by Holly West
“It’s not your opinion I’m interested in but the king’s. And do you see this crowd?” He held out his arms. “I’m quite optimistic.”
My eyes wandered to the gilded figure of Apollo towering over the empty royal box and I hoped Charles wouldn’t disappoint Lucian, as he often had before. I perused the surrounding boxes and, in the gallery above, a man leaned forward in his seat, scrutinizing the other spectators. His eyes fell to me and he gave me a rather roguish smile. Warmth rose in my cheeks.
“Captain Bedloe is here,” I said. “Remember, we saw him a few days ago at the Black Horse?”
Lucian glanced over. “Bah, I’ll be needing spectacles soon,” he said, squinting. “Oh yes, I remember.”
“I wonder what he’s doing here?”
“He wants to see a good play, of course,” Lucian said, winking. A pretty young woman in the pit caught his attention and he stood up. “There’s someone below I simply must talk to.” He left before I could protest.
I sighed and peered down into the pit, trying to locate Sam. I found him standing near the middle, chatting with a few of his friends.
“May I?”
I turned to find Captain Bedloe pointing toward Lucian’s empty chair.
“This seat is taken,” I said, shielding the lower half of my face with my fan.
He sat down anyway. “I shall just be a moment. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Captain William Bedloe. Forgive my boldness, but your beauty compelled me to speak to you.”
“Why do you presume my companion is not my husband, sir?”
“I saw in him a strong resemblance to your fair features. I’d say it’s far more likely he’s a relation.”
Up close, Captain Bedloe was exceedingly handsome, with thick black brows framing his green eyes and wavy, shoulder-length black hair speckled with gray. He wore no wig today, which I preferred, and a slightly crooked smile revealed straight white teeth. I wondered if he remembered seeing me before or if he simply made a habit of approaching unfamiliar women.
“I hope you don’t think it rude if I ask your name,” he said.
“Rude indeed! Your insolence has already pressed well beyond the boundaries of polite behavior.”
He grinned.
I gave a mock sigh before returning his smile. “Very well then, since you are so insistent, I shall tell it. I’m Lady Wilde.”
“I’m ever so enchanted to meet you, my lady. I’ve not been long in London, you see, and it pleases me whenever I make a new friend.”
“Is it only my friendship you seek then, sir?”
“It will do,” he said with a playful smirk. “For now.”
Lucian reappeared to the right of our box and did not bother to hide his bemused expression. “Captain Bedloe,” I said. “Allow me to present my brother, Lucian Barber.”
Bedloe stood and made a low bow. “Not the playwright, Lucian Barber?”
“The very same,” Lucian said.
“Ah, well then, I shall enjoy the performance even more now that I’ve made your acquaintance, sir. I do hope you’ll pardon the intrusion—I only wished to introduce myself to your sister, whom I recalled seeing at the Black Horse Tavern last week.”
It pleased me greatly to know that he had remembered me.
“Your servant, madam,” Bedloe said, bowing again. “I do hope I see you again very soon.” As he exited, Lucian lifted an eyebrow at me.
“He’s a rather impertinent one,” I said. “Handsome, but impertinent.”
“Impertinence combined with persistence is a tried and true method of infiltrating a lady’s shift,” Lucian said.
Indeed. I didn’t bother denying that Bedloe had intrigued me—he made my skin tingle ever so slightly. “So, have you acquired a new wench?” I said.
“No,” he said, disgusted. “She’s kept by another man and won’t make him a cuckold. Tell me, Isabel, in what age are we living that a whore is faithful to the man who keeps her?”
“Perhaps she senses you cannot keep her in the manner to which she’s become accustomed?”
“You wound me.” He grabbed my arm. “Oh, he’s come!”
The king and his courtiers entered, creating the usual spectacle. I was swept up like the rest of the crowd, forgetting for a moment I had once been part of his retinue. I knew how facile the display was and yet even I could not tear my eyes away.
Charles stood at the front of his box, giving a lazy wave to the cheering crowd. He surveyed his subjects slowly, no doubt looking for beautiful women. His eyes rested briefly on me and he smiled. I ignored the familiar thrill and lowered my eyes in response.
Lucian noticed the exchange and shook his head. “I don’t know how you can dismiss him so casually. He is the king, after all.”
“You know as well as I that it’s safer to be a face in the crowd than it is to sit in the royal box.” I linked my arm in his. “I’m content here with you.”
“Your contentment means everything to me, of course,” Lucian said, patting my hand. “But do think of the benefit you could provide me if you were to again find yourself in the king’s favor.”
Charles waved one last time and sat down, signaling his companions to sit as well. Today Queen Catherine accompanied him, along with the Duke of York and his duchess, the Duke of Buckingham, and Charles’s mistress, the frowzy Duchess of Portsmouth. The sight of the two of them together took a little of the pleasure away from my afternoon.
But it had always been thus, hadn’t it? Ever since our first kiss, I’d had to share Charles with a bevy of other women and I’d allowed it, though not without some complaints. He’d always wielded such power over me, not as a king, but as a lover. Even now, seeing him caused me to flush with the anticipation of our next encounter, even if I’d sworn to myself there’d never be another.
Catherine, his long-suffering queen, sat to his left. She too had shared him with other women, and did so as willingly as I did. With her luxuriant black hair and large brown eyes, she wasn’t unattractive, but her dark Portuguese complexion and foreign customs did little to endear her to her subjects. And while the public could overlook these minor faults, and even, perhaps, her Catholicism, they could never forgive her greatest transgression of all—her failure to give the king a legitimate heir.
The Duke of York sat to the right of Charles. He was a handsome man, as tall as his brother but blond and more delicately featured. I’d known him for nearly as long as I had the king, and although I liked him well enough, I didn’t know if he had the disposition to successfully rule England. Unlike Charles, James hated compromise; it was this, more than his religion, which his numerous opponents found most objectionable about him.
I allowed my eyes to drift back to the gallery in which Captain Bedloe sat. He glanced over and smiled at me. I wished I had thought to invite him to sit with Lucian and me.
The orchestra began to play the overture and I turned my attention to the stage. The curtain rose, revealing a beautifully painted pastoral scene. The renowned actor Thomas Betterton stepped onto the stage to began his prologue:
“The fairest maiden thou didst ever see
Upon the fields of English countryside
Did come to London there to be
Devour’d by power with nowhere to reside.”
The play was about a beautiful young woman who leaves her home in the country and goes to London. She finds great success until an affair with a powerful courtier ruins her and she finds herself penniless and broken, a theme with which I had some familiarity.
London audiences were easily bored and notoriously loud, but two hours later the performance finished to enthusiastic applause, which pleased Lucian. He asked me what I thought.
“Brilliant,” I said. “Wherever did you find the idea for your story?”
“My dear,” he said, kissing my cheek, “don’t you know I find you endlessly inspiring?”
The king and his courtiers had already filed out and Lucian and I followed. I searched the audience for Captain Bedloe bu
t it appeared he’d already gone as well. It took us some time to reach the exit, for we were interrupted several times by people stopping to congratulate Lucian on his success. On the way out, Lucian stopped an orange girl and selected a piece of fruit.
“Did you enjoy the performance?” he asked, ripping the flesh of the orange apart, its juice dripping from his hands.
“It was a fine play, sir,” she said.
Lucian bowed grandly. “You are kind to flatter me so,” he said. “Isabel, do take one of this maid’s lovely oranges.”
The girl blushed and thrust her basket toward me. Lucian bent to whisper in her ear and she giggled merrily as he slipped a coin into her bodice, allowing his fingers a moment of exploration. I declined the orange.
The exiting mass of people jostled me terribly and my headache had returned. When Sam met us at the door I was anxious to take my leave. “We’ll be on our way,” I said to Lucian.
Disappointed, Lucian stopped and turned to Sam and me. “What, no celebration? Do join me for a pot of ale.”
I was about to refuse when a sudden shout from somewhere in the crowd interrupted me. “The magistrate’s been found murdered! Sir Edmund Godfrey is dead!”
Chapter Fourteen
The crowd emitted an excited babble, punctuated by intermittent screams and shouts. Sam darted off in the direction the announcement had come from, while I stayed behind with Lucian, hoping I’d misheard what the fellow said. Sir Edmund couldn’t be dead.
A few minutes later Sam marched back toward us, pulling a reticent young man by the arm. Up close, it was evident he wasn’t a man at all, but a boy of twelve or thirteen. Sam gave him a rough shake and asked his name.
“Andy Porter, sir,” he said, cowering.
“What do you know about Sir Edmund Godfrey?”
“Nothing, sir, I swear!”
Sam gave him another shake. “Why do you spread a rumor you have no idea is true?”
“Please sir, I don’t—” He appeared ready to burst into frightened tears.
“Sam,” I said. “Can’t you see the boy’s quivering with fear? You’ll not get a word out of him that way. Now, what exactly did you hear, young man?”
“Sir Edmund’s body was found out near St. John’s Wood yesterday.”
St. John’s Wood wasn’t far from Primrose Hill, the place to which Sir Edmund had sought directions the Saturday he disappeared. “Who told you this?” I asked.
“I heard it from a man named Rycroft at the Green Lettuce Tavern.”
“How long ago?” Sam said.
“An hour or so, I’d reckon.”
Sam turned to me. “D’ye have any more questions for him?”
I shook my head and Sam flipped a coin toward Andy. It fell to the ground and the boy scrambled madly at our feet. Upon finding it, he jumped up and escaped into the crowd.
Lucian furrowed his brow. “Why the devil do you two care about an old dead magistrate?”
Keeping the truth from my brother was becoming tiresome, but this was not the time for confessions. “I find the story captivating,” I said. “First Sir Edmund disappears, then he’s found dead. It’s intriguing, don’t you think?”
He stared at me as though I’d expressed a fascination with emptying chamber pots. “I’m off to the palace to reap the rewards of my successful play. Care to join me?”
“Another time?”
Lucian gave a dramatic sigh and bid us goodbye.
* * *
An hour later I was seated across from Mrs. Pamphlin in Sir Edmund’s drawing room, sherry glass in hand.
“A pounding on the door in the dark of night never brings good tidings,” Mrs. Pamphlin said, sniffling into a well-used handkerchief. “I knew as soon as I heard the knock that Sir Edmund was dead.”
“Poor dear, that must have been dreadful,” I said. “I do hope you weren’t alone.”
“The serving girl, Charlotte, was here, and Mr. Moor, of course. And Sir Edmund’s brother, Michael, has stayed at the house since Sir Edmund’s disappearance. He’s been a blessing, taking care of matters and holding the household together. I don’t know how we’d manage without him.”
“Is Mr. Godfrey home?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t. “I’d like to convey my sympathy.”
“Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Moor are both out, attending to business.”
Good. Mrs. Pamphlin would be more likely to speak freely if she wasn’t worried one of them would overhear our conversation.
“Is Mr. Godfrey the only family Sir Edmund had?”
“Oh no. There are two sisters, and Sir Edmund’s mother is still living, though she’s quite ill.” Her voice broke. “His death has been an awful shock to her, as you can imagine.”
“Did the constable tell you what happened?”
Her eyes filled again with tears. “I can hardly bear to think about it. He said a local tavern owner found Sir Edmund in a ditch, run through with his own sword.” She began to cry now in earnest.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “Why would someone do something so hateful?”
After a mournful pause, Mrs. Pamphlin braced herself with a sizeable gulp of sherry. “I’ve not divulged this to a single soul, Lady Wilde. But I think Sir Edmund guessed his life might be in danger.”
I caught my breath. “Did he tell you that?”
She shook her head. “It was just a feeling I had, and of course, it was above my station to ask him directly. But he was peculiarly anxious in the days before he disappeared.”
“But surely he said or did something which led you to believe that?”
She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It might’ve just been my imagination. He was such a busy man, always working too hard. He was probably just overtired.”
I had lived amongst the nobility long enough to understand the established rules between servants and their employers, even if I did not always adhere to them strictly myself. A woman like Mrs. Pamphlin would not wish to betray Sir Edmund’s secrets, even if it meant keeping quiet about a potential murder.
Something drew my attention beyond her shoulder. There was a shadow on the wall and a hint of grayish-colored smock. Charlotte, the servant girl, was eavesdropping, probably so she could report back to Thomas Moor or Michael Godfrey.
I needed to get out of there quickly, but I struggled to find the words for my last question. “I don’t mean to be indelicate,” I began. “But where is his body now?”
Mrs. Pamphlin was unruffled. Perhaps the sherry had done its work after all. “He’s at the White House Inn in St. John’s Wood. The juror’s inquest is to be held there tomorrow morning.”
After a few more minutes of polite conversation, I bid her farewell. As I walked quickly toward Sam and the waiting hackney, a voice called out to me and I turned around. Charlotte leaned out a small window on the upper story, waving her arm.
“Please, Lady Wilde, wait!” Before I could answer, she ran back into the house and out of my view. A few moments later she emerged, casting a furtive glance around and behind her. “I’m sorry to make you wait, m’lady,” she said. “I couldn’t help hearing your conversation with Mrs. Pamphlin.”
“Yes, I saw you listening,” I said. “You’re lucky I didn’t mention it to Mrs. Pamphlin.”
Her pretty face reddened. She had silky blond hair, big brown eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
“It’s about Sir Edmund, Lady Wilde,” she said. She had a slight gap between her front teeth. “The night before he disappeared, a man came to the door with a message for him. I gave the note to Sir Edmund, and after he read it, he thrust it into the fire.”
“Who was it from?” I asked.
“I’d never seen the messenger before.”
“Charlotte?” A woman called from inside the house. “Where are you?”
“That’ll be Mrs. Pamphlin. I have to go.” She fished into her pocket, pulling out a few small flakes of paper, and handed them to me. “I found th
ese when I was cleaning the hearth. They’re not much, but I hope they help.” She picked up her skirts and ran back toward the house.
* * *
I laid the delicate paper fragments on the heavy wood table in the kitchen. Charlotte’s claim they were “not much” was an overstatement. There were five pieces, each varying in size and condition, blackened with soot and burned around the edges. The largest snippet said, matter with and underneath that, trust you. The handwriting had no identifying flourishes, and some of the pieces showed ink splatters as though the author had been hurried.
The remaining pieces displayed only parts of words: ot to the pro, ware you, and nce of thei. The smallest piece, which read ul Jes, held the greatest clue, for I thought Jes had originally been Jesuits or perhaps, Jesus. The remnants of ordinary red sealing wax stuck to its reverse.
“I wonder why Charlotte gave them to me?” I asked Sam.
“She probably didn’t want anyone in the household to know she’d been foraging ashes for evidence of Sir Edmund’s personal business,” he said, taking a bite from an apple.
“But why give them to a stranger? What does she think I can do with them?”
Sam absently picked up one of the paper fragments, turning it in his fingers.
“Careful, they’re fragile,” I said.
“I’ll wager it’s about the meeting he mentioned in the note he left for you at Coal Yard Alley.”
I received a troubling correspondence and I need to see you immediately, Sir Edmund had written.
“You’re right,” I said. I continued scrutinizing the papers, willing them to reveal their secret. “If only a few more words could have been salvaged, we might be able to figure out who sent it.”
I was still trying to solve the puzzle when the king’s messenger called for me that evening. I looked down at the paper remnants in front of me, frustration overtaking me. I was tired of thinking about what had happened to Sir Edmund, tired of thinking about murder and death and my missing diary. I missed Charles and I wanted to be with him.
This time, I went up to my rooms to change into an appropriate gown and accompanied the royal messenger to the palace.
