Duncan cut her off. “Are you here alone? Aside from this nitwit, I mean?” He gestured toward Lach, who let out an indignant and decidedly unmanly squeak. “You said Master Aubrey is off to the licenser’s. Where’s your brother?”
Lucy didn’t want to admit that as usual she didn’t know where her brother was. The constable must have read it on her face. “You’re coming with me.”
Against her will, Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. “Are you arresting me?” Even though Newgate had been destroyed in the Great Fire, the thought of being hauled off to jail sickened her. That he was accusing her of murder truly stung.
“I’ll give you five minutes. Collect your things.”
* * *
Exactly five minutes later, Lucy found herself walking up Fleet Street between the constable and the larger bellman, still silent. When she retrieved her cloak, she’d spent a few minutes pleading with Lach to take a note to the magistrate, but the apprentice had refused. First, she threatened him. “You’ll have to do all the chores if I get locked up.” When that didn’t work, she tried pleading. “I’ll do all your duties for a week!”
“It’s near curfew,” Lach stated flatly. “For sure the bellman will be tolling nine on my way back. I’m not getting arrested for breaking curfew. The magistrate can get you out in the morning.”
Lucy did not say a word to Duncan as they walked up the street to the jail. It seemed that he was walking very slowly, as if he wanted everyone in all of London, or at least everyone coming from market, to take notice. Thankfully, he had not brought around the cart to haul her away, although there were still enough gossips on the streets to notice them. Walking with the constable would damage her reputation, no matter what people thought. She could see her neighbors, returning home from their long day’s laboring, scrutinizing her, whispering behind closed hands.
Throughout the embarrassingly long walk along Fleet Street, Duncan kept his her hand on her elbow, a subtle reminder that he would grab her should she try to run. Lucy kept her head down, focusing on putting one step in front of the other. The initial shock past, her mind was starting to clear, reviewing her encounter with Tilly.
When they arrived at the jail, Duncan murmured something to the bellman who stepped into the cell and wiped the dirt off the bench. Still in shock, Lucy didn’t quite catch it. She numbly accepted the blanket that Duncan thrust in her arms, before stepping back out.
She watched him sit down at his table, his back to her. She would have cast the woolen pieces away, but she remembered from her visits to see her brother in Newgate how cold the bench could get. Luckily, there were no other inhabitants, human, rodent, or otherwise, within the cell. The bellman left, to go call the hour and walk the streets. Curfew was nigh.
Lucy stomped inside the cell, and crossed her arms. She expected Duncan to lock the door behind her, but he didn’t. Seeing the back of his head made her even angrier. He could at least give her the dignity of looking upon her. “You truly think that I murdered that woman? Why in the world would I do that?” She tapped her foot angrily, waiting for him to answer. “You believe a bunch of drunken sots more than you believe me?”
At that, Duncan looked up. “Are you more mad that I don’t believe you, or that I locked you up? I can hardly tell.”
“You didn’t lock me up,” Lucy pointed out. “It seems I could just walk straight back to my home, should I please.”
Moving quickly, Duncan barred the entrance before she could make good on her threat. “I wouldn’t do that, Lucy.” Vaguely, she noted that he had referred to her again by her first name, no longer the overly formal speech he’d used before. He nodded toward the small table in the corner of the room. “Why don’t you come sit down? How about some hot cider? You seem cold.”
Without waiting for her to answer, Duncan poured some steaming cider into a mug that had been hanging from a peg on the wall. He set it on the edge of his desk. Lucy frowned at the gesture. Being a bit cold though, Lucy soon flounced over to the chair and sat down. She picked up the mug, not wanting to look particularly interested in its contents. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help but notice small leaves floating in her cup. She sniffed. Nutmeg. A costly spice. She looked back at the constable. “Am I under arrest?”
To her surprise, Duncan laughed. “Hardly.”
“Then why—?”
“It’s safer if people think you’ve been locked up for Tilly Baker’s murder.”
“Safer how?” Lucy glared at Duncan. Unable to help herself, she took a deep sip. The cider was good and she felt warmer, less dazed.
“Safer than having the real murderer come after you.”
Lucy set the mug abruptly down on his desk, not caring that a few drops spilled on his papers. “Why ever would the murderer come after me?”
“Look, you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something. Again. I can’t take the chance. This way at least, you’re protected. The true murderer will be satisfied to have you swing for Tilly’s murder.”
Lucy shuddered.
“Believe me. For now, this is the best way to protect you.” He checked his timepiece, a surprisingly elegant little affair. Idly, she wondered how he’d been able to afford it. He pulled on his coat. “Don’t worry. The bellman—Hank—will watch over you. He’s just outside.”
“You’re leaving me?” She could not keep the slight note of fear out of her voice. “Where are you going?”
“There’s been a murder, Lucy,” he reminded her, speaking as if she were a babe being dandled on her mother’s knee. “I must track the monster down.”
This was too much. “You’re not leaving me here. I want to go home.”
“No, Lucy. I can’t let you stay home alone. You’ll be protected here. Tilly’s murderer won’t come after you if he thinks you’ve been arrested. He probably thinks he’s in the clear.”
“I can stay at the magistrate’s house,” she said stoutly. “He’ll protect me.”
He looked at her steadily. “I have no doubt that the magistrate, good man that he is, would seek to protect you. What about him? You would put the magistrate in that position? Sheltering an alleged murderer? Isn’t it bad enough that he’s got that pickpocket, Sid, in his occasional employ?”
Again, as much as she hated to admit it, deep in her heart she knew the constable was right. Duncan was about to say something else when they heard a horse whinny outside the window, and the sounds of a cart drawing up on the gravel. The constable glanced out. “Miss Campion. Lucy, please! Into the cell, if you would. We must maintain pretenses.”
Lucy stepped into the cell, trying not to flinch when the metal door clanged shut behind her, and the constable turned the key in the lock. “Why, who’s coming?”
A moment later, the outside door swung open and Lucy could see for herself. Hank was standing there, accompanied by a straggly unkempt man. He looked grizzled, his beard was uncombed, and his shirtfront was stained with what looked to be an indiscriminate partaking of grease and food. When Lucy caught wind of the man she nearly swooned from the stench. The smell of decay, coupled with all manner of rotting garbage. From the hallows of his eyes, Lucy fancied for a dark moment that his very soul was drifting toward her. She recognized him, or, at least, she knew his smell. He was a raker, one of those godforsaken sorts, commissioned with removing slops, animal remains and sewage, and all else that everyone tried to ignore. He spoke, his words raspy. “I got the body. Where do you want it?”
“Oh, no, Constable,” Lucy taunted. “Dr. Larimer will be none too pleased that the body’s been moved.”
Constable Duncan looked annoyed. “I gave strict instructions that the body was to be left till the morning.”
The raker shrugged. “The owner of the tavern—the Fox and Duck, was it?—he wasn’t wishing to lose no business. Said I had to take the body, or he’d chuck it himself.” He held out his hand. “That’s a half-crown. Else I dump it in Hounds-ditch.”
Reluctantly, Duncan passed the raker the coin. Th
e next few minutes the three men were busy with the body, while Lucy watched the proceedings with great curiosity from her bench in the cell. First, the constable produced a table, upon which they laid Tilly’s body. They steadily regarded the deceased barmaid while the constable lit several lanterns to better view the body. The tavern miss was still dressed as Lucy had last seen her, wearing her faded blue dress, sleeves still rolled up, revealing her plump dimpled elbows. Except, now, dried blood seemed to cover much of her upper torso.
Lucy saw the raker crook his finger behind his back, bringing down an ancient blessing from the heavens upon Tilly’s soul. Something about that small gesture warmed her to the bedraggled man. Then he left and the bellman stepped outside, having been given orders to bring a note to Dr. Larimer. The next instant she heard the raker rattle off in his cart, leaving her and Duncan alone with Tilly’s body. He unlocked her cell again, and set to work.
The constable moved several lamps closer to the corpse. Lucy flinched, able to see now what she had not been able to see before. Tilly’s face was a terrible mottled purple, and it looked like her tongue was swollen. They both regarded the corpse solemnly.
“Was she strangled?” Lucy asked. “I mean, it’s obvious she was stabbed.”
The constable shook his head. “Maybe poisoned. I’ll need the physician to say for sure.”
Lucy leaned forward, squinting. “Hey, look at her hand,” she said. “There may be something there.”
“Oh, Lucy,” the constable sighed. “Do you truly think her finger is pointing to the murderer? You must admit, there aren’t too many possible candidates here, unless you want me to drop the pretense and keep you locked up for real.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “No, I mean, look in her hand. Something’s in her fingers.” She stepped out of the unlocked cell and toward the table.
“Oh.” The constable seized Tilly’s hand, and with a quick sickening gesture, pried open her fingers. Carefully, he pulled out a piece of paper. Glancing at it, he frowned.
“What is it?”
He passed the paper to her. “What do you make of this?”
Lucy took the scrap, rolling it in her fingers. Not a very rich quality, to be sure. The paper was rather pulplike, as from one of the newer paper mills. It was certainly not vellum, or the finer grade of paper that the magistrate and Adam used. She said as much to the constable.
“What about the writing?”
Lucy scrutinized the words more closely. She could only make out the end of a sentence. Three words, all capitalized, as was common in letters. “… Expect it To-Day.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Lucy commented, holding the paper up to the candle. The script was not that of an uneducated barmaid, but rather by someone with a well-practiced hand. The flourish of the “D” somehow seemed familiar. She snapped her fingers. “Do you still have the items from Tahmin’s body?”
“Right here.” He pushed the leather pocket across the table, and watched her open it up.
She pulled out the three cards that bore Jacques’s scrawled signature, comparing the letter “D” in each. “They look the same, do you think?”
The constable nodded, pulling a blanket over Tilly’s head. “Could be from Durand’s hand,” he conceded. “What of it?”
“This suggests that the card sharp was blackmailing someone. Tilly? Since the note was in her fist.” Lucy shook her head. “However, I can’t make any sense of it. Why on earth would he have blackmailed Tilly? He truly seemed to care for her.”
“It would not be the first time a person was deceived by one whom they loved.”
Lucy looked at him in surprise, but said nothing, allowing his fervent words to hang heavily in the air. He coughed, as if to dispel the strange moment, and went on. “Or more likely, Tilly and Durand were working together. Maybe the person being blackmailed was the one who set upon her.”
Closing her eyes, Lucy tried to work out the sequence of events, unconsciously imitating the magistrate. “First, I had my conversation with Tilly this afternoon.”
“Where you got into a scuffle.”
“Yes and then I left,” Lucy stated firmly.
“Alright!” he said. “I don’t think you killed her. Tilly was found behind the tavern. By the empty barrels. We found her slop pail nearby. So what happened in the hour or so between the time you left her and the time she was killed?”
“Was she killed by someone they were blackmailing, or someone else altogether?” Lucy asked.
“Or someone who suspects she may have brought about the death of her friend.” His insinuation was clear.
“Not Miss Water!”
The constable looked at her, almost pityingly. “How well do you know Miss Water, Lucy?”
Lucy stopped, considering the constable’s question. Not well at all, if she were to be strictly honest. Certainly, Miss Water had not been completely straightforward herself in sharing information. Not deceptive exactly, but she hadn’t been completely forthcoming about her relationship with Darius, and then with Tahmin. “I can’t believe it was Miss Water,” Lucy said thinly. “What—she went to the Fox and Duck, and then killed Tilly after I left? I can’t believe that! It must have been someone else.”
“Who stands to gain?” Duncan asked.
“Well. The person being blackmailed, of course.” She slammed her hand on the table. “Hendricks! He was being blackmailed! He just told me so! He even showed me the note.” Her voice trailed off, seeing the constable’s thunderous expression. “I forgot about it, with the excitement of being arrested and seeing the body and all.”
“Hendricks was being blackmailed?” Duncan asked, tapping his hand on his leg. “Tell me everything.”
Quickly she told him what she knew. “You’ll need to talk to him.”
“Yes, I gathered that.”
“And you’ll need to speak to Durand again,” Lucy offered.
“Yes, Lucy. I gathered that as well. First thing in the morning.”
“I thought you were leaving,” she commented, still a bit annoyed.
“Well, now that the damn raker delivered my body, there’s not much for me to do. As such, even I must obey the mayor’s curfew. This means I must also snuff our candles.”
Lucy looked back in the cell, eyeing the hard bench and tattered blanket doubtfully. She’d faced worse. But with Tilly’s corpse, rotting on the table beside her. And without even a candle—
Seeing her shiver, Duncan sighed. “Come with me.”
After barring the outer door, the constable beckoned her to follow him down the corridor. He opened another door into a set of rooms to reveal a small kitchen, an eating area, and a sleeping area. Like Master Aubrey, the chandler had probably once slept in a large room nearby to easily tend to his shop. She could see another room that an apprentice may once have made use of as well.
He pointed to a pallet in the larger room, by the unlit fireplace. “You can sleep there.”
“Where will you sleep?”
He pointed to a small side door. “Back there.” He handed her another blanket. “That’s it, so don’t ask for anything else.”
“Is this place where … you live?”
If he heard the shock in her voice, he chose to ignore it. “Currently. And Lucy, for your sake, don’t even think of leaving. There are a lot of highwaymen about, and scant protection. Not to mention a murderer on the loose.”
When the constable stepped away, leaving the door open between them, Lucy removed her outer dress, shivering in her woolen shift, wishing the fire could have been lit. The gray blanket she had been holding had a funny smell, and she wondered for a moment whether it had ever been wrapped around a corpse. She laid the gray blanket on top of the blue one, so that when she crawled in, the one closest to her face was the one that had already been spread across the pallet. For one moment, Tilly’s mocking face flashed before her. She screwed her eyes shut, trying not to think of Tilly lying out there, exposed and alone.
Huddl
ing under the blankets, Lucy thought she would not be able to fall asleep, but the pallet proved far more comfortable than she expected. She could hear Duncan’s breathing from the other room. On a whim, she called softly to him. “Good night, Duncan.”
His breathing stopped for a moment, as if he had taken a deep breath. “Good night, Lucy,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She put all thoughts of Tilly aside, allowing the fatigue of the day to catch up with her, and she quickly drifted off.
19
“Murder. No doubt about it.” Dr. Larimer put down one of his metal instruments. The physician had arrived early in the morning to examine the corpse, accompanied by a tall, gangly young man who had been introduced simply as “James Sheridan, my assistant, if he can hang on.” Finally spying Lucy, who’d been sitting demurely in her cell, the physician lowered his spectacles in a questioning way.
“I’ve been accused of this woman’s murder,” Lucy told him brightly. “I didn’t do it, of course. The constable thought I would be safer here, in case the real murderer came around.” Catching the constable’s dour look, she added, “What? Dr. Larimer knows I didn’t kill her. There’s no use pretending otherwise.”
“Lucy?” Dr. Larimer scoffed. “I should think not.” The physician gingerly pulled back the dirty blanket covering Tilly’s body. He selected a pair of sharp scissors from a collection of metal instruments that he’d laid on a tray prior to beginning the dissection. “May as well examine the body here,” he grumbled when he arrived. “Since the body’s already been moved.” After cutting through the front of her frock, he’d spent the next thirty minutes carefully examining her. From time to time, he’d murmur something to Sheridan. Lucy looked on with considerable curiosity. During her time working at the magistrate’s household, she’d heard the physician describe findings he’d gleaned from dissecting a corpse. Certainly, she had never seen such a thing performed, and she couldn’t help but feel a bit intrigued, if a little sick, too.
From the Charred Remains (Lucy Campion Mysteries) Page 23
