A Death Along the River Fleet

by Susanna Calkins

  Susan Belasysse pulled out a scrap of paper from her purse and handed it to Lucy. “Make of it what you will.”

  Taking it, Lucy stood up and walked over to one of the candles illuminating the second-floor corridor and opened the letter. “My dearest brother,” she read. “I need you to come at once. I must leave this terrible place. Your loving sister, Octavia.” She flipped it over. There was no indication of the source on the other side. “This is it? ‘This terrible place’? Where is that? How did he know where to go?”

  “He did not tell me. But I think he knew where in London he was going, from one of the earlier letters.”

  “I see,” Lucy said. “But he never told you, for certain, that he would be coming to London?”

  Susan Belasysse shrugged. “My husband doesn’t talk to me much.”

  Lucy frowned. “What am I supposed to do with this knowledge?”

  Susan Belasysse looked furtive again. “I am sure you can think of something.” Then, with a funny whoop, she turned around and stumbled back down the stairs.

  Lucy stared after her, hoping that she would not break her neck on the way down. Then she tucked the scrap of paper into her bodice and entered Miss Belasysse’s bedchamber.

  There she found the woman slumped on the chair, seated before the draped mirror. Her earlier gaiety seemed to have dissolved, and now she appeared listless and forlorn. Wordlessly, Lucy picked up the brush as the woman began to pull out the pins and combs holding her hair in place.

  “I am so very tired and ready for my bed,” Miss Belasysse said. “Do you think I will be arrested tomorrow?” She looked at Lucy with worried eyes.

  “We do not know for certain that Constable Duncan will arrest you for that man’s murder,” Lucy said. “You said you did not even know who he was! Surely your mother and uncle will never allow it!”

  Miss Belasysse gave a little sniff. “He will be here, I know it.” She stepped out of her gown and raised her arms so that Lucy could place a warm woolen nightdress, borrowed from Mrs. Larimer, over her head. “Do not mind my sister-in-law, Lucy. She is up to no good.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucy asked, helping her into the bed and pulling the cover over her frail form.

  The woman opened her eyes. “Did I say that?” She hesitated. “She was just jealous, I daresay, since it is obvious how young Mister Hargrave dotes on you.” She looked puzzled, for the concept clearly astonished her. “His father—the magistrate—had a surprising manner to you as well. Treated you as he would a lady.”

  Lucy smiled slightly at the unexpected compliment. Then, to her surprise, Miss Belasysse touched her hand. “You have been kind to me, my dear. Better than I may deserve. Perhaps you cannot see—” She broke off.

  “Cannot see what?” Lucy asked. She found herself gripping the edge of the table for support. A blow was coming, of that she was certain. Society will never accept you as Adam Hargrave’s wife. She could almost hear the words, and she braced herself for a negative response.

  “How unhappy young Mister Hargrave was when the constable’s name was spoken. When you said that he was a good man.” She gave a light laugh. “How fortunate for you to have a choice, my dear.”

  “Oh,” Lucy said. “I do not know that I do.”

  “Of course you do. What is more, you can marry for love, something that women in my circle can never do.” At Lucy’s smile, she continued. “I am not saying that such a path would be easy. There are men and women like my mother and sister-in-law who will never welcome you to their house as an equal. Surely you are aware of that.”

  Lucy nodded, feeling like someone had dumped a pail of icy water on her.

  “But there are just as many like the Hargraves and the Larimers, and my own brother, Henry, who can see that the world is upside down, and can adapt to what is coming. Maybe those are the people who matter.” Miss Belasysse rolled over to face the wall. “I really must get some sleep.”

  Lucy moved over to shutter Miss Belasysse’s windows and, glancing down to the garden below, saw Master Hargrave and Constable Duncan speaking together in close conversation. Seeing that Miss Belasysse had already dropped off, Lucy left the room and made her way to the back of the house and into the garden.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked Duncan, looking about. She wondered where Adam was. He seemed to notice the gesture and gave a rueful twist of his lips.

  “As I was telling the magistrate,” he said, “Hetty was not used to drinking wine. She fell asleep after the first course and was dead to the world after that. However, as you know, she confirmed that she had never seen the amulet before on Miss Belasysse’s person.”

  “A lady’s maid would certainly be aware of all her mistress’s jewelry,” Lucy said. “So then it must be as we thought, that someone gave it to her after she wandered off.”

  “She did tell me one interesting thing, however,” Duncan added. “That Mr. Boteler is almost entirely without funds of his own. And that Susan Belasysse seems to have been paying his debts.”

  “Are they having an affair?” Lucy asked, thinking of Octavia Belasysse’s earlier accusation. She glanced at the magistrate. “Forgive me, sir, for this gossip.”

  The magistrate smiled at her fondly. “Lucy, I never believe you to engage in the gross wagging of tongues. It is important to share what we know,” he said. “To wit, I am not surprised to hear that he is indigent. When we were having our port, I noted several points of his conversation that suggested he was living on very stretched funds. Why Susan Belasysse is supporting him in this way is something we should discover.”

  “She told me something as well,” she said, quickly telling them what Susan Belasysse had told her while on the stairs. She handed them the note the woman had given to her. “Shall I ask Miss Belasysse about this note? Perhaps she will remember writing it.”

  Duncan shook his head. “Best wait to do so, until her humors have regained their balance. Her behavior tonight … I suspect that her mind may be more damaged than we have assumed.”

  “This is very interesting,” Master Hargrave said. He looked up into the sky. “It is growing dark. Adam has already left, and I should be heading home.”

  “S-sir?” Lucy said, faltering. “May I have a word?”

  The magistrate looked at her kindly. “Of course, my dear. What is it?”

  She glanced at Duncan, who clicked his heels, evidently realizing that she wished to speak to the magistrate alone. “Thank you for making sure I had a proper Easter dinner, Lucy.” He glanced at Master Hargrave. “Lucy has taken pity on me, I think, more times than I deserve.” After bidding them good evening, he strode out of the garden and into the street without looking back.

  Lucy put her hand on the tree. She did not know how to begin. “Adam left,” she said abruptly.

  “Yes,” he said. “He asked me to bid you good evening.” He waited.

  Unexpectedly, Lucy found herself with tears in her eyes. “What that woman said tonight…” she began.

  “I am very sorry she said that, Lucy. She is young and foolish,” he replied. “Do not think for a minute that people who care about you would think such utter twaddle.”

  “It is true that her words hurt me, sir. And they hurt Adam, too. I cannot bear such pain.” She began to blink rapidly. “If I were stronger I might be able to. But I am not certain—” She broke off as her throat began to clench.

  “You do not know if you still love my son,” the magistrate said.

  Hearing those words spoken out loud—words she had been trying to keep hidden deep within herself—was impossible to bear. Lucy began to weep in earnest.

  “There, there, Lucy,” the magistrate said. Putting fatherly arms around her, he let her sob onto his shoulder.

  After a long while, Master Hargrave put her gently aside. “Do not berate yourself if your feelings for my son have changed. You will always have a place in our hearts, as I hope we have in yours.” He patted her hand. “But if you do have feelings for Con
stable Duncan, who is indeed a good man as you said so fervently tonight, do not let him believe that such feelings stem from pity. A man deserves more than pity from the woman he loves.”

  After he took his leave, she sat outside for a long time, watching the shadows lengthen in the courtyard until at last it was time to go back inside.

  * * *

  Lucy grimaced as the sound of crowing roosters woke her the next morning at dawn. She had barely slept, and when she did, her dreams were restless and full of pain.

  She slipped downstairs and through the kitchen, stealing past Molly as she pulled a heavy pot off the hearth, hoping that Sid would be back that morning as promised.

  Indeed, Lucy was not surprised when she heard a low whistle come from behind the oak tree in the physician’s herb garden. It was a bit chilly, and she wished she had thought to throw on her cloak. She could just make out Sid’s lean form in the shadows of the great sprawling tree. Darting quickly, she joined him, taking care not to be seen from the house. Her reputation would not fare well should she be seen sneaking off to see a young man in the wee hours of the morning.

  Sid grinned down at her. “Good day, Lucy. Fine time for a bit of fresh morning air, is it not?”

  She waved her hand at him. “Quiet, Sid! I do not want Cook or Mrs. Hotchkiss to know I have left the house. They might think I am doing something improper.”

  Sid raised an eyebrow. “Improper?” he asked, rubbing his hand along her arm. “Do tell.”

  Lucy put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Pray, desist with these jests, Sid. Did you follow that apothecary as I asked? Tell me at once what you learned.”

  “All right!” In truth, he looked more serious. “All right. Yes, I followed him.”

  “And? Where did he go?”

  Sid looked around. Bending his head down, he whispered in her ear. “Bedlam.”

  Lucy’s breath caught. Bedlam! The asylum for madmen.

  Her thoughts began to swirl. Could Octavia Belasysse have been hidden away in Bedlam these last ten months?

  “She had not been starving,” Lucy mused out loud, answering her own questions. “That Dr. Larimer believed to be so.” She paused, still thinking through this startling information. “It might also explain the bloodletting. And certainly how that apothecary knew about which preparation she needed. Thank you, Sid, for your trouble. I am in your debt.” She turned to go.

  But he moved in front of her. “Not so fast, little miss,” Sid said. “I believe you owe me something?” He held out his hand. “I believe you promised me some coins? ’Twas no easy task to follow that man. The way he dodged about! Almost as if he did not want anyone to see him.”

  Rolling her eyes, she handed him the coins. “Be off with you now,” she said. “Do not let yourself be seen.”

  * * *

  When she reentered the kitchen, Molly was kneading dough for the day’s bread. She looked cross, and a bit tousled, as if she had slept in a little longer than was expected. If the Larimers ordered their household anything like the Hargraves, Lucy suspected that none of the chamber pots had been emptied and the girl was already behind in her morning chores.

  Seeing that a tray had been laid out, with a cup and saucer, a bit of yesterday’s bread, and some preserves, Lucy made a quick decision. She needed to speak to Dr. Larimer straightaway, and this was her chance.

  “I could take that in to Dr. Larimer if you like,” Lucy said brightly, glancing meaningfully at Molly’s dough-covered hands. “Miss Belasysse is still deep in sleep, and I am glad enough to lend a hand.”

  Molly pursed her lips. She was clearly torn between letting Lucy help her and being annoyed at Lucy’s position in the household. Thankfully, good sense won out.

  “Mind you don’t spill nothing,” she grumbled.

  “I shall be very careful,” Lucy replied, hiding a smile as she picked up the tray.

  A few minutes later, she entered the physician’s study. Dr. Larimer looked at her in surprise. “Have you taken on Molly’s duties now?” he asked. “I thought your serving days ended when you left the Hargraves.”

  Smiling at him, she carefully poured a bit of the steaming liquid into his cup. “Sir,” she said, “have you ever had patients with a condition like that which has taken hold of Miss Belasysse?”

  “To which condition do you refer?” he replied, taking a long sip. “Epilepsis? Melancholia? Delirium? Yes, I am afraid I have witnessed all three. The prolonged memory loss, though, that is another matter. Far less common.”

  “What happens to them?” She swallowed. “Those stricken with these conditions?”

  He sighed. “So many of these troubled souls were displaced by the Fire. It used to be that the mad could look to their families to take care of them, or the local parish. But now—” He broke off.

  Lucy nodded. She had noticed a lot more lunatics than usual, although truth be told, many were ranting and trembling like the Quakers, and she found it hard to tell the difference between those filled with the Inner Light of Christ and those beset by demons. “What about Bedlam?”

  “Bedlam?” The physician set down his cup. “I have never sent a patient to that dreadful place. They are better off being taken care of by their own kin than sent there to rot.” He looked back at the papers on his desk, clearly distracted by his work. “If you will excuse me, Lucy. I should like to look over the notes that Mr. Sheridan prepared on today’s patients. I have one stopping by in a quarter hour’s time.”

  “As you wish, sir,” she said, backing out of the room. As she shut the door behind her, she asked herself aloud, “Could Miss Belasysse have been at Bedlam?”

  “What? What did you say? Why do you think that Miss Belasysse was kept at Bedlam?”

  Lucy jumped. James Sheridan was standing there. She had not heard him, having been so deep in thought.

  “Oh, sir! I was just talking to myself. I did not see you standing there.”

  “Why did you think Octavia was at Bedlam? Tell me at once!” he demanded.

  Seeing that he would not be deterred, Lucy explained how she had asked Sid to follow the apothecary on the spur of the moment, and how they had ended up at Bedlam. “We should find out more, sir,” Lucy said. “Discover if Octavia Belasysse was an inmate there.”

  “Yes, that is my intention. As an assistant to a licensed Fellow of the College of Physicians, I can assure you that it falls under my right to inspect any apothecary that I please, and that includes anything that may be occurring at Bedlam,” Mr. Sheridan replied, stiffly. “I will see who this practitioner is and whether he is irregular or regular in his trade. I will tell the keeper that I am thinking of putting another patient with him. It will give me a chance to look around.”

  “I should come with you,” Lucy declared. “I will be able to tell you for certain if the apothecary was indeed the man who gave me the concoction for Miss Belasysse.”

  “It makes no sense for you to be in my presence,” he said. “What physician travels with a maid? Now, out of my way!” Mr. Sheridan began to push past Lucy, who did not yield.

  “Perhaps I can find my own way in. There are others who might have seen Miss Belasysse, who might know something of her circumstances.”

  “You will get caught,” he said. “What good will that do us then?”

  She frowned at him. “I won’t get caught,” she said. “Do not worry.”

  “Heavens above, you are indeed stubborn, are you not?” He looked up at the ceiling. “I am not worried about you. Except that for some inexplicable reason, you are a favorite of Dr. Larimer, and I should not like your disappearance on my conscience.” He sighed. “We are wasting time discussing this. Get your cloak.”

  “Now?” Lucy asked. “What of Miss Belasysse?”

  “Molly can look after Octavia. Dr. Larimer will be with a patient.” Impatiently he pushed her arm. “Stop looking so witless, Lucy,” he said. “You have started us on this feckless path; I do not expect you to turn back now.”
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br />   20

  Within fifteen minutes, Lucy and Mr. Sheridan set out toward Bedlam, the physician’s assistant two lanky strides ahead of her. Lucy had only known Bedlam was in the northeasterly direction, above the line of the Great Fire’s devastation. But Mr. Sheridan seemed to know exactly where he was going.

  “It is a mile and a half from here,” he said. “Try to keep up. I do not have much time to waste.” She heard him mutter, “I should have hired a sedan.”

  Lucy shook her head. She had never hired a sedan chair, a common enough transport about the city for men and women of means. She had seen them regularly enough, certainly: two large men bearing a chair on two poles between them. A wealthier inhabitant of the finer sort of sedan might remain hidden behind velvet curtains, but others were in the open, so that all could see. She had rarely even taken a cart, let alone a fancier carriage for hire. But clearly, Mr. Sheridan came from a very different sort of people, a sort that did not take readily to such rough walking conditions.

  Nevertheless, he walked quickly, and Lucy had to trot along, keeping up with his lanky stride. Despite fuming a bit over the younger physician’s high-handed ways, she could not resist seeking a little more information from the sour-faced man.

  “Sir, I know you mentioned before that you knew Henry Belasysse from university,” Lucy said, kicking an old pail out of her way. “He was an acquaintance of your older brother’s, you said?”

  “Hmmm, yes,” Mr. Sheridan replied. “Their family was among our acquaintances. Indeed, he was still at university when I began my studies.” With a sniff, he added, “He spent a lot more time at the local taverns than either my brother or I ever did.”

  Lucy thought about the tract that she had read about Henry Belasysse. “And did you also know Lord Buckhurst?”

  “A bit. He spent even less time at his studies.” Mr. Sheridan glanced at Lucy then. “From your questions, it sounds as if you are seeking some gossip about that sad tale.”

  “It was just something Susan Belasysse said. That her husband—Henry Belasysse—had received a number of threatening letters from people angered by the king’s pardon of his involvement in the tanner’s murder.”