“Dear Lucy,” the magistrate had written in his eloquent script. “I hope this letter finds you well. Annie told me a bit of what you learned in Oxford, and I am sorry that your inquiry is at a standstill. I have taken it upon myself to invite Lord Cumberland to my home for supper this evening, as well as the physician Larimer, and their wives. Lucy smiled. Trust the magistrate to figure out the next step. She continued reading, “I had heard he was in London for a spell, checking on his rents. I just received word that he is pleased to join me. Annie is a delightful child, but has nowhere near the experience you have with waiting upon nobility. I hope you would not take it amiss if I asked you to help us serve this evening at six o’clock. Pray forgive the short notice. I shall be quite beholden to you. Yours in haste, Thomas Hargrave.”
Lucy smiled as she turned the note over. Carefully, she wrote. “Dear Sir, I would be happy to oblige. Yours faithfully, Lucy Campion.” She handed the note to Sid. “No dawdling now, Sid. You must return to Master Hargrave straightaway, you understand me?”
After Sid left with his customary swaggering step, Lucy returned to her struggle with the broadside. As she pulled out the tray of woodcuts, hoping to find one that would similarly depict a vixen or hoyden, she picked up a piece about two inches wide all around with the image of a princess. Sometimes they used this woodcut with ballads or pamphlets that jeered the French royals. She was about to set it aside when she looked at the piece more closely. The woman was wearing a fanciful French hat, a great necklace, and rings on every finger. “I wonder what princesses truly look like,” she wondered. “Do they really have fingers dripping with jewels?”
As she set the woodcut aside, she began to think of beautiful jewelry she’d seen, and her mind flashed to the brooch that had been found with Tahmin’s body. Not too many people owned ivory jewelry, she thought. “If only we could take it to the comb-seller,” she said out loud. “I bet he’d know who had crafted the piece.” Too bad his shop had burned down in the fire. She’d spent some time looking for it the other day.
Who else would know about ivory, she wondered. As she continued to reset the type, her mind turned to supper that night. Maybe she could show the ivory brooch to Sir Larimer, she thought, since he would be dining with Master Hargrave that night. She’d overheard enough conversations with the physician to know that he fancied himself a man of the world, knowledgeable in many things, in the manner of that long-dead Italian fellow, Da Vinci. He was also a lover of luxurious things, and might be familiar with the artisan who had crafted the brooch. At the very least, he might know who traded in such luxury items. Perhaps that would give the constable a lead on who had owned the brooch.
Lach returned then, and helped her finish the run. He didn’t notice that she had switched the woodcuts, and she was certainly not going to tell him. Not straightaway at least.
“Master Aubrey said you’re to sell at Tyburn today,” he said to her, lifting his eyebrow. He knew her brother had almost been sentenced to be hanged at the infamous gallows. Or the “Tyburn tree,” as Londoners affectionately called the grisly site. “You haven’t hawked the murder ballads there yet. They’ve rebuilt them you know.”
“I know,” Lucy muttered. She’d been dreading having to sell at Tyburn. Even though Newgate and the Fleet had been destroyed during the Great Fire, the executions had not been ceased for long. It made sense, though, to sell there. The crowds that gathered to see the day’s hangings would have a hankering to buy the most sensational and gory pieces they had in stock.
Thoughtfully, Lucy put together her pack. Last April’s hanging of Jack Parr and his wife for cozening their master out of a good deal of money. A recent poisoning. A few last dying speeches and the “True Confession” of Robert Hubert, the watchmaker who’d confessed to setting Fariner’s bakery—and London—on fire.
* * *
Before walking over to Tyburn, Lucy first stopped at Duncan’s jail to ask him about the brooch. The whole way over she’d argued with herself whether she should continue to help the constable or not, especially after their words the day before. “I want justice to prevail,” she told herself firmly. “I’m not doing this for the constable. After this, I won’t help him anymore. Or go see him.”
When she’d entered the jail, she tried not to notice how the constable’s face brightened when he saw her. “Lucy!” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
Again? Or so soon? Lucy couldn’t help wonder. She plunged right in to the purpose of her visit. “I was just thinking about the brooch. When my acquaintance saw it, you know, that first night we looked at it, he said it didn’t come from oak, cherry, or ash. I think it’s ivory. I’d say take it to the comb-seller, but his shop burnt down. So, I thought that perhaps Dr. Larimer could look at the brooch. It may be from Persia, of course, but I thought he might know something about the craftsman or the guild. Or, maybe he would know someone who trades and sells in ivory.” She looked at Duncan expectantly.
“Oh?” Duncan said. “Dr. Larimer knows that sort of thing, does he? That’s a good idea. I’ll send my bellman around to Larimer with a note.” He looked at her expectantly. “Is there something else?”
Lucy twisted her hands. “Actually, I’ll be seeing the physician. Tonight. I’ll be at Master Hargrave’s. I could ask him about it, if you like.”
“I see.” He didn’t say anything else for a long moment. As he pulled out the brooch from the little bag, he asked, “You’ve decided to keep helping me?” Was his tone hopeful? Rueful? Lucy couldn’t tell.
“I want to help see justice done.” Hearing the bellman call the hour, she added. “It’s late. I’m off to the Tyburn tree.” She gestured to her pack. “I’m to sell a few horrid pieces there.”
“At a very horrid site.” He hesitated before handing her the brooch. He looked at her closely. “Will you be alright?”
“Of course,” she said hastily, taking the brooch. His concern made her uneasy. “I’ll let you know if Dr. Larimer can tell us anything about the brooch.”
* * *
After she left the jail, the rose brooch carefully hidden beneath her skirts, Lucy began to make her way slowly over to Tyburn. Before the Fire the walk would not have taken long at all, but now she had to cross through much of the area ravaged by the inferno. While a great deal of the rubble had been cleared, new dwellings were being constructed everywhere, which made navigating the streets quickly a challenge. At least the buildings were all going to be made of stone and brick now. That was one of the first recommendations that Christopher Wren had put forth to the King after the Fire.
Despite how slowly she’d walked, she finally made it to Tyburn. A quick peek at the gallows revealed no one was on the scaffold—neither criminals to be hanged nor the executioner with his notable black hood. However, though the afternoon was growing late, Londoners were still making merry, passing about their jugs of wine and ale. This meant she hadn’t missed the last hangings of the day.
Her throat was already a bit parched and sore from the slight smoke that still hovered in the air in this area. She knew from experience that if she didn’t have water on hand she could easily have a coughing fit in the middle of a song, or worse, go hoarse entirely. She didn’t want to lose her voice—Master Aubrey had impressed that on her enough. Looking around, she spied a well from which she could fill her little tin cup.
Peering into the dark well, she could just see the glimmer of water far within its depths. She lowered the bucket down, and when it felt full, she began to pull it up. “Please let the water be clean,” she uttered softly. One time she’d drawn some water from a well, only to find some dead bats inside the bucket, tainting the water in the well. When the bucket came into view, she gave a small prayer of thanks. The water looked sparkling and clear. She drank a cup eagerly, and carefully filled a second cupful while she sought a good place to sell her pieces.
She spied a stump of an old oak tree nearby. “That should work,” she said to herself. Before climbing atop the stump, she
ran her hands across the burnt surface. She could tell the tree had been chopped down well before the Fire, probably because the branches had obscured the spectators’ view of the spectacle on the scaffold. Now the stump, about thirty yards from the gallows, was perfectly situated to offer a fine prospect of the gallows. How many people, she wondered for a moment, had clambered up, just as she had, to watch the condemned men and women swing?
“Enough of your fancies, Lucy,” she scolded herself. “Time to work.” She began her customary singsong, calling the stories she’d brought along. Sometimes it was hard to start, but today she just dove in, hoping to sell all her pieces quickly. Over the last few weeks she’d begun to perfect her call, starting with a gripping first line that got the crowd to gather. She had to get over the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched—today the feeling seemed particularly strong. “Of course they’re watching you, little twit,” she said to herself, surveying the crowd as she began.
She was beginning to understand how to read the crowds as well. This crowd, as she had expected, was particularly interested in Hubert’s confession and news of his upcoming trial. “He’ll be doing the Tyburn jig soon enough!” one man called, to the great approval of others who had gathered about.
Within thirty minutes, Lucy had almost sold everything in her pack. She hoped to finish before the last of the condemned would be carted into Tyburn. That hope died a quick death, however, when she heard a great shout behind her. The criminals had arrived.
Around her, everyone scrambled to their feet. From her vantage point on the stump, she could see a cart bearing two tied-up prisoners, moving slowly toward them. A great procession of followers were shouting and chanting alongside the cart. Lucy counted five soldiers walking beside the cart as well, a pike held stiffly in each man’s right hand.
As they passed, Lucy could see the faces of the two criminals. One man looked like he had been weeping, but his eyes were closed, and in his free hand he clutched a Bible to his heart. His mouth was moving in silent prayer. The other man, a young handsome sort, was laughing loudly, exchanging taunts with the crowd. He looked for all the world like he was drunk, but Lucy doubted that he was. She knew that, traditionally, prisoners were entitled to one last drink at a pub along the road. He was putting on a brave front, even as the gallows loomed. She didn’t know his crime, for all she knew he was the most horrible cutthroat there ever was. In the moment, however, she admired his bravery in the face of upcoming death. He cut a fine enough figure in his churchgoing suit, to be certain.
Perhaps her face betrayed her admiration; perhaps because she was hands and shoulders above most of the crowd, she caught the handsome criminal’s eye. To her shock, he grinned at her. Without a second thought, she crooked her finger, calling down an ancient blessing to ease his soul.
Seeing the gesture, he winked and blew her a kiss. “Thanks for the thought, sweetheart, but I don’t need your pity,” he called to her. “A kiss, though, I’ll take. I’d kiss you myself, but alas”—he gestured to his left hand tied to the cart—“I’ve got some business that keeps me tethered. Come here! Give poor Rhys Whittier a kiss!”
The crowd laughed. They turned to Lucy expectantly.
“Alas!” Lucy called back, getting into the morbid humor of it all. “I cannot kiss you—I fear your business will always come first in your life. You’d take my kiss and leave me—I have no doubt!”
“Ah, but I promise to love you as long as I live!” Seeing Lucy shake her head, he added, “You’re probably right. I think our love is doomed to fail.” He outstretched his free hand in mockery of a court suitor.
Lucy couldn’t help but smile at the young man’s bravado. She blew Whittier a kiss then and he put his hand to his heart. A moment later the cart stopped, and the executioner stepped forward. She saw Whittier gulp, his cocky grin fading. The other criminal opened his eyes and began to sob openly, begging for forgiveness.
She turned away then and stepped blindly off the stump. She couldn’t bear to see the gallant young criminal go to his death. She began to edge away from the crowd. All about her, the mob was surging forward, and she could sense a changing mood among the spectators. Less friendly, more animal-like. They weren’t quite salivating, yet there was something lustful appearing on the faces of the old and young alike.
Lucy began to feel queasy. She could feel her knees begin to buckle.
As she was starting to pitch forward, someone grabbed her arm. “Let me help you,” a man murmured. “You can rest up here.”
“T-thank you,” she said, gratefully letting the stranger direct her toward a small copse of shady trees away from the screaming crowds. “I’ll be fine now.”
When they reached the copse, she began to pull away, but to her surprise the stranger still held her arm tightly. “Let go of me!” she said fiercely. “I said I’m fine!”
Instead of letting her go, the man tightened his hold and then, in a single fluid motion, clapped his hand firmly over her mouth.
Lucy immediately started to struggle against her captor. The strong filthy hand, clamped against her mouth, muffled her shouts. Making matters worse, her struggles made her even more entangled in her own pack, effectively binding her arms against her sides. She began to try to bite the man’s hand, her fear overcoming her revulsion at the sweaty taste of his skin.
“Give ’em to me!” the man’s hoarse voice whispered in her ear.
Lucy began to struggle harder. The thought of Master Aubrey selling a broadside about her murder, or worse, her ruin, caused her to flail about as hard as she could. Did no one see her plight? Unfortunately, a great roar from the crowd just then indicated that the hanging was getting under way. No one was likely looking to see what was going on in the patch of trees. I have to get free, she thought wildly to herself.
With all her might, Lucy drove her head back, ramming the man’s jaw with her own skull. Hearing her attacker groan, Lucy renewed her struggles. With some effort, she managed a backward kick as she’d seen young colts do. The man cried out in anguish again and let her go, collapsing to the muddy ground while holding his shin. She backed off, keeping a safe distance between them.
She glared at him, warily taking in his appearance. Her attacker was in his mid- to late forties and had the short-trimmed hair of a soldier, although his rugged wool clothes could have belonged to any tradesman. Still doubled over in pain, he looked a bit pitiful, but Lucy’s heart was hardened against him. “Serves you right,” she said, stepping backward. Even though he was still on the ground clutching his leg, she was taking no chances.
“Ach,” the man said. He had a funny way of speaking, but Lucy couldn’t place the region. “I just wanted the ring back. The brooch, too. I know you have them!” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You know they don’t belong to you!”
Lucy froze, even as her heart and brain continued to race. The man knew who she was; he must have been following her. “I don’t have them,” she said, eyeing a branch that had broken off a nearby tree. “I gave them to the constable.” She stretched her fingers.
“You’re lying. I saw him pass them to you. Yes, when you were at the jail. Saw you put them in your pocket, under your skirts too!” Seeing her flinch, he added, “Look, I don’t want to hurt you,” the man said. “But I will.” He leapt up, his hands reaching for her.
Having anticipated his leap, Lucy grabbed the branch and swung blindly. With a terrible crack, she heard the wood strike his crown. The man yelped, before slumping down, knocked senseless.
For a single shocked moment, Lucy stared at the man, the bloodied stick still quivering in her hand. Dropping the stick like it was a hot iron, Lucy grabbed her pack, stumbling away. She could not bring herself to see if the man was still breathing. “Wretched footpad!” she muttered. He’d brought it on himself!
Keeping her head down, Lucy walked away stiffly, before breaking into a run once she was away from the Tyburn crowds. When she reached an open grass field, she dropped to her knee
s, then flopped full into the tall grasses. The birds about her chirped brightly against the blue sky. She could not rid her mind of the image of striking the man, hearing the crunch as she connected with his skull, the blood at his temple. She groaned again. “Please, Lord. Don’t let me have killed him.”
For a moment she couldn’t decide where to go. Her mind cast through the possibilities. She was fairly near Aubrey’s shop, but Will was unlikely to be there at this hour and she was afraid now to be alone. The constable? No, she couldn’t go see him again. There was really only one place left to go, the sanctity closest to her heart. The magistrate’s home.
12
A long stumbling run later, Lucy was still panting heavily when she opened the door to the kitchen, trying to put the attack out of her mind. The normalcy of the scene made her blink a bit. Cook was dipping a ladle into the bubbling pot, just raising it to her lips for a taste. Annie was slicing potatoes, and John as always was polishing something, this time the master’s leather shoes.
Cook smiled when she saw her. “Nice and early,” she remarked with satisfaction. “I knew I could rely on you, Lucy.” She looked Lucy over. “You look a bit peaked, dear. Are you well?”
Despite the fright she had just experienced, Lucy smiled wanly at her friends. “I’m fine. I ran all the way here. Let me just sit a spell.”
“Oh, you do that, dear. Annie, get Lucy some tea, will you?” As Lucy sank gratefully down onto the magistrate’s familiar kitchen bench, Cook continued in her breezy bustling way. “I truly don’t know what the good master was thinking.”
Hearing Cook prattle on was immensely comforting to Lucy. Her frightening confrontation already seemed more distant, as if it had happened to someone else. Except it hadn’t. Once again she patted her skirts, feeling the outline of her pocket containing the brooch.
“Can you imagine?” Cook went on, unaware of her distress. “He invited the Earl to dine this evening, without first discussing what we had in our stores.”
From the Charred Remains (Lucy Campion Mysteries) Page 14
