The Masque of a Murderer

by Susanna Calkins

  Satisfied by Lucy’s reaction, the searcher continued, regaining her usual surly demeanor. “I just let Miss Whitby share her concerns, promising, of course, the secrecy of a stranger. So she opened up, pouring it all out. Her worry about her brother, her despair that he had been cut off from the family, and now this terrible concern about his wife and her companions. At first she could not place them, but she just knew that she had known them with different names. Naturally, I helped her fill in the gaps.”

  “She had seen them perform!” Lucy realized. “She must have gone to the play, perhaps even with her brother. She recognized them from the stage!”

  The searcher again gave her a slightly amused look of approval. “Indeed. That is when I saw my chance. I could finally get even with Posy. I could finally ruin her, a fair revenge for killing my son. So I told Julia Whitby that she was correct. That her brother had married an impostor. Moreover, that she had murdered several people.” She pushed back a stray hair from her face. “She demanded proof, which I was glad enough to supply.”

  “That is when you gave her the sketch of Basil Townsend,” Lucy said. “This is the dandy I told you about. Set upon and killed.”

  “How did Julia Whitby end up murdered?” the constable asked.

  The searcher shrugged. “Miss Whitby did not understand the nature of Esther’s grip on her brother. I told her that she must be careful when she told him, but she was foolish. ’Tis no wonder she ended up with the scold’s mask upon her. Those who deal in secrets should always know better.”

  Unexpectedly, her eyes met Lucy’s, and Lucy felt a dark chill run over her.

  The carriage turned then, lurching uncomfortably. From this new angle Lucy could just make out the last pinnacles of the London churches that had survived the Great Fire.

  “Looks like we are on the road to Bristol,” the constable said, peering out the window. “Thankfully, the roads look fair enough.”

  Lucy nodded, trying to take comfort from his words, trying to keep her fears from looming. She knew they were maintaining a quick pace, but how long could they sustain it? How long before the horses got hopelessly fatigued? What if they could not overtake the carriage? The image of Deborah’s head wound was hard to set aside. What if something terrible were to befall Sarah as well?

  John rapped sharply then on the top of the carriage. The constable stuck his head all the way out the window so that he could speak with John.

  “Mr. Hargrave has returned,” Duncan said. “He is approaching.”

  Sure enough, Adam had pulled up his horse beside the carriage and looked in the window. “Their carriage is just up ahead. Not more than a mile. If we pick up the pace, we can catch them.” He looked at his father. “I caught a glimpse of Sarah, praise the Lord. She looked unharmed. She is sitting next to Esther Whitby in the cart. They are moving at a middling pace. There are just three in the cart, but I can see they are loaded with provisions.” He called up to John. “Let us press on!”

  His father raised his hand. “They will likely stop at the coaching inn. I know it is just a few miles now,” the magistrate said. “Would it not be better to overtake them then?”

  “The horses are getting tired,” Adam said, after giving the steeds pulling the carriage with a critical eye. “If we can push hard for a few more minutes, we can overtake them. It may be easier to confront them on the open road than in an inn where there are more places to hide.”

  “I do not think we have long to wait,” Duncan said. “We had best be prepared. When we approach, Lucy, you must stay here. You as well, sir,” he said to the magistrate. “Until we can better see the nature of the threat ahead.”

  The magistrate drew himself up, looking rather like the king himself. “Constable, just so that we are clear,” he said, looking more grim than Lucy had ever seen him. “I am going to do whatever I need to do to protect my daughter. Pray, do not try to stop me.”

  21

  The next ten minutes passed anxiously. Adam had ridden ahead a few paces, disappearing on the dusty road ahead of them. After his taut words, Master Hargrave had fallen silent, uncharacteristically drumming the door of the carriage with his knuckles. The searcher had begun to hum in a tuneless tone that quickly grated on Lucy’s nerves. She glanced at Duncan, who was still peering out the window. For a moment, she wondered if he would have preferred that he be out on the horse, scouting out the Quakers, instead of seeing the magistrate’s son do it instead.

  Finally the constable gave a low whistle. “I see your son, sir,” he said to the magistrate.

  A moment later, Adam had pulled up alongside their carriage, riding easily at the same pace. “They are just ahead,” he said. “I suggest that we now proceed together.”

  “Keep left flank,” Duncan replied. “In case they should look back, we do not want them to see you. Though John might be looking to be driving overly fast, they are unlikely to be warned of our presence.”

  Tensely they all clung to the carriage handles as they jostled back and forth. Twice Duncan stepped on Lucy’s feet, apologizing greatly after each time. Another time she was nearly flung against him, but the magistrate grabbed her arm, steadying her at the last second. The same nearly happened to the magistrate as well, but he managed to catch himself.

  Although she knew it was not at all appropriate, Lucy felt her lips twitch as she thought about what would have happened if the stately magistrate had fallen into the searcher’s lap. When she caught Duncan’s eye, he seemed slightly amused as well, as though he knew what she had been thinking. Abruptly, they both looked away.

  “It is time,” Adam said. “Be ready!” With that, he spurred his horse on, racing forward until he pulled directly in front of Esther’s cart, forcing it to stop.

  “Adam!” Lucy heard Sarah shout. “Whatever has brought you here?”

  Meanwhile, John edged the carriage forward. The magistrate, looking twenty years younger, leapt from the moving carriage, calling Sarah’s name.

  The constable jumped out as well, issuing a stern warning to both Lucy and the searcher. “Stay here,” he said.

  Gervase was still seated at the reins, while Sarah and Esther were looking out anxiously from the cart.

  Now seeing her father, Sarah grew more bewildered. “Father? What is going on? What art thou doing here? I know that I should have told thee that I was leaving, and I promise I was going to mail thee a letter once I reached Bristol and—”

  “Daughter!” the magistrate exclaimed, cutting her off. “Come here at once! I need you away from these people immediately!”

  “Father! You know that I was chosen by the Lord to be his handmaiden. We are going to the New World to—”

  “To what?” the magistrate interrupted. “To live among criminals?”

  “They are not criminals!” Sarah cried. “The laws that bind them are unfair!”

  “I’m not speaking of their conventicles!” her father replied, shaking his hands in fury. Lucy could tell he was trying to regain his calm. “Please,” he said more mildly, “I need you to climb down from that cart immediately.”

  “Father, I cannot do that!” Sarah said, looking meaningfully at Lucy. “I believe it is my calling to travel with Esther. To see her safely to the New World. Pray, do not try to stop me. I am quite determined.”

  Esther stood up then, putting her arms around Sarah as if shielding her from an unexpected blow. “My child,” she said. “I am so sorry that thy father is so misguided, so possessive. That he will not let thee follow the will of God—”

  The gross unfairness of her words made Lucy quiver. “No!” she shouted, stumbling out of the carriage. “Sarah, do not believe her! She is performing for you! She has been as a player on the stage—and more than that! She is a murderer! You are not safe!”

  “Lucy, what are these words?” Sarah was looking more and more confused. “Thou sayst that Esther Whitby, whom I know to be a good Quaker and a steadfast handmaiden of the Lord, is a murderer? Thou art greatly mistak
en!”

  From her angle, Lucy saw an odd look cross Esther Whitby’s face. Though she seemed outwardly indignant, there was a speculation there, too.

  The magistrate tried to regain his calm demeanor, although Lucy could tell he was struggling. “Daughter, that woman—you know her as Esther Whitby, née Grace. But that is not the truth. She is an impostor.”

  “F-Father?” Sarah asked. “I do not understand—?”

  Esther clutched at Sarah’s hand. “Sarah, dearest handmaiden of the Lord! I do not understand what thy father is proclaiming. Thou dost know me! I was born Esther Grace, and I married thy friend, my dearest husband, Jacob Whitby. Although earthly courts may not recognize our marriage, being that it was done in the Quaker way, thou knowest that I was his wife. As such, I am Esther Grace Whitby, handmaiden of the Lord.” Her face was impassioned, exultant, and for a moment they were all stopped by the fierce goodness that seemed to emanate from her very soul.

  From behind Lucy, Adam began to clap. “A very fine performance indeed.”

  The magistrate looked up at Sarah. “Daughter, believe me. We have evidence that this woman, whom you know as Esther Grace Whitby, has killed several people, and not even two hours ago struck another woman down, leaving her for dead.”

  Hearing his daughter’s shocked gasp, he continued. “Would you like to tell my daughter what happened to Deborah?” he asked Esther.

  Esther Whitby put her hands to her mouth. “Did something happen to my dear companion?” she asked, the tiniest quaver in her voice. “Before we left I begged Deborah to come with us. She told us that she had been bidden by the Lord to stay.” Her eyes were wide, and she began to tremble. Once again Lucy found herself watching her, unable to look away. Indeed, the woman’s performance was remarkable. “Tell me, did something happen to her?”

  Sarah reached over and patted her arm. She looked at her father. “I do not understand, Father! Deborah decided not to come,” she said, looking anxiously at the faces of her family. “Ahivah stayed behind with her niece. They changed their minds. Or, like Sam and Theodora, not everyone is called. Perhaps they came to that realization as we were leaving.”

  “No, that is not it. She didn’t come because Mrs. Whitby had struck her over the head and left her for dead!” Lucy exclaimed, unable to contain herself. “Isn’t that so?”

  “What?” Sarah exclaimed, looking at Esther. “That cannot be true.”

  “Did she tell thee that?” Esther Whitby asked Lucy, while casually putting her hand on Sarah’s forearm. The gesture seemed to be simultaneously protective and possessive.

  “Well, no,” Lucy admitted. “She did not see who had struck her, although Ahivah—“

  “Did Ahivah see something?” Esther interrupted with a smile. “Did she say something? Oh—forgive me. She does not speak. Cannot speak, can she?”

  Seeing the uncertainty that continued to riddle Sarah’s face, Lucy spoke more earnestly. “Sarah! Please! This woman is a murderer! She has killed several people, including her husband. You must not go anywhere with her!”

  Esther climbed into the front of the cart and took up the reins. “Now, that is a fine thing to say,” she said, looking back at Sarah. “We who have taken care of thee. Surely thou cannot believe such a thing. I can assure thee—there is no evidence that I have committed the crimes of which I have been accused.” She shook the reins, causing her horses to sniff at the others. “If thou canst believe such terrible things of us, then we must part ways now. I leave thee in good faith, and a blessing upon thee.”

  Adam’s horse began to move out of the way as the cart pressed forward.

  “I do not know what to believe,” Sarah said miserably to Lucy and her father. “I cannot believe what you say of my own dear companion is true.”

  “You cannot outrun us,” the constable called to Mrs. Whitby. “I can arrest you now.”

  The magistrate glanced at him but did not say anything. Lucy guessed what he was thinking. Since they were well outside the city boundaries, the constable had no authority to arrest anyone. She had learned that a year before when they were in pursuit of a murderer in Oxford. Since neither Gervase nor Esther looked alarmed, they might have been aware that his threat was empty.

  “Mrs. Whitby,” the magistrate called. “If you do indeed have nothing to hide from my daughter, I ask you to stay and answer a few harmless questions. Let my daughter be the judge. If you answer our questions in a manner that satisfies my daughter, I will allow you to pass. No authorities will pursue you, and I will leave you to proceed in peace, never to trespass upon you again.”

  Esther flicked her eyes toward Gervase, who responded with a nearly imperceptible nod. She reined in the horses. “If my dear sister Sarah believes my testimony—and indeed, why would she not, given that I speak with the truth of a handmaiden of the Lord—then thou wilt allow us to proceed, unmolested?”

  The magistrate bowed his head. “I do declare that to be true.”

  Adam and the constable both shuffled their feet, clearly unhappy with the magistrate’s words. Neither would speak against him, though.

  Perhaps sensing this, Esther turned to them. “Do you also agree to this?” she asked them.

  They both nodded, reluctantly, after the magistrate gave them a meaningful look.

  “All right, then,” the magistrate said. “Please join us down here, so that we may proceed.”

  Carefully Esther climbed down from the cart, and after a moment, Gervase followed her down, still holding the reins. Sarah climbed down as well, taking a step away from the other two.

  Briskly, as if he were presiding over a real trial in a courtroom instead of in a muddy field along the road to Bristol, the magistrate began. “We are called here to present testimony to my daughter, Sarah Hargrave, so that she may better understand the monstrous nature of the individuals she once called her friends.”

  “Sarah,” Esther interrupted, turning with imploring eyes toward the magistrate’s daughter, “I implore thee to remember our heartfelt talks and our solace in the Lord. To recall how steady in our friendship I have been, how I have been a true friend to thee, first in honor of my husband, and then out of the love I have felt for thee, bursting from my own bosom.”

  Sarah’s eyes were now glistening as she listened to Esther’s impassioned words. “Thou hast been a good companion,” she whispered.

  “I took thee in when thy own father cast thee out,” Esther continued.

  To Lucy’s dismay, Sarah nodded. “That is so.”

  The magistrate coughed loudly, bringing his daughter’s attention back to him. “First, the evidence of this woman’s identity. We allege her to have been born Posy Little, although she came to call herself Grace Little, and later, Esther Grace. She changed her name yet a third time after marrying Jacob Whitby, so that she now alleges herself to be Esther Whitby.”

  Sarah looked confused. “Changing one’s name is no crime,” she said.

  The magistrate looked up intently at Sarah. “Daughter, this woman appeared at my bench before the plague. I remember her well.”

  “That is a lie!” Esther said, her manner still calm. “I never gave testimony before this judge.”

  “That is because you left the courtroom before you provided your testimony. But I remember you, sitting by the bench.”

  Moving alongside the cart, Lucy produced The Player’s Last Play and showed it to Sarah. “This is the trial of which your father speaks.”

  “A play?” Sarah said, glancing at the title. “I do not understand. We Quakers do not attend plays.”

  Lucy shook the penny piece at her. “It mentions a woman, Grace Little, who witnessed this murder. We believe this woman—this actress—is the woman standing next to you. She has been lying about who she is ever since.”

  “Thou cannot prove that person was me,” Esther said, a bit smugly now. “Besides, being a witness is a far stretch from being a murderer.”

  Lucy wiped her hands against her skirts. This
interrogation was not going well. She handed The Player’s Last Play to Sarah to read for herself.

  “Look, Sarah, read the name of this witness. Deborah Evans. You know her! Ahivah’s niece.”

  “A common enough name, I should say,” Esther said conversationally to Sarah, who nodded.

  More desperately now, Lucy said, “See, read this part. Miss Evans had first claimed the murder had been committed by another man, before changing her testimony. I think that man she saw commit the murder was Gervase.”

  “It does not say Gervase, now does it?” Esther chuckled. She seemed to be enjoying herself now. “If thou lookst closely, thou wilt see the name is Gerald Markham, not Gervase. Regardless, it is clear that another man did the deed.”

  “Why are you so familiar with this penny piece?” Adam asked. “You know the circumstances of this murder very well.”

  Esther shrugged. “I enjoy a good murder as well as anyone else. That is not a crime,” she said pointedly to Adam and his magistrate. “If it were, well, thou wouldst need to arrest her as well,” she said with a meaningful look toward Lucy. “I say as I did before. Thou cannot prove that woman was me, nor any of the other accusations thou hast lodged my way.”

  “I know it was you.” The searcher had come out of the carriage. “Posy. Little.” she said, spitting after she said each name.

  Esther’s eyes widened, and she took a step back. For the first time, there seemed to be the tiniest crack in her composure.

  “You!” she exclaimed, dropping her Quaker speech. Turning to the constable she said, “Constable, this woman has long been harassing me. Following me, making threats against me. Anyone can tell you that this so!”

  “’Tis true, Lucy,” Sarah said. “This woman has been pursuing Esther, in the most disturbing way. I have seen this myself.”

  “This woman is Esther Grace’s grandmother,” Lucy said. “Her name is Sadie Burroughs.”