From the Charred Remains (Lucy Campion Mysteries)

by Susanna Calkins

  “All the letters are here. That must mean something.”

  “Perhaps it means something, perhaps it doesn’t,” the magistrate warned her, but she could hear the rising excitement in his voice too.

  She looked at what was left in the sentence. “That’s certainly a lot of letters. What could they spell? A date?” Her face fell. “The date may have already passed.”

  “Well, we won’t know unless we figure it out. Shall we try each month?”

  “May!” Lucy exclaimed. “Look, here’s May!”

  “As well as the first few letters of August and November. Any dates?” the magistrate said. “Let’s see, I see the numbers ‘one,’ ‘four,’ ‘five,’ ‘seven,’ ‘nine.’”

  “And I see ‘eleven,’” she sighed. “But nothing like ‘first,’ ‘second,’ or ‘third.’”

  Finally, seeing how the candle had burned nearly to the quick, Lucy reluctantly laid down her quill. “Maybe we’re trying to find something that isn’t there,” she said, carefully replacing the stopper in the magistrate’s inkwell.

  “I’ll try to keep thinking about it,” the magistrate promised, although Lucy knew he was quite busy. “Let us not give up.”

  As she was leaving, he surprised her by taking her hand for a moment. “Lucy, I do not truly like these investigations you are taking on yourself, and I know Adam does not either.” He released her hand. “Indulge an old man, will you? Please. Be careful.”

  17

  The next afternoon, Lucy stood before The George, seriously displeased. For mid-October, the weather was a bit warm, even though the morning had started off chilly. She loosened the faded green scarf she’d crisscrossed on her body. Now she could feel sweat trickle uncomfortably down the insides of her dress. She’d barely sold any penny merriments, let alone the longer—and far duller—chapbooks and pamphlets. She had no true accounts of murders or any last dying speeches left with which to tempt the crowd, although she had one piece detailing a monstrous dog, and a bawdy tale of a man thrice cuckolded. Londoners just didn’t seem to be buying today. As Master Aubrey would say, “The crowd can be fickle as any false-hearted lover. What they want today, they’ll forget tomorrow.”

  As she hefted her still heavy pack back onto her shoulders, Lucy got the queasy feeling she was being watched. She peered at the crowd, passing around her, trying to see if anyone was indeed looking at her.

  Straining her eyes, she looked between a soap-seller and two young women eagerly sniffing at her pots and jars. Sure enough, Ashton Hendricks was standing there. She didn’t know how long he’d been watching her. When she marched right up to him, he didn’t seem too surprised.

  “Why in Heaven’s name are you following me?” she asked, trying to look more angry than afraid. “Are you planning to drag me somewhere again? I’m going to scream for the constable, if you don’t tell me this instant.”

  “Why did you go see the Earl’s son?” Hendricks demanded. “I saw you there, speaking to him.”

  “Have you been following me since then?” Lucy countered. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

  They stared at each other fiercely for a moment.

  Then Hendricks gave in, sighing a bit. “No,” he said. “I haven’t been following you. I saw you, and I needed to know what you were up to.”

  Lucy shrugged. “I suppose I’m a bit nosy.”

  “Hoping to add some gold to your pocket, are you?” His yellowish teeth and skin took on a fierce, feral quality. “Trying to make a few coins?”

  Lucy stepped back. “No! Whatever do you mean?”

  “So, you weren’t the one who sent me this?” He brandished a piece of paper in her face. “I just received it.”

  Lucy read the letter over quickly, the base quality causing a sickening feeling in her stomach. The author threatened to tell everyone that Amelie had been prostituting herself and had not even known the father of her son. The last line read “Just Ten Sovereigns, or I will Publish her Deeds for the World to Know.”

  “I swear to you,” she said, handing it back to him. “I had nothing to do with this. I never even knew you.” She frowned. “So someone was blackmailing you about your daughter. I wonder if anyone else was being blackmailed.”

  But Hendricks wasn’t interested in her musings. “Tell me, then, what you wanted from that bloody son of Cumberland. If you weren’t there to blackmail him, then why?”

  “I’m hoping to find out who killed the man in the Cheshire Cheese. His name was Tahmin.”

  Hendricks blinked in surprise. This was not what he was expecting. “The Arab?”

  “He was Persian, actually.”

  The distinction seemed lost on Hendricks. “Why ever do you care?”

  “He was a—” she sought to explain, then stopped. Who was Tahmin to her, anyway? “Friend. Of a Friend.” He was a friend of a friend of a woman Lucy scarcely knew. Not for the first time she wondered at her own drive for the truth.

  Hendricks leaned back against the stone wall. He seemed to be trying to think. “There were only a few of us there that night.”

  Lucy nodded. “That’s right. You. Lord Cumberland. Jacques—he was the card sharp. Tahmin—the man who was killed. Tilly, the barmaid. And you said you heard the bells tolling the Fire soon afterward.” Lucy continued. “Tahmin must have been killed soon after you left.”

  Lucy saw him open and shut his mouth without speaking. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I only just thought of it,” he muttered.

  “Yes?” Lucy felt a surge of excitement.

  “Your friend. Tahmin—was his name?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw Tilly whisper something to those men. While he was arguing with Jacques. I thought this was odd you see.”

  “Odd? Why?”

  “She looked like she was pointing that man out.”

  “Pointing him out?” Lucy repeated. What had Tilly told them? She had to find out. She wheeled abruptly on the balls of her feet, nearly catching her skirts on a piece of wood as she passed.

  “Hey, where are you going?” she heard Hendricks call, but she did not stop her mad pace.

  * * *

  Lucy raced the mile to the Fox and Duck without stopping, not heeding the staring passersby. When she reached the tavern, she doubled over, gasping for breath. She untied her scarf to breathe more easily. Once she had stopped panting, she walked in, without thinking through what she was going to say.

  As before, the tavern was rather dark and dreary, with little light streaming through the windows. There were only a few people in there, gulping beer from their mugs. Right away she saw Tilly, dressed in a drab blue dress, wiping down tables with a bit of a rag.

  “Tilly!” Lucy stormed over. A few people looked up. “You killed him! It was you!”

  Startled, Tilly knocked over a half full pewter mug. Rather than wiping up the mess, she drew herself, planting her meaty hands on her hips. She looked wary, as much like a fox as the sign above the bar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Lucy stood right in front of her. “You killed Tahmin!”

  “Never heard of him,” Tilly said, picking up the pewter mug. She dropped the cloth on the wood floor, swabbing up the spilled beer with a swish of her foot.

  “The Persian man. You told the other men something about him.” She grabbed Tilly’s arm. “At the Cheshire Cheese. You set those men on him.”

  “Aw—what’s she on about, Tilly?” one man said, hunkering over his pint.

  “You kill someone?” slurred another.

  “She’s a madwoman, she is,” Tilly said, to no one in particular. “Escaped from Bedlam, didn’t she?”

  Lucy pulled on Tilly’s sleeve. “You pointed Tahmin out to those men,” she repeated. “Why? Why did you do it?”

  Tilly jerked her arm away. “I didn’t like him.”

  “Why? Because Tahmin bluffed about the value of the contents of the bag? Jacques—or shall I say ‘Jack’—di
dn’t like looking like a fool? Maybe he didn’t take too kindly to being outbluffed.”

  Tilly turned back to Lucy then, so that the two women only had a half-step between them. “See here. Those men had been tippling down. I heard them talking dirty stuff, about French papists and the like. I got the feeling they were waiting for a foreigner, all right? I didn’t know what they were planning, and I didn’t truly care. I just didn’t want it to be Jack. You got that?”

  The barmaid leaned in then, and deliberately burped in Lucy’s face. Lucy gagged, the acrid smell from her breath a bad mixture of stale beer, old cheese, and garlic. Seeing her advantage, Tilly then seized Lucy by the arm and hauled her bodily through the back door and through the kitchen. In passing, she saw an old woman with milky eyes cock her head, and then spit into the boiling pot. Lucy looked away in disgust, even as Tilly threw open the door and pushed her out into the alley.

  “You’d best be leaving well enough alone!” the barmaid said, as they stood out in the alley. There were slops all over the place. Clearly the raker didn’t come back that way all too often.

  Lucy stepped forward, trying not to smell Tilly’s bad breath. “Did you do it? Did you set those men on him?”

  Tilly shrugged, a hard, cynical gesture. “Maybe I did. Look, I didn’t know they would kill the poor sot. I’ve just seen people turn on Jack before, just for being French.” She leaned in toward Lucy. “You should leave now. You should feel lucky no one has been set upon you.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Lucy asked.

  “Nah,” Tilly bared her teeth, a chilly semblance of a smile. “Just a reminder, friendly like, you understand. Don’t come around this way again.”

  18

  “Then I left the Fox and Duck,” Lucy concluded an hour later, having related the entire encounter with Tilly to a very bored Lach. The apprentice was seated on the printer’s bench, a bowl in his hands. When she had returned from the tavern, still blistering from the exchange, she’d found only Lach there, looking miserably at the printer’s stores, trying to figure out what he could eat for supper. The printer was off on a short journey to see the licenser, a trek that always returned him in an angry and contentious mood. Will was nowhere to be found. So as Lucy had fixed supper for Lach and herself, she had angrily related what had happened at the tavern.

  “Tilly never actually struck me, ’tis true, but she did hurt my arm,” Lucy said, pulling up her sleeve to inspect her forearm. She didn’t see any bruising. “I think she knows something. Maybe I went about it the wrong way.”

  “Serves you right. You’re lucky she didn’t wallup you,” Lach said, not too sympathetically. “I don’t think you’d fare too well in a skirmish. Tilly sounds tough.” He cocked his ear. “Is someone at the door?”

  Lucy gestured toward their shuttered window. “See if it’s Will. Master Aubrey would use his key around back.” She began to scrape the last of her bowl into the slop bucket.

  Grunting slightly, Lach peered out the window onto the street below. “Not Will.” Taking a deep breath, he shouted, “We’re closed! Come back tomorrow!” He threw up his hands. “Honestly!” he muttered. “A Lady from Leicester-shire can wait!!”

  Then an angry voice—one that was quite familiar to them both—boomed out with authority. “It’s Constable Duncan. Unlock this door at once. I need to speak to Miss Campion. Now!”

  “Be right there!” Lucy called, hurriedly taking off her apron. She smoothed her skirts as she crossed the room.

  Behind her, Lach clambered up, quick on her heels. “Look how she jumps when her constable calls!”

  “Hush!” Lucy glared at him.

  Lach crossed in front of her, so that he reached the door first. For a moment he barred her way. “Now why ever would our dear constable wish to speak to you? At this time of the evening, no less.”

  “Open the door, Lach,” Lucy said through gritted teeth.

  “As you wish,” he said. But as he unbarred the door, the apprentice began to loudly sing the disparaging words of an anonymous ballad he’d been hawking earlier. “The Devil take the constable’s head, if we beg milk, bacon, butter or bread…”

  “Shh! He’ll hear you!” Lucy hissed at him.

  “Nah, he won’t. He’s too busy being important.” He tugged on the bar. “Gimme a hand, will you? This bar’s heavy.”

  “Now!” the constable shouted from the other side of the door. His proximity to them made them both jump.

  Lucy scrambled to help Lach raise the bar that kept the shop door barred from outsiders. The constable strode in, and looked around. The larger bellman was with him. Neither looked very friendly.

  “Duncan, what’s wrong?” Lucy asked.

  “Miss Campion.” He frowned at her. “Tell me where you were this afternoon.”

  “I-I was here,” she stumbled, wondering at his unexpectedly formal tone, “at the shop, printing several almanacs and then I was hawking at the George—”

  “The George, alright.” Duncan waved his hand to stop her. “Did your master send you somewhere else?”

  “Yes, I mean, no. He didn’t send me anywhere.”

  “So are you denying you were at the Fox and Duck in Smithfield?”

  Lucy swallowed. What in heaven’s name was going on? She wondered. “Well, no. I was there.”

  “You just said you were here. Which is it?”

  “You asked if he sent me somewhere. He did not.”

  Constable Duncan looked around. “Where is he now?”

  Lucy stared at him, but answered the question. “Master Aubrey’s away, on a journey. He had an appointment to see the Licenser of the Press, Roger L’Estrange. He must have taken lodging overnight. He’s done that before.” She paused. “What is this about?”

  The constable did not answer her. “What was your business at the Fox and Duck earlier today?” he countered instead.

  Lucy’s mind began to reel, remembering her skirmish with the barmaid. Had the wench complained about her public accusation? If so, she needed to make sure Duncan understood why she’d blame her. “Tilly!” she blurted. “I went to speak to Tilly.”

  “So I gather. Why?”

  “It was something Ashton Hendricks said.” Lucy sank down on the printer’s bench. Dimly she noted that Lach had spilled some ink and had not scrubbed the area clean with lye, as he was supposed to. Master Aubrey would not like it; he could be quite particular about the cleanliness of his shop. Sometimes she wondered if the printer held cleanliness a bit higher than he held godliness.

  Duncan rapped his knuckles on a low fixed timber just above his head. “Which was?”

  “Tilly pointed Tahmin out to those men. She said they’d been talking of killing a foreigner. She thought they might be after Jacques. I suppose she was trying to protect Jacques? Made up that story…?”

  The constable made an exasperated gesture. “What are you talking about? Speak sense, lass!”

  Lucy did not like his tone and apparently neither did Lach. He had retreated to the corner, but was watching them warily. For once he’d dropped the mocking look.

  “I think Jacques was the one who was blackmailing Lord Cumberland,” Lucy said. “Or maybe it was Tilly. I’m not sure. She was definitely trying to protect Jacques.” Lucy stopped. She looked at the constable. “What are you doing here?”

  “You left something of yours at the tavern.” He produced her green scarf. “I know this is yours. I recognized it.”

  “Oh, I wondered where I had left it!” Lucy said, standing up. She was frantically trying to remember when she’d last seen the scarf. It must have slipped off when Tilly chased her out, she thought. Then she felt indignant. Tilly, that harlot, must have kept it.

  “Thank you.” When she reached for the scarf, he held it above his head. She frowned. “May I have it back, please?”

  She could see Lach narrow his eyes. The apprentice shared most Londoners’ distrust of authorities, especially those with the ability to haul a fellow off to
jail for having a bit of fun.

  “Tell me, Miss Campion,” the constable waited, still watching her.

  “Yes? What?” She dropped her outstretched hand.

  “Tell me why your scarf was found with Tilly Baker’s dead body.”

  “What? Tilly Baker was murdered?” Lucy sat back down abruptly. “No! That can’t be true.”

  “You argued with her, from what I hear.” Duncan watched her closely. “Close to blows, you were.”

  Lucy fanned herself with her hand. Suddenly the shop seemed unbearably warm, even though she’d already banked the fire. “Well, clearly she was killed after I left.”

  “After you argued with her. Don’t even try to deny it. Several people witnessed your argument.”

  “They didn’t witness me kill her!” Seeing the bellman’s eyebrows raise, she added, “You know what I mean!”

  “Tell me then.”

  Lucy quickly described her meeting with Tilly. “Constable,” Lucy said, winking back tears, “you know that I did not murder Tilly.”

  She saw the bellman shuffle his feet. Duncan did not meet her eyes. “I need to consider the facts,” he said. “Several witnesses will state in a court of law that you were seen scuffling with her, and then you continued your fight outside the inn. Shortly afterward, Tilly Baker was found dead. Do you deny this?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” Lucy stopped, confused. “Surely someone must have seen her alive after our—” she cast about for a term, “disagreement.” She thought back to the people at the inn. “There was a woman in the kitchen. The cook, I guess. She spit in the stew—”

  Duncan interrupted her. “I’m here to enforce the law. That’s what you prefer, isn’t it?”

  Lucy began to breathe heavily. She knew only too well how gossip could be shaped into truth. She tried to speak evenly. “Constable, you yourself said some time back, that you promised yourself not to jump to conclusions again and—”