Mistress of Lies

by Holly West

“I apologize for the interruption, Constable Foxcomb,” I said. “This should only take a minute. I’m searching for a girl named Susanna Barber, around twelve years old, who recently came to my house. I thought perhaps you’d seen her and might even know where she lives.”

  “I can’t say the name sounds familiar,” he said. “What’s she look like?”

  I gave him a description and he shook his head. “No, haven’t seen her. What’s the reason for your interest? Has she caused you trouble?”

  “Nothing like that. I’d simply like to find her. Perhaps you could keep an eye out and let me know if you see her?”

  He agreed that he would.

  * * *

  My younger brother Lucian was a playwright with the Duke of York’s Company. It had been several days since I’d last seen him, for he’d recently been busier than usual of late, helping to stage the production of his latest play, The Foolish Squire, at the Dorset Garden Theatre.

  The theatre stood at the edge of the Thames, near the Dorset Garden stairs. In better weather, theatregoers enjoyed traveling there by barge, but today, the river was covered with a thin sheet of ice so Elijah took me there by carriage. The ground route to the theatre forced us to skirt the border of Alsatia, which reminded me of Sam. Afforded legal sanctuary due to its proximity to the Whitefriars Monastery, Alsatia attracted all manner of criminals and debauched activity and was, in general, a dreadful place. Sam had lived there for a time before I met him and now, I thought it was possible that he’d gone back for want of a place to live. I’d sent Elijah looking for him there shortly after he’d left, but he returned with nothing but a blackened eye, the inevitable result of asking too many questions. The residents of Alsatia protected each other and didn’t take kindly to strangers.

  I arrived at the theatre to find my brother on the stage, giving direction to Thomas Betterton, one of London’s most well-known actors. A few other members of the company stood in the wings, waiting for their cues. It was odd seeing them all in their everyday clothes, acting their scenes. They only donned their costumes for official performances.

  It appeared that much of the scenery for the production had already been completed. Huge panels painted with various pastoral scenes—the play was about a wealthy country squire whose love for buxom young servant girls leads to his downfall—slid back and forth on wooden tracks affixed to the stage so that they could be easily changed. The Duke’s Company was known more for its elaborate productions than the quality of the plays themselves—a fact that didn’t bother Lucian so long as he got paid. That said, he was a master with the pen, especially satire, with a stunning ability to cut his subject to the quick in a few short lines.

  The news of Adam’s death had first come to me from Lucian, who’d received it from Sir Richard Winser. He’d sent a letter to me in Amsterdam in February 1666: My dearest Isabel, it is with a heavy heart that I write these words. I returned from Oxford to find that our beloved brother Adam has died from the evil pestilence. Oh! May God rest his eternal soul!

  Given the coarse language he often used in his plays, it was difficult to recall that he had, when he wanted to, a lovely way with words.

  I stood silently for a moment, watching my brother work. We resembled each other greatly in appearance, both of us having inherited our mother’s well-shaped nose and large, deep-set brown eyes. But Lucian was admittedly the handsomer of the two of us, a fact that hadn’t escaped the notice of many a smitten female. He attracted women the way horse dung attracted flies.

  Lucian caught sight of me and waved. “Isabel!” he said, turning to address the company. “Pardon me, I’ll just be a moment.” He skipped down the stairs and into the pit where I stood. “Well then, sister, this is a pleasant surprise. But I wasn’t expecting you—you’d best make it quick for I’ve not got long to speak.”

  I was unaccustomed to Lucian being so businesslike. Usually, his chief occupation when he wasn’t gambling and whoring or writing the occasional play was lolling about with a cup of ale in his hand. This new, more serious version of my brother was a welcome change, but I did miss his casual disregard for social convention and ability to make even ordinary events more enjoyable.

  “I had a rather curious visitor last night.” I told him Susanna’s story quickly so that he wouldn’t have a chance to interrupt. When I got to the part where Adam was murdered, he shook his head slowly.

  “She’s looking for money,” he said. “Egads, you didn’t give her any, did you?”

  “Of course I didn’t. I’m as dubious as you are.”

  “Are you?”

  When I didn’t reply he said, “The girl is obviously a fraud, Isabel, probably put up to it by someone else. Adam died of the plague.”

  “How do we know that? Did either of us see his corpse?”

  Lucian made a face. “Now you’re just being gruesome.”

  “I’m not, Lucian. Think about it. We were both told that he died, but neither of us was here to witness it for ourselves. Anything could’ve happened.”

  Lucian had been sixteen the year the plague struck. Like Adam, he initially stayed in London. But even then he was popular with women, and he had recently taken up with one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting when Charles and the court had left for Salisbury to escape the danger. He accompanied them and, when Salisbury was deemed unsafe, moved on to Oxford to be with his mistress. By the time he returned in February of the following year, Adam was already dead.

  “I don’t like the idea of my brother dying in such a terrible way any more than you do.” He laughed sardonically. “God’s blood, Isabel, do you realize we’re sitting here discussing whether it would be better if he was murdered or died naturally of a hideous illness?” His words echoed my own thoughts of the day before. “The fact is that Adam is dead. I don’t see what good can come of dredging up the past.”

  “If what she says is true, then she is part of our family.”

  “I’d bet my arse this is just a ruse cooked up by some scoundrel to relieve you of some of your money.”

  “Let us assume you’re right. It’s just a trick. Who’s behind it?”

  Lucian shrugged. “Take your pick. There’s no shortage of rooks in London.”

  From backstage came a loud crash, as if something heavy had fallen. The sound traveled ominously through the near-empty theatre. Lucian’s head jerked toward the stage. “‘Zounds—see to that, will you, Betterton?”

  But Betterton was already scrambling backstage.

  “I’ve no time for this, Isabel,” Lucian said, turning back to me. “And besides that, I’ve no interest in pursuing this matter. Unaccustomed as I am to being the voice of reason, I advise you to forget about this girl. Adam died of the plague, there’s no other possibility.”

  His words angered me. I didn’t understand how he could be so cavalier about his own brother’s death. “Lucian, if there’s even the slightest chance that our brother was murdered I have to find out what happened to him.”

  He waved a hand. “Do what you must.” Then, seeing the expression on my face, he added, “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “He was our brother.”

  Before I left, Lucian placed his hand on my arm, which touched me, for he didn’t display such tenderness often. “Life is for the living, Isabel. Let the dead rest.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lucian’s words troubled me, not because of the nonchalant way he’d treated Susanna Barber’s story, but because a part of me believed he might be right.

  The girl was gone and I had no evidence beyond the ring that her tale might be true. Adam had been a prolific craftsman, and similar rings no doubt rested within the jewelry boxes of many of London’s richest ladies. It would be no great achievement for some cunning thief to steal one of them and pass it on to Susanna—if that was really her name—to he
lp convince me that she was Adam’s daughter.

  But why? Though my existence was comfortable, I was by no means rich—especially in light of the current state of my business. My status as one of the king’s mistresses might’ve gained me some infamy over the years, but it hadn’t garnered much in the way of wealth. Did whoever put the girl up to the ruse hope to gain favor with the king through me? If so, he or she was destined for disappointment, for though Charles loved me, I held no real power over him.

  No matter. I kept returning to a single thought: if there was even the slightest chance that Susanna was telling the truth, I owed it to Adam to learn it.

  A visit to Sir Richard Winser seemed the most sensible place to start, for he would’ve been among the last people to see my brother alive. He’d relayed the particulars of Adam’s death to Lucian, who had, in turn, given them to me. If Adam had really married and fathered a child, only to be murdered shortly thereafter, Sir Richard surely would’ve known about it. But I doubted he knew anything more than I did, for if he had, he would surely have imparted the information to Lucian and me. Even so, he might provide me with some insight that would be useful to me now.

  Sir Richard was as close to a father as I’d had since my own died twenty years ago. Though we were only related through Adam’s godmother, he’d taken the three of us into his home shortly after he’d accepted my brother as his apprentice and for four years we lived with his family at their palatial country estate in Ickenham called Bingley House.

  I knew he would’ve paid the debt that landed me in Marshalsea Prison without question or judgment. I had only to ask, but shame prevented me. I’d sworn Lucian to secrecy on the subject and to my knowledge Sir Richard still knew nothing about my imprisonment.

  After I returned from Amsterdam, it was Sir Richard who’d comforted me the most. I trusted him implicitly. He claimed that Adam had died of the plague and of course I believed him—he’d been as grief-stricken by losing Adam as Lucian and I were. Perhaps that’s why I’d never questioned the exact circumstances of Adam’s death.

  “Isabel, what a wonderful surprise!” he said when I entered his shop on Lombard Street. He was a stocky man of about fifty, though he looked to be several years younger. His friendly round face beamed as though he’d not seen me in ages, but in truth I’d only just seen him a few weeks prior, when Lucian and I spent a few days at Bingley House for Christmas.

  It had been years since I’d set foot in his London shop, however. In view of our history, it would’ve been natural for me to deposit my money with Sir Richard. But when I married Sir Ian, the dreadful state of our accounts shamed me. I explained the matter by saying that Ian’s own goldsmith managed our money, and when I began doing business as Mistress Ruby I established a relationship with Francis Blanchard.

  Entering Sir Richard’s shop now gave me pause. Susanna had said that Adam was found dead in his shop—I assumed that she meant this one. Was this where my brother was killed?

  It was much the way I remembered it. The walls were paneled in heavy, deep brown oak, polished to a high shine. A good quantity of jewels and other precious items were displayed in the windows, with a guard on hand to thwart any would-be thieves. Four men, presumably apprentices, as Adam had been, worked at benches along one wall, and various tools hung on nails and hooks above them. A beautifully upholstered couch positioned at the rear of the shop enabled the lords and ladies who came to purchase Sir Richard’s wares or to deposit amounts of gold for safekeeping to sit and rest their well-shod feet.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Richard,” I said. “I apologize for interrupting your work, but I’ve an important matter to discuss.”

  “Not at all, my dear.” He took me by the hand. “Come, let us go inside where it’s more private.” I followed him to his office, which was furnished with a second couch, a few chairs, a desk, a bookcase and several file cabinets. Two large safes rested side-by-side against one wall, but I knew the bulk of Sir Richard’s holdings were stored in a vault, elsewhere.

  “Sit, sit.” He sat himself in one of the chairs and folded his hands over his ample stomach. “What is this matter you wish to discuss? I do hope nothing’s amiss.”

  “No, nothing like that.” I was at a sudden loss at how to proceed, so I delayed. “Tell me, how is the family?”

  “Lady Winser is splendid, thank you. But then she always has had the constitution of a horse—oh, now don’t you tell her I compared her to an equine. But you know what I mean, of course. And Emily has just announced she’s with child again. We’re very pleased, of course.”

  Emily was Sir Richard’s daughter-in-law, wife to his son, James, with whom I’d enjoyed a childish flirtation during the years I’d lived at Bingley House. Nothing serious had ever come of it, of course, but nevertheless I retained a fondness for him. His wife, on the other hand, was a plain-faced, bitter woman, whose woeful disposition stood in stark contrast to that of the cheerful Winser family.

  “Well, that is good news, isn’t it?” I said. “Please give them my regards.”

  “And what about you, my dear? Is everything all right?”

  I hated to spoil Sir Richard’s jovial mood by bringing up the reason for my visit. My brother’s death had devastated him, and, in a cruel twist of fate, his own daughter, Margaret, who’d been my dearest friend, had died of consumption around the same time. Still, there was nothing to do but go forward.

  “Sir Richard, I must confess. I’ve come to you because I have a few questions about what happened to Adam.”

  The pleased expression vanished, replaced by one more somber. “Of course, Isabel,” he said. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “Is there any possibility at all that Adam might not have died of the plague?”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. He inhaled and tried again. “No, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Do you know the date of his death?”

  “I don’t know the exact day—I wasn’t here. None of us were here. But it’s my belief that Adam died in early August 1665, shortly after he showed plague symptoms. This, according to his landlady.”

  “Please, tell me what you know.”

  Sir Richard appeared genuinely distressed. “I’ve already done that, haven’t I? Years ago, when you returned from Amsterdam. Nothing has changed since then and I don’t see what good can come of dredging up the past now.”

  “If you’ll just go over it one more time,” I said. “I realize this seems sudden, but I’ve recently begun to question the circumstances of Adam’s death. I can’t truly put it behind me until I know what really happened. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  He gazed at me, long and searching, and breathed in deeply. “When the first plague deaths occurred in Longacre, nobody took much notice. That was in December 1664. Perhaps you remember?”

  “They were Frenchmen, were they not?”

  “Yes, as I recall. But by March it had spread to St. Giles-in-the-Fields and Holborn. Even then, very few cases were reported and even fewer cases were confirmed, but people, including myself, began to get nervous.”

  “I’d already left for Amsterdam by then.”

  He nodded. “In May I began making arrangements to close the shop and confine myself and the family to Bingley House until the threat had passed. Ickenham seemed far enough away and I thought we’d be safe there. I assumed Adam would join us, but when I told him of my plan, he refused. He didn’t think the plague was a serious matter and he was convinced that the business would be irreparably harmed if we closed it for any length of time.”

  “Why did Adam return to his room at Mrs. Downey’s house instead of staying in your apartments above the shop?” Mrs. Downey had been our landlady when we’d first arrived in London, before Sir Richard had invited us to live at Bingley House.

  “I’d warned him that if he ch
ose to stay in London, he could no longer travel back and forth to Bingley House. If he contracted the plague he would be contagious and I couldn’t risk it. He decided he’d be more comfortable living there, I suppose. I left the city on the first of June and he moved shortly after that.”

  This was the story as I’d remembered it. In a way, I couldn’t fault Adam for his lack of concern—at the time people began preparing to leave, only a few plague cases had occurred within the city gates. To Adam, leaving must’ve seemed premature and perhaps even unnecessary.

  “You had no qualms about leaving Adam to run the business in your absence?”

  “None at all,” Sir Richard said. “My only concern was that he’d fall ill. By July, it became clear that the plague might kill everyone who’d remained in London. I became even more worried for Adam—he kept in touch via letters but by the end of that month, they stopped. I sent a servant into London to see after him but he returned to tell me that my shop had been shut and that there was no sign of Adam. My man had gone to Mrs. Downey’s home and she claimed that Adam had come down with symptoms of the plague. He’d left her house a week prior and she hadn’t seen him since.”

  “If you were so concerned, why didn’t you come to see for yourself what had happened?” I asked.

  Sir Richard became dejected. “I was afraid to, frankly. My man told me of the horrors he’d seen—in some areas every house had lost at least one member. In some cases, entire families had been lost. I didn’t want to risk my own health or the health of my family should I come down with it.” He looked up at me, almost defiant. “Judge me if you must, but I couldn’t do it.”

  “I would never judge you for such a thing, Sir Richard. It was a frightening time. And I’ve always felt Adam was foolish for staying.”

  “After that, I never heard from Adam again. I reluctantly assumed he’d died in the pesthouse in late July or early August. In September, the plague deaths were at their peak. Twenty thousand in one week. The disease had become so widespread that I no longer felt safe at Bingley House and I moved the family further afield, to Oxford.”