The Masque of a Murderer

by Susanna Calkins

  “Oh, John,” she said, sinking down onto the kitchen bench. “Jacob Whitby is dead.” She sat there for a moment before heading off to tell Sarah that John had arrived to escort them home.

  Sarah followed her back to the kitchen, and Lucy picked up their cloaks, prepared to leave. “Please leave my cloak, Lucy,” she said. Turning to John, Sarah said, “Thou must tell Father that I am needed here. Pray, escort Lucy back to Master Aubrey’s. My place is here. I will return to my father’s home in the morning.”

  From behind Sarah’s shoulder, Lucy met John’s eyes in mutual comprehension. This was the old willful Sarah speaking, chaffing at her father’s bidding, and such blatant rebellion would never do.

  Besides, Lucy was uncomfortable leaving Sarah at the Whitby home. Could one of these mourners have murdered Jacob? Her duty was first and foremost to the Hargraves, even if she was no longer employed by the magistrate. She could not, in good conscience, leave his daughter in such a place.

  Lucy touched Sarah’s arm gently, hoping to work on her more tender sensibilities. “Miss Sarah, please. I beseech you. Return to your father’s home tonight. Do not force John to explain his failure to do as the magistrate asked.”

  Sarah looked from Lucy to John and sighed. “I should not like John to bear the burden of my liberty.” She passed her hand to her forehead. Lucy tensed, anxious that she would swoon. But instead she smiled wanly. “I admit, too, that I should like to lie down. I will return home with thee. I do not promise, though, how long I will stay.”

  It did not take long to bid their farewells and head out the door. As they started down the street, Sarah began to shiver violently, so much so that she could barely walk. The shock of Jacob’s death had begun to overcome her at last. Without speaking, Lucy took one of Sarah’s arms while John took the other, supporting her so that she would not stumble on the icy streets.

  Over and over again, as they drew closer to the magistrate’s house, Lucy could hear Jacob’s whispers in her mind, raising disturbing questions. Had he truly been pushed as he claimed? Could someone he knew have done such a thing? Or had he imagined the hands on his back? And what of Jacob’s sister—what had she known? She glanced at Sarah’s downcast face. I must tell her, Lucy thought, but how?

  Before she could speak, Sarah broke the silence. “Jacob was such a charming man. A gadabout, to be sure, cavorting and gaming. Yet there was a goodness to him, despite that. Quick with a jest. Of course, I was different then, too.” She sighed. “Jacob and I—we had gotten on very well. I do not know if he would have asked for me, but I cannot imagine Father having approved our match. I know that Adam did not approve.” Her lips twisted. “Then I found the Quakers. Put him from my mind, as a figment from my youth. When I learned that he had found the Quakers, too—” She broke off with a choked sob.

  Lucy waited helplessly, tightening her cloak about her to ward off the chill. So she had not been wrong when she’d seen the anguished love in Sarah’s eyes earlier. Regaining her composure, Sarah continued. “I know I should say that I am grateful that Jacob is now cradled in the arms of the Lord,” she said, her voice low and full of emotion. “But I am angry. Angry that such a terrible accident should have befallen a man as good as he. He was too young to die.”

  Hearing those words strengthened Lucy’s resolve. “Miss Sarah,” she said, “there is something I must tell you.”

  Sarah gently squeezed her arm. “Thou mayst simply call me Sarah now, dearest Lucy. We Quakers do not recognize such earthly markers of status. All men are equal in the eyes of the Lord, and women, too.”

  Lucy put that thought away to ponder later. “Sarah,” she started again, a little awkwardly, then stopped. How could she explain what Jacob Whitby had told her? Perhaps it was better to say nothing, she thought again, miserably.

  “I have cut thee off,” Sarah said. “Pray, Lucy, share thy thoughts with me.” Her eyes were kind and encouraging.

  That was all Lucy needed. “Mr. Whitby said it wasn’t an accident,” she said in a rush. “He told me he’d been pushed in front of that cart.”

  “What?” Sarah exclaimed, pulling herself free, her mouth agape. Behind her, John wore a similarly shocked expression.

  “It’s true,” Lucy said. “Jacob Whitby told me he had been pushed.” She almost added And his sister may know who did it, but something kept her tongue still. Let her recover from the first blow first, she thought.

  “Why ever would you say such a terrible thing?” Sarah demanded, angry tears slipping down her cheeks. Dimly, Lucy noted that she had dropped her Quaker speech again. “Surely you could see his torments! You must have misunderstood his words!”

  Sarah’s pain was difficult to bear, and Lucy hastened to explain, in heavy, halting words, what Jacob had whispered before he died. “Mr. Whitby was afraid that the person who had hurt him would try to hurt his wife, too.”

  Even to her own ears, the story spoken aloud sounded fantastic and unbelievable. Still, she went on. “Mr. Whitby was afraid to tell anyone there, out of fear that he would confide in the wrong person, and put her in danger. He told me he did not know who to trust.”

  This was the wrong thing to say, which Lucy realized when Sarah’s face darkened in anger. “So he would trust thee? A stranger?”

  Lucy sighed. The burden of Jacob’s words was already flattening her under its great weight. Reluctantly, she explained the rest. “Mr. Whitby said he had reason to believe that his killer was someone he knew, although he didn’t know who. Maybe even a Quaker. I think that’s why he told me, since I am not part of your sect. He tried to warn his wife, he said, but she did not believe him. He was very anxious, being worried that she will confide in the wrong person. I know it sounds far-fetched,” she added, her voice fading away.

  “Far-fetched! I should think so!” Sarah exclaimed. “Why, that would mean—”

  “That he’d been murdered,” Lucy concluded. She straightened up, no longer wishing to mince words. “Yes, I daresay that’s exactly what he meant.”

  Behind Sarah, John was shaking his head at her. Lucy tried to ignore him, but they’d worked together long enough for her to know exactly what he was thinking, and she felt a flash of shame. Why would you say such a preposterous thing to our young mistress, particularly when she’s grieving so?

  However, he did not voice his thoughts. “I will fetch a lantern,” he said to Lucy. “Master Hargrave would want me to see you back to Aubrey’s.”

  As John walked away, Lucy caught Sarah by the arm before she could go inside. “Mr. Whitby wanted me to tell Adam what had befallen him. He believed that Adam would have his murderer brought to justice,” Lucy said, sounding more determined than she felt. “We should tell your father, too.”

  Sarah stamped her foot. “Lucy Campion! Thou shalt do no such thing,” she cried. In a more strangled voice, she added, “Promise me thou wilt not. We Quakers are already stifled under the Conventicle Act. News of a murder would bring suspicion down upon us all.”

  Lucy sighed. Truth be told, she knew the magistrate could do nothing. The man bore no obvious marks of murder; it was clear his injuries had been sustained in being trampled by the horse and cart. Without a witness, it would be nearly impossible to prove. “Fine. I’ll say nothing to your father. For now.”

  “Or to Adam either!” Sarah said hotly. “I know thou dost think this will give thee a reason to see my brother—”

  Lucy held up her hand in warning, much as the magistrate would do, to keep someone from speaking. She did not know what Sarah knew or assumed about her relationship with Adam, but she could not let such aspersions be stated aloud.

  To her surprise, Sarah stopped in midsentence, looking a bit ashamed. “I am sorry, Lucy. I did not mean what I uttered just now. Jacob’s death has upset me more than thou canst know.” She stifled a sob.

  “Please, Miss Sarah,” Lucy said, knocking on the front door. She put her ear near the wood, listening intently for movement within. “Go inside and get warm
.”

  When Annie opened up the door, Lucy spoke quickly. “Miss Sarah is unwell. Have Cook prepare her a tisane. After that, please help her to bed.”

  Annie nodded and put her arm around Sarah’s waist, supporting her. Before they went inside, Sarah looked at Lucy over her shoulder. “Please, Lucy,” she said. “Promise me that thou wilt forget what Jacob said. He was under great distress when he passed. Promise that thou wilt not speak of his words to anyone else.”

  “What if Mrs. Whitby is in danger?” Lucy pleaded. “I cannot go against a man’s dying words. Pray, do not request this of me,” she said, feeling a bit sick. “I will not tell your father, but please, I must tell Adam. Please let me make good on the promise I made to Mr. Whitby.”

  Sarah frowned, but did not speak again as Annie helped her inside before shutting the door behind them. For a moment, Lucy stared at the wooden door. Although she did not like to anger Sarah, she knew it was important that she learn about Jacob Whitby’s life. That meant she needed to return to his home on the morrow.

  * * *

  The next day, the Sunday morning service at St. Dunstan’s finally concluded after three long painful hours. The sermon had been very dull indeed, although the minister had spoken passionately enough about Original Sin and the evils that women continued to bring upon their menfolk.

  Standing alongside Master Aubrey, Lach, and her brother, Will, Lucy smoothed her best Sunday dress, trying to relieve some of the numbness and pain in her legs and haunches. Like most of the congregation, she tried not to fidget very much, lest she draw the ire of the minister, which would in turn draw the anger of Master Aubrey, who did not enjoy, as he would say, “being on the outs with the Lord.”

  Her mind had wandered, though, as she kept thinking about what she needed to do. She’d spent much of the night tossing and turning, worrying about what the dying man had whispered before he slipped away. Was it true? Or was it as Sarah supposed, the confused thoughts of a pain-riddled man?

  When the service concluded, Will pecked her cheek and bid her farewell. Off to see one of his ladyloves, Lucy thought, eying him as he ambled away. As always, he had dressed on the fine side, looking more like gentry every day, and less like a smithy. A journeyman now, he no longer had to report to a master as he had when he was an apprentice. This meant he could set his own hours and work at his own pace, a fact of his life that Lucy very much admired.

  On their way back to the printer’s shop, Master Aubrey halfheartedly asked them questions about the minister’s sermon. As head of the household, his duty was to make sure that all members of his family—in this case, his servants—were leading good and virtuous lives. That he was looking forward to his ale and a bit of stew was clear, however, because he accepted any answer they dutifully shared. When Lach solemnly informed him, with a mischievous glance at Lucy, that the most important thing he’d learned was that women should never be trusted, Master Aubrey did not even bat an eye. “Yes, yes, very good,” the printer had muttered, much to Lucy’s chagrin and Lach’s obvious delight.

  Ladling out the stew, one of the few dishes she made truly well, Lucy told Master Aubrey about Jacob Whitby and the Quakers’ request that they publish the man’s last dying words. Naturally she didn’t say anything about his final wild accusation.

  “I know that it can be dangerous to publish or sell Quaker tracts,” she added, watching the printer’s face. “I shouldn’t like to get us in trouble.”

  “You shouldn’t like to get us in trouble,” Master Aubrey repeated, looking heavenward. “I suppose I should be grateful that my apprentices don’t want to get me in trouble.”

  “No, sir,” Lucy said, still trying to gauge what the printer was thinking.

  From across the table, Lach grinned. Playfully, he made a sign of a knife across her throat. You are in for it now, he mimed.

  Master Aubrey took a bit of his bread. “How’d you haggle?”

  Lucy smiled. Though his tone was even, she could tell he was interested now. Her years dickering over prices with merchants at market had finally come in handy. She and Sam had had a quick conversation while the other women were still consoling Esther Whitby. She named the sum, a goodly amount. “They want thirty copies to distribute among themselves. The rest we could sell.”

  “Just so, just so,” Master Aubrey said, trying to keep his mouth from twitching.

  Lach mouthed a word at her when the master wasn’t looking. She just grinned.

  “I was thinking, sir,” she said to Master Aubrey as she ladled more stew into his bowl and added a touch more salt, just the way he liked it. “Perhaps I could get a little more for the story. Find out more about Jacob Whitby’s early life, talk to his widow. Add a little flesh to the bones, as it were. If I called on her today, it should not keep me from any work I need to do tomorrow.”

  Lucy held her breath. Truly, she was not supposed to be doing work on the Lord’s Day, but she also knew from the yawns that the printer kept attempting to hide that he would far rather take a nap than continue to read the Bible aloud, as he really ought. She was not too surprised when he waved her off with his approval, much to the avid disappointment of Lach.

  5

  Standing now at Esther Whitby’s front door, Lucy hesitated. Normally she would use the servants’ entrance, except on the few occasions she was accompanying a member of the Hargrave family somewhere. But the Quakers seemed to eschew such formality. With a quick decisive knock, she rapped on the door, holding forth a small jar of stew intended for Jacob’s widow, which she had ladled out under Lach’s annoyed gaze.

  From within she could hear some muffled comments before the door was cracked open. Theodora peered out cautiously. Seeing Lucy, she frowned. “Yes?”

  Lucy held up her heavy basket with a slight smile. “I’ve brought a good warming stew for Mrs. Whitby,” she said. “I thought she might be in need of some nourishment.” When Theodora did not say anything, Lucy faltered even further. “I thought it would be all right to come here, but perhaps—?”

  To her relief, the Quaker opened the door wider, although she did look furtively up and down the street before she moved aside. “Come in,” she said.

  After Lucy had stepped inside, Theodora shut the door firmly behind her. The house was warmer than it had been the day before, a fact for which Lucy was grateful. The long walk in the slush had made her toes painfully numb, although she would never admit as much to anyone. Her brother had given her new shoes for her birthday, back in October, and with all the walking she’d done, the timber heels were starting to wear down. Still, they looked nice, and they were among the finer things she owned. She smiled gratefully at Theodora.

  Theodora did not return her smile, and instead appraised Lucy from head to toe. “There are few who would venture to a Quaker household alone,” she said, taking the basket from her and pulling out the jar of stew. Lucy wanted to protest but instead just watched as Theodora opened the lid and took a deep sniff.

  “Might have brought some for the rest of us,” Theodora commented, refastening the lid. Still holding the jar of stew in her hands, she handed the basket back to Lucy and opened the door. “Good day to thee.” And somewhat more reluctantly, “God bless.”

  Her response was more abrupt than Lucy had expected. “Perhaps I may pay my respects to Mrs. Whitby myself?” she asked, not wishing to leave the house without speaking to Jacob’s widow. “Master Aubrey would like to print this piece about Jacob Whitby, but he said it would sell better with more details about his early life. Before he became a Quaker. Sinner turned saint, and all that.”

  Theodora’s features hardened noticeably. “I should not like to bother Esther right now.” She took a step forward, forcing Lucy backward so that she was on the threshold and practically back onto the front walk. With her hand on the knob, she clearly was about to shut the door in Lucy’s face. “I will extend thy respects to her.”

  As Theodora swung the door shut, Lucy put her foot out to stop it, still smi
ling in what she hoped was a calm and friendly way. “I spoke to your husband about this yesterday.”

  Theodora frowned at her more fiercely. Lucy did not know what the Quaker would have done if Sam Leighton had not appeared then behind his wife. Clearly he had heard their exchange.

  “Theodora,” Sam said, “Sister Joan and I believe that it was Divine Providence that Sarah brought Lucy along yesterday. I believe the Spirit is moving through her, to bring Jacob’s last words to light. It is God’s Will that this lass print his testimony.”

  Theodora sighed as she deferred to her husband. “I will alert Esther to thy presence. Come with me.”

  Lucy followed Theodora just as she had done the day before. As she moved through the great hall, she could see no evidence of mourning or death. No crepe silk hanging in the shuttered windows, no black cloth draped over mirrors. Although, Lucy supposed, Jacob and Esther had possessed no lavish decorations that needed to be subdued in honor of the dead.

  As they moved toward the steps leading to the bedchambers above, Theodora shut a door leading off to the drawing room, but not before Lucy caught a glimpse inside. Four or five people were all quietly assembled around the table.

  Seeing this, Lucy felt her stomach lurch uncomfortably. Was this one of the Quakers’ secret conventicles? What would Master Hargrave say if he knew what was going on here? Whatever would he say should the authorities break into the house and arrest them all under the Conventicle Act?

  Sam and Theodora both glanced at her. Sam’s eyes held a question, while Theodora’s held a clear warning. The presence of these people might explain Theodora’s earlier reluctance to let Lucy enter the house.

  Lucy pretended she had not noticed the meeting, which she was sure was illicit. To calm her escorts a bit, she asked, “Is Mrs. Whitby upstairs, then?”

  “Esther is still sleeping. We will bring you to the others,” Theodora replied, her voice still tense as they mounted the stairs. After bringing them to the door of Jacob’s bedchamber, she continued down the hall toward Esther’s chamber.