The Masque of a Murderer (26 page)

Master Fletcher glared at his wife. “Martha,” he said, “let the dead lie. No good can come from speaking now. Pray, keep silent.”

“I’ve been silent for too long!” Yet after that outburst, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap and pursed her lips, clearly heeding her husband’s admonishment.

Lucy was looking back and forth between them in bewilderment. “Please,” she said, unable to keep a slightly desperate note from climbing into her voice. “I promise that I am not here to take your time with idle gossip. I sought you out because I am concerned for someone I hold dear.”

The Fletchers glanced at each other. At Mr. Fletcher’s nod, his wife continued, speaking now in a low, angry tone. “I will tell you, I could not understand it. I wanted to look upon their faces. She told me not to, that the Black Death had done terrible things to them. She said it would be better to remember them as they’d been in life. I thought that was true.” Her voice trembled. “As we waited for the raker, I asked her what she planned to do. She pulled out the Beetners’ will. It seemed they had left everything to her. Livelihood, shop, movables. Said she’d met a nice man who wanted to marry her, so she thought she’d sell everything off and leave. That’s exactly what she did, too. Got a taker for the business even in the middle of the plague!”

“Of course, we didn’t know that until we returned a few months later,” Mr. Fletcher interjected. “We had a new hosier then. Doesn’t seem to know much about the trade, though. Seems to be selling everything the Beetners made before they died. Not seen him do any sewing or weaving, or even mending, for that matter.”

“Probably not a member of the guild,” Lucy murmured. It seemed her assumptions about the new owner were correct. Louder, she said, “I can see why Esther Grace’s actions seem suspicious, but murder? Why did you think such a thing?”

“I tell you, I know the Beetners were murdered!” Mrs. Fletcher declared, her voice shaking from deep emotion. Standing up, she looked down at Lucy, tears filling her eyes. “As the raker hoisted Miss Gretchen’s body into the cart, the sheet fell off her face. I could see her throat had been slit, or my name isn’t Martha Fletcher!”

Lucy gasped. “What?”

Mrs. Fletcher went on, her trembling voice growing in strength. “The plague didn’t take Miss Gretchen! Nor do I believe it took her parents! Their throats were likely cut, too!”

Lucy looked back and forth between the pair, her heart starting to pound. Mr. Fletcher nodded sadly, confirming his belief in his wife’s story.

“What did you do? Did you tell anyone?” she asked.

“I started to call out to the raker, to tell him that there had been a murder,” Mrs. Fletcher said, a remembered terror shining from her eyes. “Then Esther Grace turned to me and stared at me with those cold violet eyes. She put her finger to her lips and—I’ll never forget this—smiled at me. Smiled! That’s when I knew for sure she had killed them.” She sat back down and grasped Lucy’s wrist. “Then, still smiling, she said to me, ‘You’ll be off now, I suppose? Get yourself out of harm’s way. If you stay here, who knows what will happen to you?’” Lucy felt Mrs. Fletcher shudder at the memory. “I remember her voice was so pleasant, so friendly. Yet I know what she was telling me: If I said anything about what I had seen to anyone, she would kill me. We left that afternoon.”

She slumped back in her chair. Reaching over, Mr. Fletcher patted his wife’s hand.

“Did you ever tell anyone?” Lucy asked.

“No,” Mrs. Fletcher replied. “When the cart moved away, I knew it would be too late. Even if I had been able to summon the constable, the bodies would have long been dumped in the plague-pit. There was nothing we could do, nothing we could say.” She took a long sip of her mead, clearly trying to steady her nerves.

After a pause, she continued. “Tell me,” she said to Lucy, “you said her husband had just died.
Was
he murdered?”

Both Fletchers looked at her expectantly.

Lucy weighed whether to tell them her thoughts. Then, after a long moment, she nodded. “I think so. On the first of the month, he fell in front of a cart.” She hesitated. “Before he died, he told me he’d been pushed.”

“Was it her?” Mrs. Fletcher asked, sounding a bit short of breath. “Expecting to live off her husband’s fortune, I suppose?”

Lucy shook her head. “No, she was nowhere near him when it happened. Besides, he was worried about her, to be truthful. I do not think he suspected her at all.”

Mrs. Fletcher looked doubtful. “What was her husband like? She must have married well. She’s the sort that could trick a rich man, with scarcely a second glance.”

“Oh, no,” Lucy said, thinking of Jacob Whitby’s plain home. “I mean, Mr. Whitby was a gentleman, to be sure. It’s just that he became a Quaker, gave up all his finery and all that. She became a Quaker, too, and—”

She was interrupted by a great burst of laughter from the Fletchers.

“Esther Grace, a Quaker?” Mrs. Fletcher exclaimed.

Shaking his head, her husband added, “That just doesn’t seem possible. Although”—he cocked his head thoughtfully—“I remember her going over to the Bull and Mouth a few times. That’s where the Quakers gather, you know,” he said to Lucy, who nodded. “Though she was no Quaker, I can assure you, when she lived next door. Too fond of her trifles, she was.”

“If you don’t think Esther Grace killed her husband, what brought you here?” Mrs. Fletcher asked.

Lucy remained deliberately vague. “I’d just like to know more about her. Could you tell me when she started working for the Beetners? Anything else about her?”

“She was a hoity-toity sort. Lord knows how she became a Quaker,” Mrs. Fletcher said, refilling Lucy’s cup. “She’d only been with the Beetners for about six months. Convinced them to take her on, she did.”

“How did she do that, do you suppose?” Lucy asked.

Mrs. Fletcher snorted. “Had Mr. Beetner wrapped around her finger right quick, she did. Of course, this was before Miss Gretchen returned from service.”

“Esther Grace did know the trade,” Mr. Fletcher said.

Mrs. Fletcher nodded. “That’s true,” she said grudgingly. “She knew her stitches. I know they were pleased with her when she first came. Mrs. Beetner had been having trouble with the finer handwork, you see. Noblewomen and soldiers alike used to seek them out, and Mr. Beetner was anxious that they not lose the business of good-paying and steady customers.”

“How did they come to hire her?” Lucy asked, taking a sip.

“Well, it’s a funny thing, that,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “Mrs. Beetner said she just came to the shop one day, seeking employment. A bit of saucy baggage she was, too. Still, Mr. Beetner hired her.”

“How odd,” Lucy commented. “Who had referred her, do you know? Did she have a letter?”

Mrs. Fletcher shook her head, snorting her head again.

“Batted her eyes at him, she did,” Mr. Fletcher said.

“More than that,” his wife returned crossly. “I’m of the opinion that Mr. Beetner already knew her.” She lowered her voice and leaned in toward Lucy. “In the biblical way, at that.”

Lucy set down her cup. This was not what she had expected. “Do you have any idea where she and Mr. Beetner could have met? How they might have become, er, acquainted?”

Mrs. Fletcher shook her head. “I don’t. I have my suspicions, of course. I do know that, within not two weeks of her moving into their home, he began to bed her. My dear friend was beside herself!” She clutched her hands together. “Her husband was lovesick. Besotted, she said. Oh, the tears she would spill in that very chair you’re sitting in now.” She nodded toward Lucy, who shifted uncomfortably. “That’s why Gretchen returned. Her mother had summoned her. I think she was hoping that with Gretchen there, she’d have the strength to cast the vixen out.”

“Instead the Beetners died. Or were killed.” Lucy was silent, thinking about everything she had just learned. She looked at Mrs. Fletcher. “You said you thought you knew where they may have met.”

“I think it was fairly obvious, my child. They met at a brothel.” She sniffed contemptuously. “Had to have been so. Mr. Beetner was not charming or handsome enough to get a woman without having to pay. She wasn’t in love with him, that’s for certain.” She looked at her husband. “You’re quiet, Hiram,” she said, nudging him with the side of her hand. “Do you know anything more?”

Her husband shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed. Still, despite his discomfort he answered them. “He told me once that he fancied a cathouse over on Leather Lane. A big house, at the end of the street. Can’t say that’s where he met her, of course.”

“Thank you for the mead,” Lucy said, rising. “I must be heading home now.” She began to wrap her scarves around her body, in preparation for her cold journey home.

Mrs. Fletcher clutched her hand. “I hope you stay away from that Esther Grace,” she said. “No good can come from crossing that woman.”

*   *   *

Thoroughly shaken, Lucy hurried away from the instrument-maker’s house. She was horrified by what Mrs. Fletcher had told her. Could it be true? Had Esther Grace killed her employers’ family? A far-fetched notion, to be sure. The woman scarcely seemed able to kill a mouse. Still, there was definitely something suspicious about how she’d come to the Beetners’ household. How
had
Esther Grace come by the Beetners’ trade? The more she thought about it, the sicker she felt.

Lucy walked back down Hosier Lane as she had come. As she passed by Blackwell’s shop, she stopped. Although the store looked closed, she thought that perhaps Master Blackwell had known the Beetners. Maybe he could answer some of her questions. Knocking again, she felt the door move slightly. It appeared to be shut, not locked, and she was able to open it.

As Lucy stepped into the shop, she nearly gagged at the wretched smell. As in Master Aubrey’s shop, there was a press at the front of the room, and great cases stacked high on tables, most likely full of lead type and woodcuts. That’s about where the similarities ended, though—printer’s tools were strewn about the room, and there were no great sheets drying. And while Master Aubrey’s shop was certainly no haven of cleanliness, it would seem practically godly in comparison. There was a general forlorn quality to the shop, as if no one had been in there for some time.

“Master Blackwell,” she called, still trying not to gag. Her teeth began to chatter. If possible, the shop seemed colder inside than it was outside. “Master Blackwell?”

Cautiously she moved into the back room, and that was when the smell became overwhelming. On some level, her nose and mind informed her of the obvious. Master Blackwell was dead. She began to back away, and that was when she saw him, a dark shadow in the corner, lying in a makeshift straw matting bed, covers pulled up to his shoulders. Drawing up her courage, she peered more closely at him, still holding her nose. She saw no obvious signs of foul play. No blood or any wounds, at least none that were visible.

Perhaps he’d frozen to death or succumbed to sickness. Maybe he just died of old age. Indeed, was that a slight smile on his face? Maybe he’d met his maker with peace in his heart. Lucy hoped so, turning away.

She was about to leave when the stacks of printed materials caught her eye. Unlike at Master Aubrey’s shop, these tracts and ballads were not tied in carefully organized bags hung from pegs. Rather, they seemed loose and unorganized. Many were covered with stains or mildew or were stuck together, carelessly preserved. She wondered if perhaps Master Blackwell had begun to be too ill to keep them in order, and she felt a sudden pang.

A closer examination, however, revealed that the printer did seem to have followed a rudimentary method of categorizing the different tracts, sorting them by type. Religious tracts. Petitions to the king. Monstrous births—there seemed to be quite a few of them. Witches. Merriments. And finally, a stack of murder ballads and tracts. She began to rifle through them, feeling uncomfortable, knowing that Master Blackwell was lying dead behind her. She set each one aside after glancing it quickly. Some she was familiar with, others she’d never seen before.
A Terrible Tale of a Most Barbaric Murder. An Unnatural Mother Kills Her Children. A True and Strange Tale of a Murder in Leicester.
And one she knew very well.
From the Charred Remains, a Body.

As Lucy neared the end of the stack, one jumped out at her.
The True and Most Unfortunate Tale of a Player’s Last Play, Having Been Beset by Thieves, on the Duke’s Own Stage.

She was about to put it in her pack when a thought struck her. “If I take this one tract, am I looting?” she wondered out loud. She looked guiltily toward Master Blackwell’s still form. “Perhaps if I simply replace it with another?”

So she pulled out another tract and laid it carefully on the pile, not wanting either earthly or divine authorities passing judgment upon her.

“Rest in peace,” she whispered to Master Blackwell’s corpse before carefully shutting the door behind her.

Doubling back, she informed the Fletchers. As she imagined, they were deeply shocked and saddened by their long-term neighbor’s death. It had been a hard winter on them all, and the bonds of community had yet to be reforged. Lucy left then, knowing that they would do right—belatedly—by their old friend.

18

The next morning, as the light of dawn filled the room, Lucy rolled over in her bed and pulled out
The Player’s Last Play
from under her pillow. After she had returned from Smithfield last night, Master Aubrey had her doing all manner of chores. She had nearly embraced the printer when she saw him, hoping that he would never come to such a sorrowful and lonely end as Master Blackwell. Lach gleefully piled on as well, so that it had been quite late by the time she had stumbled in exhaustion to her chamber. She had sat down at the table, only to realize that Will must have used the last of the candle stubs she kept in a wood box by their small hearth. Too tired to sneak back into the shop, she had simply fallen into bed, immediately succumbing to a heavy dreamless sleep.

Since Will had not yet arisen, Lucy thought she would take a few minutes to read the tract. Only a few pages in length, it described how Basil Townsend had been set upon and murdered on the stage of the Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theater. The rest was taken up by an account of a “
Strange Celestial Experience that had Beset the Evening Sky
.” Master Aubrey sometimes did the same, adding a bit here and there to stretch out a tract that was shorter than originally intended.