply told them that another tisane was likely needed. “She is quite agitated, sir. I have been unable to calm her.”
“I will look after her,” Mr. Sheridan said, picking up a recently made elixir. “Clearly, Lucy is not up to the task.” With that, he stalked out of the room.
“I am sorry, sir! I have done my best with her—” Lucy began to say, but stopped when Dr. Larimer held up his hand.
“Do not mind Mr. Sheridan,” the physician said. “This woman affects him deeply, and I do not know why.” He stared at the door through which his assistant had just left. Clearly, he was puzzled by Mr. Sheridan’s behavior. In a lower tone, to himself, he added, “There is a guilt there.”
“A guilt, sir?” Lucy asked.
“Ah, Lucy. I was just musing to myself.” He sat down at his desk and dipped his quill into a small jar of ink. “We have another task at hand. I should like to send a note to the constable. The disappearance of Henry Belasysse is no small matter, and the Lord Mayor should also be informed.”
Lucy waited while Dr. Larimer scribbled out a note and handed it to her. “Please take this to Constable Duncan. Since Sheridan is with our patient, I give you short leave from your duties.”
12
Shortly after, as Lucy approached the makeshift jail on Fleet Street, she encountered Duncan and Hank just as they were leaving. Hank was pushing a large wheelbarrow.
“Good day,” she called, looking at the wheelbarrow curiously. “I have much news.”
“Lucy, we have an important matter to attend to,“Duncan replied. “Might you tell me your news later? Indeed, I will need to stop by Dr. Larimer’s soon, and you can tell me then.”
“This cannot wait,” she said. “Which direction are you traveling? I can walk with you for a short spell, before I must return.”
“Very well, then,” Duncan said, firmly shutting the jail door. “We are venturing back to Holborn Bridge. Now tell me your news.”
Quickly, Lucy recounted everything that had occurred since she had seen him the day before. About the Belasysses’ visit to the physician’s home. About the circumstances surrounding Octavia’s “death.” About Miss Belasysse regaining her sense of identity. “Though she still could not recall where she has been this past year, and I think there is rather something odd about that,” Lucy added, before letting on what she had heard Lady Belasysse say to her brother by the carriage.
Hank gave a sharp whistle.
“That is not the last of it, either,” she added, handing Duncan the note from Dr. Larimer. “Her brother seems to be missing as well. Henry Belasysse. He’s an MP,” she added for Hank’s benefit. “Dr. Larimer wishes you to inform the Lord Mayor as well.”
“Indeed?” Duncan frowned, exchanging a glance with the bellman. “That is unfortunate. I asked Hank here to search the ruins by Holborn Bridge more thoroughly, after what you and I had discovered there yesterday.” He paused.
Hank jumped in. “Found a body, I did. Stabbed through and through.”
“Oh, no!” Lucy cried. “A man’s body?”
Hank nodded in grim satisfaction. “Covered over with bricks and stones from the rubble, he was. Been dead for a few days, at least. Maybe a week.”
“Well, Dr. Larimer will have to say for sure. I was going to fetch him later so that he could examine the corpse, but given your news, I think it would be best if I alert him now,” Duncan replied. “I will hold off informing the Lord Mayor, until we know for certain the identity of the dead man.” He looked meaningfully at Lucy. “I think we must be prepared for this man to be Henry Belasysse.”
“Who would have killed him, do you think? The tanner’s wife? Or perhaps another member of his family?” Lucy asked. “I think there were many who were angry that he was pardoned and did not face punishment for his crime.”
Duncan raised his eyebrow. “That would not surprise me either. I shall look into them, should this indeed prove to be Susan Belasysse’s missing husband.”
When they reached the street that veered off toward Dr. Larimer’s, Hank continued on to Holborn Bridge, where the man’s corpse lay, while Constable Duncan accompanied Lucy back to the physician’s residence.
Hearing of the grim discovery, Dr. Larimer sighed. “You were right to bring this to my attention, Constable. Mr. Sheridan and I should like to see the corpse ourselves. If he has indeed been murdered, we shall bring him back here to examine him more thoroughly.” He looked at Lucy. “I ask that you do not allow our patient to be on hand when we bring the body in.”
“Yes, sir,” Lucy replied.
“And Lucy,” he said, his eyes now looking upward at the ceiling, “let us pray that this body is not the brother of that poor woman upstairs.”
* * *
When Lucy entered Miss Belasysse’s bedchamber, she expected to find the woman had grown calm. Instead, Lucy was taken aback by the renewed fury in her eyes. All of their earlier intimacy seemed forgotten.
“Get out!” the woman cried. “To think that I trusted you!”
“What is the matter?” Lucy asked. Could she already have heard of the corpse that was being brought to Dr. Larimer’s?
But Miss Belasysse’s next words proved she was referring to something else entirely. Miss Belaysse held up Lucy’s copy of William Drage’s Daimonomageia and waved it about in the air. “I found this! You think I am accursed! You think I am possessed by demons. You have been plying me with elixirs because you believe me beset with a devil’s curse.”
“No, miss,” Lucy said, speaking lightly although she was annoyed that the woman had looked through her belongings in her absence. “I do not believe you to be accursed. That is just a tract I had in my possession. Indeed, the real devil of this story is Lach, my master’s apprentice. He is the one who slipped it into my satchel before I came here. Only a jest, to be sure.”
“Why would he do that?” The woman, she was glad to see, was starting to lose the terrifying look in her eyes, as a more natural curiosity overcame her.
Lucy shrugged. “’Tis his way, I suppose. He is rather mad himself, I now suspect.” Seeing that Miss Belasysse was starting to calm down, she began to tell her stories about Lach, as much to distract herself from the body as anything. “One time, as I recall, we were setting a new piece called Strange News from Kent: The True Story of a Monstrous Dog Born with Two Heads. Lach and I had been arguing about whether a dog with two heads would need to eat twice as much. I said not, but Lach said—” and she continued the story, which ended with Lucy being sent out to sell, because Master Aubrey could not bear their bickering.
Finally, Miss Belasysse smiled reluctantly, her earlier anger overcome. “Tell me more,” she said, sipping her mead.
Glad that she seemed calm, Lucy began to tell her some of the stories that she would sell on the street corners. Ordinarily she would point to the woodcuts as she talked, but Miss Belasysse did not seem to care, asking her questions both about the penny pieces and her trade.
Even as she spoke, though, Lucy could not stop thinking about what the constable and the physicians were doing. Was the murdered man Henry Belasysse? Finally, after an hour had passed, she heard the distant sound of men’s voices from the corridor below. She suspected that Dr. Larimer and Duncan had returned.
“Let me take these dishes back to the kitchen,” Lucy said to Miss Belasysse. “There might be a bit of pie or some cheese to round out your supper.”
“Oh, heavens above, Lucy. Is that not what Molly is employed to do?” Miss Belasysse said, rinsing her hands at the basin. Her voice sounded a bit petulant. “I should like to hear a few more of your little stories.”
“I am supposed to check in with Dr. Larimer,” Lucy said quickly. “To see if he would like you to take any tonic or a tisane before your nightly slumbers.”
“It is hardly time for my slumbers,” Miss Belasysse grumbled. “Still, you might ask if he can add a little sugar to the tonic. The last was so very bitter.”
Lucy hid a little smile
as she bobbed her head before leaving the bedchamber. Sugar indeed! Even for Dr. Larimer, sugar was a costly good that was not just added willy-nilly to a drink. A bit of honey was possible.
As she descended the stairs, she was just in time to see Duncan and the physician talking in the corridor. Dr. Larimer said something to the constable before disappearing into his study.
Lucy moved quickly toward the constable. “Was it Henry Belasysse?” she whispered, darting a quick look down the corridor to make sure she had not been heard.
The constable shrugged. “I do not know. He could be the right age, and his hair is the right color. Dark brown. But the man looks rather unkempt, and is not of slender build, as I have heard tell Henry Belasysse is.” He looked around. “Hank will be bringing him along in the wheelbarrow any moment. We came ahead so as to have the room prepared for the body’s arrival.”
Still whispering, Lucy asked, “And the manner of his death? Stabbed, as Hank said?”
The constable frowned. “Yes, several blows.” He pulled out a knife. “With this, I presume. Found it nearby, near an offal pit. Like someone tossed it that way.”
Gingerly, Lucy took the knife the constable held out to her. The knife was the kind with a spring that could be folded over and kept in a coat pocket, common among tradesmen and laborers. It was simple but sturdy, probably intended for the everyday cutting needs a man might encounter in his day’s work. Her own brother, Will, had a serviceable knife just like this one.
This one had been well handled and used with some regularity. Opening it, she frowned as she took in the brownish stain along the metal surface. “The tip is broken,” she commented, running her finger along the blade’s edge. It was dull. “Not been sharpened for some time.”
Lucy was about to hand it back to him when something about the wrought metal handle caught her eye. An insignia had been cut inexpertly into it, near the hilt. “A. B.,” she read. “The initials of the blacksmith who made the knife?” she asked, looking up at the constable.
A Death Along the River Fleet Page 12