A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (12 page)

Just as she reached the door, Adam called out to her. “Lucy, wait.”

She paused but kept her tear-stained face slightly away from him, not in a mood to be doing anyone’s bidding, certainly no special requests. She just wanted to lie down and hold a sachet to her temple, which had just begun to throb.

“Tell me what you know about Bessie’s death.”

“Sir?” Lucy asked. “To be sure, I know as much as you.” Even those small sentences required a great deal of effort. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from weeping openly.

Adam might have seen that, because he abruptly stopped sounding like a barrister. He jumped from his chair and touched her arm. “Please, Lucy. Sit down for a moment. Here, by the fire.” They both glanced at the cold grate. “Well, all right, no fire, but please sit down. I didn’t mean to distress you further. Indeed, I am terribly sorry that you lost a friend. I know she was a companion to both you and my sister, and she will be heartfully missed.”

Well, that was better at least. Less like a noble. Barely listening, Lucy concentrated instead on a dark knot on the wood floor. It looked like a mushroom, she thought idly. She despised mushrooms.

“I’ve no news of the outside,” Adam said, making an impatient gesture. “This sickness has kept me abed, and I’ve not seen Father. I need to know what is being said of Bessie’s death. Who are they saying did it?”

Lucy made a face. “It’s all fantastic nonsense.”

“Yes, and?” Adam prompted. “What are they saying?”

She bit her lip. “Well, that Bessie had been in league with the devil.” Seeing his brow raise, she gave the slightest of smiles. “Not the real devil, of course, but some devilish man who seduced her. Convinced her to steal the silver spoons. And then he killed her.”

“Oh?” Adam prompted.

“He must have taken the spoons, you see. Because the spoons weren’t found where she was … killed. At Rosamund’s Gate.”

“How singular. Who was this supposed devilish man?”

At this, Lucy could not help but sneer. “Janey supposes a highwayman.”

“Of course. And what say the constable?”

“He thinks maybe it was the gypsies encamped to the south. He knew that Bessie had visited them a few times.” How tongues do wag, Lucy thought. An image of Maraid’s beautiful and wild face came to her then, asking for silver.

Adam seemed to follow her thinking. “The gypsies do require silver, do they not? Had Bessie particular need for their services?”

Lucy thought about this. Bessie had wanted something from the gypsies but had not confided in her, to be sure. Truly, her manner had been strange for some time—and what about the red lacquered box? If only she could just go somewhere and think. She scratched her arm, waiting for permission to leave the room.

Adam wasn’t done. “So Bessie was wearing a green silk dress when she was murdered?” Seeing her flinch, he added, “I’m sorry, Lucy. That was thoughtless of me. When she passed on, I mean. But the dress? What do you make of that?”

The question gave Lucy pause. Certainly, the green taffeta was not a dress to travel in. “Yes,” she said slowly. “It was one of her favorite dresses. She wore it to Lady Embry’s Easter masquerade. She looked lovely.”

Lucy gulped, recalling a vision of Bessie, beautiful in the green taffeta, generously lending Lucy her perfume. Lost in the past, she barely heard Adam comment, “I’m afraid I did not notice her.”

The memory was too raw to think of now. Lucy pushed it aside to concentrate on what Adam was asking her, but she kept thinking about the dress. She herself would have worn a more practical work dress, one of her gray muslins, if she were taking a journey. Bessie must have hoped to meet someone, nay, to impress someone. Perhaps those nosy neighbors were right. She sighed.

“What is it?” Adam asked gently. “I can see something has occurred to you. Will you tell me?”

His unexpected kindness loosened her tongue somewhat. “It’s just that this was a special dress. Not a dress she would have wanted to walk very far in, especially in such cold weather. She looked so beautiful in it. Not like a servant at all, sir. So she’d have worn it to impress someone.” Not some made-up highwayman, either. Someone more like Will, Lucy realized. Someone Bessie cared about.

Adam tapped his fingers on the wall, musing out loud. “Exactly. My thoughts as well. The constable could not be too aware of women’s clothes if he didn’t know that it was a servant girl’s best dress. Of course, it was no doubt the worse for wear when he saw it.”

Lucy had only half heard him, as she remembered Will whispering into Bessie’s ear. She put a hand over her mouth, the bile rising in her throat.

Adam saw the gesture. “Oh, I am a cad. Forgive me.” He paused. “So the dress suggests that she was planning to meet a sweetheart, not have an assignation with a highwayman. Why would he kill her?”

“Perhaps someone else killed her,” Lucy said. “Someone else she encountered on the way.”

“Perhaps.
Did
she have a lover, do you know?”

Lucy narrowed her eyes, not wanting to speak of her brother’s relationship with Bessie. She’d already been forced to mention it to the constable. Adam seemed tense, and his questions did not appear to stem from mere curiosity. She watched him trace a crack in the wall. As she gazed at his bandaged hands and body, she could not suppress the ugly and dark thoughts. What had he been doing to get himself all bloodied? The stories he had told, about running into a butcher’s stall, seemed far-fetched. She spoke carefully. “Oh well, you know Bessie. She had an eye for the lads, as they did for her. Now, sir,” she said, rising from the chair, “I really must get back to my duties.”

Adam scowled at her, his mood changed. “You’re not telling me something.”

Her heart jumped at how easily he seemed to see through her. “No, sir, there’s nothing else,” she said.

He jerked his head toward the door, and she scurried out. Rather than going down to the kitchen as she ought, instead she crept to her little chamber, trying to push away dreadful, ill-formed thoughts.

*   *   *

Bessie’s death gradually sank in, like a stone slipping into a pond’s deepest muck. At night, Lucy slept in fits and starts, lying alone in the chamber she had shared with Bessie, sobbing her way through several handkerchiefs. During the day, she tried to hide her tears in front of the family, but little things could set her weeping afresh. The iron that Bessie had cursed, a bit of ribbon that she might have worn in her hair, an untouched treacle tart that they might have shared when the chores were done—all shredded her deeply. Every movement was an effort, the most simple exchange a chore. She felt she couldn’t remember the most routine tasks.

“More ale, did you say, sir?”

“I forgot to light the hearth, sir? I’m sorry, I’ll get right to it.”

“Pardon me, mistress. I thought you wanted the brocade this evening.”

Lucy thought the magistrate might have awkwardly patted her arm once or twice, but she could not be sure. The mistress she saw weeping, sitting at her mirror, just staring at the brush Bessie would use to stroke her hair. Lucy wanted to go to her, but she did not quite dare. Only with Sarah did Lucy cry outright.

Once, in the courtyard, Lucas slung his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “Our dear merry girl is gone, ’tis true, but as the good Reverend Marcus would say, she lies sweetly in the Lord’s own hands.” This gave Lucy little comfort, but she nodded at the thought.

Only Adam remained aloof, although she looked up once to see his eyes upon her, as if measuring her in some way. That so unnerved her that she dropped her spinning wool and had to spend quite a long time to get it unknotted.

Lucy hardly dared put into words the ill feelings Adam stirred in her. Something was clearly amiss. The memories of that shared moment in the hallway, and later, when they walked home on Easter night, were images she fought to suppress. Instead, she forced herself to think about the last few weeks of Bessie’s life. Bessie had been acting strangely, but what about Adam? Could they have been sweethearts? She thought about how he had questioned her, his bloodstained clothes, his injuries the night of Bessie’s disappearance. All pointed to something that pained her deeply.

She tried talking to John about Adam’s odd injuries, but a single twitch of the servant’s cheek warned her staunchly where his loyalties lay. Cook certainly shared her husband’s loyalty to the household, and Lucy could not well speak to any of the family about her sickening worries. In any case, Sarah had been bustled off to her aunt’s in Shropshire, an event that sharpened her loss. Nor could she turn to her brother. Will had stopped by the day before, after the family had returned from church, showing a grayness to his features that surprised her. Bessie’s death seemed to have hit him harder than she expected. He was a lost soul, distracted by his sorrow, and as such was no use to her.

Lucy contemplated going to Constable Duncan but decided against it. She thought he would listen, but she was afraid to get in trouble. Afraid to be wrong, afraid to be right, afraid to be discharged without a reference. Afraid.

*   *   *

Lucy sat now in the kitchen, looking down at the small cup in her hands. She hardly knew what she was supposed to be doing. Basting the roast, perhaps? Chopping roots? She sighed.

Cook looked at her and scowled. “You’re hardly much use to me now. You take the afternoon to yourself. Go to St. Peter’s for some solace. The church won’t be too full on a Monday. Mind you, not the tavern. Don’t you come back until it’s time for supper.”

“But—” Lucy protested, thinking of all the work yet to be done.

Cook put her arms on Lucy’s shoulders and firmly marched her to the door. “Now, not another word,” Cook said. “If anyone asks, you are at market, but I think the family is like to give you some space to grieve and pray. The magistrate, he’s a good man. I can tell he does not like to see you so distressed. Just take care you get back for supper.”

With that final reminder, Lucy found herself out the door and walking down the dirt path to the road. The fog seemed less oppressive, less tyrannical, less determined today, though it still swirled about, questioning her will. She scarcely knew what to do, or where to go. To the church? No, she did not want to be reminded of Bessie, moldering in death. She shook off a little tremor and breathed deeply. See her brother? Unlikely. She wanted to see Will, desperately, but had to wait for his day off so they could talk properly. The market? She didn’t want to be around people.

Lucy toyed with the idea of getting a pint. She pictured herself handing over her coin, looking like she had a thousand crowns to her name, the tavern keeper plying her with the best meats and cheeses. Then another image arose, dampening her enthusiasm, as all the men in the pub looked suspiciously like Richard, elbowing their way to sit next to her.

Lucy sighed. So many oafish louts about. People could easily get the wrong idea if they spied her, a young girl, drinking alone in a tavern. Cook would not like it, and, of course, she’d hate to bring shame to the magistrate’s household. The fetters on a woman never seemed to break away.

As Lucy wandered, she found herself veering away from town and toward the open fields and glens. Above her, the birds of spring chirped, oblivious of her heavy spirit. As always, her thoughts turned to Bessie. Where had she been going? Who was she meeting? Why had she stolen the silver? Lucy’s fists clenched at her sides. “I didn’t even know you, did I?”

A fox bounding in front of her caused her to stop short. She looked around, realizing only at that moment that she had wandered right to Rosamund’s Gate, where Bessie had met her fate. The field had drawn her like a lodestone. Her stomach churning, she headily imagined the scene.

It had been dark, of course, but perhaps closer to twilight. Certainly, Bessie had not been around to help clear the evening meal. Bessie would have walked down the path that Lucy had just trod. How would she have walked? Gaily, with eager steps? Toward a lover? A highwayman? Had she walked slowly, worried?

Lucy’s mind shifted through the possibilities. Did Bessie think she would be caught, the silver in her satchel weighing down her soul? Had she worried that her rendezvous would not happen? Lucy found she preferred to think of Bessie as happy, her customary curls bouncing free beneath her scarf. Would her lover have been waiting already? Would they have eagerly clasped hands? Or would Bessie have stood here alone in the copse, growing more nervous of the forest sounds as each moment passed?

A twig snapped behind Lucy, and she felt the hackles on her neck rise. She leaped behind a large oak tree, not daring to make a sound and too fearful to move. A man clad in blue stepped from behind a tree some yards away, near a small pond, the fog putting him in stark relief against the gray landscape. Adam! What was he doing here?

As Lucy watched, he knelt down, and carefully passed his hands by the flattened grass of the bank, peering this way and that, finally poking his head into a log. From her vantage point, she could see his grim satisfied smile. After pocketing something Lucy could not see, Adam strode off.

For an instant, Lucy stood frozen in her spot behind the tree, then darted over to the pond. Kneeling down in the grass, she looked inside the hollow log. She could see that several stones were stained an odd dark brown. Blood! She snatched her hand away. Bewildered, she sat back on her haunches. This was where Bessie must have been killed.

Even as tears streamed down her face, she found herself deciphering the scene, as it might well have happened. Bessie had arrived first and had waited, perhaps idly throwing stones in the water to pass the time. Maybe her assailant had watched her a while, standing where Lucy herself had been, then silently sneaked up behind her. Bessie would have whirled around, her bright smile wide upon her lips. Too late, she must have realized his intentions as he set upon her. Perhaps they had struggled. Lucy liked to think that Bessie had gotten in a few swipes of her own.

What about her killer, that nameless monster? What had he done? Why did he do it? Was it all about the silver? And, oh! What had Adam found? Although Lucy was trembling, a calm began to pass over her. She knew what she needed to do. She needed to find out what Adam was hiding.