A Death Along the River Fleet

by Susanna Calkins

  “Is there some trinket I may show you, my dear?” the jeweler asked gently, trying to smile. It looked like his jaw hurt him, though, for he moved his hand to his teeth.

  “Are you all right, sir?” she asked.

  “Must see the tooth-puller,” he said rubbing his jaw. “I am very sorry to say that I am likely to have another cursed tooth. The perils of aging.”

  As he spoke, he ran his eyes over her in a professional way. She could see him taking note of her unfashionable sack and the mud splattered along the hem of her dress. “Or are you here on behalf of your mistress, perchance?”

  “Well, not exactly either, sir,” she said, turning away from him for a moment, and away from the probing eyes of the large man in the corner.

  Swiftly, she pulled the amulet out of the pocket that lay hidden below her skirts. “There is something I should like to show you.”

  Turning back around, she faced him again, amulet in hand. The jewelry-maker did not seem nonplussed or taken aback by her brief lack of modesty. He must have seen women do this many times over his decades buying and selling jewelry.

  Lucy held out the precious piece. “Sir, could you please tell me about the amulet?” She hesitated. “It belongs to my mistress, and she would like to know more about it.”

  “Looking to pawn it, I suppose? Well, we shall see,” Mr. Dalrymple said, accepting the piece. “I am moving out of the trade soon, as my goodly years are leaving me at last. Still, I will examine the piece and let you know if it has any value. Since the Great Fire, I have had to turn away many pieces that rummagers unearthed from the scorched-out areas. Twisted and burnt beyond repair. I can do little for them.”

  He moved over to the light and picked up his spyglass so he could see more clearly. Lucy saw his eyes widen in delight. “Why, this is quite remarkable,” he exclaimed.

  First, he examined the outside, stroking the gemstone, running his finger over the hinge. He refrained, Lucy noticed, from touching the dirty cord that had been strung around the woman’s neck. Finally, he pressed the clasp so that he could open the hinge. He examined the chambers, even holding it to his nose. He took a deep sniff. “Rosemary,” he murmured.

  Lucy nodded, even though he was not looking at her.

  After a few more minutes, he finally looked back at her, speaking in a quick, excited voice. “This piece is quite fine indeed. Except for this bit of filthy twine, of course.” Before Lucy could protest, the jewelry-maker took a knife and cut the cord off. “Ah, that is better. I could not abide such a hideous thing—something so profane should not come in contact with something so sacred.”

  He continued. “I have seen such pieces before, but they are rare. It is likely from Germany or France and is maybe fifteen years old.” He pointed to the stone in the middle. “This is agate,” he said, “which is a member of the chalcedony family. Specifically, bloodstone. Many people believe it to have healing properties.” He opened the clasp and pointed to the two inner chambers. “Someone has put rosemary in here, but it was made to hold relics.”

  Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Like saint’s bones?” She knew that was what papists did to commune with the Lord. It seemed a rather odd practice to her.

  “Bones, or teeth, or bits of skin or hair, perhaps. Or even just a piece of a special shroud.” He touched it. “So smooth to the touch. This gem was cut and polished by a great craftsman, and set by another brilliant artisan.”

  “Do you have any idea who the artisans may have been?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I have seen such things on my travels through the Continent. After completing a pilgrimage, the devoted might have been able to purchase such a thing to hold relics from the shrines and churches that they visited.” He looked at Lucy. “We English, of course, do not hold with such idolatrous practices. So I would suspect that it has lost any religious significance, although its original health-giving purposes may have been retained.”

  “I see,” Lucy said.

  “Does your mistress wish to sell it?” he asked. “I have some customers who might enjoy a piece such as this.”

  “Alas, my mistress is not well,” Lucy said. “I am afraid, to be truthful, she is quite ill indeed. This amulet brings her great comfort in her illness.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Well, please allow me to extend a small courtesy to the owner of this beautiful piece.”

  Opening a box, he took out a small silver chain and quickly looped the amulet through it. He held it out to Lucy, who looked at him stunned.

  “I-I have no money to pay for this gift. My mistress sent me no coin, either.”

  The man looked at her. “I am an old man. I have acquired many beautiful things in my lifetime. I will never sell everything I own, and I have no children to pass my life’s work to. If your mistress is sick, maybe this will give her a little pleasure. It will give me pleasure to imagine someone enjoying my gift. Take it, my child, and bless you on this good Maundy Thursday. In honor of the King of Kings, if you would.”

  Lucy looked over at the huge man sitting in the corner. He nodded and jerked his head toward the door. As she walked out, the man followed her. “The old man is doddering a bit now. You must tell no one about what he has given you. And keep it to yourself. I do not want your friends coming around, sniffing about to see what they can take from him. He gave you a gift—which I hope will indeed go to your ill mistress”—he emphasized the last three words as if he did not believe her—“but do not take it into your pretty head to come back. Do you understand?”

  Afraid of the way the man loomed over her, she nodded and stammered, “Th-thank him again, if you would,” before she walked quickly to the printer’s shop.

  * * *

  “Did not expect to see you for a while,” Lach sneered when she entered the printing shop a few minutes later. He had just been getting the flames under the great pot going in the hearth at the back of the main room. “How about you get our afternoon dinner ready for us? Master Aubrey is out selling, but he said he’d be back before noon.”

  “Can’t. I don’t have time,” she said breathlessly. “I said I would be back to Dr. Larimer’s shortly. Before I do that, would you be so good as to locate some tracts?”

  “What sort of tracts?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Any that speak of Henry Belasysse,” she said. “Do you not remember what Master Aubrey said when Dr. Larimer was here? He spoke of an affair, a scandal of some sort, from his tone, about our patient’s brother—well, assuming she is who we think she is.” Seeing the fleeting recognition in his eyes, she grabbed his arm. “You know what the story is, do you not? Tell me!”

  “I am sure I do not recall the particulars,” he replied in his teasing way.

  “Argh!” Lucy cried. “Lach, it is clear that you know the story. Tell me.”

  “I do recall a broadside, or a pamphlet, providing the ins and outs of that particular scandal. But who is to say where they are?” He began to whistle then.

  “You know exactly where they are. I know it, you dreadful lad!” Lucy cried. “You spend more time poking around down in the cellar than anyone. Tell me where they are.”

  “Find them yourself, then, why don’t you?” Lach replied. “I do not have the time.” He looked over at the type from a broadside he and Master Aubrey must have printed the day before. The typeface still needed to be cleaned and sorted back into the massive trays of wooden boxes that lined the walls of the printer’s shop.

  Lucy rolled her eyes. They both knew she would not be able to find the tracts in a timely way. She knew that Master Aubrey had a system of grouping different types of tracts and penny pieces into bags that hung on pegs in the cellar and throughout the shop, but, in her eight months as an apprentice, she still did not fully understand how they got grouped together or where the different groups were kept.

  “All right, Lach,” she said. “How about I break down this type, while you locate the tracts for me?”

  “Deal,” Lach said, stick
ing out his hand to shake. Lucy was just glad that he had not spat on it first or cut it with a blade to seal the promise.

  Lach went down into the dark cellar with a lantern to look for the tracts while Lucy cleaned the typeface with a rag and began to nimbly sort the type. Long ago, when she had first started working for the printer, such a task had been quite arduous, for each piece of type was small, and she had to make sure that each piece was properly sorted. Gothic. Italic. Roman. But she had learned that there was a rhythm to be found in the dismantling of each quoin and the text held within, and her fingers flew as she tossed the type rapidly into the correct spaces in the tray.

  After about fifteen minutes, though, she began to wonder where he was. “Lach,” she hissed down the stairs. “Hurry up!” Had he tricked her? Was he even looking? This would not be the first time the printer’s devil had convinced her to do something for him.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” he called. A few minutes later, he came back into the main part of the shop with a grin. “It took me a while, but here you are.”

  From the broad grin on his face, it was fairly clear that he had stayed away so that she could do more of the tray in his absence.

  Lucy snatched them from his hand and went upstairs to the third floor, to enter the rooms she shared with Will. She was not surprised to find him awake, munching on a bit of hard cheese and bread.

  “Good morrow, Brother,” she said, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek. “How goes the life of a master smithy?” She sat down at the table next to him, the printed pieces still in her hand.

  Will stretched out, putting his arms behind his head, and preened a bit. “Quite well, actually. I have several orders to fill today, but I have a few moments to hear about this mysterious woman you are tending for Dr. Larimer.” He looked over at her in mock despair. “Chambermaid, bookseller, nursemaid … what is next, I wonder?” He punched her softly on the arm. “Wife?”

  “Not straightaway,” she said, making a face. “You shall not be dancing at my wedding anytime soon. There’s something I need to do right now,” she said, pointedly changing the nettlesome subject.

  She pulled out the tracts that Lach had found for her and spread them out on their low table. Her brother continued to chomp noisily on his food. As he ate, she told him quickly about the mysterious woman. “Mr. Sheridan is convinced that she is Octavia Belasysse. It seems that Mr. Sheridan’s brother and her brother, Henry, were Cambridge chums or something of that nature.”

  She picked up the first tract, her eyes widening as she read the title out loud. “The Strange and True Tale of Two Noble-born Men Who Did Most Ignobly Kill a Man.” She broke off, starting to scan the tract more quickly.

  “Killed a man?” Will repeated. “Who did?”

  Lucy kept reading. “Henry Belasysse and Lord Buckhurst did kill a man after a night of tippling down in Waltham Forest.”

  She stared at Will. “I can scarcely believe it,” she said, before turning her attention back to the printed page before her. “Upon leaving the local tavern, the two ignoble nobles did mistake a poor tanner as a highwayman and did kill him for fear that he had designs upon their wealth.”

  “Were they hanged, then?” Will asked, touching his neck beneath his collar. Lucy did not need to see his face to know what he was thinking. There was a time when his own life had hung in the balance, before the fates had intervened and justice was restored. The noose had nearly brought an end to him, and only she knew the despair that he still sometimes felt when reminded of this bleak moment in his life. “Shame about the tanner.”

  She pressed his hand. “No, I do not think they were hanged for this crime.” Lucy returned her attention to the other piece, this one a broadside. “Ah, the rest of the story. The Murderers Pardoned,” she read. Frowning, she added, “It seems that the case never went to trial.” Skimming the page, she read, “‘O! the folly of youth!’ His Majesty lamented. ‘A youthful mistake need not end with the hangman’s noose.’” She pushed the piece away. “It appears that King Charles pardoned them both. And Henry Belasysse ran for Parliament a few months later. He is now an MP for Great Grimsby.”

  “You mean they did commit the murder and got away with it?” Will’s brows furrowed. “Ninny-hammers.”

  Lucy skimmed the rest of the piece. This one gave a little more information about the life of Henry Belasysse. It seemed he had been widowed at age nineteen and married his second wife a few years later. Here, she began to read out loud again. “Having made some waste in his estate, he was compelled by his father to marry a lass just thirteen, but possessing great fortune—”

  “Yeah? How much?” Will asked, interested in spite of himself.

  “She is said to be worth £1,000 per annum and with vast expectations.”

  “Hmpph,” Will grumbled, beginning to sharpen his knives.

  Lucy read the final part to herself. “Though of a very small proportion of beauty, she is said to have much life and vivacity and will soon do her duty by producing an heir.”

  “Poor lass,” Lucy said out loud. Thirteen was quite young to be married, but not for the nobles and gentry. That was one small blessing to being a servant and apprentice—no one expected a woman to marry until she had a dowry in hand. Few people of her social standing got married before they were twenty-five; there was not much use to thinking about marrying when there was no income or a place to live together. As for herself, she was quite content to live with her brother above Master Aubrey’s shop, creating pieces both practical and strange. Or at least she thought she was.

  Hearing the church bells toll ten times outside, Lucy grabbed all the tracts and stuffed them in her sack. “I must get back,” she called to her brother, dropping a quick kiss on his cheek.

  She raced down the steps and through the printer’s shop. She was almost to the door when she collided with Master Aubrey as he walked in from Fleet Street.

  “Oof,” he grunted. “Lucy! What are you doing, running through my shop like this!”

  “Good morning, sir. I was just here to see my brother,” she said, giving a little teasing curtsy. “A pleasant Maundy Thursday to you.”

  He grunted. “It would be more pleasant if all my hard-worked wares were not in danger of flying away, due to the giddiness of my sometimes apprentice.”

  Behind her, she heard Lach snicker.

  Seeing Master Aubrey’s pack, she asked sweetly, “Out selling tracts, sir?”

  “Smart, isn’t she?” Lach asked.

  Master Aubrey laid his pack down. “I sold a few. I went to Whitehall to see King Charles wash the feet of the poor people, but the Bishop of London did it on his behalf.” The printer seemed a bit disgruntled. It had long been the custom for the monarchs of England to wash the feet of twelve men and women, as Jesus had washed the feet of the Apostles before the Last Supper. Having the Bishop of London take on the task instead of the king clearly irked him. Sometimes she suspected the printer had Leveller sensibilities and liked it when the royals took on more mundane responsibilities.

  “Which pieces did you bring?” Lucy asked, changing the subject. In truth, she was always intrigued to know how the packs got decided. Master Aubrey had a knack for knowing what to sell, and to what crowd, that she desperately hoped to learn for herself one day.

  “Could not very well sell murder ballads and monstrous births on Maundy Thursday, hey? Brought along John Booker’s Tractatus paschalis and John Pell’s Easter Not Mis-Timed. Too many of them, it seems. Only the sinners’ journeys, like the one you wrote about that Quaker, sold today.”

  He kicked the still-full bag, looking in that moment a bit like Lach, causing Lucy to hide a smile. A rare miss for Master Aubrey. Most people did not care how the date of the movable holy day was affixed in the almanacs each year, or why Catholic nations celebrated Easter and Christmas on different days than they did in England.

  He looked back at Lucy. “That reminds me—”

  “I will have a great piece for you so
on, sir! Just wait!” she said, darting past him, hoping he would not ask her any more questions.

  “That had better be true,” she heard Master Aubrey grumble as she scrambled out the door, anxious to find a besom-seller before it grew too late in the morning.

  8

  After triumphantly handing Mrs. Hotchkiss the new besom a short while later, Lucy headed upstairs to the woman’s bedchamber, whistling a little tune.

  When she opened the door, however, the woman turned on her with furious eyes.

  “Miss, is something wrong?” Lucy asked, wary.

  “Where have you been?” the woman demanded. “I thought you were engaged as my nurse, to attend to my needs.” Despite the haughty quality of her voice, Lucy caught an underlying note of distress in the woman’s tone.

  Trying to soothe the woman, Lucy said, “I am sorry that I was not here when you awoke.” She pointed to the bell on the table. “You might have rung for Molly. Though a maidservant, I am sure she could have rendered a tidy enough attempt to service you.”

  Unexpectedly, the woman’s lips puckered and tears shone in her eyes. Like mercury, her mood had changed from that of an arrogant noble to a frightened child. “I was afraid to ring for her,” the woman whispered, her shoulders slumping. “Afraid of who might come.”

  A chill went up Lucy’s spine at the woman’s strange comment. “Whatever do you mean? Molly would never hurt you.”

  The woman sat still. “I do not know. I can remember a bell and something else—” She shook her head. “I do not know. I do not know.” Tears began to slip down her cheeks.

  Remembering what Dr. Larimer had told her, Lucy began to speak in a more soothing manner. “I was a lady’s maid for a short spell,” Lucy said, picking up the comb, seeing that the woman had been attempting to put up her own hair. “If you will allow me, I can fix your hair in a manner that is more pleasing to you.”