Mistress of Lies

by Holly West

  Chapter Four

  Fortunately, the question was to remain unanswered—for that night, at least.

  A brisk knock interrupted the silence. Charlotte went to the door and peered out the peephole that Sam had bored into it. “By his size I can see it’s a man,” she said. “But he’s wearing a mask. I don’t know who it is.”

  It wasn’t unusual for my customers to conceal themselves. Many of them didn’t want it known that they frequented a soothsayer. Not that it mattered; I couldn’t afford to turn visitors away regardless of how they outfitted themselves.

  “Let him in,” I said.

  When he entered the room I realized that it wasn’t a mask he wore, but a black cloth he’d tied around his face so that only his brown eyes were visible beneath his hat. The clothes he wore were obviously expensive, but judging from his casual demeanor, I took him for the merchant class rather than the nobility. He was a large man, with broad shoulders and a rather intimidating posture, though for some reason, I didn’t feel threatened. Nevertheless, I sat taller in my seat in response to his presence, as though the gesture would help to protect me if things should go awry.

  “Good evening, sir,” I said, my voice pitched uncharacteristically low. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” He lumbered over to the bench that Charlotte had vacated and rested himself upon it.

  “How may I be of service?”

  He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he examined his surroundings, pausing his gaze when it happened upon my bookcase. Along with books, it contained a group of unusual objects, including a human skull, the skeleton of a rat, and the preserved corpse of a large insect I couldn’t name.

  “Fascinating,” he said. Then, as if breaking from a trance, he cut his eyes to me. “Pardon me, but I’ve never visited a soothsayer before.”

  “What brings you to me?” I asked.

  “Curiosity, for one thing. But beyond that, I’ve a dilemma I hope you can help me with. An old acquaintance has recently reappeared in my life—one that is unwelcome—and I’m at a loss at how to deal with him.”

  “You want to rid yourself of him?”

  “Ideally, yes. But short of hiring a cutthroat to take care of him in some dark alley, I’m uncertain of how to do it.”

  “That would be distasteful to you?”

  He chuckled. “‘Twould be distasteful to most men, I’d reckon. I suppose what I’d really like to know is whether he’s of any danger to me and if so, what I should do to protect myself.”

  “My fee is two pounds,” I said. It was a considerable amount of money, but my patrons were generally wealthy and didn’t often quibble about it. As expected, he gave it to me without argument and I tucked the coins into the top of my bodice.

  Thus far, I hadn’t derived sufficient information from him to render any useful advice. Despite his mask, he was clearly a confident man, seemingly unembarrassed by his visit to my room. And though he obviously had money, the source of his income remained unknown to me. He carried himself like a ruffian and yet possessed the manner and speech of an educated man.

  He intrigued me.

  I removed my gloves and held out my hands. “Place your hands in mine, palms up.”

  His big hands nearly covered mine, but their warmth surprised me. They were strong hands, not calloused like those of a worker, nor supple like those of a lord. His eyes met mine and quite unexpectedly I flushed.

  “Which hand do you favor?” I asked, recovering myself.

  “My left,” he said.

  I examined both hands closely then raised the right one slightly. “You were born of poverty, but you’ve managed to make a success of yourself in spite of it. Because of it, perhaps.”

  He nodded, listening to me intently.

  “There are things in your past you’re not proud of,” I continued. It wasn’t a so much divination as it was common sense. Who among us has not engaged in regretful acts? Such an observation was always a good place to start a reading.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But you’ve left that life behind.”

  “I thought I had.”

  I laid his right hand on the table and concentrated on the left. His palm was long, his fingers stubby and square. It indicated a practical and reliable nature. “You value productivity.”

  He appeared thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “An admirable trait, to be certain, but you must take care not to be too single-minded or impatient.”

  He laughed. “My wife shares your sentiment.”

  He said it, not as a put-upon man grown weary of his matrimonial bonds, but as an amused husband, genuinely fond of his wife. I felt just the slightest bit of envy. I judged his marriage to be a happy one, confirming it by his heart line, which started under his longest finger and bore no marks indicating heartbreak or sadness.

  “You’ve asked if this acquaintance of yours is dangerous to you,” I said, laying his hand on the table. “Tell me about him.”

  “I’d not seen him in ten years or more,” he said. “Not since before the fire, at any rate. I didn’t know what had become of him until recently, when he showed up, looking to renew our previous friendship.”

  “What was the nature of that friendship?”

  “That’s where it becomes troublesome, you see. I’ve known him since childhood.” He chuckled. “What a couple of scoundrels we were back then. But I’m afraid the mischief extended into our adulthood and together we were involved in a few—shall we say—questionable activities over the years. After he disappeared I managed to make something of myself, which makes his recent return quite unwelcome indeed.”

  Ah. I understood his predicament now. “He’s privy to your past misdeeds and you’re afraid he’ll expose you.”

  He flinched, as though my blunt assessment of his dilemma pained him. It was the first time his confidence had lapsed since he walked in and I realized that he was more troubled by his friend’s return than he’d initially appeared.

  “Yes, something like that,” he said.

  “He’s threatened you, then?”

  “Not precisely. But he’s made his presence known and he’s said he’d like to go back into business together. It’s impossible, of course.”

  “You’re clearly a man of some means. Have you considered giving him a sum of money to ensure his silence?”

  “I’ve already given him a substantial sum. But he’s the persistent sort, and knows there’s more where that came from. I fear he’ll not let me off easily.”

  “May I?” I said, indicating his hand. He nodded and placed it in mine. I traced one of the lines on his palm lightly with my finger. “See this? It’s your fate line. I can see by the way it crosses your lifeline that you are indeed an ambitious man who has made something of himself, largely by your own efforts. It also tells me that you’re an important man—influential and powerful. You’ve a great deal at stake, should this friend of yours decide to expose you.”

  His hand stiffened in mine, which told me I’d correctly assessed his circumstances. We’d arrived at the most important part of the reading, the part where I made some sort of prediction followed by a recommended course of action. I knew from experience that I needed to choose my words carefully; I’d recently counseled a fellow who ended up dead because I’d flippantly told him he was in no apparent danger.

  “What shall I do?” he asked.

  “You must take swift and aggressive measures,” I said. “You cannot submit to his demands—I only wish you hadn’t already paid him off, but there’s nothing that can be done about that now. Going forward, you must make it absolutely clear that you will not tolerate his presence in London.”

  “You mean I should have him killed?”

  I hesitated, for I certainly didn’t
want yet another man’s blood on my hands. “Perhaps that’s going too far. But I’ve found that the mere threat of death will often convince a man that it’s in his best interest to leave well enough alone. How you do that is up to you.”

  He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. He raised a hand to his chin, rubbing it under the cloth that still hid his face. “I shall give this some serious thought. Thank you for your counsel, Mistress Ruby.”

  “If I were you, I would not take too long a-thinking. This matter is best dispensed with as quickly as possible.”

  He stood up and we said our goodbyes. After Charlotte closed the door behind him, she turned to me and smiled. “Well done, my lady. I think he was well satisfied.”

  “Let us hope he was, Charlotte,” I said. “Let us hope.”

  Chapter Five

  Charlotte and I waited another hour but no one else came. Shortly after the clock struck midnight I asked her to put out the fire. It was time to go home.

  I climbed the back stairs to my bedroom and saw that, as usual, Alice had left a pitcher of water in my bedroom so that I could wash my face. It had grown cold sitting there and as I sat before my mirror, rubbing at my face, I scowled at the bits of black kohl that stuck to my eyebrows.

  When I finished, I knelt beside the bed and reached underneath for Adam’s leather valise. He’d left it behind at the lodging house he’d occupied before he died—his landlady, Mrs. Downey, had given it to me. I pulled it toward me, dispelling a cloud of dust that tickled my nose. The bag’s lock had long since been broken and I lifted the lid, releasing a musty odor.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d examined its contents but they were nevertheless familiar. A few pieces of clothing were folded on top and I raised his jacket to my face, breathing in deeply, as though they might still carry Adam’s scent. Alas, there was only a stronger version of the damp smell that had wafted up when I’d opened the bag.

  This brown woolen coat had been his favorite, bought secondhand during the first winter we’d spent in London. He’d suffered the cold for several months without a coat so that Lucian and I could have new ones, and years later, when he could’ve easily afforded a more fashionable one for himself, he continued to wear it. He’d never been the sort of man to spend money frivolously.

  I laid it to the side and picked up a ladies’ handkerchief, embroidered with delicate pink roses and bordered by fine lace. It wasn’t mine and I didn’t recognize whom it might belong to, but the fabric was obviously expensive and the stitching impeccable. I’d paid it no mind the first time I’d seen it, thinking that perhaps Mrs. Downey had lent it to him and he’d forgotten to return it. Now I wondered if Susanna’s mother had owned it.

  I tucked it into my sleeve and pulled out a fearful-looking hard leather mask, left over from the days of the plague. People wore them as protection from the sickness, but so many had perished during the outbreak that I had to doubt their effectiveness. It was still possible to buy similar masks in London, though I hadn’t seen one in public for some time—there were very few cases of the plague reported these days. I ran my fingers over its terrible, beak-like nose and then added it to pile of clothing, along with a pewter flagon, a few bowls, and several pieces of cutlery.

  At the bottom of the bag lay a stack of documents. I’d given them a cursory review when I’d first acquired them and couldn’t recall that they contained any information pertaining to a marriage. I’d certainly have remembered that, wouldn’t I? But that had been years ago and I hadn’t been looking for it. It was possible that I’d missed something.

  The first few pages were receipts for the purchase of materials: gold, silver and various gemstones, all bearing Sir Richard’s signature. After that were two banknotes, both dated 20 July 1665. One was issued to Phineas MacBride and the other to Matthew Collins, neither of whom were familiar to me. The amounts were sizable—twenty pounds to MacBride and twenty-five pounds to Collins. When I found them twelve years ago, I didn’t exchange them for gold because they bore Adam’s signature and I’d kept them out of sentimentality. He would’ve mocked such foolishness, but I couldn’t bring myself to spend them.

  The fact that Adam engaged in the profession had given me a rudimentary understanding of banking. In the past, most merchants and nobles had kept their gold in the Tower for safekeeping. But when Charles’s father, King Charles I, needed money to pay for his war with Scotland, he confiscated the Tower’s gold. Though it was eventually returned, wealthy citizens who didn’t want their gold taken every time war broke out began placing their bullion with goldsmiths, who had the means to secure precious goods in their personal vaults. The goldsmiths issued receipts in the form of notes, promising payment upon demand. Over the years, it had become customary for merchants and tradesmen to exchange these receipts instead of the gold itself.

  Eventually, the goldsmiths began reinvesting the gold on behalf of the depositor. I had similar notes from my own goldsmith, Francis Blanchard, locked in my desk drawer. I kept a small purse on hand for daily expenses, but the bulk of my money was invested with Blanchard at six percent interest.

  That Adam, not Sir Richard, had signed these notes didn’t strike me as odd either. By then my brother had been working with Sir Richard for six years and was well trusted. He’d no doubt signed many such banknotes during that time.

  There was nothing pertaining to a marriage or the birth of a child. With the last of the papers examined, I set them aside and reassessed the rest of Adam’s belongings. My coachman, Elijah Pepper, might like to have his clothing. The two men were about the same size and it would be better for Elijah to wear the clothes than to leave them to rot in this old bag.

  As I began to return the other items to the valise, I noticed a torn seam in the lining at the bottom. A piece of paper stuck out and I gently pried it loose. I couldn’t tell if it had been hidden there purposely or if it had simply slipped into the tear in the lining.

  An address was scribbled upon it, along with a name I recognized: Benjamin Stowe.

  Benjamin Stowe was a wealthy coal merchant who’d risen to prominence after the Great Fire in 1666, when he took it upon himself to rescue several families from death as their homes burned. Though many men had made themselves heroes during that time, Stowe had cleverly leveraged his popularity to earn influence at court and in city politics. He now served as Lord Mayor of London.

  In itself, the fact that Adam possessed a paper bearing Stowe’s name and address was not a cause for concern. I knew nothing of Stowe’s existence prior to the fire—and in fact, I’d never met him in person. But it wasn’t such an odd thing that Adam had known him, even if I’d been unaware of the association. Certainly Adam must’ve been acquainted with a good number of people I had no knowledge of, and considering his excellent reputation as apprentice to Sir Richard, some of them were probably quite notable.

  Disappointed, I went to bed. If I were ever to find out what had really become of Adam, I wouldn’t discover it in his valise. It was time to delve deeper into his past.

  Chapter Six

  Tuesday, 14 January

  After a predictably restless night, I awoke the next morning intent on locating Susanna Barber. While I didn’t welcome the uncertainty she’d brought to my life, ignoring her story and going on as though I’d never heard it was impossible. Thus far, she was my only source of information about Adam’s death and now, knowing she might be his daughter, it bothered me to think that she’d spent another cold night out in the London streets. I had to find her, the sooner the better.

  When Charlotte came in to help me dress, I asked her to give Adam’s clothes to Elijah. I dressed quickly myself then went downstairs. As I broke my fast with bread and butter and a cup of sweet wine, he appeared in the kitchen’s doorway, dressed in his customary green-and-gold livery. “The carriage is ready, my lady,” he said.
<
br />   “Thank you, Elijah. I’ll be ready in just a moment.”

  He regarded me shyly. “I appreciate the clothes you gave me. Charlotte said they belonged to your brother. I wanted you to know I intend to take good care of ‘em.”

  I smiled. “I know you will, Elijah. Thank you.”

  “I’ll wait outside for you.”

  I finished eating and set off for the tavern where I first remembered seeing Susanna. It was a small alehouse called the Dog and Bear, near to where Fleet Street converged with the Strand. It was still early in the day and I found the place empty but for a few patrons who sat over their beers, appearing as though they’d been there all night. Indeed, they might’ve been. A man I assumed was the proprietor was busy scraping the wax from a burnt-down candle off a tabletop and I approached him.

  “Pardon me, sir,” I said. “There’s been a young beggar girl around here of late. Very pretty, wears a brown shawl and a red dress. Have you seen her today?”

  The fire kept the room quite warm and he wiped the sweat off his brow with a rag. “Aye, my lady. I know who you’re speaking of but I’ve not seen her recently. I sent her off. Don’t want the likes of her around, bothering my customers. But they come out like rats in the winter. Hard to keep ’em away.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “About a week ago, I’d reckon.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No.”

  I handed him a coin. “If you see her again will you send someone over to my house with a message?”

  “Aye.”

  Next I went to see my local constable, Edgar Foxcomb. He was an austere-looking man who seemed to take no pleasure in his law enforcement duties but nonetheless did the job well. He was just sitting down to breakfast and invited me to join him.