A Death Along the River Fleet

by Susanna Calkins

  2

  Awkwardly supporting the strange woman with her left arm, Lucy looked about the physician’s office with interest. Like Master Hargrave’s study, the physician’s had several shelves of old leather books, like the three she had lugged all the way from the printer’s shop. He had a desk with writing implements—quill, ink, paper, sealing wax, and a seal—and sheaves of paper everywhere. There the resemblance stopped. Unlike the magistrate, the physician had instruments hanging from one wall, most of which Lucy did not recognize, as well as shelves of vials and jars. All the while the woman paced anxiously beside Lucy.

  Dr. Larimer walked in then, scowling. “Lucy, what is this nonsense you told my housekeeper, Mrs. Hotchkiss, about a delivery from Horace Aubrey?” He eyed the woman. “I do not think that even he would find it humorous to send me such a sickly piece.”

  Despite his jest, she could hear the annoyance in the physician’s voice. The woman backed up against the wall.

  Though a flush of shame passed over her, Lucy kept her head up. “I am aggrieved that I told that story,” she said. “It is just that I encountered this woman on my travels this morning. I do not know who she is. Indeed, she seems unable to explain anything for herself.” She paused. “Please, sir. I think something terrible has happened to her. I was hoping you could help her.”

  “Lucy, I do not take charitable cases,” he replied sternly. “If she is injured, you should have brought her to St. Bartholomew’s. That hospital would take her, as they do all the indigent.” He turned to go. “Please remove her from my home at once.”

  “Wait, sir,” Lucy cried. “If you could just look at her. I dread taking her to the hospital, and I should hate to simply leave her on her own. I think she is wounded; I saw blood on her hands and body. She might grow worse, unattended.”

  At her last words, Dr. Larimer raised a fist heavenward. “Oh, Hippocrates!”

  “Sir?” Lucy asked, confused.

  “Blasted Greek. I will use my power to help the sick to the best of my ability and judgment; I will abstain from harming or wronging any man by it.” He glanced at Lucy. “Never mind, Lucy. Though some of my fellow physicians may disagree, I am obligated to seek to preserve life, no matter how lowly.” Still a few steps away, he scrutinized the woman, raising an eyebrow when he noticed her feet. “No shoes? But a cloak?”

  “’Tis my own cloak wrapped around her, you see,” Lucy explained. In a softer voice she added, “She wears no frock either. She is only in her shift. This is how I found her.” She chose not to add that the woman had claimed that the devil had been chasing her. All in good time, she thought.

  “I see,” he said. “That she is standing, and was able to walk from where you found her to here, makes me suspect that her injuries are not substantial. I shall examine her.” The physician leaned over to open her cloak.

  At his touch, the woman began to scream, great terrible shrieks that made the hairs on Lucy’s neck rise up.

  Unexpectedly, Dr. Larimer reached out and slapped the woman smartly across her mouth. She stopped screaming abruptly, though tears filled her eyes. “That is better,” he said. “Now, let us continue.”

  Lucy hesitated. “Shall I leave, sir?”

  But as she turned to go, the woman clutched Lucy’s hand, a mute plea evident in her anguished eyes.

  “She does not seem to want you to leave her,” the physician said drily, observing the gesture. “She is showing great suffering of the womb. The hystericus is evident upon her, which I will treat most appropriately with a tincture of opium. Surely, for that alone, my dear Hippocrates will allow that I have done all I can before I turn her loose. At the very least, I can seek to redress her obvious humoral imbalance.”

  Opening the door, he called down the corridor. “Mrs. Hotchkiss! A white wine posset, if you would.” He began to crush some ingredients with a mortar and pestle. Both women watched him.

  Shortly after, Mrs. Hotchkiss entered the room, with a mug of warmed wine. Dr. Larimer stirred in some crushed ingredients and held it out to the woman. “Drink!” he commanded.

  When she did not take the mug, he brought it to her lips as if he were going to force her to swallow the warm liquid. Clenching her teeth together, the woman shrank back and began to flail her arms, trying to bat away the drink.

  Dr. Larimer scowled. “I do not have time for this nonsense.” He gestured to the long bench. “Sit down, woman.”

  “Let me try,” Lucy said hastily, taking the fragrant drink from his hands, before he could cast the woman out of his house. She had dealt with sick and frightened people before. “Please, miss,” she said, patting the long bench. “Sit here beside me.”

  To both their surprise, the woman stopped struggling and sat down.

  “That’s right,” Lucy said, keeping her eyes steadily on the woman. “You must drink this. It will help you feel better.” She wrapped the woman’s now docile hands around the warm mug. “Take a nip.”

  Obediently, the woman took a small timid sip. Evidently finding the posset to her liking, she took a few deeper sips, and then a few mouthfuls, before draining the cup.

  “She had blood all over her hands and feet when I found her,” Lucy said quietly to the physician. The woman’s eyes were already starting to flutter. The wine and the opium were no doubt working quickly on her emaciated body. “Perhaps you could start there?”

  Together they eased the woman back on the bench, and Lucy slipped an embroidered pillow under her head.

  Carefully, the physician grasped the woman’s hands. She moaned and tried to pull them free, although her movements were slow and lacked power. But he would not let them go.

  “Hold there, miss!” Dr. Larimer said, examining the palms and backs of the woman’s hands. “Sanguine? No, cold and dry. Full of black bile. Likely melancholic.” He released the woman’s hands and touched her face. “No fever, at least. That is a blessing, to be certain.” He scowled when he examined her feet. “Why was she wearing no shoes?”

  “I do not know, sir.”

  The physician frowned. “I am not liking this,” he said. “Her legs and feet are bruised and bleeding, and the scratches are all recent.” He pointed to the purple marks on the woman’s wrists and ankles. “Then there are those marks, too.”

  “What are those marks, sir?” Lucy asked.

  “I would surmise this woman has been bound in rope.”

  “Bound?” Lucy gasped. “How awful!”

  Still frowning, the physician began to examine the gashes on the woman’s right hand. “These cuts will need to be bandaged before the great pus sets in.” He paused, holding her limp hand up to the light. “Strange.”

  “What is it?” Lucy asked.

  “The nature and position of this cut.” He pointed to the long slash that cut across her palm from below the smallest finger on her right hand. “If I had to guess, she inflicted this herself.”

  Lucy stared at him. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean, as if she had been holding a knife in her hand. Like so.” The physician gestured with the knife, making a quick cutting movement in the air.

  “Might she work for a butcher? I did find her not too far from the markets,” Lucy said. She doubted it though. The woman looked scarcely strong enough to be involved in such a profession, at least not in the capacity where she would be butchering the beasts herself.

  The physician did not answer. His eyes, trained on the woman, were speculative. “I need to see if she has been further injured or,” he said briskly, “otherwise violated. Remove her cloak.”

  Lucy stepped forward and carefully loosened the cloak from around the woman’s neck, all the while murmuring soothing sounds. The woman squirmed, but allowed Lucy to remove the cloak. As she lay there in her flimsy undergarments, the long streaks of blood and mud across the front of her shift were obvious in the brighter light of day.

  The woman closed her eyes, and at last her breathing began to slow. Her tight hold on Lucy’s ha
nd finally began to loosen, as the opium and wine took effect. Without encountering any more protest, Lucy helped the physician pull the dirty shift over the woman’s head.

  Hearing the physician click his teeth, Lucy glanced at the woman’s naked form. Startled, she could see that the woman had more bruising around her upper arms and shoulders. There was something tied to her neck with a bit of black string as well, which fell atop her chest. Lucy pulled a blanket over her while the physician examined the woman’s private parts, a serious look on his face. “No sign of the bloody flux,” she heard him mutter. “But nothing of the whore upon her either.”

  For a few minutes more, he examined her body, before he began to bandage the cuts on her feet and hands.

  As he wrapped one hand, Lucy pointed to the cloth object hanging around the woman’s neck. “I wonder if that could tell us anything about her.”

  The physician slipped the filthy piece from around her neck and passed it to Lucy with a grimace. “I doubt it,” he said. “Best burn it.”

  Taking the object, Lucy glanced at it. She could see it was covered in muck and grime. She placed it on the table and stood up then. She had heard the church bells ring a while back, and it was high time for her to return to Master Aubrey’s. She looked down at the woman, who was now sleeping. Her hair was spread wildly about on the white pillow, and she still looked dirty and unkempt. Unprotected.

  Though she might have to take on extra chamber duties for a month and be banned from setting type or, worse, selling books, Lucy knew she could not leave. “Shall I bathe her a bit?” Lucy asked, spying a porcelain ewer and basin on a side table. “She could do with some clean clothes as well.” She bit her lip. She did not want Dr. Larimer to ask one of his servants to give the woman a dress to wear, as it was likely that they only had one or two spare garments, and one would be for Sunday church-going.

  To her surprise, Dr. Larimer seemed to understand the dilemma, or more likely did not even think to ask his servants for an unused dress. “My wife surely has an old frock on hand that she could at least loan to this misfortunate soul. She is visiting her family outside London but should be back for our evening meal. I shall send in Mrs. Hotchkiss to assist you.” For a moment, he stared at the woman lying on the bed. “With any luck, her agitation will have subsided when she awakes, and her memory will be restored. Surely then we will be able to return her to her family.”

  After he left, Lucy began to smooth the long tangled hair from the woman’s face. She recalled the streaks of blood on her face and hands. What happened to you? she wondered.

  3

  Not too long later, the door opened and Dr. Larimer’s maid came in, carrying a heavy metal tub full of hot water. Someone had probably been boiling the water for soup in the kitchen, for Lucy caught the smell of boiled onions. Dr. Larimer’s housekeeper strode in behind her, holding a plain gown over her arm and a lump of soap in her hand.

  “Set it there, Molly,” Mrs. Hotchkiss instructed the servant, who was gaping at the woman in the bed. After the girl complied, the housekeeper all but pushed her out of the room. “We shall call you if we need you,” she said, shutting the door firmly behind the maid.

  Lucy took the soap that Mrs. Hotchkiss handed her and sniffed appreciatively. “Lavender,” she said.

  The housekeeper only grunted in reply. The perfumed soap probably belonged to the physician’s wife, and Lucy thought it better not to say anything else about it.

  After dipping a small cloth into the hot water, Lucy began to gently wash away the light grime that covered the woman’s face.

  The housekeeper stared down at the sleeping woman. “The Lord’s will be done,” she said, clucking her tongue. “Though it hardly seems likely that a bit of soap will wash off this woman’s sins.”

  How easily we pass judgment, Lucy thought. She was about to say as much when Mrs. Hotchkiss spoke again. In a decidedly different tone Lucy heard her whisper, “Oh my.” She had seen the bruises around the woman’s wrists, and the other marks across her body.

  The two women exchanged a look. That something terrible had happened to this woman could not be denied. They continued to bathe her with care, so that they would not bring her pain, toweling her off and pulling the dress over her head. “An old one belonging to Mistress Larimer,” Mrs. Hotchkiss whispered. “She only wears it on wash-days, when she oversees the laundering of the linens.”

  Though she tried to sound certain, Lucy caught a note of hesitation in her voice. Not every woman would take too kindly to seeing one of her frocks being worn by another woman, particularly without her say-so.

  Lucy sought to reassure her. “It is warm and serviceable, and I cannot imagine that your mistress would begrudge the loan. Besides, I know that, like her husband, she would take care of another in need.” At least she hoped that to be the case. She did not know Mistress Larimer all that well. Sometimes the Larimers had dined at the Hargraves’, and Lucy remembered her as a gossipy woman, but not an unkind one.

  Together, they pulled the blanket over the woman so that she would not develop a chill. Studying her, Lucy could see that the woman’s features were delicate and well formed, although a little drawn, probably from sickness or hunger. She was a bit puny of frame as well.

  Mrs. Hotchkiss gazed down at the woman, too. “Did she say nothing at all?” she asked softly. “Who is she? What brought her to this state?”

  In her mind, Lucy could hear the woman’s terrified whisper. Has the devil come? Did he follow me? She shivered at the thought.

  “No,” Lucy replied, her voice a bit shaky. “She’s spoken so very little.”

  Molly came back in then with a straw basket. “Doctor says I am to burn all her clothes,” she said, gingerly picking up the woman’s shift. “Dirty as a beast, ain’t she?”

  “Wait!” Lucy said. “Pray, let us examine them first.”

  Both the physician’s servants stared at her. “Whatever for?” Mrs. Hotchkiss asked.

  “We might learn something about her. Some clue to her identity.” Lucy looked down at the shift, rolling a bit of the dingy white material in her fingers. “What do you make of this?” she asked the housekeeper.

  She half expected Mrs. Hotchkiss to turn away with the garment, but instead she felt the cloth expertly in her hands. “Linen,” she said. “Of a fine quality.” Taking it from Lucy, she held it up to the light. Her eyes widened, taking in the intricate tatting at the bottom. “Lace?”

  She looked back at the woman. Lucy could guess what she was thinking. This was the undergarment of a noblewoman.

  “Likely stole it,” Molly interjected.

  “Or someone gave it to her,” Lucy said. “Her mistress?”

  “Be a shame to burn it, then,” Mrs. Hotchkiss said. “A good dosing of lye-soap will get those bloodstains out. The master must have thought it was ridden with mites, but I don’t see any, do you?”

  Lucy shook her head. Gently, she picked up one of the woman’s hands, turning it this way and that. Although the woman’s fingernails were ragged and torn, and her hands were a bit scratched, her palms were soft and devoid of calluses or other indicators of hard work. “This is not the hand of a servant,” she said. “Or of a woman who must ply tools in a trade. Who is she?”

  “She’s a madwoman, she is,” Molly offered, unhelpfully. “’Tis easy enough to see! Don’t know why we haven’t just sent her on her way.”

  Lucy frowned at the maid. “Dr. Larimer wouldn’t do that.”

  Molly sniffed. “Well, maybe he should.” She poured the dirty water from the basin into the larger tub she had carried in earlier. Picking it up in both hands, she looked at the housekeeper. “Got to start cutting potatoes and carrots for dinner,” she said, making a big show of leaving. “Master will not like it if the stew’s not on the table when he asks. I’ve enough on my plate to do without tending to this one.”

  The housekeeper nodded in agreement, but seemed a bit more reluctant. “Yes, I’ve got duties to attend to
myself.” She hesitated, looking down at the woman. “She needs looking after, she does.”

  “I could sit with her for a bit,” Lucy offered. Something about the woman made her so curious. And her vulnerability made Lucy wish to protect her. “If she wakes up, she may be less startled if she sees me again.”

  “Does your master not expect you back?” Mrs. Hotchkiss said a bit suspiciously.

  “Yes, of course. But he knows I was making a delivery and that I would be selling near Holborn Market after that. I am a bookseller, you know.” As always, when she told people that, a bit of pride had crept into Lucy’s voice. “Of course, I should not like to be away very long. I can manage, though.”

  When Mrs. Hotchkiss and Molly left, Lucy poured a little more fresh water into the basin. After wiping the woman’s face, she pulled a stool over to the bed, to be close to the sedated woman.

  Lucy picked up the dirty object that had been tied around the woman’s neck. Examining it closely, she could see that a bit of cloth had been wound around a hard object. Carefully, she unwound the dirty cloth, until she was staring down at the object in her hands in amazement.

  It was a beautiful talisman of some sort. A polished reddish stone, shaped liked a teardrop, had been inlaid into an elaborate silver setting. The stone was smooth to her touch, and she could see that it had flecks of pinks, taupes, and whites deep within it. She had scarcely seen anything so lovely.

  The physician came back in then. “What is that?” he asked.

  “This is what was around the woman’s neck,” Lucy said, still staring down at the remarkable object in her hands. A line ran along both sides, and she could see a hinge at the teardrop’s base. “I think it is an amulet.”

  With great care, she undid the clasp and opened the amulet. Inside, there were two chambers, each filled with a familiar dried herb.

  “Rosemary,” she said, sniffing. She handed the amulet to the physician.

  “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance: pray, love, remember,” Dr. Larimer said, taking the piece from Lucy.