The Sign of the Gallows

by Susanna Calkins

  Lucy patted her hand. ‘I promise to treat them with care.’ She began to look over the messages. Like the message found on the body, they were all in the same coded rows of mixed-up letters and symbols, although the paper was far finer and the writing far more elegant.

  ‘They’d send them back and forth to each other,’ Mrs Wallace explained, her face growing flushed. She tapped on one of the messages. ‘This line was written by my husband. That script’ – she tapped the other – ‘was penned by that woman.’

  ‘Is one of these the cipher?’ Lucy asked, looking at all the pages.

  ‘Alas, no. I did not find it when I searched the hearth,’ Mrs Wallace replied. She sighed. ‘I suppose it is good that I never had the key, for the Devil would surely have tempted me to decipher their exchanges. My heart would have been injured, far more than it has already been.’ She stood up, wiping her eyes. ‘Let us visit my husband now. I’m sure he shall be delighted with the selections you have brought.’

  Before they left the chamber, Mrs Wallace gripped her arm. ‘Pray, do not mention what we discussed or bring that woman’s name up. She caused quite a rift in our marriage that has only come to be mended over time. I should not like to see the fabric of our union pulled apart by the threads again.’ She stared into Lucy’s eyes. ‘You saw how he pretended not to recognize the cipher. Perhaps he was initially deluded because it was not in her hand, but there was an excitement there as well. I sometimes think his feelings for her are hiding just below the surface.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘I sometimes worry that if she were so inclined, she could seduce him again.’

  Lucy’s heart lurched. How awful to feel so uncertain in love! But had she not experienced such discomfiting sentiments herself? ‘I will not say anything to him,’ she said, following Mrs Wallace out of the room.

  ‘My dear, we have a visitor,’ Mrs Wallace called, after knocking several times on the door of the study.

  ‘Go away,’ they could hear his muffled reply.

  ‘He’s a bit cranky,’ Mrs Wallace said. ‘When he’s in this state, he’ll only come out for luncheon.’

  ‘I have brought some tracts for you,’ Lucy called, not deterred. She began to read off one of the titles, which was all in Latin. She knew she was butchering it by the way Mrs Wallace was grinning and holding her ears.

  At that, Professor Wallace stuck his head out. ‘I am trying to think!’ he nearly shouted at his wife. Then, recognizing Lucy, he stopped short. ‘You! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was hoping to trade some of these for the Babington tract.’ His brow cleared and they proceeded to negotiate for a while, with Lucy getting the best of it. She would have conceded on a few prices, but Professor Wallace was not used to haggling. Even the Babington tract cost her very little.

  When they were done, Mrs Wallace walked her out of the house. ‘Come back any time, Lucy. You have provided an unexpected bright spot to my day. Please do keep an eye out for tracts that Professor Wallace might enjoy.’

  She pressed Mrs Wallace’s hand. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wallace – Joanna. I will certainly do that. And what you’ve given me should be helpful.’ With that, Lucy walked quickly home, hoping she could get through her mountain of chores quickly and start trying to decipher the message.

  TEN

  Later that night, once Lucy had mopped the floors and cleaned the supper dishes, she retreated to her bedchamber where she could at last review the writings she’d received from Joanna Wallace. There were six pieces in all, each having been written on the same fine parchment, although it was different from what had been discovered on the body of the corpse. She began to smooth the sheets out, laying them side by side so she could view them all at once.

  Upon first glance she could see that they contained rows of letters and symbols, all neatly printed by hand, not printed on a printing press. The messages appeared to have been written by two people, with two different pens. The first hand was Professor Wallace’s elegant and precise script, while Miss de Witte’s handwriting seemed less practised and consistent.

  She picked up one of the shorter messages, in which Professor Wallace had written: E C XKVJT RBI BIANR AJT LGIAPI RBI IZI. RI HI XBAR C AH EZ AJT EZ. The second part was shorter still and contained Miss de Witte’s response. L UANYX .

  ‘What does this mean?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Is there truly a rhyme or reason to these?’

  She pulled out the Babington tract and began to read through it. The first part was hard going, containing lengthy and complex discussions of mathematical symbols and formulas that she did not understand. She started to flip through the tract in dismay, feeling disappointed that she could not make sense of it for herself. Then, towards the end, she found an excerpt of the key to the Babington cipher. Excitedly, she began to check all of the characters and symbols on each of the messages against the key. A number of the symbols had to do with royal doings and army manoeuvres.

  ‘There’s the sign of the gallows that Professor Wallace had mentioned,’ Lucy said, looking at the π symbol.

  She continued to pour over the key, comparing it to all the symbols. She was just beginning to give up hope when she found a match. She sucked in her breath. The symbol stood for the word ‘Devil’. It appeared three times, once on each of the first three lines. She sat back. What could it mean? No answer presented itself. She kept checking and double-checking the messages against the Babington tract, to no avail. There were no other matches to be found.

  Retrieving some sheets of paper from a small box she kept on her table, she dipped one of her newly sharpened quills into a jar of black ink. Slowly, tediously, she began to copy each of the messages on to fresh pieces of paper, double-checking as she went to make sure she did not make a mistake. She spread them out so that the ink could dry without getting smudged.

  Finally, hearing the church bells distantly chiming eleven o’clock, she reluctantly blew out her candle and crawled into bed.

  ‘Look, this message talks about the Devil,’ Lucy said, trying to get the others interested in what she had figured out the night before. Although it was just past eight o’clock, everyone was still looking a bit bleary as they began to ready themselves for church.

  ‘Not so loud, would you, sister?’ Will said, rubbing his forehead. ‘I had rather a late night last night.’

  Lach nudged him. ‘Out too late with the ladies, eh?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Will replied, giving them all a cheeky grin.

  ‘I don’t believe I even heard you come in last night,’ Master Aubrey commented, and Will’s grin grew wider. ‘Who’s to say I did?’

  Lucy flicked her finger at him. ‘I’m trying to tell you something important,’ she said.

  ‘That the message you found is about the Devil? That seems far-fetched, don’t you think? Hardly a subject while we prepare our countenances for church and absolution,’ Will said, adopting the serious tones of a priest.

  Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘I wasn’t saying it was about the Devil.’

  ‘What’s it about, then?’ Lach asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she replied, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. ‘Still, it means something that the word was repeated, I just know it.’

  None of the others were impressed. ‘You should wait till you figure out more of the message before you start crowing,’ Lach said.

  ‘I wasn’t crowing,’ Lucy said hotly. She wanted to tell Duncan, and Adam for that matter, about what she had learned. Yet it did seem as if she was making too much of her discovery. Well, then, perhaps I’ll wait to say anything about it. Although, she thought, there’s no reason I couldn’t mention it when I see Duncan at church.

  ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ Master Aubrey said as the congregation roamed out of the hallowed doors of St Dunstan-in-the-West and into the dusty road after the morning service. ‘I just need a word with the good priest before we leave.’

  ‘He wants the priest to know he was there today,’ Lach muttered to Will, and they all lau
ghed. It was no small secret that Master Aubrey would much rather be in a tavern or in his own bed than a pew, but the priest had begun to take note of his absences on recent Sundays. Later, he was supposed to instruct his servants and apprentice in the Bible, as befitting a godly master of the household, but it was more likely he’d head to a friend’s house to play some cards.

  ‘Hope it doesn’t take too long! We’ve got some broth and bread prepared for our noon meal,’ Lucy said. Given that they weren’t supposed to toil on the Lord’s Day, their meals today would be simple but hearty. I wonder if I can look at the ciphers today, rather than read the Bible, she thought, immediately feeling guilty. Not exactly the Lord’s work. Although the good Lord would hardly wish a murderer to go free, she supposed. Of course, it’s unlikely that Master Aubrey would mind her efforts, as long as her efforts were not known to others and thus reflect badly on him.

  As they waited for the master printer to return, Lucy looked around for Duncan. She’d not seen him earlier during the service and she still wanted to tell him about the little thing she had discovered. For some time, they’d been attending the same service, though by design or by simple coincidence she could not say.

  Almost as if she had conjured him, he appeared at the church gate and strode over to her. ‘Lucy! I thought I’d find you here,’ he said. ‘Do you have a moment?’

  ‘Good morning, Constable Duncan,’ she replied. She glanced over at Master Aubrey, who was still waiting to speak to the priest. ‘I have a few minutes still.’

  ‘What do you need with Lucy now, Constable?’ Will asked.

  ‘Is she doing all your investigations?’ Lach chimed in.

  Ignoring the others, he said in a low tone. ‘Paul Corbyn should have been buried today,’ he said. ‘As we suspected, the church has refused to bury him or give him a proper funeral, because they believe him to be a suicide.’

  ‘But he wasn’t,’ Lucy said.

  ‘I was over at St Clement’s just now, on a hunch it might have been attended by the Corbyns. Sure enough, I saw Mrs Corbyn pleading with the priest to bury her husband, but he refused to do so. She was distraught.’

  ‘Why did she not have Doctor Larimer send an official declaration to this effect? Surely he would have done so.’

  ‘I agree. I was surprised, too. In fact, I very nearly intervened, because she continued to plead for mercy on her husband’s behalf as a suicide.’

  ‘How odd,’ Lucy replied. ‘Does she not understand what you were telling her?’

  ‘I’m not sure what she understands,’ Duncan replied. ‘I was thinking that we might speak to her together. I am certain she is hiding something.’

  ‘Why do you need Lucy to come with you?’ Lach asked again.

  Lucy scratched her elbow, waiting for Duncan to reply. His answer was glib, almost as if he had practised it. ‘Mrs Corbyn may be willing to talk if another woman is there. It is just a hunch. I believe that Hank and I might have distressed her when we last spoke to her. I am hoping that Lucy’s presence may be more calming and help us acquire the answers we seek.’

  Lucy sighed. While it was true that the rawness of death had likely damaged the woman’s resolve, she wished that they did not have to enquire after the truth in such a fashion. ‘All right, here’s Master Aubrey,’ she said, seeing the printer on his way back. ‘I’ll ask his leave.’

  ‘I’m ready for my noon meal,’ Master Aubrey said, smacking his lips. ‘Duncan, would you care to join us?’

  The constable smiled. ‘No, sir. Thank you, I cannot. I have some official business to attend to.’

  Master Aubrey jabbed his finger at Lucy playfully. ‘Why do I feel as if you won’t be around either? How am I expected to instruct your foolish mind with the teachings of the Bible?’ He continued to grumble as he walked away, still shaking his head. ‘Yet I’m the one who comes to grief with the priest. How is that fair?’

  ELEVEN

  Lucy shifted the straw basket in her hands as she and Duncan walked down the street where the Corbyns lived. She’d stopped back at Aubrey’s to grab one of the jars of stew that Cook had given to her the other day, thinking it best to bring along victuals when visiting someone in mourning. Seeing this, Duncan offered up a small leek and chicken pie as well. ‘I was planning to have that for my noonday meal,’ he said regretfully.

  ‘Did you make it yourself?’ she asked, sniffing it appreciatively. ‘I didn’t know you had such skill.’

  ‘No, no, someone brought it by for me.’

  Lucy gave Duncan a sidelong glance which he did not return. She knew from time to time there were ladies in the area who hoped to make a match with the constable, but so far none of them had come close.

  Walking down the street, it was quickly evident which was the Corbyns’ home. Rushes had been laid in the street to soften the sound of horses’ hooves and rattling carriage wheels, and they could see that the unshuttered windows had been draped in black crêpe, suggesting the house was in mourning for a man of means.

  ‘Mr Corbyn must have been successful in his trade,’ Lucy whispered, peering about curiously.

  ‘I suppose. For all the good it did him,’ Duncan replied as he knocked on the front door.

  A servant opened the door, her eyes clear of tears. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, recognizing Duncan.

  ‘We’re here to see your mistress,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We should very much like to pay our respects.’

  ‘Is that so?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  What an odd servant, Lucy thought. So disrespectful. She’d never have lasted a minute at the Hargraves’ or Larimers’. Or even at Master Aubrey’s, for that matter, and he was the least observant of his godly duties of the lot.

  ‘Yes,’ Duncan said, more firmly.

  The servant shrugged. ‘Mrs Corbyn is in the drawing room. If you would follow me.’

  As the servant led them down the long corridor, Lucy peered all around. The place appeared fancy and elegant but not particularly well kept. It looked as if it hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned in a long time, and there was dust, cobwebs and fur everywhere. Even some dried leaves left over from autumn foliage. Not many servants must work here, Lucy thought. Or they are very poor indeed. It said something about the state of the household to see such disrepair.

  ‘Have there been many other mourners?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘No,’ the servant replied, sounding smug. ‘A dreadful thing, to be sure. Self-murder is a shameful act. Although he was not even particularly melancholic, to my mind.’

  Behind her, Lucy and Duncan exchanged a bemused glance. Lucy grabbed his arm so that he would slow down. ‘Why would she tell the servant that it was suicide? You already told her the physicians thought otherwise?’ she whispered.

  Before they could ask anything else, the servant threw open the doors of the drawing room. There were no mourners there, Lucy noted as they walked in. No trenchers of food had been laid out either, as if Mrs Corbyn had not expected any visitors. The only sign of mourning here was the black crêpe draped across a pair of mirrors on the side wall.

  Mrs Corbyn looked at them. ‘Oh, Constable Duncan’ she said, appearing fatigued. Was there a touch of fear there as well? ‘What are you doing here? Is there something else I can do for you?’ She looked at her servant. ‘Bertha, you may be excused.’

  The servant left the room, but Lucy had the feeling she was probably lingering on the other side of the door, her ear pressed to the wood. Such was the way of servants, keeping tabs on the doings of the household.

  Lucy looked around the room in curiosity. There were stately paintings adorning the walls, mostly portraits of stern-looking men and barely smiling women. Someone had pasted penny pieces next to them. Most of the cheaper pieces appeared to be of a religious nature – sermons, notices of miracles and other true accounts focusing on the glory of God. It was not uncommon to post such pieces, but usually that was something that poorer people did – those who could not afford framed art and
leather-bound books – not those of the merchant’s superior sort.

  She gestured wearily at Lucy. ‘Who’s she?’

  Lucy stepped forward, holding out the basket ‘I brought these for you. Just a meal—’

  ‘Why would you give that to me? Do you know me?’

  ‘Well, no. I’m an acquaintance of the constable and I heard about what happened and—’

  Mrs Corbyn interrupted her with an unpleasant sound. ‘I don’t need anything from the likes of you.’

  Lucy stepped back. The woman sounded more like a fishmonger’s wife than the widow of a well-to-do merchant.

  Duncan coughed. ‘As I already informed you, Mrs Corbyn, your husband’s death was most certainly not a suicide. The physician has confirmed this beyond doubt.’ He lowered his voice, probably also aware that the servant was listening at the door. ‘Have you had any more thoughts about his death? Did he have enemies? Anyone who might have wanted him dead?’

  Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘Constable Duncan, I know that he died of his own hand, as much as it pains me to say. He’ll get a suicide’s death, buried in unhallowed ground, with no funeral service. The priest assured me of that today.’ She gulped, fighting back tears. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him now, and I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut.’

  She picked up a small silver bell from the table, and the door opened almost instantly at its tinkling sound.

  ‘Bertha, these guests are leaving now. Please show them out.’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ the servant said, sounding more defiant than meek.

  To Lucy’s surprise, Mrs Corbyn did not comment on the seeming insubordination of her servant, choosing to ignore it instead. ‘I’m going to my room to rest. Suddenly, I’ve got quite a headache. You can bring me a tisane later.’

  Without another look towards Duncan and Lucy, Mrs Corbyn swept out of the room. With that movement, for the first time her actions seemed befitting of a wealthy merchant’s wife.