Mistress of Fortune

by Holly West

  “What reason could Sir Edmund possibly have had for coming this far afield?” I said, more to myself than to my companions.

  “You want my opinion,” Walters said, “he didn’t come out here by his own power.”

  I cut my eyes to him. “What do you mean?”

  “His boots were clean and shiny, not a speck of dirt on ’em. If he’d walked here himself, they would’ve been covered with mud.”

  “Was the jury told this?”

  “Aye,” he said. “Constable Brown showed ’em the boots.”

  “Show me where you found him,” I said.

  I followed them toward a ditch at the base of the hill and we stopped at its edge. It was filled with thorny brambles and deep enough so that the body wouldn’t have been visible unless a person was almost directly in front of it.

  “Is this where he was?” I asked.

  “Aye,” said Bromwell.

  “How far away were the items?”

  “Maybe a foot or so?” Walters said, stepping away from the ditch to demonstrate.

  I moved over to where Walters stood, peering into the ditch. Even with the brambles, the bottom was visible and my diary was not there.

  “Tell me again when you first saw Sir Edmund,” I said.

  “Mr. Rawson noticed him when he bent to pick up the scabbard,” Walters said. “He was there, lying in the ditch.”

  “His legs had caught on the bushes so they pointed straight up toward the sky,” Bromwell said. He bent his knees slightly and put his arms out, like a puppet with its strings held slack. “That’s why we noticed how clean his boots were.”

  “Did you recognize who it was?”

  “No m’lady, he was lying facedown.”

  “But later,” I pressed, “after the body was identified, had you ever seen Sir Edmund before?”

  “Never seen him before in our lives,” Walters interjected, and Bromwell’s head bobbed up and down.

  “What happened next?” I asked.

  “Mr. Rawson said we had to fetch the constable. He knew Constable Brown in St. Giles so we reported it to him.”

  “Constable Brown came out by himself?”

  “No, he asked a few of his neighbors to accompany us.”

  I continued to inspect the area. There was a brownish-colored stain on a flat rock near the ditch. “Do you know what this is?” I said, pointing.

  “When Constable Brown removed the sword, a brown muck squirted out of the body,” Walters said. “Must’ve dripped onto the rock.”

  “Blood?”

  “Didn’t look like any blood I’d ever seen.”

  I paused, considering everything they’d told me. “It must’ve been very dark by the time Constable Brown got here,” I finally said.

  “We had lanterns and torches, of course, but Constable Brown wanted the body moved indoors so he could make an identification,” said Walters. “A couple of the men grumbled about that, said we should leave it so a proper investigation could happen. But the constable insisted. He didn’t want the body lying outside all night.”

  “He could have set a man to guard it and continued the investigation in the morning,” I said.”

  “Constable Brown had already guessed it was Sir Edmund. They were friends. He wouldn’t just leave him there and I can’t say I blame him.”

  I sympathized with Constable Brown’s dilemma, but his good intentions might well have compromised the investigation. There were footprints of different shapes and sizes in the dried mud surrounding the ditch, as though a great crowd had gathered. “Why all these footprints?”

  “News of Sir Edmund’s death traveled fast,” Bromwell said. “A lot of people came out to see what had happened.”

  “How will anyone be able to tell whose prints are whose? Any marks the murderer might have left are long since covered.”

  Walters slumped down on the rock, untroubled by the dried blood that covered it. “I don’t know anything about that. Say, we’re mighty tired, m’lady. Didn’t get a lick of sleep last night. Think we could have those shillings now so we can go home?”

  I pulled four shillings out of my purse and handed two to each of them. “If I need to speak with you fellows again, how can I find you?”

  Walters stood up and smiled. “Ask for us at the White House. We’re there most days.”

  I watched from the carriage as they ambled back toward St. John’s Wood. Was it at all possible that these two men were responsible for Sir Edmund’s death or the theft of my diary? They didn’t seem clever enough. I doubted they could read my diary, let alone come up with a scheme to profit by it.

  No, whoever had killed Sir Edmund and stolen my diary had already proven himself as a dangerous and cunning foe. It was something to keep at the top of my mind as I took my next step.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sign hanging above Mary Bixby’s shop on Carter Lane displayed a crescent, star and sun, identifying her as an astrologer. Similar signs were hung all over the city, for astrology was a popular and profitable business in London.

  I entered the shop and found her standing at a table, crushing something in a mortar. Molly, her old gray cat, meowed and brushed up against my leg. Mary looked up and smiled.

  “Isabel! This is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you for another week, at least.” She laid down her tools and came out from behind the table. She was a head taller than me and very thin. She had a long, angular face with a prominent nose and stringy gray hair that hung loosely about her shoulders. She was so old that it was not possible to tell her actual age, which gave her a sort of mystical quality, as though she had never been young, nor would she ever die.

  Mary had learned the secrets of soothsaying from her mother. Particularly fascinated with the plants and herbs that grew in her mother’s garden, she now kept a plot behind her own shop. In addition to astrological charts and fortune telling, she provided medicinal concoctions to her customers, and I purchased quantities of herbs from her to sell to my own patrons. Besides Sam, Mary was the only person who knew Mistress Ruby’s true identity.

  It was Sam who had introduced me to Mary. Her background was as varied and sordid as his was and though he was much younger than she, their illicit activities had brought them together on a few occasions.

  My first consultation with her occurred shortly before my husband’s death in 1672. Her counsel proved wise, and after he died, I returned to her shop. I wanted to find out how I might become a fortuneteller myself. At first she refused to help, telling me one had to have “the gift” to do the work. I allayed her skepticism by promising to pay a portion of my earnings to her each week during the first year of my business and to purchase all of my medicinal herbs from her. In return, she agreed to train me in the finer points of soothsaying. Now, we often consulted with each other and traded secrets.

  “May I get you a drink?” she asked, taking a bottle out of a cabinet. “I’m having gin.”

  “No, thank you,” I replied, sitting down on a bench. Like Coal Yard Alley, Mary’s shop was small and sparsely furnished, with little in the way of decoration. She lived in much more luxurious rooms located above her shop. “I need to replenish my supply of ginseng, peppermint, and milk vetch…”

  “Hmm, your business must be doing well if you need all that. But I’m afraid I won’t have milk vetch until the spring,” She finished pouring her drink and sat down in the chair across from me.

  “Is there anything I can use as a substitute?”

  “I can give you some holy basil or valerian.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Mary sipped her drink, searching my face. “What’s wrong, Isabel?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You’re tired. Have you not been sleeping well?”

  I hadn’t intended on telling Mary my troubles, but now I couldn’t resist. She’d lend a sympathetic ear and I could be honest with her. “Perhaps I will have that drink.”

  The gin burned my throat but I wel
comed the warm feeling it left me with. “I suppose you’ve heard about the recent murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey,” I said.

  Mary chuckled. “Indeed I have. This morning a fellow came in worrying the papists were after him, too.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I prepared his chart, told him he was safe, and sent him on his way.”

  I took another drink. “Sir Edmund came to Coal Yard Alley few nights before he disappeared,” I said. “He’d involved himself in some questionable business and feared he was in trouble because of it. I read his palm and told him everything would be all right.”

  “Is that what the reading told you?”

  “It indicated that he’d been suffering some recent bad health. Nothing overly serious. Now, he’s dead.”

  “And you feel responsible?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then you aren’t responsible.”

  “Perhaps if I’d told Sir Edmund he needed to take more care—”

  “Nonsense. What if the man I saw yesterday is tomorrow murdered by the pope himself? Could the blame be laid on my doorstep?”

  “No, but—”

  “If the stars say he is safe, what more can you tell him?” Mary got up to refill her cup. She held her hand out mine. “More?”

  I shook my head. “It’s more complicated than that. A few days after Sir Edmund’s visit, my room at Coal Yard Alley was burgled and my diary was taken. And three days ago I was attacked as I made my way home—”

  Mary’s eyes showed alarm. “Attacked? My God, were you hurt?”

  “No, I was able to get away unharmed. But this afternoon at the inquest into Sir Edmund’s death, I learned a page from my diary was found in his pocket.”

  “Sir Edmund stole the diary?”

  “That’s just it, I don’t know. Whoever stole it might’ve given him that page for some reason. But someone is watching me closely and I’m afraid to work. I’ve been investigating, asking questions, trying to find out who’s really responsible for Sir Edmund’s death, but so far, nothing.”

  “What information did the diary contain?” Mary asked cautiously.

  “You’ve nothing to worry about,” I said. “But I did record the names of all my own customers. The page Sir Edmund had was the one I’d recorded his visit on. If the rest of the information in that book gets out, I’ll lose all of my business.”

  Mary set her cup down. “Would you like me to review your chart?”

  “You know as well as I do it won’t tell us who did this.”

  “Nevertheless, it might reveal something useful about how you should proceed.”

  Mary had read my astrological chart many times so the scroll she retrieved from her cabinet was well worn. She returned to her chair and spread it out on the table in front of us, using our cups to secure the edges so they wouldn’t curl up. I’d never learned astrology, so the markings on the sheet were mostly gibberish to me. But Mary studied it with rapt attention.

  “I don’t suppose I need to remind you of your tendency to let your emotions control your actions,” she said, pointing to an area of the chart.

  “You’ve warned me a thousand times.”

  “And you must guard against people taking advantage of your generous disposition.” Her words reminded me of what I’d told Sir Edmund. You sometimes let your allegiances interfere with protecting your own interests.

  Mary continued reading in silence, while I looked on. A few moments later, she said, “The nature of your work is in flux.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The chart shows change coming in several areas—work, love, and home. What this means is open to interpretation. Something to keep in mind whilst going forward.”

  The thought of my business changing, whatever that meant, worried me.

  “Change isn’t something to be afraid of, Isabel,” Mary said. “It’s all around us, all the time.”

  I smiled. “You know me too well.”

  She moved the cups and began rolling the chart up. “Only one thing concerns me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your determination to find the culprit yourself might lead you to harm if you don’t take care.”

  “The chart says that?”

  “Not in so many words, of course. But perhaps it’s best to let the authorities find who killed Sir Edmund Godfrey. Stay out of the investigation.”

  Mary’s advice weighed heavily on my mind as I traveled home that evening. Could I trust the authorities to bring Sir Edmund’s killer to justice? What about the safe return of my diary? If Whitehall’s search for the murderer was focused only on the Catholics, they might never find the guilty party and my business would remain forever at risk.

  There also remained the nagging feeling that it was my fault Sir Edmund was dead. This, as much as anything else, compelled me to find who killed him. As much as I wanted to heed Mary’s warning, I had to press on.

  * * *

  Sam arrived home from the juror’s inquest to find me sitting at the kitchen table, shuffling through the pieces of paper Charlotte had given me. They made no more sense now than they had the day before, though my eyes were blurry with the effort to decipher them.

  “I’m glad to see you made it home safely,” he said, selecting an apple from the bowl Alice had filled that morning.

  “Of course I did,” I said. “Mr. Bromwell and Mr. Walters were perfect gentlemen. There was no sign of my diary, however.”

  He sat down across from me and took out his knife, slicing off a wedge of the fruit. Its fragrance made my stomach rumble; I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. “Give me a piece, please.”

  He handed me a slice and I bit into it, shivering from its tart taste. I finished chewing and told him what I’d learned at Primrose Hill.

  “I saw the boots at the inquest,” Sam said. “Bromwell and Walters are right—there wasn’t a spot on them.”

  “It appears as though Sir Edmund was killed elsewhere and then brought to Primrose Hill,” I said. “But why?”

  Sam passed me another apple slice. “Aren’t you curious about what happened at the inquest?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “The verdict was murder by strangulation, by a person or persons unknown,” Sam recited as though reading from a script.

  I stopped chewing. My throat tightened and I had difficulty swallowing. “Was Michael Godfrey pleased?”

  It was a terrible question but it was all I could think of to say.

  “As pleased as a man can be when he learns his brother’s been murdered,” Sam said, arching an eyebrow.

  “I only meant that he seemed particularly anxious that the verdict come back as murder.”

  “Seems he didn’t have much to worry about, considering Sir Edmund was stabbed, strangled, and his neck broken.”

  No longer hungry, I laid the rest of my apple on the table. “Tell me,” I said, putting my guilt about Sir Edmund’s death aside. “Did you not think it suspicious that Michael Godfrey wouldn’t let the surgeon do a complete examination?”

  Sam shrugged. “I wouldn’t want my brother cut up either.”

  “But you heard what Cambridge said. There could be some confusion as to how Sir Edmund died. If it were me, I’d demand to have as much information as possible.”

  “Doesn’t make him less dead, does it?”

  “No,” I sighed. “I suppose not.”

  Alice entered the kitchen holding a small envelope. “This was just delivered,” she said. I broke the wax on the envelope, pulled out the note, and read it.

  “Lucian’s invited me to a supper at Nell Gwyn’s house honoring Titus Oates.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lucian and I arrived at Nell Gwyn’s house in Pall Mall shortly after nine o’clock. It was one of the finest and most expensive homes in London, and according to rumor, the king had paid for it. Knowing as I did the sorry
state of Charles’s purse, I had my doubts, for Nell had other benefactors, rich men who appreciated the powerful friendships she’d procured over the years. They purchased her favor with lavish gifts. Nell was no politician but she knew the capricious whims of the court and played them to her advantage far better than I ever had. I had to applaud her for it.

  “You could have had a home like this if only you’d asked for it,” he said. It wasn’t the first time he’d made such a declaration, even if he knew as well as I did both the king’s fickle nature and his chronic lack of means.

  “I’m tired of hearing your opinion on this matter,” I told him. “Seduce His Majesty yourself if you want a house.”

  “Don’t think I wouldn’t try it if I thought he’d be agreeable.”

  The rain fell in heavy sheets and we hurried up the stairs to avoid the worst of it. Lucian lifted the ornate brass knocker and let it fall with a clank against the massive door. Nell’s manservant, George, opened the door. He was a tall, well-formed young man who served Nell with adoration.

  “Lady Wilde, Mr. Barber,” he said, bowing to us. “I’ll announce your arrival to Mrs. Gwyn.”

  “No need, George,” Nell sang out from behind him. “Take their coats and I’ll escort our guests to the drawing room.”

  Nell was not the most beautiful of the king’s mistresses and her breeding was even lower than mine. But upon encountering her charm and irrepressible humor, people seldom noticed these shortcomings. Where the abhorrent Duchess of Portsmouth used whining and trickery to manipulate the king, Nell used her prudent wit and inherent kindness. She was my rival for Charles’s affections, but I had never quite been able to dislike her, even if we were not exactly friends. Admittedly, this was due more to Lucian’s fondness for her than it was to my own good nature.

  Lucian had known Nell since her days as an actress, and sometimes it was easier to fight with her for the king’s attention than for his. If Lucian was forced to make a choice between us, he’d choose me but it would be a difficult decision. I had already lost one brother to the plague—I would not lose another to petty rivalry. I therefore tolerated Nell and even enjoyed her company on occasion.