Then a shiver of fear and excitement wafted over her when he held out his hand. “Let me see the true account now.”
Nervously, she watched the printer read her words. From time to time he grunted, but didn’t say anything out loud. Finally he gave her a gruff nod. “A little long, but we can work with it.”
Lach scowled. Clearly the apprentice was none too happy that his master had taken someone new on. Lucy wanted to say something about how pleased and honored she felt, but the printer held up his hand. “That’s enough, Lucy,” he said. “I’m a busy man and we need to get this finished. So I beg you to pay attention and be silent. The quicker you will learn.”
He turned the pamphlet over, half explaining, half thinking out loud. “Here, I’ve added the poem, discovered with the body, on the last page.” He continued, “The first letter of every paragraph will begin with a larger size. For words we wish to emphasize, we will use italics. This will be in twelve-point roman. Like so.”
He proceeded to rapidly lay the text into a small box he held in his left hand. “Notice that I am putting the letters in—”
“Backward!” Lucy interrupted.
Master Aubrey beamed at her. “Quite right,” he said, cuffing Lach lightly on the ears. “Took this one a while to get that straight. Just lay them in each row, keeping your thumb below. This will keep them in place until you fill in with larger spacers. The side that will be inked is called the ‘face.’ Now, Lucy, go ahead and read your account. I’ll put it in as you speak, and Lach will work on the back page with the poem.”
Watching their practiced hands fly, placing the tiny letters into the wood blocks, Lucy was amazed. Although she still felt a hard lump in her throat from her conversation with Master Hargrave the night before, the excitement of seeing her words built line by line was pushing her sadness aside.
For the next few hours, they worked steadily. From time to time, the printer would shake his head. “No, that won’t work,” he’d say. “That line needs to be shorter.” Once he stopped and stared at her. “I can little believe you wrote these words.” But mostly she would read each word and he would build it into place without speaking.
Lucy’s throat was parched and dry, but she did not dare ask Master Aubrey for a break. The printer seemed excited, as if he couldn’t wait to finish the piece and sell it. Like the printer, Lach never let his fingers stop moving, setting part of the middle document, although from time to time he directed a baleful glance toward Lucy. She supposed that they usually stopped when necessity called.
The Miscellany was quite long now, but no matter. At last, they were done setting the type. Master Aubrey let Lach run out back to piss in a pot by the door, and began to dab black ink onto the letters himself with a soft leather pad.
When his apprentice returned, together they placed the paper onto the typeface and lowered the lid while Lucy watched. Pushing a great lever back and forth, the two men finally stopped. With great excitement, Lucy watched them open up the press. There was the first page. “From the Charred Remains,” and a woodcut of the Great Fire. The woodcut had already been used in the L’Estrange piece. As she had learned a year ago, it was common for printers to use the same images repeatedly, once they had asked an artist to carve the block. Reusing the pieces saved both money and time.
After a quick lunch of bread, cheese, and mead, the three continued. They finished the four sheets and hung them to dry. By early afternoon, they had cut and folded the first few. They were ready to sell.
Master Aubrey stepped outside of his shop with Lucy and Lach following, the latter scowling. The printer began his customary call. “A murder! A true and most terrible account of a barbarous murder committed before the Great Fire. From the Charred Remains, his corpse emerged from a malt barrel.”
Within a few minutes, a crowd had gathered eagerly. Remembering what Master Aubrey had said about the presses being delayed by the King, many townspeople, milling toward the market, seemed eager for a new story. And as Master Aubrey liked to say, “Everyone loves a good murder.”
After they’d read it once, the crowd was clearly growing. Those toward the back clamored for the story to be read again.
Lucy was quite surprised, though, when the printer put his arm around her shoulders and proclaimed to the crowd, “This fair lass here was the one who did find the body. A foreigner from a far-off land! Found with a poem, now printed on the back sheet.”
People oohed and ahhed, eyeing her curiously. Londoners’ natural cheerful morbidity began to show. “Tell us, lass, was he truly stuffed in a barrel? A knife through his chest?” one called out.
Lucy nodded.
“Was there a lot of blood?” another asked.
“Of course there was, you idiot,” another crossly answered. “What, think you that a knife in the chest there won’t be a lot of blood?”
The crowd murmured about this. “Let’s hear the poem!” someone called.
Master Aubrey straightened up, and with a great booming voice, read the poem. The crowd shuffled back and forth. Not quite the doggerel they were used to, but some nodded approvingly. Master Aubrey then recounted the story of how the man was found stuffed in the barrel.
“Say, that’s an interesting tale to be sure,” another man called out, moving forward. He handed Lucy a penny for the collection, and put the pamphlet in his cloak. “Who was this poor sot, do you know?”
“Why, I have no idea,” Lucy said.
“Where was this body found, exactly?” the man persisted.
“As likely as not,” Lucy said, “the constable thinks it must have been near the Cheshire Cheese. You remember the tavern. He’s sent word to the tavern owner, but I don’t know if he heard back from him. If he even will. A lot of people don’t seem to have returned yet.” She saw a few people nodding.
“Where did you get the poems from?” another woman asked, her hands on her cheeks. She looked to be about Lucy’s age, or a little older. A gentlewoman, likely enough. If Lucy didn’t know better, she would have thought the woman was nervous.
Master Aubrey shrugged. “Oh, well, authors send them to me. Their names are on them, of course. Roger L’Estrange writes a lot for us, of course. Sometimes we get anonymous pieces, slipped through a slot in the door. Don’t always use those tales, of course. No telling from whence they came. I like to know who I’m getting in bed with.”
“Except for the one Lucy found, in the leather bag. The funny love poem,” Lachlin said. “All kinds of odd stuff in that bag, isn’t that so, Lucy?”
“I suppose,” Lucy said, giving Lach a hard look. She didn’t want to give out any details, to keep thieves from trying to claim the more valuable items.
“Alright, enough of that,” Master Aubrey said. “I’m sorry, ladies and gents, it’s time for us to get back to work.” On the way back in, he said to Lucy, “Nice job, lass. Why don’t you head over to the Golden Lion. Or maybe the Bell.” He rubbed his hands together. “We’ll see how murder fares there.”
3
Her pack now full of pamphlets and broadsides, Lucy headed down Fleet toward the Strand. Master Aubrey had told her that she wouldn’t miss the Golden Lion, housed as it was in the midst of some elegant noblemen’s homes. As she walked, she looked about curiously. One of the more refined areas of London, with very few shops, it was certainly not a place she’d visited very often.
Thankfully, she spied the tavern and started toward it. Filling her pewter cup with water from a nearby well, she watched a few men and women walk into the tavern with a picture of a lion above the door. No time to lose. Lucy quickly relieved her parched throat, and scurried over to the tavern, positioning herself just left of the hanging sign.
She found her heart was beating quickly. Taking a deep breath, Lucy read the title of the pamphlet that she had helped Master Aubrey put together. “From the Charred Remains,” she croaked. “A London miscellany of warnings, poems, and astrological predictions.” A few curious looks from passersby, but no one
stopped to listen. This was much harder than she had thought it would be. Setting down her pack, she hopped atop the low stone wall in front of the inn and called again. “A most unnatural death!” Ah! Good. A few passersby stopped this time. “A body found in a barrel, a knife through his heart,” she half-sang, half-shouted through cupped hands, “his corpse having survived the fiery inferno that did engulf London this September 1666.”
Within the hour, Lucy had sold most of the pamphlets. As Master Aubrey had warned her to do, she slipped the coins out of sight to lessen the attention of pickpockets. Her feet were aching from standing on the hard stone walk for so long, and her throat, still scratchy from inhaling the smoke at the Fire site, was feeling worse. Sipping water from her little cup did not seem to help. Grimacing, she decided to go inside, which appeared decent enough. She took an unoccupied table, in the corner, but still toward the front of the establishment, where respectable ladies might be found.
Lucy ordered some warm mead from the tavern keeper, thinking the honey would soothe her throat. As she waited, she slipped her feet from her pointed leather shoes to rub some life back into them. A moment later a serving lass banged a steaming mug of mead down in front of her, not bothering to wipe up the drops that spilled out. Gratefully, she took a sip. Nearby, some men were pulling apart a bit of roasted pig; the smell of pork and apples made her think of Master Hargrave, as that was one of his favorite dishes. Sighing, she hoped it would not be folly to leave the comforts and security of the magistrate’s home. Feeling quite sorry for herself, she closed her eyes.
“Excuse me.” Someone touched her arm.
Lucy’s eyes flew open. A woman, just slightly older than herself, was standing at her table, a worried expression on her face. She looked familiar, but Lucy couldn’t place her. She looked to the woman’s clothes for some indication of her station and rank. She wasn’t the tavern maid, that was certain. Her kirtle was a soft gray taffeta, unstained, but slightly dusty as if she’d been traveling.
Finishing the last sip of her pint, Lucy stood up, dropping a slight curtsy. “Yes, miss? What can I do for you?”
“I should like to purchase the London Miscellany,” the woman said, her clipped, slightly haughty words confirming her gentlewoman’s status. She thrust out a coin. “Now, if you please.”
Lucy looked around. She saw the innkeeper direct her a warning glance. Master Aubrey had given her strict instructions. “No hawking inside. No one wants to share their customers’ coins.”
Lucy pushed out one of the wooden chairs at her table. “I’ll sell it to you if you sit and have a pint.”
“I don’t want a pint.”
“At least sit down. Please, miss. The owner will throw me on out on my arse—pardon!—if he thinks I’m hawking inside his shop.”
“Oh, I see.” Looking about, the woman sat down. She slid over a coin, which Lucy quickly palmed before pushing the Fire poem across the table. The innkeeper started over, a baleful look on his face.
Lucy smiled pleasantly up at him. “Some mead for my companion if you please, sir.” She glanced at the woman, who was staring at the first page of the pamphlet, and made no attempt to pay for her own drink. Reluctantly Lucy handed the innkeeper a coin, mentally counting what she had left. She prayed that he would not expect her to buy another drink for herself, for she could not spare any more.
Thankfully, the barman nodded, satisfied. “Hannah!” he called gruffly to the serving maid. “Another mead here!” He even took the dingy towel hanging from his waste to wipe away the little pool of liquid that had spilled on the table, before moving off.
Now, the woman had begun to anxiously page through the Miscellany. At the pamphlet’s last page, the woman’s face grew pale; indeed, she looked quite ill. Belatedly, Lucy wondered if the woman had taken sick. She edged back in her chair, lest the woman should sneeze upon her. She cursed herself for not carrying a posy that might ward off the sickly vapors. Although the physician Larimer had declared London well-rid of the plague, the ague and other deathly maladies never truly went away.
To Lucy’s dismay, the woman’s eyes had filled with tears. “You said this poem was found with the body?” she whispered, pointing at the woodcut on the front. Lucy could barely hear her over the din of the inn.
Lucy nodded. “I saw him myself. Poor sod. He was killed through and through with a knife. Before the Great Fire. A wonder his body survived, and that’s a fact.”
The woman’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you.” She stood, turning quickly on her heel. Before Lucy could say anything more, the woman turned and walked unsteadily out of the tavern.
Without thinking, Lucy raced after the woman, who had gotten a few paces down the street. “Miss! Wait!” Lunging forward, she grasped the woman’s arm. Something was clearly amiss. “Pray, you are not well. Let us sit back down. Have your drink.”
Lucy led the woman back into the Golden Lion, almost as one might lead a child. The serving maid, Hannah, was standing by the table they had just vacated, looking bemusedly at the steaming tankard in her hands. “Oh, you came back,” she said. “I was about to dump this back in the kettle.”
The woman still looked dazed, and a bit teary, but seemed to revive slightly when she placed her hands around the warm tankard.
“Drink,” Lucy urged. She wondered if the woman’s wits might be addled, given her odd countenance. Then she recalled the woman’s clear and elegant speech. Distraught as the woman might be, she did not seem touched.
The woman dutifully took a sip, breathing in the fragrant liquid. Lucy took the moment to study her. Looking to be in her late twenties, the woman had dark circles under her eyes that added to her years. Her mouth was pinched and drawn, her dark brown hair pulled in a practiced way under her soft blue cap. Again, Lucy was struck by her pallor. She scrambled for something to say. “I’m Lucy Campion.”
The woman looked up from the woodcut. “Thank you.” She hesitated. “I’m Rhonda.”
“Do I know you, Miss—?” Lucy asked, noticing the woman had not provided her last name. Clearly she did not want to be too familiar, and yet even servants did not introduce themselves with just their first name. Truth be told, only ladybirds and doxies kept their last names to themselves, and that was only to keep from further shaming their fathers and brothers. Or so Lucy had been told. She did not have any prostitutes among her own acquaintance.
The woman seemed to realize this at the same time. “Rivers. Miss Rivers.” The way she hesitated made Lucy suspect that was not her real last name. “No, we’ve never met.” “Miss Rivers” took another sip of the hot liquid. The sustenance seemed to calm her, as it had Lucy a half hour before when she first sat down in the tavern.
“How did you know I was,” Lucy paused, “a bookseller?” For a moment, she forgot the woman’s obvious turmoil, savoring the ease with which she had proclaimed her new identity. Bookseller! Then her natural curiosity resurfaced. “Did you see me selling the miscellany outside? I did not see you, though.” She searched the woman’s face. Something about the woman’s sad eyes prompted her memory. “You heard Master Aubrey tell the story, back at his shop!” she said, snapping her fingers. “I remember you now.”
“Yes, I was there. I’d been to the market with my father, hoping to bring some provisions to some of my father’s acquaintances who’d been put out by the Fire,” Miss Rivers admitted. “I heard the printer say you would be selling them at the Golden Lion on the Strand. I needed to read the pamphlet myself. So I followed you.”
“Then why didn’t you buy the pamphlet there? Save yourself the trouble?” Lucy asked. Miss Rivers looked to be a woman of means; it was unlikely she had not possessed sufficient coin. Truly, the woman’s actions made no sense.
“I can see you are wondering at me.” Miss Rivers’s chin trembled. “I didn’t want to believe it. Then I found I could not bear not knowing.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said, clasping her hands at the table. “I don’t know what came over me.
I know I do not always heed my tongue as I ought. You do not owe me any explanations. Truth be told, you seemed so distraught.”
Miss Rivers looked down at her tankard, which was still about half full.
Lucy continued her stilted amends. “The Fire, you must have lost—” That didn’t sound right, so she tried again. “The body, I mean, the man who was murdered—” Seeing Miss Rivers’s face blanch, she stopped again. After a moment, Lucy settled on the most tactful question she could muster. “Did you lose someone in the Great Fire?”
Miss Rivers spoke, her tone flat and colorless. “Yes, I’m most certain I did. My great love. He came for me. Now he’s dead!”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. How can you know he was the one who died? I mean, no one knows who the body could have been,” she stumbled again. “I mean, who the man was, not even the constable.”
“I know,” Miss Rivers declared, with the same chilling certainty. She pointed to the poem that Sid had found in the wooden barrel. “He wrote that poem. For me.” Despair rising in her voice, she repeated again, “He’s dead! I know it!”
“How could you possibly know that?” Lucy asked, hoping to stave off the woman’s growing agitation. “It just says ‘Dear Hart.’ Surely, that could be for anyone. And the poem is unsigned. Aren’t poems signed? Even if just with ‘Anonymous’?”
Miss Rivers smiled, a sad pitiful smile. “I know you mean well. But I can prove the poem was intended for me.” She smoothed out the woodcut. “See, it’s an acrostic.”
Like the London Fire poem, Lucy realized. She watched as Miss Rivers put a delicate finger on the first letter of each line.
From the Charred Remains (Lucy Campion Mysteries) Page 5
