A Murder at Rosamund's Gate
Read A Murder at Rosamund's Gate Online
Authors: Susanna Calkins
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #Women Sleuths, #Amateur Sleuth
Contents
Part 2: Warwickshire, March 1666
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To Matt
Before I was a writer, I was a reader. To this end, I must thank my bibliophilic parents, James and Diane, for literally lining the walls of our house with books, and instilling in me a deep love of reading. I must also thank my siblings—Vince, Becky, and Monica Calkins—for sharing (or letting me steal) so many of their books growing up. For my love of writing, I owe great thanks to the dedicated teachers at J. R. Masterman Laboratory and Demonstration School in Philadelphia, especially Mitzi Brown. For my curiosity about English history, I thank my first history professor, George Stow, at La Salle University.
A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate
began with an image that came to me after Professor Melinda Zook first introduced me to seventeenth-century murder ballads and broadsides at Purdue University. For about ten years, I worked on the manuscript in bits and pieces, until I finally had a draft to share. With the encouragement of my husband, I offered it to my first readers—Franny Billingsly, Maggie Dalrymple, Denise Drane, Margaret Light, Steve Stofferahn, and Shyanmei Wang—who patiently read through odd passages and dangling clues, offered gentle feedback, raised hard questions, and most importantly, gave me the confidence to pursue my dream as a writer. To them I owe my deepest appreciation. I also wish to thank the many friends and family who celebrated my writing and helped me feel like an “author,” especially Lisa and Nikhel Bagadia, Jeremy Beck and Chris Ehrick, Jolly and Chris Corley, Noyna Debburman, Marilyn Kelley, Robin Kelley, and Angie Betz, Andrea and Rob Lemke, Olivia Lemke, Greg Light, Sonal and Vas Maniatis, Elizabeth Marquardt, Jennie McNaughton, Marina Micari, Duane Swierczynski, and Steve Wagner. I am also grateful to my late mother-in-law, Terry Kelley, who always had faith in me.
The journey from manuscript to book continued with David Hale Smith, the best literary agent in the world and all-around good guy. I appreciate his belief in my book and in me—and for connecting me to Kelley Ragland. I am extremely grateful to Kelley for understanding my characters, and for her reflective and compassionate approach to editing my story. I also wish to thank all the wonderful people at Minotaur, especially Elizabeth Lacks and India Cooper, who made my dream tangible. A writer could not ask for a better team, and to everyone who worked on my book, I offer my deepest gratitude.
I could not have written this book without the love and understanding of my family. My children, Alex and Quentin Kelley, never seemed to mind little Rosamund dragging me away to coffee shops or tagging along on vacations, and for that I am very grateful.
Most importantly, I thank my husband, Matt Kelley, for giving me the confidence, space, and time to put the images in my mind to real words on paper. He took on many roles as I completed this book, most notably Alpha Reader (his favorite title), Senior Vice President for Continuity Management (double-checked all my dates, events, character descriptions, street names, etc. to make sure I hadn’t goofed), Acting Head of Public Relations (bragged about me to all his friends), and Executive Administrative Assistant (made sure I always had time to write). To my partner and best friend, I dedicate
A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate.
A great pounding at the door startled the chambermaid bending to light the morning hearth. Jerking upright, Lucy Campion swore softly as a bit of hot beeswax stung her wrist. Slapping the taper on the mantel, she sneaked a glance over her shoulder. She could hear Bessie and Cook rattling pots in the kitchen, but the rest of the magistrate’s household was still. Her muttered oath had not carried. Though theirs was not a stringent Puritan family, the magistrate frowned on ill language, and Lucy always took care not to annoy him.
Lucy was feeling out of sorts, though, having been awakened an hour too early—not to the usual sound of roosters crowing but instead to their frantic squealing. Local boys had been casting stones at the witless birds, all mercilessly shackled to wooden stakes on the street outside her window. Although the Church officially did not condone such activities, the community accepted that boys would have their fun. Fortunately only the servants, light sleepers that they all were, had been awakened by the disturbance. The rest of the household, the magistrate’s family, had slept blissfully on.
Now, tugging her skirts into place, Lucy moved across the long wooden floor into the great hall. Who could be calling? Deliveries from the haberdasher or the vintner usually were made at the kitchen entrance, and no decent visitor would call before the family had broken their morning fast.
As Lucy swung open the heavy oak door, her scolding words withered on her lips. Instead of a journeyman plying his trade, a straight-backed man in uniform regarded her sternly. Lucy recognized his red coat and insignia immediately. He was one of King Charles’s own men. Although Redcoats were a common enough sight throughout London, a soldier at the stoop, even at the magistrate’s household, disquieted her. Ever since she was a child, soldiers had filled her with unease.
He spoke without preamble. “I’m Duncan, the new constable. I must speak with the magistrate at once.”
Youthful mischief, no doubt. The boys had probably caused some damage with their early-morning antics. Lucy took a deep breath. “Of course, sir. I’ll fetch my master. Pray, warm yourself by the fire.”
Inside, Lucy saw the constable’s otherwise set face twitch in appreciation. The magistrate’s home was fine enough, it was true. The place was not quite so decorated as some, for the master had a mean practical streak and would not let his wife furnish as lavishly as she would like. Still, it had a pleasing elegance that well suited the master and his family. The house had three floors, with the living quarters on the first floor, the sleeping chambers on the second, and the maids’ cramped quarters on the very top floor. John, the master’s servant, slept with Cook, his wife, in the tiny niche behind the kitchen hearth, among the potatoes and onions. How they fit, Lucy had often wondered, as John was a great burly man and Cook an ample woman herself.
Even as she turned to locate John, the master himself appeared. He could have been in full magisterial garb instead of a simple sleeping gown, so dignified was his bearing. This morning, the habitual twinkling of his eye and rueful grin were missing, replaced by the slightest of frowns. He summoned the constable to his private chamber, and they disappeared down the hallway.
Bessie came from the kitchen then, her blue eyes wide, having passed the constable in the corridor. Like Lucy, she had been awake for some time, tending to the early-morning duties of the household.
Two years older than Lucy, Bessie was a farm girl from Lambeth hired by the master at a Michaelmas hiring fair some five years back. Before coming to the Hargraves, Bessie had been a nursery maid in a “family of quality,” tending to three small children. As she had confided to Lucy once, however, the master grabbed at her more than the tots did, and she was nearly thrown out when the mistress discovered her husband’s sneaking ways. She was in that household two years before ending her contract with the family. Bessie had quickly found the Hargraves’ household to her liking, just as Lucy did later. Master Hargrave paid well, son and father treated her courteously, and the mistress was not jealous of her pleasing ways.
Now Bessie giggled, revealing a large gap in her mouth where her tooth had cracked some years before. “So handsome, isn’t he?” she whispered. “I just love the gold on the constable’s red coat. I’ve never seen him before, though. Have you? I wonder where he came from.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Yorkshire?” Lucy guessed, for the soldier’s voice reminded her a bit of a distant cousin she had met once. But who could know? After King Charles was restored to the throne, he had dispersed many of his men throughout England, Ireland, and Wales, to help restore order. Likely as not, the soldier was far from his childhood home.
Cook soon swatted Bessie. “You’d best be getting to your chores and forget that constable. It’s not likely he brings good tidings at this hour,” she said, her pockmarked face growing impish. She winked at Lucy. “’Twould be best if you kept your mind on good honest boys like my Samuel.”
Bessie flounced off to tend to the mistress, her curls bouncing beneath her cap. Lucy hid a smile. Bessie despised Samuel, a stocky lad of fourteen years who as a child used to pull her curls with sticky fingers, and who now would pinch her rear when out of his mother’s sight. Thankfully, they saw him only rarely these days, for he had lately begun work as a fishmonger in Leadenhall.
Regarding the closed study door, Lucy wondered what business had brought the constable to the magistrate at such an hour. This was not altogether unusual, to be sure, since the magistrate often had constables and the like stopping by the household, but the grim set to this soldier’s jaw made her especially curious.
After a half hour, the constable left, and Lucy brought out the master’s breakfast to the dining room. There, the master downed his kippers and bread with a bit of wine, not lingering long, preferring to remain in his study until the noon meal. A member of the King’s Bench before the war, and a magistrate since Charles II’s return, he was beginning to write his memoirs when the assize courts were not in session. Lucy watched him closely. If he was bothered by the news Constable Duncan had brought, he hid it well.
* * *
Lucy’s curiosity about the stranger faded as she spent the next hour emptying chamber pots into the cesspit and shaking out rush mats on the stones outside the stoop. These heavy tasks numbed her fingers and made the sweat run down the back of her woolen dress. She had received the dress when she first entered service with the Hargraves two years before, when her dear mother had come down with consumption. When she bent over now, she realized anew how the dress was pulling across her front, although not as tightly as it had on Bessie, who had worn the dress before her.
Lucy was just starting to rub the pewter with marestail, a plant that smelled and turned her fingers green, when Cook called her into the kitchen. “Where’s your pocket?” she asked Lucy, taking down an old stone jar from an alcove above the cutting bench. “We’ve got guests for supper, and I need some ox tongue, coffee, and eggs from the market.” She counted out a few coins and handed them to Lucy. “Don’t pay more than six shillings, you hear me?”
“Oh, yes!” Lucy said, dropping the coins carefully in the pocket she kept hidden beneath her skirts. The promise of the unexpected jaunt made her fairly dance down the front path, despite the chill in the air.
As she opened the gate, someone called to her from the doorway. “Hold on a moment, Lucy.” It was Adam, the magistrate’s son. “I’ll accompany you to market.”
“Sir?” she asked. She did not know the magistrate’s son very well. He’d been at Cambridge for the last few years and had only just returned to the household three weeks ago to finish up his studies in law at the Inns of Court. Unlike Sarah, the magistrate’s daughter, and Lucas, the magistrate’s ward, Adam always heeded the difference in their relative stations. He treated Lucy and the other servants courteously but never teased them in the playful way he did his sister and Lucas. Certainly he’d never volunteered to walk her into town.
“’Tis no day for a lass to be traveling alone.” He started down the narrow cobblestone path. Seeing that she was still standing there, he tilted his head at her. “Coming?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, scrambling to keep up with his lanky pace.
A moment later they passed the cocks Lucy had heard that morning. Now they were battered, plucked, and no longer squawking. Mercifully, the birds were all dead, and their youthful tormentors had long fled. Some of their neighbors were cutting them off the stakes to pop into their kettles. Adam frowned but didn’t say anything.