A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (34 page)

“When Judith picked you.”

He shrugged. “Yes, I suppose.”

Lucy tried to pull her hand out from the crook of his arm. When he held fast, she exhaled softly. “Did you learn anything?”

“Other than that Judith is a shallow, rather vain creature with hardly an original thought in that perfectly coiffed head of hers? Yes, indeed. I learned about her father’s shipping patterns, and I was able to inform my father about several illicit operations that were transacted. Illegally gained goods; unlawful transactions in Portsmouth, Greenwich; that sort of thing. But Lucy, I—”

He broke off and pointed, putting the fingers of his other hand over her lips. She nodded, following his gaze. A glimmer of light was coming from the ceiling. There must have been a grate in the floor in one of the transepts off the main altar. They could see it was partially covered by rush matting. Perhaps a way out, if they could just reach it. Lucy began to feel hopeful again.

Then, from behind them, they heard the sound of a big stone being moved by the entrance to the catacombs. Lucy clutched at Adam. He pulled her back in the shadows behind one of the great tombs, keeping her hidden.

They heard Lucas call down, his voice echoing oddly through the catacombs. “I’m coming for you, my children!” They heard him step onto the stairwell, his every step sending echoes through the chamber. Lucy scarcely dared to breathe.

They could see Lucas then, carrying a great lantern. “I know you are hiding, my little church mice, but I can find you now! It’s only a matter of time.”

Lucy’s heart beat so loudly she was afraid it would carry a deadly echo to Lucas. They were both so groggy that she did not know if they would be able to fight him.
He will kill Adam,
she thought, the despair seeping over her.

Suddenly, Lucy heard the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. It was Avery, calling her name in the church. He must have heard her scream earlier, when the reverend was killed.

She was about to shout his name in return when Adam gave her a fierce look. “Shh!” he whispered.

Motioning, Adam clasped his hands together, indicating that Lucy should step into his intertwined fingers. Soundlessly, he raised her up, so that her hand could push up through the grate. She tried to push the rush matting away, but it was old and heavy. Several seconds passed before she could wriggle her fingers through. Tears flowed down her face; she desperately hoped Avery might see her hand.

“Avery,” she whispered. “Avery!”

Yet her soft words did not carry. Feeling Adam start to tremble under her weight, with renewed strength Lucy managed to get all of her fingers into the grate and pushed as hard up as she could. The grate, freed of the matting, moved up easily.

Unable to bear its weight, though, Lucy had to let it go, so that it banged and reverberated about the chamber and in the transept above. Desperately, Lucy screamed, “Avery! We’re here! Under the grate! Help us!”

At the same time, Lucas swiveled and bore toward them in the catacombs, his boots echoing madly on the stone floor. Above them, a lantern shone down in their faces, and they saw the grate miraculously lift. Avery’s gentle face peered anxiously down.

“Avery!” Lucy screamed again, clawing at the air, trying to get a grip, desperately keeping herself from toppling to the floor. “Help us!”

The next instant, Lucy felt herself lifted through the grate by Avery’s massive arms. Adam helplessly put up his own arms, as if to follow, but he was a few feet too far from the opening in the ceiling. Avery bent down to catch Adam, his claw hand stretching as far as it could. Lucy lay across the man’s barrel legs so that he would not fall through, but they were still too far. Lucas was rapidly closing the distance between him and Adam.

“Adam!” Lucy pointed. “The pedestal!”

Instantly comprehending, Adam pushed over the marble statue of a saint and stepped onto the plinth it had occupied, which allowed him to reach Avery’s outstretched hands. For an instant, Adam dangled precariously as Lucas pounded forward, the knife in his hand held high. Feverishly, Avery and Lucy helped pull Adam through the narrow hole just as Lucas bore down.

Unable to stop, Lucas plowed straight into a massive statue standing tall in the shadows. The impact brought him to his knees and caused the statue to wobble dangerously. He gazed up in horrified supplication as the angel’s head lolled grotesquely on its shoulder. The next instant, the great stone head plopped down on Lucas with a sickening crunch.

Stunned, Lucy could not understand what she was seeing as she lay on the floor above. The head of the angel rested atop the prone body of Lucas, its cherubic face mischievously looking upward. “Here is the Lord’s blessing upon you,” the kind, gentle eyes seemed to say, even as Lucas’s blood began to pool from the angel’s curling marble hair.

“I don’t understand,” Lucy heard herself saying, allowing Adam to pull her gently away. She buried her face in his chest.

“It’s over, dear. It’s over.”

*   *   *

When Lucy and Adam opened the church door, they stared out in stark disbelief. In their own excitement, they had forgotten the fire that was gripping London.
The city is burning. London is in flames.

They could see the golden hue in the distance. Everywhere bells were clanging and people were racing about. They all coughed in the smoke that darkened the sky.

“We must get a constable,” Lucy said, her mind still caught in the drama that had just unfolded. “Tell him what happened.”

Someone called to Adam. “You there! You must help us! Join the water line or help move the livestock! All able men to help the city!”

“No!” Lucy said, seizing his arm. “You can’t! You’re injured.”

“Lucy, I’d be hardly a man if I turned my back on the city. You must go to my father and tell him what happened. Keep each other safe. I’ve hidden behind rank and privilege long enough. I shall see you at our home. You must see to Father and, if the fire looks to spread, leave London! Then, by God’s grace, I shall see you at the family seat in Warwickshire.”

*   *   *

For two days, Lucy waited for Adam to return. Exhausted, she had sobbed the whole story out to the magistrate, who after an initial moment of shock listened with his customary calm. He seemed to see all but say little.

Pressing a cup of hot mead into her hands, he patted her awkwardly on her shoulder. “We’ll have our boy back soon,” he said.

To pass the time, Lucy composed a whole piece about Lucas. “The Murderer at Rosamund’s Gate, Revealed.” If there were a bookseller about, maybe Master Aubrey, perhaps he’d buy it.

“If anyone is left after the fire,” she said to herself. Inside, her resolution grew.

Finally, they got word that the wind had turned, moving the fire back on its already spent ashes, so that it came to burn itself out, snuffed as quietly as a candle put out at midnight. Adam came back, tired, red-eyed, but full of a new vigor. He embraced her before turning to his father, then went to his bed to sleep.

*   *   *

When Adam awoke, he asked Lucy to walk with him. The sun was just rising. The smell of smoke was still everywhere, but none of the homes near them had been touched. He told her a little about what he had seen—the screaming women and children, the dogs barking, the water lines, and the men sweating, desperately trying to bring water from the fireboats. The fire was a beast, seeking to destroy homes, churches, and markets in a single monstrous breath. That so few were killed outright was truly a marvel.

Adam paused. “But the damnedest thing,” he said, “was the pigeons.”

“The pigeons?”

“Yes, they did not want to leave their nests—they were often in the roofs and eaves of people’s homes. They would not fly away but would stay in their little holes until their wings caught fire and they would just flop to the ground, dead.” Adam drew in a great breath. “It’s a new day,” he said.

Lucy agreed. She pointed to the mansion at the end of their street. Out front, a servant was sweeping the steps with a brush broom. Lucy waved, then squinted. “That’s Ruthie—and I see she is wearing her mistress’s clothes. I did hear that nearly all the household had lost their lives in the plague. ’Tis likely to be her home now. Can she do that, I wonder?”

Adam shrugged. “Not legally, but if the master had no family, and since the courts are barely back up and running, she may well call it her home. It’s happening all over London.”

Everywhere they walked, they saw evidence of a changing society. Overnight, it seemed, servants had become landowners, tavern keepers, merchants, tradesmen. Low and high had switched.

“There’s talk, too, of a new London,” Adam said. “Some fellow, Christopher Wren, has already been commissioned by the king to sketch out a new plan. Supposedly, our city will come to rival the great cities of Europe.”

“A new city where servants can marry as they please?” she asked, giving Adam a sidelong glance.

He laughed and pulled her closer. “That, to be sure.”

“Or perhaps a new city where a woman might choose not to marry and set up her own shop? Her own trade?” Her smile was mischievous, but her tone was serious. “Where a woman can speak?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Perhaps it’s that as well. ’Tis a new age dawning, I foresee.”

Lucy smiled and glanced across the street, her attention caught by a woman staring at them in disbelief. It was Judith Embry, and she was lacking her regular well-coiffed appearance. Indeed, she even looked slightly bedraggled, as if she did not know what to do with the new changes in fortune so many were facing. As Lucy returned her gaze, Judith dropped her wicker basket into a great slop puddle at the side of the road, oblivious to the ruin caused to what goods lay inside.

Refraining from smirking, Lucy simply nodded at Judith. Adam, who was looking the other direction, did not notice Judith at all. As the gap between them narrowed, though, Lucy could not resist winking, and she grinned when she heard Judith’s outraged gasp. A cart carrying recently slaughtered pigs passed between them on the narrow path, and Lucy and Adam, now arm in arm, moved on.

*   *   *

Soon after, all their possessions carted away, the house felt empty and a little desolate. The household was taking up residence in a new home, one with far fewer memories. Lucy had not told them yet, but she was not sure how long she would stay with them. Something great was pushing inside her, and she wanted to find out what it was. Lucy felt a powerful stillness as she made a last pass through the great hall. She could almost see Bessie, Lawrence, and the mistress moving through the shadows, finding their own ways toward light.

Lucy pulled the great door shut behind her, latching it tight. Slipping the key into her pocket, she rested her forehead against the heavy oak. Silently, she traced a crack with her fingers, marveling for the first time at the vast rings woven by nature into the old wood.
How had she never seen them before?
she wondered.
How long the tree must have lived before the woodsman felled it with his ax?
A single tear slipped down her cheek. Nineteen months before, a knock at this very door had brought death and sadness. Now, the door was shut and a new world awaited.

She did not know what lay ahead, but the street looked wide and open. She could see Adam and the magistrate in quiet conversation by the carriages. They looked toward her expectantly, and she wondered if they could sense her resolution. She waved and walked toward life.

HISTORIC NOTE

Although the main characters are fictional, I tried to render
A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate
as historically accurate as possible. The persecution of the Quakers, the treatment of servants and women, the trial and imprisonment of criminals, the plague, and the Fire of London were all important aspects of Restoration London.

At times, I took minor liberties for the purposes of creativity and readability, using far more modern phrasing and spelling than people would have used in seventeenth-century England. For example, a ballad describing a criminal’s activity might actually say “As the Prancer drew the Quire Cove at the Cropping of the Rotan through the Rum pads of the Rume vile, and was flog’d by the Nubbing-Cove.” According to J. Coleman’s
History of Cant and Slang Dictionaries
(Oxford, 2004), this statement would translate to: “That is, The Rogue was drag’d at a Carts-arse, through the chief streets of London and was soundly whipt by the Hangman.”

Similarly, the constabulary and magisterial duties were not as clear-cut as I conveyed them; indeed, there was no real police force in London for another fifty years. I sometimes assigned policing roles to English soldiers as well (the emerging “Redcoats”), on the premise they would take a role in maintaining an orderly society. Along the same lines, the gentry was not a solidified group, and “master” and “mister” seem to have been used interchangeably at this time, referring to men who owned their own livelihoods and homes.

I did retain, however, the Julian calendar for all dates and events, since England had not yet adopted the Gregorian calendar used by most of Europe (indeed, Great Britain did not reform its calendar until 1752, at which point the government retroactively adjusted all dates). The Julian calendar differed from the Gregorian calendar by having ten fewer days and starting on March 26, not January 1. I kept the original dating system to be internally consistent with contemporary accounts (such as the famous diaries by Samuel Pepys), and because certain religious markers had to occur on the correct day of the week (for example, Easter has to land on a Sunday). If I used the revised Gregorian calendar, those dates would be off. Thus, my book begins in March during Lent, which technically occurred at the end of 1664, according to the Julian calendar year. Easter (March 26) started the new year of 1665. So as not to confuse the reader, I just said the story opens in 1665.

Lastly, I took license with two other aspects regarding Restoration culture. It’s unlikely that someone would have thrown a masquerade ball after Lent, especially for Easter (such activities usually occurred around Twelfth Night or Shrovetuesday); however, I thought that the Embrys would be the sort to indulge themselves, following the lead of King Charles II. Also, the miniature eye portraits were not popularized until the late eighteenth century, although they were created for the same intriguing purposes described in my story.