Adam bowed his head. “And I you, Mrs. Whitby.”
Mr. Whitby clasped his hand. “How ever is your father faring? We’ve not seen the magistrate in a long time. Not since before the Fire, that is certain. Perhaps even since the plague.”
“He is well,” Adam paused. “We wish to convey our deepest sorrow for your loss. I considered Jacob a friend, and he shall be missed.”
Tears sprang to Mrs. Whitby’s eyes, and she gave Adam a grateful smile. Mr. Whitby coughed. “Yes,” he spoke gruffly. “Thank you.”
Lucy shifted her feet, the movement drawing her to the attention of the Whitbys. They both studied her curiously, scrutinizing her clothes, clearly trying to determine her station.
“This is Lucy Campion,” Adam said. “She is”—he hesitated—“a friend of our family.”
“Indeed?” Both the Whitbys looked at her more closely. Lucy straightened under their gaze, hoping neither would notice the spots of ink that had splattered on her dress or the mud crusted along the bottom hem.
“She is also here to pay her respects,” Adam continued. “Lucy was with your son when he passed and—”
Mr. Whitby’s face grew purple. “Did you bring a wretched godless Quaker into my house?” he asked Adam through clenched teeth.
“No, sir, no, sir!” Lucy exclaimed. “I’m not a Quaker but—” She broke off, looking helplessly at Adam.
“My sister, Sarah, is a member of their community,” he said. “She received word that Jacob was dying, and Lucy was kind enough to accompany her. They were both at his side when he died.”
The Whitbys stared at Adam. “You have not cast off your sister?” Mr. Whitby exclaimed. “You allow her to be with this godless sort? To travel about with them? She is no more than a fallen woman!”
Seeing that Adam had been shocked into silence by Mr. Whitby’s base accusation, Lucy stood up. “Your son, Jacob, was a loving man who was devoted to God.” She steadied her voice, which had become shaky with indignant tears. “As he died, the last words he spoke were about the love he had for you and your daughter, his sister. That is why we came here today. To tell you that.”
Mrs. Whitby began to weep a bit. “Oh, my dear Jacob. He was always a good son.”
“He begged me, in his last dying breath, to tell his sister what I have just told you.” Lucy took a deep breath so she would not lose her courage. “Do you know where your daughter may have gone?”
“Probably ran off to those damned Quakers!” her father said angrily. “I have now cast her off, as I have done my son. Let God judge them as he will.” With that, he angrily whipped the black wool off the platter and threw it on the floor before stalking out, slamming the door behind him.
Adam and Lucy looked at each other and then back at the woman, who was now weeping uncontrollably into her hands. “Do not judge us! I did not forsake my son. I always made sure his tithes to the church were paid! I did all I could to keep him from jail, even though he told me not to do so. And now he’s dead! Never to return! Who is God judging? Us or him?” She sank into a chair, visibly trying to control herself. Without looking up, she whispered, “Forgive me, I must lie down.”
Crossing the room, Lucy opened the door. As she had hoped, the young servant was in the corridor. Whether she was eavesdropping, Lucy could not say for sure, but she could see the girl’s cheeks had turned a bit pink.
“Ho there,” Lucy called to her. “Your mistress needs assistance. Come here.”
“Yes, miss,” the servant said, walking over.
Lucy had to suppress a little smile. Who would have thought that she, a former chambermaid, would ever be giving orders in such a fancy household. “What is your name?”
The servant gave her a little bob. “Evie, miss.”
“Evie, I will help you take your mistress to her chamber. Quietly,” she added. “No need to alarm the master. It’s clear that she’s exhausted and unwell. A spot of sleep is just what she needs.”
Evie looked at her mistress nervously. Jacob Whitby’s mother was now shaking and rocking back and forth. She was clearly distressed. “Right, miss.”
“I’ll be back straightaway,” Lucy said to Adam, giving him a meaningful glance “I will just help settle Mrs. Whitby down a bit.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Take your time,” he answered. “I’ll be right here. If Mr. Whitby leaves his study, I’ll do my best to forestall him.” The message was clear. I will keep him busy so you can do whatever you need to do upstairs.
“Thank you,” Lucy said, tucking her hand firmly under Mrs. Whitby’s arm. “Let me help you, mistress.”
Obediently, Mrs. Whitby stood up, leaning heavily on Lucy.
“This way,” Evie said.
Slowly, Lucy and Mrs. Whitby followed Evie up the stairs to the floor above. As they walked down the corridor, Lucy noticed three other closed doors. Evie opened the one on the end.
“This is the mistress’s bedchamber,” she said. The two women helped Mrs. Whitby lie back on the bed, and then Evie took off her shoes while Lucy loosened her hair from its bun.
After pulling a blanket over the shaking woman, Lucy knelt down beside her. A sharp memory overcame her, remembering how she had taken care of her own mistress, before the black sickness had taken her to an early grave.
Gently, she touched Mrs. Whitby’s forehead, smoothing the long black and gray hairs from her face. How terrible it must have been for her, to have her daughter disappear on the same day her son was in a fatal accident.
“Mrs. Whitby,” Lucy whispered, “I do not think your daughter has joined the Quakers.”
Mrs. Whitby looked up at her, her listless eyes showing some hope. “You do not?”
“No,” Lucy said, then hurriedly continued, before the woman would think to ask her more questions. “Is there someone else, another friend, who your daughter would have run to, should she have felt afraid? Perhaps she just said she was going to see Mrs. Wiggins but then changed her mind.” She paused, trying to think of a way to ask the next question delicately. “Perhaps there was someone else…?”
Mrs. Whitby looked around the room. “Evie,” she said in a weak voice, “I should like to take the sleeping draught that the physician made for me.” She pointed to a corked vial on a table next to her bed. “Please bring me some rosemary tea, to which I may add a few drops of this bitter stuff.”
Evie bobbed a quick curtsy. “Yes, ma’am.” She looked at Lucy. “Shall I lead you out, miss?”
Mrs. Whitby stirred. “No, no. She can stay with me until you return.”
“Very good, ma’am. I will return in a few minutes with your tea.”
Evie left, shutting the door behind her.
Mrs. Whitby sat up. To Lucy’s surprise, she reached for the vial and took two quick gulps. “I do not mind the bitter,” she said, hiccupping.
“Oh, ma’am!” Lucy cried. “That was quite a lot at once! If the physician said only a few drops, then—”
“Bah,” Mrs. Whitby said. “The sooner I can forget, the better.” A tear slipped down her face; she brushed it away impatiently.
“You were asking about my daughter. I do not know, truly,” she said, sniffing. “Julia never had many close friends. Being a spinster … it wasn’t her fault. Her father and I had hopes. She was betrothed twice…” Mrs. Whitby’s voice trailed off. “The first man died of the galloping sickness. We all quite liked him, so it was a bit of a blow. When he died, her bloom began to fade, and her prospects grew slim. We were beginning to despair, until the son of one of my husband’s friends offered for her.”
Mrs. Whitby’s eyes were looking in an unfocused way toward the ceiling. From her next words, Lucy thought she might have forgotten to whom she was talking. “He broke off the engagement even though the banns had been read. Found out about Jacob. His family would not stand for such heresy.”
She moaned. Before Lucy could stop her, Mrs. Whitby lifted the vial to her lips again and took another quick swallow. “Oh, why did Jacob
take up with those awful Quakers?” she lamented. “He made it worse for her! We were all but shunned ourselves! No one would speak to us! That is why his father cut him off, hoping that her engagement would be resumed. But the damage had been done!” She let out a little sob.
Lucy waited, feeling helpless, until she continued. “We were so hopeful when Julia renewed her childhood friendship with Elizabeth Wiggins. Well, she was still Miss Stirredge then, before she married Mr. Wiggins of Bishopsgate. She gave our daughter an entrée back into society. For a while we hoped—” She rubbed furiously at her eyes. “Unfortunately, after Mrs. Wiggins married and moved away, well, I am afraid invitations for Julia dried up.” Mrs. Whitby turned her head to look at Lucy, although her eyes were growing more dilated. “Oh, where could she be? She must be with Elizabeth!”
“I thought the constable said they’d inquired at the Wiggins home. He said no one had seen her,” Lucy said.
“Well, perhaps she is having a bit of fun with us. She must be there. She used to hide when she was a little girl, whenever she was upset or angry. She could be very naughty that way.”
“Was she upset or angry, then?” Lucy asked casually.
Mrs. Whitby’s voice was growing softer. “I know she was angry at her father for cutting off Jacob.”
“That happened a while ago,” Lucy said. “Was there something else she was upset or angry about?”
“What else could it have been?” Mrs. Whitby asked, turning onto her side, clutching a small lace-trimmed pillow to her chest. “Oh, what shall I do? I cannot very well send the constable after my daughter. I do not know what I was thinking when I sent for him in the first place. My husband is right. What must people think? Her reputation will be ruined if this gets out.”
She clutched at Lucy’s hand, looking up at her. “Could you go see Mrs. Wiggins? See for yourself if my daughter is there?” Her voice began to sound more slurred. “I do not know you, but Jacob seems to have trusted you. I know, too, that Adam Hargrave was his friend, and I trust him.”
She looked beseechingly at Lucy. “Please. Help me find my daughter. Bring her back to me. Lord knows she was a burden, but she’s all I have now that Jacob is dead.” Her voice breaking on the last word, she turned back toward the wall.
Lucy waited. In less than fifteen seconds, she heard Mrs. Whitby begin to snore, the sleeping draught having clearly done its duty.
After pulling the shutters closed, Lucy tiptoed out of the room. Evie appeared then, holding the tea.
“She is already asleep,” Lucy whispered. “She took several swallows of the draught already. I think you should watch over her, to make sure she is all right.”
“Whatever am I supposed to do?” Evie wailed. “I don’t know how to take care of her! She’s not in her right mind now, is she?”
“Your mistress has suffered a great loss. Her daughter’s disappearance has only worsened her pain and stress,” Lucy said. She continued in the same low voice, even though she was fairly certain that no one was around to hear her. “What do you think happened to Miss Julia Whitby? Did she run off with someone?”
The maid rolled her eyes and for the first time ventured a cocky grin. “Her? Not bloody likely. Not too comely and had a tart tongue when she wanted. I heard her talking to herself sometimes.” Lucy noticed a doubtful look on her face. “And yet—” she started to say, before recalling herself. ’Twas unseemly to gossip about her employers in such a fashion, particularly with a stranger.
Although she wanted to press the girl further, Lucy instead sought to pretend she hadn’t been paying much attention, hoping to reassure the girl that she’d committed no indiscretion. “Such a big house,” Lucy commented, trying to ease the girl back into a pleasant conversation. “Are these all bedchambers?”
Evie relaxed, and her face lost its stricken look. “Yes, that one is the master’s other chamber, and that one we use for guests. I think it used to be Jacob’s, when he lived here. That one there is Miss Julia’s.” She pointed to a door at the very end of the hallway. “This, of course, is the privy.”
“Oh!” Lucy said. Lowering her voice again, she said, “Would you mind? I’ve been holding my stream for some time. No need to wait. I can show myself out.” When the servant hesitated, Lucy added in a firmer tone, “You must go in with Mrs. Whitby now.”
“Yes, miss,” Evie said. “I will.” She turned and scurried back into the bedchamber they had just left, shutting the door behind her. Lucy found herself alone in the corridor, exactly as she had hoped.
7
After Lucy quickly used the privy, she opened the door a crack and peered down the corridor. No one seemed to be about, and Mrs. Whitby’s bedchamber door was still shut. Saying a quick prayer, Lucy stole over to Miss Julia’s door. After pausing to listen for any sounds, she stole inside.
The room was cold and dark without a fire in the grate. Lucy could see a slight light streaming through the shutters. Fortunately the sun had not descended into evening. Carefully she opened up one of the shutters so she could see the room more clearly. Besides the bed, there was a small table with a candle and a Bible, a large chest, another table with another mirror draped in black wool, a few shelves along the wall, and a small chair. Swiftly, she started at Julia’s lace-covered dressing table, opening her small jewelry boxes fearfully. Her heart was pounding. If she were caught in here she’d be thrown in jail for certain. There could be no reason for her to be in Julia Whitby’s private chambers. Even her friendship with the constable could not save her.
She opened the walnut wardrobe and ran her fingers thoughtfully along Julia’s dresses. They were fine, to be sure, but had been indifferently maintained, unlike her mother’s immaculate mourning costume. She shut the door.
Next, she peered into the large chest by the bed, which seemed to contain mostly blankets. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly, except that she knew she was looking for some hint of the information that Julia Whitby had wanted to pass on to her brother.
Her eyes fell on a small wooden chest on the lowest shelf. Kneeling beside it, she opened it. Inside, she found a few scarves, ribbons, and the like. Moving those items aside, she uncovered two packets of letters, each tied in string. One appeared to be correspondence she had received from her friend Elizabeth Wiggins, née Stirredge. The other packet seemed to be letters she had received from her brother.
Still straining to hear any sound from the hall, Lucy untied Jacob’s letters. A glance at the dates told her they had been written in the last few months, but she couldn’t take the time to read them properly. She bit her lip. Then, without thinking, she thrust them into her bodice, where they could be concealed until she had more time to peruse them carefully.
Her heart pounding painfully now, she was about to close the chest when she saw that the green silk lining was bumpy and mussed, as if something had been thrust underneath it. Holding her breath, she carefully peeled back the lining.
There she discovered a few more papers all oddly creased and bunched up. The first two appeared to be Quaker tracts, one titled A Lamentable Warning to London and Its Inhabitants, published by Elizabeth Calvert at the Bull and Mouth, and the other was Humphrey Smith’s Vision for London, a popular tract sold by many printers. Atop each title someone had handwritten the word “Behold!”
Lucy was familiar with one of the tracts, Smith’s Vision for London, having peddled it for Master Aubrey herself. Because of its prophetic nature, describing how London and its sinners would be burnt up, yet printed several years before the Great Fire, the Vision for London was a piece that had been reprinted several times. When she used to peddle it, one fanciful passage had always struck her, and she found herself whispering the words from memory:
“All the tall buildings fell, and it consumed all the lofty things therein, and the fire searched out all the hidden places, and burned most in the secret places.”
More prophetic words have scarcely been spoken. Indeed, she had learned for herse
lf a secret that the Great Fire had so vividly exposed. The other tract she was not familiar with, but it appeared to be a standard warning to the citizens of London.
Lucy turned her attention to the third paper, which was a penciled sketch of some skill. A gentleman dressed in what looked to be a fine suit lay on the ground, propped up awkwardly against a grand column. His face was turned away, but his eyes were closed. A vizard, of the type worn at fancy masquerades, rested by one of his outstretched hands. Beside that, a goblet lay overturned, as though the man had spent a good night tippling the spirits. Though roughly drawn, there was real artistry there in the simple lines of the man’s form.
Lucy was about to refold the drawing and place it with the Quaker tracts when she noticed a line that had been added in rough script at the bottom. This is the dandy I told you about. Set upon and killed.
Her eyes flew back to the image. With a start, she could see now that the man had a knife inserted deep in his abdomen, so that only the hilt was visible to the viewer. Initially the hilt had looked to be part of his ornate coat, which was why she missed it when she first examined the image.
Shocked, Lucy nearly let the small chest slip onto the wooden floor but regained herself in time. She wrestled with whether to take the picture or to leave it where she had found it. The packet of letters was already chafing against her skin, an uncomfortable reminder of her theft. Truly, what difference would taking one more piece of paper make? “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she whispered to herself with a shrug, slipping the folded sketch inside her bodice. “I’ll replace them later,” she told herself. Although how she would do that, she didn’t rightly know.
After replacing the chest on the shelf, Lucy eased open the door and peeked out. No one was in the corridor, so she stole out of the room and back down the stairs.
She found Adam still waiting where she had left. “I am ready,” she said, and together they left the Whitbys’ home.
She was not surprised when outside Constable Duncan rejoined them as well. He seemed to have been loitering at the end of the street, clearly waiting for them to leave the Whitbys’.
The Masque of a Murderer Page 8
