“I am not at all convinced of her innocence either. She may very well know her brother’s whereabouts.” He looked at Lucy. “Can you help me find out where they may have gone? I have an idea.”
* * *
When Lucy arrived at Master Aubrey’s, she found Lach inside sorting letters into trays. As usual, his reddish brow furrowed more deeply when he saw her in the doorframe. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Greetings to you, too, Lach,” Lucy replied. She went over to the tray and started to sort out the second typeface. “Thought I would help you a bit. Least I can do, leaving you with all the work like I did.”
He shrugged. “No matter to me. Quieter when you aren’t around anyway.”
“I will be quiet,” she said.
He just grunted in reply, and after that they worked silently for a bit.
“Lach,” she said finally.
He groaned. “What? I knew you couldn’t hold your tongue.”
She ignored his surly tone. “Do we have tracts about Bedlam? I know Mad Tom of Bedlam—”
Before she could finish, Lach whooped and began to sing the popular tune, in a more raucous way than she had done earlier when walking with Mr. Sheridan.
“But I was wondering if we had any others,” she continued, as if he were not jumping about, pretending to be Mad Tom escaped from Bedlam, looking for his Maudlin Maeve.
“Why ever for?” he panted, still cavorting about the room.
“To have them come and collect you, of course. You are a mad fool, Lachlin. On this point, I do not jest.”
He pulled at her cap. “Tell me why you want to know about Bedlam or I shan’t give you any.”
“I would just like to know more about the place,” she said, edging away.
He stopped then, a mocking look appearing on his face. “This is about the madwoman you are looking after, is it not?”
Lucy could tell that he would not give up asking questions until he was satisfied. “Yes, it is about Miss Belasysse. She is not mad, just confused.”
“Dr. Larimer is going to tuck her away in there?” He stuck his tongue out at her. “Knew someone in that mad place once. Went in and never came out.”
“What? Heavens, no.” Seeing that he was not going to budge, she sighed, giving in. “We think she may have already been in there, these last ten months.” She frowned, remembering what the apothecary had told her. “Someone else tucked her away in Bedlam.”
“You finish putting away that type. I will be back directly.” Lach disappeared into the cellar.
He returned a few moments later, blowing dust off some of the pamphlets. Clearly these were not part of Master Aubrey’s regular rotation of stock.
“This one is about the keepers of Bedlam,” he said, handing it to her. He looked at another and began to laugh. “This one I will keep.” Another about Mad Tom, no doubt. That was all right. The one he had handed to her looked to be more useful.
“An enquiry into the affairs of Bethlem Hospital,” Lucy read out loud. “Oh, look, it tells the history of Bedlam. Begun in 1377, called then St. Mary of Bethlehem.” She continued to skim slowly through the dense text. “Helkiah Crooke, physician to King James, was dismissed as keeper under King Charles, after an enquiry disclosed a series of abuses and neglect.” She paused, thinking of what she had just seen. “Abuses. Yes, I would say so.”
“The hospital is now run by resident steward Mr. Frederick Crouch, a keeper who, while not a physician himself, would sell off his own children into slavery to put a few more coins in his pocket,” she continued, ignoring Lach as he dramatically yawned. “In this regard, he is assisted by a second resident steward, a former jailer at Newgate, who—”
She broke off from reading the tract when Master Aubrey walked into the shop then. “Good day, sir!” Lucy called, hopping off the stool.
The master printer’s eyes brightened when he saw her. “All done at Larimer’s?” he asked. “None too soon! We have several new pieces to put together, and a few others to hawk.”
“Er, well, no. I am not yet done at Dr. Larimer’s,” Lucy said.
Master Aubrey looked at her sternly. “I made an agreement with the physician, Lucy. I expect you to honor your obligation.”
“I know, sir. I think, though, there is value in me staying a few days more.”
With a quick immodest movement, she hiked up her skirts so that she could pull the piece she had been writing from her pocket. “I did write this for you, sir. Perhaps you can use it.”
Master Aubrey glanced at it. “A Death Along the River Fleet,” he read out loud, then stopped, squinting at the next line. “Your script lacks a much needed clarity, my child. It would be best if you could improve your hand. I can barely discern your words.”
She held out her hand. “Shall I take it back?” she asked.
Master Aubrey held it away, turning slightly. “No, no. Though ’tis mostly rooster scratchings, I can make it out.”
Lucy hid a smile. It was clear that the master printer was a bit intrigued, as he pored over what she had written about the recently found corpse.
“It will do,” Master Aubrey said, batting at Lucy when she squealed in delight. He handed it to Lach to read. “Let us get started on setting this type, you young scamp. After all—”
“Everyone loves a good murder,” Lach and Lucy said together, reciting Master Aubrey’s oft-repeated phrase as dutifully as children in the dame school.
“Sir,” Lucy said, thinking about what she and Duncan had discussed earlier, “perhaps tomorrow I could sell a few tracts for you. I do not think Dr. Larimer would mind.”
Lach glanced at her suspiciously. “What are you on about?” he whispered.
She kicked his foot. But the damage was done.
“Well, the constable and I thought we might discover where Henry Belasysse and his sister might have traveled after leaving Bedlam.” She faltered as they stared at her. “By selling tracts along the way, I would not arouse suspicions, and we could more readily speak to someone who saw them on their journey. Then I could discover an end to our story.” She looked hopefully at the master printer.
Lach snorted, but Master Aubrey clapped his hands together. “Excellent thinking!” He turned to his apprentice. “Lach, prepare a pack for Lucy!”
“I shall pick it up in the morning,” Lucy said, as she departed. Truth be told, she was a bit sorry to go. She always enjoyed the process of setting the type, working out the quoins, composing the text. Setting the text of her own story gave her a greater thrill than could be imagined. Right now, though, other matters needed to be attended to first.
* * *
“Devil woman has her familiar now,” Molly said by way of greeting when Lucy returned to Dr. Larimer’s a short while later.
“What ever do you mean?” Lucy asked, starting to pull off her cloak.
“See for yourself,” the servant replied, with a shrug. “The woman is out in the garden. Been there since you left, saying her spells.”
“She is not a witch, Molly,” Lucy said, moving down the hallway and through the kitchen. “Nor is she accursed. She is just a bit touched, and maybe in time Dr. Larimer will make her well again.”
She could hear the doubt in her own voice. Apparently Molly did, too.
“More than touched when she killed that man, wasn’t she? Yes, I heard about that,” Molly said. “What everyone was saying at the market, when I went to get a bit of beef for our supper.” She looked about. “I tell you, my ma ain’t happy that I’m living in the house with a murderess. Said I’m not to take any more ribbons or coins to look after her, either. Hope the constable comes to lock her up. What if she murders us all in our beds? Such a thing I heard tell happened in Devon, so who is to say it would not happen here. What will you say then?”
“I will not say anything because I will be dead, Molly Greenbush!” Then, surprising them both, Lucy grabbed the servant by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Enough! We still do no
t know for certain that Miss Belasysse murdered that man! Pray, leave me be.”
Leaving the startled servant to gape after her, Lucy went around to the small courtyard behind the house. There, as Molly had described, Miss Belasysse was sitting on the stone bench, stroking a small black cat who was curled up beside her. She did rather look like a witch with her familiar, Lucy thought, trying to squash the qualm of misgiving that had flooded over her. You are a fool, Lucy Campion, she scolded herself. Still, she did knock twice on a nearby tree, more out of habit than any abiding belief in true deviltry.
“Miss Belasysse,” she said, mustering a pleasant smile. “How do you fare?”
“I am better, Lucy,” she said, pulling the cat onto her lap. “Particularly since the constable has not come to arrest me, as I expected him to do.” She began to tap her fingers against her leg, withdrawing them when the cat’s claws captured her hand as it would a mouse.
When she put her finger to her mouth to suck the spot of blood, Lucy could see she was trembling a bit. The fear of arrest and jail clearly weighed more heavily upon her than she wished to admit.
Lucy sat down beside her and stroked the long silver whiskers along the side of the cat’s face. The image of Avery, a man who so loved cats, briefly sprang to mind. She wondered for a moment how he was faring, but then turned back to the matter at hand.
“I think,” Lucy said carefully, “that Constable Duncan has decided to wait until your brother turns up. Maybe he knows what happened. He might even be able to testify on your behalf, and put forth your innocence.”
“Ah, yes. Until my brother appears.” Miss Belasysse giggled. “Mayhap my brother committed the murder himself. Do you think Constable Duncan might believe that to be true?”
Lucy put her face close to the woman’s. “Did your brother kill that man?” she whispered. “Please, if that is true, then you must tell the constable. Lest you be arrested for a crime you did not commit.”
“He would believe that, would he not? Because everyone believes my brother to have murdered before,” Miss Belasysse exclaimed, her voice sounding full of tears. “I tell you, though I remember little of the last year, I can assure you of this: My brother is no killer! He never has taken a man’s life, I swear it!”
“You are speaking of the tanner’s murder?” Lucy asked, still watching Miss Belasysse closely.
“It was all the fault of that drunken sot, Charles Sackville—Pardon me, Lord Buckhurst,” Miss Belasysse explained, her tone growing more bitter. “It was he who got my brother into a terrible drunken state that evening.”
“They were both pardoned by the king,” Lucy said. Without thinking how her words would sound, she continued. “They were luckier than most, I can assure you of that. Had it been the poor tanner who had mistaken Lord Buckhurst for a highwayman, well, I am rather afraid that he would have been hanged within a fortnight.”
The woman’s face had grown pale. Seeing that, Lucy spoke quickly. “Forgive me!” she cried. “I did not heed the words that tumbled out of my mouth.”
The cat looked up at her, staring with yellow eyes, obviously annoyed that Lucy’s cries had disturbed its slumber.
Miss Belasysse began to stroke the cat again. “You speak the truth, Lucy. With a candor I quite admire.” The cat started to purr then, deep rumbling sounds. “Had it not been for my uncle, they would certainly have been hanged,” she added.
“It was he who petitioned the king on their behalf?” Lucy asked.
“No, my father petitioned the king, as did the father of Lord Buckhurst. As they were both loyal to the Crown, their petition on behalf of their sons was well received.”
“I do not understand,” Lucy said, trying to follow her explanation.
“Uncle Harlan was there. Tippling down with them at the tavern where the event occurred. As a matter of fact, I was there, too. We had been journeying from London together, and Uncle Harlan wanted to stop there for supper. When it began to appear that we would need to stay the night, as they were rather the worse for wear, he procured us several rooms. I waited to speak with my brother, as I was not happy with my room. Truth be told, I did not wish to stay at the inn at all, as I felt rather unsafe with so many unsavory sorts about.”
“He did not heed your worries” Lucy said, trying to convey a sense of sympathy.
“No, he did not,” the woman whispered. Lucy could see her hands were starting to shake. “Oh, if only we had not stayed there!” she moaned softly.
“Did you see what happened?” Lucy asked.
“No. I had heard the shot though,” Miss Belasysse replied. “I knew straight away that the sound had been made from a gun, having grown up around Yorkshire with men who liked to hunt. I knew it in my heart, but oh, how I prayed in that instant that it was just a wayward clap of thunder.” Taking a deep breath, she continued in her mournful way. “When I came outside, fearful that my brother had come to harm, my uncle Harlan bid me to return to my room.”
She paused. “It was then that Uncle Harlan told me the terrible news. That in their overly drunken state, one of the two men, either my brother or Lord Buckhurst, had mistaken the tanner to be a highwayman set upon robbing them, and had shot him dead with Lord Buckhurst’s pistol. No one could say for sure who had done it. ’Twas not so hard for the king to pardon them, either.”
“I see,” Lucy said slowly. This account did not fully explain what she had learned from the apothecary earlier. “How terrible this must have been for you.”
“More terrible for him, I should say,” Miss Belasysse said, giving a mirthless snort. Then she heaved a deep sigh. “I find myself needful of my slumbers. Let us not speak of this distasteful topic again.”
There was so much Lucy wanted to ask her, about her brother, about the tanner’s murder, about Bedlam, but she did not know how to bring it up. Instead, she watched Miss Belasysse walk heavily away, her shoulders slumped, as waves of melancholia seemed to crest over her.
23
“I hope those pieces are not about the ‘Confounded Constable’ again,” Duncan said the next day, watching Lucy pull the carefully rolled pamphlets from her bag. They were standing near the Kingfisher Inn, just before noon, one of several inns between Bedlam and Holborn Bridge where the constable thought Henry Belasysse might have taken his sister.
Carefully, Lucy unfurled one of the rolls of printed pieces and held it out for Constable Duncan to inspect. “See? A Death Along the River Fleet—Or, The True Account of a Most Strange Murder That Did Occur at Holborn Bridge. I can hardly believe that Lach actually set it and printed in such a timely way.” Thankfully she had checked the bag this time, and taken out several tracts that regaled the reader with ridiculous tales of befuddled constables.
At Duncan’s suggestion they had added a small second piece toward the end: The Remarkable Disappearance of Henry Belasysse, MP, Late of Great Grimsby. They thought calling that piece as well might help bring out people who might have seen the man along the route they were currently searching.
“Well, let us get to it, then. Sell your wares, woman!” Duncan replied, leaning back against the stone wall of the inn a short distance away. Lucy knew he was trying not to draw attention to himself, because he was not wearing his customary red coat.
Pretending that the constable was not there smirking at her, she climbed atop one of the barrels that were stacked outside the inn. Master Aubrey had told her a long while back, when she had first started as his apprentice, not to sell inside an establishment unless she wanted to be promptly thrown out on her ear. Generally, she had heeded this warning.
The week off from selling had actually helped soothe her throat, more than any chamomile concoction, and within a few moments, she had a small crowd gathering around her. She started this time with Strange News from Kent, which described the odd discovery of a bag of bones that had been hidden in the cellar of an old crone. An old piece, to be sure, but one that still could summon a few listeners. She then began to tell the story of
A Death Along the River Fleet, watching the crowd carefully. There was general interest in the story, and she sold a few tracts, but no one seemed overly attentive to the tale.
Giving Duncan a little nod, Lucy went inside to get a drink as they had previously agreed. As she entered, she found herself squinting to get accustomed to the dark interior of the inn. She sat down at a table toward the front of the establishment, near the barman, at a respectable place by the window. Even though a glance around revealed only common laborers and tradesmen coming in for a meal and a pint, she had no wish to be mistaken for a harlot.
Duncan sat down on a stool nearby. He faced a different direction and did not speak to her, so that his presence would not be off-putting to someone who might wish a private word.
As she sipped her ale, a fat man, probably in his forties, slumped down in the seat across from her.
“Here alone, miss?” he said, leering at her. “Never seen you before. Are you looking for some company?”
“I am a printer’s apprentice,” she said firmly, indicating her pack on the stool next to her. “I have been selling books.”
“Is that right?” he asked. “Any I would be interested in?” He reached for her pack.
Instinctively, she pulled the pack a little closer to herself. She could see, from the corner of her eye, that Duncan had stiffened and turned slightly toward them.
“I have a new one, called A Death Along the River Fleet. It is the story of—” She stopped when she felt the man’s hand groping her leg beneath the table. “What are you doing?”
“Go on.” The man grinned at her. “I am quite interested in your tale.” He guffawed when he said the last, his heavy jowls shaking.
Before she could say anything more, Duncan had stood up and quickly pinned the man’s offending arm behind his back. “Time to go, Lucy,” he said to her.
When the man started to protest, Duncan pressed his arm harder. No one around them seemed even to notice, or if they did notice, they did not care. However, she could see that the barman had turned toward them, a warning look in his eye. She did not need to be told again. She hurried out of the inn. When she reached the entrance and turned back, she could see Duncan whisper something in the man’s ear. The man blanched, and Duncan let him go. On the way out, Lucy saw him speak quickly to the barman, who shook his head.
A Death Along the River Fleet Page 22
