A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (2 page)

“Yoo-hoo, Lucy!” one of the neighbors called, elbowing another servant in the ribs. It was Janey, the most miserable gossip on the street. “Where are you off to?”

“Market,” Lucy responded through gritted teeth, trying not to flush at Janey’s knowing smirk. She’d already been treated to Janey’s vile opinions about what the gentry believed was their due. Seeing Lucy with the magistrate’s son would certainly fuel the morning’s gossip. Lucy shook her basket at her. “See?” With that, Lucy picked up her step, Adam matching her easily. Soon they were beyond sight of their neighbors’ spying eyes.

As they walked along the dusty road to Covent Garden, Lucy found herself chattering far more than she usually did, trying to mask her discomfort at his presence. Why had Adam chosen to accompany her? she wondered. Did he think she wasn’t safe?

Adam barely spoke at all during their half hour trek, and indeed, she was not even sure he was listening to her nervous chatter. He seemed distracted, ignoring all her comments about the weather, Lent, what Cook would be making for supper, and the new foal arriving in their neighbor Master Whitcomb’s stable. Only when Lucy speculated aloud about whether the Whitcombs’ groom would have to turn the foal in the womb did Adam give her a sidelong glance. She laughed a little to herself, feeling far less tense.

Even with that minor victory, Lucy was getting tired of the one-way conversation. She finally asked the question that had been on her mind all morning. “Why do you suppose, sir, that Constable Duncan came to see your father this morning?” She hopped over a muddy puddle, landing with a
squish
on the still-sodden ground.

Adam brushed off some drops of mud that had landed on his coat. “My father’s business is his own, Lucy. It is not our concern.”

“So early he came, don’t you think?” she persisted. “It must have been a matter of great importance. The pounding he made, why, I thought he’d knock the door down!” She opened her eyes wide in pretended dismay.

Adam shrugged, refusing to take the bait. “’Tis best if you put the constable’s visit out of your head, I think, Lucy,” he said.

“Do you think it had something to do with those boys mischief? That was some carousing!”

Seeing Lucy’s hopeful look, Adam sighed. “The constable’s visit did involve a crime, and a serious one at that. As you know it, is my father’s right and duty as magistrate to be informed of ill happenings in his area of jurisprudence. Regardless, Father’s business is—”

“I know,” Lucy interrupted, “his own. You said so already.” She almost winked at him, as she would have, had she been talking to Sarah or Bessie, but stopped herself just in time. “Don’t worry. I’ll pretend I never saw the constable.”
Besides,
she thought to herself,
someone will know what happened. This crime won’t stay secret for long.

*   *   *

Nearing the market, the cobbled streets grew crowded and noisy. The ever-present din of London grew louder, and the foggy haze made everything a little darker. The second stories of the buildings jutted into the narrow lanes, teetering on timbers some two or three centuries old.

As always, Lucy found herself ducking so that she would not be struck by the low-hanging wooden signs that swung into the streets. Since she could read better than most townspeople, she did not need to rely on the images painted on the signs to tell her the kinds of shops below. A picture of Adam and Eve hung above the apple sellers, a cradle hung above the basket makers, a cupid and torch above a glazier, an elephant above an ivory-comb maker, and so forth. She shuddered when she passed the bloodied bandages hanging from the windows of the barber surgeons. Brave souls, those who ventured inside.

A thin haze of smoke, arising from many ill-kept chimneys, lay dimly in the air. Steaming dung heaps littered the stones, and wild cats sniffed around doorways.

“Mind your step,” said Adam.

Lucy grimaced. The corpse of a dog lay in one corner, where it would remain until the chief ditcher carted it off to Houndsditch.

No one gave Lucy and Adam any mind as they made their way through the streets, but Lucy looked about, always eager to connect with the life that teemed about her. Servants from large houses and the wives of merchants scurried about with baskets, bargaining for fresh vegetables, meats, breads, and other goods. All about, traders sang their wares.

“Candles and ribbons!”

“Spices from the East!”

“Woolens to keep you dry and warm!”

“Fresh fish!”

Covent Garden was full of children, some darting in and out of narrow shops, some playing, others clutching bundles and baskets or clinging to their mother’s skirts. Almost all were dirty and pale, nothing like the red-cheeked children Lucy had known growing up outside London.

As she chose a bit of tongue from the fleshmarket, Lucy noticed two boys about her age, or maybe a little younger, sidling up to a woman bargaining with a butcher over a succulent cut of meat. Balancing three packages under one arm, the woman reached for her pocket to pay him.

Just then, one of the boys grabbed her purse, snapping the flimsy cord. The other boy scooped up two of her packages, and they took off, out of the market, in separate directions.

The woman, first stunned and mute, shook herself and began to wail, a shrieking, piteous sound. Nearby faces turned and conversations stopped, but after a moment, everyone returned to business. Pickpockets were a fair menace to the streets, but as the woman was a stranger, no one raised a hand to help her.

Shocked, Lucy turned to Adam. Had he witnessed it? It seemed he had.

“Come on. There’s no constable about.” His tone, like his face, was flat. “No bellman at hand, no soldiers. There is nothing to be done.”

Her uncertain protest quelled, Lucy picked up her basket again. She could not stop looking back at the woman, who had begun to weep openly. With her purse and day’s purchases gone, she might have little left. Her husband or master, unless he was a particularly forgiving man, might well beat her for her loss. Or worse. Lucy shuddered.

When they turned the corner, though, Lucy noticed that one of the young pickpockets had circled back, slinking among the crowded stalls. Without saying anything to Adam, she kept her head down, watching the lad as he helped himself to an apple here, a scrap of cloth there. He stood for a moment before an enormous leg of mutton. For a crazy moment, Lucy thought he was actually trying to figure out how to get the gamy leg inside his knapsack. The woman’s purse, she imagined, was still inside his doublet.

“I’m to get some eggs and a bit of coffee,” she told Adam, her eyes not leaving the boy.

Adam nodded, looking toward Fleet Street. Lucy had rarely been on the long, winding street where the printers and booksellers lived and hawked their wares.

“See that shop there?” Adam asked, pointing halfway down the narrow road. “The fifth one in from the corner? ’Tis Master Aubrey’s. Join me there in a quarter hour’s time, and I shall see you home.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, distantly wondering at his grim tone. Right now, she was thinking about something else. Seeing that Adam was waiting for her to respond, she added, “Yes, sir. A quarter hour. I’ll be there.”

When Adam had walked away, Lucy looked again at the boy. She did not see his partner, but that was better for what she was about to do. Saying a soft prayer to her patron saint, she opened her pocket as if searching for a coin, walking straight toward the boy. An instant later, she collided with him, her hands right on his chest, then slipping easily into his shirt, where she seized the woman’s purse and whisked it from view.

“Oh, my,” Lucy said, so he could feel the full effect of her gaze. His frown was replaced by a look of confusion, under the onslaught of her smile. Lucy spent little time before a looking glass, but his somewhat dazed response gave her an unexpected sense of satisfaction. “I’m so sorry. I should have been paying more attention,” Lucy said, tucking a loose strand of hair back under her muslin cap. For a moment, she wished she had Bessie’s great blond curls, but no matter, she seemed to be doing fine.

The boy rubbed his hand against his shirt. “Oh, yes, miss, I mean, no, miss,” he stammered. “A comely lass like yourself, you must watch for cutthroats. There’s them that would take advantage of you, burying your nose down like that.”

Lucy widened her eyes. “Oh, my. I hadn’t thought of that. Cutthroats! In the market! To be sure, my dear aunt always says I must take more care, lest something dreadful happen.”

“Indeed, you must, miss.” He looked her up and down, taking in her servant’s garb. He seemed to like what he saw, and he took a step closer. Lucy had to keep herself from stepping back, for his teeth suddenly looked a little sharper, a little more predatory, than they had a moment before. He went on, puffing up his chest. “Shall I walk with you a bit? Perhaps you’d like an ale? The Cheddar Cheese is just ahead.”

Protect me from the likes of you,
Lucy thought spitefully. Out loud, she said, “Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t even know your name, and my auntie—”

“My name’s Sid, miss. Sid Petry, miss.” He squeezed her upper arm.

His sudden liberty made her feel afraid and anxious to get away. What if Sid discovered what she had done? She looked about. “I have a friend meeting me, and he’ll be wondering where I am. Sorry again, Sid, for being so careless.”

It took all she had to get away from Sid’s wheedling, and she was afraid he would follow her. Moving quickly through the stalls, Lucy stepped over piles of dung and refuse that lay scattered across the cobblestones. Looking about, she finally spied Sid’s victim, now sitting dully at the edge of the cobblestone street, her arms wrapped around her skirts. No one was paying her any mind, and she looked quite forlorn indeed. Lucy strode up to her. “Pardon, ma’am.”

“What do you want?” the woman growled. “Can’t you see I’m not in a good way? Just got my pocket stolen and two good bones. What I shall tell my master, I don’t know.”

Lucy held out the woman’s worn pocket. “Yes, I saw what that witless lad did. But wouldn’t you know it? He dropped your pocket, the clumsy oaf.”

The woman’s mouth parted, but she said nothing.

Lucy turned away. Before she had taken two steps, however, she felt a hand claw at her elbow, forcing her to turn around. The woman twitched the left half of her lips in what might have been a smile. Lucy nodded. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

*   *   *

Doubling back, Lucy entered the print shop where she was to meet Adam, a heavy acrid smell jolting her nose. Two men were working the presses, shouting back and forth. Adam was nowhere to be seen. As she waited, she read haltingly through some of the ballads and broadsides drying on the great racks. All told stories of monstrous births, unnatural events, and the like, or else offered quick recipes or advice. Having gone to petty school as a girl, Lucy had learned her letters and numbers but little else. Only in the last two years, when she’d found ways to listen to Sarah’s tutors in secret, had she figured out how to pick through her letters and read at a reasonable pace.

The title of one of the woodcuts now caught her eye. “‘Murder, or a Vengeance Cast upon a Candlemaker,’” Lucy read out loud.

“Murder most foul,” said a man stepping into the room, followed by Adam. Lucy guessed he was Master Aubrey. A fat and balding man, the printer had spilled ink all across his person, so that it had stained his beard, his forehead, and his smock, as well as his hands. “But fortunate, too,” he added. Seeing Lucy’s quizzical look, he explained, “The dismal act of murder—vile, disgusting,
monstrous
—will make this piece easy to sell. Watch.”

Stepping out of his shop, Master Aubrey climbed onto a small bench. Adam and Lucy followed him outside. “Good people!” the printer called. “Let me tell you the true and most horrible story of Anne Johnson of Scarsbruck, a she-devil who poisoned her husband with an ill-begotten stew.”

Hearing Master Aubrey’s call, several passersby stopped to listen. A good story was always a treat, a murder even more enjoyable. Pushing up his sleeves on his heavy, sweaty arms, Master Aubrey launched into a sordid tale of greed, lust, and murder—the desperate plot of a woman weary of her husband’s adulterous ways. “The moral of this candlemaker’s sad end?” The printer wagged his finger at the men in the crowd. “Do not dip your wick in the neighbor’s tallow!”

The crowd let out a collective satisfied sigh. A few people cheered. The story complete, the people began to drift away, returning to their homes and stalls, with details of the murder carefully memorized. Master Aubrey and one of his printer’s devils scurried about, collecting coins from people who purchased the penny broadside to share with their families and neighbors, or even to post on their walls at home.

As they took their leave, Master Aubrey murmured something to Adam that Lucy did not catch. Lucy wondered what his business with the printer had been, but she knew she could not be so forward. Instead, she asked Adam how he knew the man.

“What? Oh, I’ve known Aubrey for some time now,” he said, sidestepping the question. “Say, Lucy, you have a brother? Will, is that right?” When Lucy nodded in surprise, he continued. “I know Aubrey’s looking for an apprentice, a turner. He wants an eager lad who knows his letters and who could belt out a right good story. Father says you’re quick enough, so I thought it might run in the family.”

Lucy shook her head. “Will cannot read so well. ’Sides, he’s fair settled with the smithy. I thank you for thinking of him, sir.” Her lips twisted ruefully. “Although if I were a man, I could think of no finer trade in which to apprentice.”

They fell silent as they walked along. Adam glanced at her. “So there was no coffee to be had at the market?” He looked pointedly at her basket.

Lucy flushed. Had he seen her talking to that rogue Sid? No, he could not have, he’d have been with the printer. The lie came out quickly. “No, the price was too dear. I should not like to waste the magistrate’s money.”

“No eggs to be had either?”

Lucy glanced at him, but his tone was casual, disinterested. “No,” she said. “I got to looking at a piece of Holland cloth for the mistress and forgot to get the eggs.”