“Pardon, sir?”
“Ah, a line from the Bard. The poor mad lass Ophelia says it to the Dane.”
At their voices, the woman began to revive. “Please,” she murmured, her voice still drowsy. “I must continue on my journey. Pray, let me leave. At once!”
Lucy and Dr. Larimer looked at each other. Now that the woman was no longer weeping and carrying on in that insensible manner, her voice sounded cultured and genteel, and her words were those of a lady. Indeed, there was no trace of her earlier lunacy in her speech.
“Madam,” Dr. Larimer said, using his most soothing tone, “would you be so kind as to tell us your name? I should very much like to contact your family.”
“My name?” she asked. She sat up straight, the sleepiness leaving her body while the earlier fear returning to her eyes. “I-I do not know!” She searched their faces. “Why do I not know who I am? What have you done to me?”
“We have done nothing to you!” Lucy burst out. “I found you wandering about in the ruins, by Holborn Bridge. I brought you here!”
“Lucy, please,” Dr. Larimer said. He turned back to the woman. “You cannot remember your name? What about that of your family? Your surname?”
“I tell you, I do not know that either!” she said, her voice rising. “I know the words you say, but there is no sense to be made in my mind.”
She looked around at the physician’s study, for the first time taking in her surroundings. Her eyes lingered on a large print depicting a man’s body, half with flesh and half just a skeleton. “What is this place?” she whispered.
“This is my study, where I see my patients,” the physician replied, uncorking a vial. “You seem to have suffered some sort of shock, although of what nature I cannot say for certain.” Carefully, he poured some of the liquid from the bottle into a smaller cup. “Drink a little more of this tincture. It will help soothe you.”
Lucy half expected the woman to struggle, as she had done earlier, but this time she drank the liquid quickly.
“I should like to diagnose the source of your affliction,” the physician said. “Perchance you have sustained some type of blow. That might account for your loss of memory, although I must say it is a most odd phenomenon. Have you struck your head recently?”
“I do not believe so,” the woman replied, reaching up to feel her head. She put her hand at the base of her neck. “I can feel a sharp pain here.”
“Let me see,” Dr. Larimer said. He pushed the woman’s heavy hair off the base of her neck. When he did that, he exposed another scar that they had not previously noticed, which ran vertically along the woman’s neck. He inhaled sharply.
“What is it?” Lucy asked.
“A surgeon has been letting her blood,” he said, probing the scar with gentle hands. “The skin here is just healed. See how it is scabbed over?” he said to Lucy, who nodded.
He turned his attention back to the woman. “For what condition has the surgeon been at your neck?”
The woman shook her head, wincing a bit at the movement. “I cannot say! I do not remember!” she replied, anxiety rising in her voice. “Who would do that to me?”
“Such bloodletting from the vein of your neck tells me that you have had a disorder of the head that someone has been seeking to correct,” the physician explained. “It may explain why you do not remember. Your memory loss may have been what he was trying to alleviate when he performed the bloodletting.”
“Can you tell how long ago the bloodletting occurred?” Lucy asked Dr. Larimer, in a low tone.
“Recently. The skin is pink and new where the scar has formed,” he replied, still examining her carefully. “Within the last few weeks, of that I am certain.”
“Oh, why can I not remember?” The woman’s voice caught in a half sob, and Lucy could hear a bit of hysteria rising once again. “I can scarcely think.”
Dr. Larimer resumed his questions. “What is the last thing you do remember? Do you know why you were at Holborn Bridge?”
“Holborn Bridge? Where is that?”
“It crosses the River Fleet. Just beyond the great expanse where the Fire laid waste,” Lucy replied. “It is where I found you, before I brought you here. I washed your hands—do you recall that?”
The woman blinked, trying to remember. “Washed my hands?” A flicker of recognition. “By a well, was it not?” Her brow furrowed. “There was a crowd, was there not? They were shouting.” She looked at Lucy. “Someone threw potatoes at us!” She looked scandalized, which would have made Lucy smile if she were not so concerned.
“Do you remember anything before that? What brought you to Holborn Bridge?” Dr. Larimer continued to press. When the woman did not answer, he pointed to the bruises on her wrists. “Do you recall how you received these injuries?”
He touched them gently, and she flinched. “I do not know.” The woman pulled back, taking on the stance of a trapped animal. She put a hand to her chest and neck, frantically feeling for the object that had hung around her neck.
“Where is it?” she cried. “Where is my amulet? Give it back to me!” she demanded. “I need it!”
Hastily, Lucy handed her the amulet, and the woman put it back around her neck.
“It’s beautiful,” Lucy said. “Where did you get it?”
The woman looked startled, and afraid. “I do not know! I just remember the feeling of the amulet around my neck.” As she stroked the gemstone, her rapid breathing began to slow, and she pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. It was clear that she had no wish to continue the conversation.
The physician coughed then, still regarding the woman’s form in a puzzled way. “Such extreme memory loss is very uncommon,” he said to Lucy. “I wonder—”
She did not know what he would have said, for just then James Sheridan, Dr. Larimer’s assistant, strode into the room. He was a thin man with glasses, with the haughty manner of a gentleman who was completing his medical studies at Cambridge. He was residing in Dr. Sheridan’s home while he assisted him with his patients, before he would be accepted as a physician in his own right. He and Lucy had met a few months prior when Dr. Larimer had conducted an autopsy of a murder victim. Mr. Sheridan had been quite annoyed when the physician had seemed to hold Lucy’s opinion in good stead.
“I was informed that some riffraff had been brought here,” he said. His scornful gaze encompassed both Lucy and the woman huddled in the bed. He looked at the physician. “You are charitable indeed, sir.”
“Lucy found this woman in a delicate state,” Dr. Larimer replied. “I cannot in good conscience go against our sacred oath.” His tone was mild, but Lucy could hear the slight chastising. Mr. Sheridan simply shrugged, clearly less mindful of the admonitions of the ancient Greeks.
As the two men were talking, the woman pushed back the blanket that had been covering her face and gazed up at Mr. Sheridan, a fearful expression on her face.
He glanced at her, and then his gaze deepened. From her vantage point, Lucy saw something flicker in his expression, the faintest sign of recognition.
“Do you know her?” Lucy asked Mr. Sheridan, startled.
“Of course not—” he began to say, before he stopped and stared at the woman. He took a step closer, and then a step back. “By Jupiter! No, it cannot be!”
Dr. Larimer looked at his assistant in surprise. “Good God, man. Do you know this woman? Who is she?”
James Sheridan, looking more human than Lucy had ever seen him, was still staring at the woman. His gaze, at first shocked, had turned to fury and something worse. Disgust.
“I thought for a moment that—” He broke off, gulping. “No, I do not know this woman. A trick of the light. If you’ll pardon me.” With that, he turned and walked quickly out of the room.
Lucy and Dr. Larimer stared after him and then at each other. The woman still stayed huddled, the blankets again drawn up to her chin.
“Miss?” the physician asked, his voice gentle. “Did you know that
man?”
The woman shook her head and then rolled back in the bed. “No, I think not. Please, I beg you. Leave me to my slumbers. I find that I am too weary for further discourse.”
For a moment, Dr. Larimer seemed at a loss. “Well, well.” He gestured for Lucy to follow him out of the room. In the hallway, he put his hand to his head.
“I am deeply troubled by all of this, Lucy,” he said, his voice low. “Who is this woman?”
“Sir,” Lucy whispered, “she sounded like a lady, did she not?”
“Though her trappings are not fine, the grace of her bearing and her voice suggest to me a lady of quality.” He frowned. “I cannot cast her out now, not at least until we can confirm this to be true.”
Lucy nodded. Had she spoken with the voice of a pauper, the woman would likely be getting the heave-ho after a long nap and a spot of bread to eat. Her cultured voice had given her a second chance that would have been denied to a woman of a clearly lesser station.
“What happened to her? How long has her memory been lost?” He sighed. “What a predicament, Lucy. I do not quite know what to do with her. There have been cases where a memory remains lost for years, while other times it all comes back in just a day or two. Truth be told, I do not even know how to treat her. We can only hope that her memory returns to her quickly.”
A thought nagged at Lucy. “Could she be a player, sir? Perhaps she is performing for us.” She had, several times in her life, met others who pretended to be something they were not. Outwardly kind and gentle people, but scoundrels all.
The physician shook his head. “I do not think so, Lucy. I have seen such hysterical women before. Her distress and terror are real. That woman has been through a trauma, of that I am sure. I must find a way to locate her family.” He was speaking now to himself rather than her. “I shall draw upon the authorities to assist me. After all, someone must be looking for the wretched woman. For now, I am going to start with Mr. Sheridan. I think he knows something about that woman, and I intend to find out what.”
4
Lucy regarded the blurred page, fresh from the printing press, with some irritation. This would make the fifth time she had adjusted the type that morning, and the print was still coming out smudged. Master Aubrey would be none too pleased when he saw the wasted paper. Lucy had learned the hard way that he would make them re-ink and reprint dozens of sheets, at a cost to their own wages, if he thought the print looked smeared or blurry. He’d be even less happy when he learned that his apprentice had not finished printing The True Account of a Most Barbaric Monster Who Did Push His Own Sister into a Boiling Pot, which he had intended to sell at St. Mary’s that afternoon. To make matters worse, she had developed a bad cold during the night and had awoken that morning sniffling and with a voice that came and went. Certainly, she would not be of much use selling if she could not speak.
She was already a bit on the outs with Master Aubrey. After she had left Dr. Larimer’s yesterday and delivered the books, she had returned home rather later than expected and with a nearly full pack of broadsides left unpeddled. Truth be told, she could have just lied and said that few were in a buying spirit, but she had told Master Aubrey the truth of what had occurred. “Sounds like a demon was upon her,” he said. “Best be rid of the woman.” Thankfully, he was not the sort to whip his servants, but he did lightly box her ears for not doing as she was told.
Now, Lucy stepped back and considered the printing press sternly. Ink was smudged all over her hands, and she suspected across her face as well.
“Kick it!” Lach recommended from the table. He was carefully setting type for another ballad. “Teach it who is the master.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “I suppose, Lach,” she said in her hoarse, painful voice, “that it never occurred to you that kicking the press may be why it’s not working properly now?” Surveying the machine, she added, “See, ’tis at a slant. It looks like it’s been jarred.” She began to push the press back into place, angry that she had wasted her voice on Lach.
“Watch it!” Lach warned, as the box of metal type began to topple to the floor. Lucy managed to steady it, but not before twenty or so of the tiny metal letters flew out. She cried out, only to realize that her voice was completely gone.
Lach crowed. “Hoo boy! You will be in for it now!”
Lucy was about to throw something at him when they heard a quick tap at the door. Being closer, Lach opened the door, disclosing a young man in livery.
“I have a message,” he said smartly, holding up a letter. “For Lucy Campion.”
Lach shut the door behind him, so that the blustery April wind would not blow all their papers about, or bring dirt, feathers, and other debris from the street into the shop. “Is that so?” he asked.
Lucy scrambled up from the floor, brushing her skirts. She held out her hand. “I am Lucy Campion,” she said. Or that was what she tried to say. What came out was an odd squeak. The little croak she had mustered before was now completely gone.
The messenger looked doubtfully at her, taking in her smudged hands, mussed skirts, and tousled hair. Seeing this, Lach grinned broadly and stepped between them, before the man could hand her the letter. With a quick mocking look toward Lucy, Lach said, “I will make sure Miss Campion receives the letter.”
Lucy stamped her foot in indignation and held out her hand again. With a squawk, she tried again to say who she was.
The messenger looked even more confused, looking at her outstretched hand. “Is this her?” he asked Lach.
Lach laughed. “Her? Oh, no. This wanton miss is our chambermaid, and a dumb one at that.” He made a twirling gesture with one finger that referred to an addled soul. With feigned sorrow, he added, “A bit touched in the head.”
With that, Lach ushered the messenger out and held the letter up to the sunlight, well out of her reach. Lucy could only see that it had been sealed with red wax.
“Give it to me,” she tried again to say, to no avail.
Lach was still looking at the letter. “Which of her two suitors seeks to see her now? The young laird of the manor?” he said, deliberately thickening his brogue. “Or,” he continued with flatter tones, “the ‘cozened constable’?”
Lucy rolled her eyes. As the son of a magistrate and a lawyer who had trained at the Inns of Court, Adam Hargrave was certainly no Scottish noble with a manor house, even if he was a member of the English gentry by dint of his profession. Nor was Constable Duncan, a member of the King’s Army and currently running a jail on Fleet Street, anything like the figure of ridicule and mockery that so often described the local constable in the penny press.
Whether either was truly a suitor was difficult to say. She had seen little of either man these last two weeks. Adam was still helping with the newly installed Fire Court, which had been created at Clifford’s Inn, to resolve landlord disputes after the Great Fire. He spent his days collecting testimony and examining documents, and more recently was accompanying the surveyors who were mapping the new streets of London out of the charred earth. Surely he was too busy to see her, or—and she hated to voice this thought even in her own mind—he did not wish to see her. Duncan is in love with you, he had told her, and I am not certain where your heart lies.
Duncan had stopped by once or twice to see her, usually near suppertime to have a chat, but he never inquired about her days off. If he were indeed in love with her, he certainly was doing little to show it, which annoyed her more than she cared to say. And truth be told, both men quickened her senses and stirred her heart. She had long adored Adam from afar when she was working in the magistrate’s household, but it would be a match that everyone—including herself—would view as unequal. Her feelings for Duncan, though, were of a different sort. The easy friendship that had bloomed between them these last nine months had made her more thoughtful about the partnership between man and woman. With Duncan she could still work with Master Aubrey, but with Adam, such employment would be unlikely.
; With her hands on her hips, Lucy planted herself straight in front of Lach. Heaving a dramatic sigh, he gave her the letter, starting to hum one of the many tunes about the ineptness of constables. As she took the note, she stepped hard on Lach’s foot.
“Graceful, aren’t you, lass?” he said, snickering.
Nervously, Lucy glanced at the note. It was addressed simply to Lucy Campion, and it was written in a fine script that was similar to Adam’s elegant hand, but completely unlike the constable’s crooked letters.
“Just open it already,” Lach said. “Or I will.”
With that, Lucy broke the seal. A quick glance at the signature revealed it was from Dr. Larimer. Slowly, she read the note.
Lucy,
I must see you about the devilish matter that you left upon my threshold yesterday morn. I shall stop by Master Aubrey’s at ten o’clock this morning. I expect that you will ensure that you are in attendance when I arrive.
Yours,
Dr. Larimer
She put the message thoughtfully back down on the tray with the metal type. Lach snatched it up and read it out loud.
“Devilish matter? Have you the green sickness, then?” he taunted. “Need a provoker of your monthlies?”
Lucy frowned. Everyone knew about the malady that struck young women, and it was nothing to jest about. “Not that it is any of your concern, but I do not.”
Why did the physician want to speak to her again? Maybe the woman had recovered her memory. But if that were the case, why would he think to inform Lucy of such a thing?
As if he heard her, Lach continued in his taunting way. “Well, what does the physician want from you, then? Why is he calling on you this morning?”
The door opened as he asked the question, revealing Master Aubrey. As always, the rotund man looked a bit red-faced and out of breath.
“Who is calling on you this morning? Another suitor? I will have him out on his ear. I cannot have my apprentices being wooed in my place of business!” he grumbled as he took off his coat and hung it on a peg on the wall. Though his tone was gruff, Lucy could hear the teasing underneath. This was what Lach would be like in twenty years, she thought. It was also why they all managed to get along so well. He pulled on his apron.
A Death Along the River Fleet Page 3
