The Masque of a Murderer

by Susanna Calkins

  “We may need her?” the magistrate repeated, his jaw tightening. “At least for a while?” He looked at his son. “I am afraid that they may have taken Sarah, thinking that her presence would lessen suspicion, thus ensuring themselves safe passage. The question is, does she even know she is in danger yet?”

  He turned back to the searcher, who had been watching the proceedings silently from a corner of the room. “I would still like to know what you were doing in this house.”

  “Perhaps she is the one who struck Deborah!” Adam said.

  “Bah!” the searcher said, her eyes narrowing. “Now why would I do such a thing? No, I heard that woman you call Esther Grace bid this simpleton here to go inside. The man, he was tending the horses, and the younger woman—your daughter, I suppose,” she said to the magistrate, “was in the carriage. I saw Esther Grace follow this one inside”—motioning to Deborah—“and then come out alone a few minutes later. Heard her tell the others that Deborah had changed her mind, and would not be accompanying them on their journey. I was … curious. What has that murderous impostor done now, I wondered.” She chuckled.

  Theodora looked up sharply. “Murderous impostor?” she repeated.

  “I am afraid that Esther Grace was not truly a Quaker,” Lucy explained. “Nor Gervase, nor Deborah.” She turned and stared at Deborah. “Impostors all. They have fooled you.”

  “Even if she fooled us,” Theodora said, reaching out for Deborah’s arm, “she did not fool the Lord.” With Ahivah’s help, they brought Deborah to her feet and led her to Jacob Whitby’s bed. “Who are they?”

  “Players.” Lucy pulled The Player’s Last Play from her pocket and waved the murder ballad in the air. “It’s all here!”

  They all looked at Deborah expectantly. Her mouth tightened, although she said nothing. Lucy could see the fear that had filled her eyes. To their surprise, Ahivah reached over and pinched her niece’s arm.

  “Ow! ’Tis true!” Deborah said. “Grace and I were players, not Quakers. Gervase, too. He had joined the company a short time before. She and I were not regulars, though, just when they needed us to prance and trot about.” She tossed her head. “We had,” she said with a smirk, “lived at a house nearby.”

  “A brothel?” Lucy asked, darting a quick glance at Adam. “On Leather Lane?”

  Deborah looked surprised. Still, she nodded her head. “Yes. We were quite favored by the players. And those swells from the Inns of Court, too,” she said, batting her eyes at Adam, who looked away.

  Now Deborah seemed more eager to talk. “Grace was the one who wanted to perform on the stage. So when Basil Townsend and Gervase started calling on us,” she said with a wink, “Grace got them so heated for her that she could get them to do anything she wanted them to do. Still has Gervase wrapped around her finger.”

  “So you began to perform on the stage?” the magistrate asked.

  Deborah shrugged. “Sometimes we just did little songs or dances before the show or after. I did not really care for it, except it brought in easier money than the way I usually made it. More patrons, too. I was glad enough to just sell oranges. Grace, though, she loved performing. Said she was born to play the stage. I believe it, too.”

  “So do I, verily,” the magistrate said grimly. “Tell us more about the actor Basil Townsend. What is the truth of his murder? Do not be coy now. This is the time for truth.”

  Deborah’s mouth tightened, but she did not speak.

  “You saw it happen, did you not?” Adam asked.

  “Yes, I saw it happen,” Deborah said in a resigned way. Sighing, she continued. “Gervase was the one who killed Basil Townsend. I know that it was at Esther’s bidding. Stabbed Basil through and through, he did. Right there on the stage, ten feet from where I was changing out of my costume.”

  “Why did he do it?” Adam demanded.

  “Was he jealous?” Lucy chimed in.

  Deborah shook her head. “I am sure Gervase was jealous. The way Esther tempted and taunted Basil—it could have driven any man mad with jealousy. And Esther knew it, too. It was not Gervase’s choice to kill his fellow player, but Esther had a way of getting under a man’s skin. That is why she was so angry at Basil when she could not get him to do as she asked.”

  “Which was—?” Adam asked.

  “Near as I can figure out, Basil had refused to speak to the duke—you know it was his company—about giving Esther real parts to play. She wanted to play Desdemona, Juliet—all those leading roles. And he would not make it happen.”

  “So she had Gervase kill him,” Adam concluded.

  “Yes! I was so angry about this! Basil had always paid me well, treated me well enough,” Deborah said, the remembered fury causing a flush to rise in her cheeks.

  “Why, then, did you lie whilst on the stand?” Master Hargrave asked, his tone steady—and still a bit menacing.

  “They paid me a tidy sum to put the blame on Abel Coxswain. I told Grace that I would play along, so long as it helped me.”

  “You changed your testimony in the midst of the trial. Put the blame on someone else, who—praise the Lord—was not hanged for your perjury,” the magistrate continued to scold her.

  “I was already punished for changing my testimony!” Deborah cried, struggling to sit up. “I have the stripes on my back to prove it!”

  Hearing this, the magistrate softened his tone. “Yes, I remember. I agree, you have paid for your lie.”

  “What about thy other lie! The lie in which thou didst claim the Inner Light?

  Theodora broke in. She had been listening to the exchange with astonishment and now seemed on the brink of tears. “Why ever for? Why wouldst thou seek to betray us in such a way? What did we ever do to thee?”

  Deborah put her hand to the wound on her head, wincing as her fingers touched the bump. “After Basil was murdered, there was no place for any of us in the company. Not long after, the plague hit and the king closed all the theaters. We all had to flee elsewhere. I did not set out to be a Quaker. However, I found it became quite convenient to hide out among the Quakers.” Without looking at her aunt, Deborah muttered. “’Twas easy enough, to be certain. Ahivah had come to the plays several times, so that I would understand that the Lord had a plan for me.”

  “And Esther Grace?” the magistrate asked. “What happened to her?”

  “Esther disappeared—to live with that tailor, I know now,” Deborah said. “She knew that I had gone to live with my aunt. It was me she was visiting when she met Jacob Whitby. He was entranced by her, as men usually were. The next thing I knew, the Beetners had died and she was wedded to Jacob.”

  “And then she killed Jacob!” Lucy cried.

  Deborah raised her eyebrow. “That I do not know.”

  From the window, they heard a carriage pull up along the street below. “We must go,” the magistrate said to his son. “We must go after Sarah. She is in danger.” He looked back at Deborah. “We will have the constable deal with her.” He took the searcher by the arm. “I would like for you to accompany us. There are still some questions I need you to answer.”

  To their surprise, Sadie Burroughs did not resist and allowed the magistrate to lead her out of the room. Lucy and Theodora followed suit, with Ahivah remaining behind with her niece.

  Once they were outside, Theodora touched the magistrate on his arm. “We shall let you know, should Esther or Gervase ever return to London. It may well be too late. However, if we see them again, we will detain them.”

  “And then—what?” Adam raised his eyebrow. “Turn them over to the authorities?”

  “Certainly,” the Quaker said in an equally cool voice. “Gervase and Esther are not Friends. They do not deserve our protection.” She smiled slightly. “We do what we do for thy daughter. We care about her, and we do not want her to be hurt.”

  “I thank you.” The magistrate touched his hand gently to his hat, and the Quaker nodded. Nothing else needed to be said.

  As they ap
proached, John hopped down from the carriage he had hired at the livery. To their surprise, another horse, this one saddled, was tied behind the carriage. “Saw Sam Leighton,” John explained in his typical clipped fashion. “Told me what happened. Thought you might also need a faster horse if you are trying to overtake them.”

  Indeed, the carriage looked durable, and the horses looked well rested and hearty. Adam clapped his father’s servant on the back. “Good man, John. Excellent thinking.” He began to untether the saddled horse from the carriage.

  Hearing a shout then, they saw the constable and Hank running down the lane toward them. Sam was not with him, no doubt fetching the physician to tend to Deborah.

  In quick, terse words, Adam apprised the constable of what had transpired within Jacob Whitby’s home. He turned to his father. “I will ride ahead, Father, on the road to Bristol. If you follow me in the carriage, we will have a means to bring Sarah home. I will then double back to the carriage when I find them. With any luck, this will be well before they reach Chippenham.”

  “I will accompany you,” the constable said, stepping forward. “You cannot go alone. They could be dangerous.”

  John spoke up then. “No other horses at the near livery. Stable-man said they had all been hired.”

  “No time to go to another livery,” Adam said. “Constable, you must ride in the carriage with my father.” He frowned at the searcher. “I know that you know more than what you are saying, but I have not the time to deal with you now.”

  “I can attend to her,” Hank said.

  “No, we will bring her with us,” the constable said. “I would like to hear what she has to say as well.”

  The searcher grinned, showing her gaping smile. “It would do my heart good to see Esther Grace arrested. Better still when she is hanged.”

  “That is well enough,” Adam said. “Father, if you would board the carriage. We must make haste.”

  As Adam helped his father into the carriage, Lucy knew she could not let them go without her. She stepped forward, putting her hand on the side of the carriage. “Please, sir,” she said to the magistrate. “Please let me join you. Sarah might need me.”

  She held her breath, knowing that adding one more body to the carriage would keep the horses from moving as fast as they might otherwise travel. They could only hope that Esther Whitby was traveling slower still, with all the belongings they seemed to have stuffed inside the cart.

  Although she could see that Adam looked to deny her, the magistrate leaned down and extended his hand. “Come, my child. Make haste.”

  With that, it was decided that Lucy would accompany them on this madcap race against time.

  20

  Lucy sank back into the cushioned seat of the carriage, too anxious to enjoy the unfamiliar luxury. They were moving now at a brisk pace. The city dwellings had already begun to give way to fields and pastures as they moved west. She hoped that their horses would not tire before they reached a coaching inn. Adam had mounted his horse, sitting straight and tall in the saddle, and ridden off ahead of them in an effort to catch sight of Esther’s cart before she and the others got too far.

  The carriage was not overly large, and the four of them were seated fairly close together, the magistrate and Lucy on one side, facing the searcher and Constable Duncan on the other. Certainly they were an odd group. Master Hargrave seemed to be deep in thought, and the searcher was watchful. The constable, like Lucy, seemed unwilling to break a silence that had been set by the magistrate.

  Though she could not keep her fingers from twiddling in her lap, the steady clip-clopping of the horses began to reassure her somewhat. The forward movement suggested progress.

  Still, it was hard to keep desperate thoughts away. What if we never see Sarah again? There was no way of knowing what Esther and Gervase might have decided to do with their extra passenger. She thrust the thought away. Right now they could only hope for the best.

  Idly, Lucy touched the gleaming polished wood of the carriage door. When she had dreamed of riding in a fine carriage, it was most certainly not for a reason such as this. She glanced at the constable, who, to her surprise, had been watching her.

  Duncan grinned wryly. “Today, it is better to ride, I should think,” he said, referring to their recent conversation about the ability to hire a hack when one pleased. Lucy smiled slightly but did not reply.

  The magistrate rubbed his hands. “All right, then. Shall we get started?” He leaned forward so that he could look the searcher in her eyes. “I believe, Mrs. Burroughs, that you have something to tell us?”

  The searcher grinned at them, revealing the great gaps in her yellow teeth. “I have much to tell. But I am a poor woman, with little to keep me nourished in this world. Day in, day out, I ring this bell, calling for the dead, making only a mean wage from the parish priests.”

  “You will tell us what you know,” the constable demanded. “Don’t try your beggarly ways upon us.”

  Lucy thought for sure that the magistrate would echo the constable’s sentiment, but instead he pulled out a coin and held it before the woman. Her eyes widened, watching it glitter in the sunshine. She reached out her hand to take it, but Hargrave pulled it up and away from her reach.

  “Your testimony had best be truthful, or I shall have you arrested for telling falsehoods to an instrument of the Crown.”

  The searcher took the gold coin and placed it in a pocket hanging below her dirty cloak. Before speaking, she first leaned over and spat outside the window.

  “The woman you call Esther Grace is my late son’s daughter,” Mrs. Burroughs said. “My son was Edgar Little, the product of my first marriage.”

  “She’s your granddaughter?” Lucy exclaimed.

  Mrs. Burroughs sniffed. “Perhaps. Years ago, her mother, a lying whore, told my son that the babe was his. So Edgar raised that brat Esther as if she were his own child. Maybe she’s blood-related, but only God knows the truth of it.”

  “Esther Whitby said her mother had been a seamstress. That she did piecework,” Lucy recalled, looking at Mrs. Burroughs for confirmation. “And her father—your son?—had worked for a mill, delivering cut linens and wools to seamstresses like her mother.”

  The searcher snorted. “Only thing he delivered was dung and piss,” she said with great contempt. Lucy could not tell, though, whether the contempt was directed toward her son, Esther Grace, or even Lucy herself.

  “Explain yourself,” the constable growled.

  The smile dropped from the searcher’s lips. “My son was a raker.”

  Lucy tried in vain to hide the little shiver of disgust that passed through her. Like the searcher, the raker dealt every day with the great filth of the city, living in it, carting all that was disgusting and malevolent away.

  “Edgar, though, he loved that little brat. Called her his little flower. Posy, he called her,” the searcher said. “A breath of fresh air she was for him.”

  Lucy nodded. Did Lucy herself not carry a posy of dried flowers with her when she peddled, to keep away the disgusting smells of the city? She thought again of the verse on the handkerchief that Deborah had carried, humming the line under her breath. “She clasped a little posy, a posy full of grace…”

  “Yes,” the searcher said, having heard her. “She dropped the ‘Posy’ later, though. Began calling herself Grace, even though she whored herself out.” She leaned sideways, toward Lucy. The woman’s hands clenched. “She killed my son, she did, and never one lick of remorse from her either.” Pursing her lips, she turned away from the others.

  “What? She killed her own father?” Lucy asked. “Why ever would she do such a thing?”

  “Though beautiful on the outside, there is a black venom that runs through her veins,” the searcher replied with a disdainful shrug.

  “So you do not know why she did it?” the magistrate asked drily.

  “I am saying that you will have to ask the bitch yourself,” the searcher said. “I for one w
ould very much like to know why she did it.”

  Something was still bothering Lucy. “Mrs. Burroughs, you told me before that Julia Whitby had sought you out, to ask you about Basil Townsend’s murder,” she said. “How did she know that you—of all people—would know anything about it?”

  “Never said such a thing,” the searcher said smugly.

  “You did!” Lucy said hotly. “I know you told me so. You admitted that you were the one who had sent her the sketch of Mr. Townsend’s murdered corpse. Please”—she looked at Duncan—“I know she is lying.”

  “I am not lying!” the searcher said. “That is not how it happened.”

  “All right,” the magistrate said, putting up his hand. “Tell us, then. How did you come to meet Julia Whitby?”

  “Miss Whitby had called on the Quackers. I saw her go in,” the searcher said. “I like to keep an eye on Esther’s comings and goings.”

  “They said you were always watching them,” Lucy remembered. Under her skirts she could feel Duncan’s knees pressing against her own. When she looked up, he gave her a warning look. Let her keep speaking, he seemed to be saying.

  Lucy gulped, hoping that she had not ended the woman’s speech. Fortunately, the searcher continued. “When Miss Whitby came out, I could see she was very troubled, the way she was wringing her hands. She did not even see me—I know because most people cross the street when they see me coming.” Mrs. Burroughs chuckled again. “When she passed me, I could hear her saying the same thing over and over.”

  “What was she saying?” Lucy whispered.

  “She was saying, ‘I know them, I know them. How do I know them?’ I knew then that this could be Esther’s downfall. So when she sat down on a nearby log, I sat down beside her. She was so stricken, and I, as you know, am the kindly grandmother sort.” The smile she gave Lucy then was so friendly and beautiful, and quite unlike her usual mocking grimace, that Lucy sat back, stunned. In that odd moment, the searcher looked just like an older version of Esther, even if she did not have the same brilliant amethyst eyes. There could be no doubt at all that the women were indeed related, despite the seeker’s suggestion otherwise.