The Masque of a Murderer (3 page)

“How terribly exciting this must have been for you!” Annie said.

Sarah looked at the piece, her expression unreadable. “Exciting? Yes, I suppose thou couldst say that.” A shadow passed over her face. “Crossing the Atlantic was no easy feat. On many occasions, I thought for certain that I would die. Indeed, some of my dear companions did not survive the ordeal. My spirit was much nourished by the grace of the Lord, and I thanked him mightily for sparing my life.”

Lucy and the others murmured a quick prayer as well.

“I did meet some true Indians, though,” Sarah said, then fell silent when her father, the magistrate, entered the kitchen.

Master Hargrave was not a tall man, nor was he heavyset, but his stately presence seemed to fill the small room. Under one arm, he carried a well-thumbed book with a blue-and-gold-checked binding.

With a slight thrill of anticipation, Lucy wondered whether he was planning to read a passage or two to them. Master Hargrave had always honored his duty as head of the household to instruct his servants in the Bible. In addition, he had sometimes passed the long hours at home reading passages of other works aloud to his servants. Lucy remembered those moments fondly, thinking of how she had hung on every word, even when she did not understand all that he said. The first time she had asked him a question, she did not know who had been more stunned, but he had answered it regardless. From then on, he would ask her questions about what he read, regarding her with approval as she puzzled through an idea. Indeed, Lucy suspected that it was from those moments that she had developed some of her own peculiar notions. Right now, the magistrate’s stern face relaxed when he saw her.

Lucy stood up hastily, wiping her mouth on a cloth. “Sir,” she said, giving him a quick bob.

“Good afternoon, Lucy,” the magistrate said, nodding at her. “I’m glad my old friend Horace Aubrey was able to give you some time off today, to celebrate my daughter’s return. She was quite intent to have you join us.” He gave his daughter a stern glance. “Next time, daughter, I expect that you will have Annie or John accompany you. There are many wretched sorts about who might prey on a young girl alone.”

It was one thing to let a female servant—or, for that matter, a bookseller—travel alone. It was quite another matter for the daughter of a magistrate to do the same. Lucy could see that this restriction did not sit well with Sarah—after all, hadn’t she traveled halfway around the world with few companions?

Seeing an angry retort rising to Sarah’s lips, Lucy jumped in hastily. “Thank you, sir. I do so appreciate being able to see Miss Sarah. I am quite looking forward to hearing more about her travels in the New World—”

“That’s fine, Lucy,” Master Hargrave said. His voice, though kind, had the effect of stopping her little speech. “It is good to have my daughter home again,” he said to Lucy. He turned back to Sarah. “I daresay I should like to get used to seeing you at my table again.”

Sarah’s lips tightened. “I will not be staying long, Father. I came back only to ensure the well-being of my brother, and of yourself, of course.” As she spoke, Lucy noticed that she no longer used her adopted Quaker thees and thous. “As I am now assured of both, that you are in good health and good spirits, I must soon continue to follow the path the Lord has set for me.”

The magistrate frowned. “Daughter, I cannot in good faith allow you to continue this traipsing about the earth, putting yourself in heaven knows what predicaments and travails.” He stopped short, seeming to recall that he was in the presence of his servants.

Cook and John had busied themselves with other things, and after a bewildered look around, Annie did the same.

Lucy bent her head. Oh, why had Sarah not given her father the gift? Perhaps if she had, these terrible tensions might not have flared so fiercely.

“I am sorry for having spoken of this subject in such a way,” the magistrate said to his servants. He seated himself at the end of the table. To his daughter he added, “This conversation is not over.”

Sarah, however, did not seem to care that the servants were all in attendance. “Father,” she said, tears in her voice. Once again she resumed her Quaker speech. “I love thee, but I obey only the will of God.”

The magistrate was about to say more, but thankfully they were interrupted by an insistent knocking at the door. As he was closest, John pulled the door open, revealing a man dressed in somber clothes.

“I am here for Sarah Hargrave,” the man said, without offering any greeting.

Lucy caught Cook’s eye. She could tell by her scandalized expression that Cook was as taken aback as she. How odd that someone of Sarah’s acquaintance would call at the servants’ and tradesmen’s entrance.

With silent decorum, John stepped aside, allowing the man to step into the room. In the brightness, Lucy could see the man was panting heavily, as though he’d just been running. He was perhaps in his thirties; his face was long and drawn, and his cheeks slumped a bit, as if he did not smile very often. At a middling height, his frame was lean. His clothes were worn and heavily mended. Another Quaker.

Lucy looked at the magistrate nervously. She could tell by the tightening of her former master’s jaw that he had reached the same conclusion.

The Quaker’s eyes immediately fell upon Sarah. “I must speak to thee,” he said, without offering any greeting.

“Sam?” Sarah asked. “Why ever hast thou come to
my father’s home
?” She emphasized the last three words, nodding in the direction of her father. The magistrate was sternly regarding the man as if he were a criminal awaiting his judgment.

Sam’s eyes widened when he saw Master Hargrave, and Lucy could tell that the man had come to the servants’ entrance with the hopes of avoiding the magistrate.

Apparently catching Sarah’s intonation, Sam moved his hand to his head, as if to remove his hat. His hand hovered near the brim before he let it drop back to his side, his hat still squarely on his head. ’Twas the Quaker way, Lucy knew, to show no deference to earthly authority. Still, that deliberate breach of etiquette had not come easily to him. Though he kept his eyes steadily on Sarah, Lucy could see that he had flushed deeply and that his hand was trembling.

Nor had the slight gone unnoticed by the magistrate. Lucy could see that his jaw had tightened as he rose from his bench. “Pray tell us,
sir,
” he said, coldly emphasizing the word “sir.” “Who are you, and why have you come to see my daughter?” Though he was civil, Lucy could hear the taut anger beneath his words.

“I am Sam Leighton,” the man said, regaining his sense of purpose. Again, Lucy could tell, he very nearly added “sir” at the end, but caught himself in time. “’Tis Jacob Whitby,” he said softly, looking again toward Sarah. “Last night he was struck by a great ailment, and I fear he has little time left on this earth.”

Sarah drew her breath in sharply. “No!” she exclaimed. All color drained from her already pale face. “Not Jacob!”

Lucy dimly recalled Jacob Whitby. A friend of Adam’s from Cambridge, Mr. Whitby had been one of the several handsome young men who had on occasion dined at the magistrate’s table. Other than this vague recollection, she could not remember any details of the man’s countenance or character, having not seen him in several years. She did remember, though, that the Whitbys were people of means. Not the sort one would expect to become a Quaker. Still, one could say the same of Sarah.

Sam Leighton continued. “I’m afraid ’tis true. He said he knew thy daughter. Thy son, too.”

The magistrate looked sorrowful. “Jacob Whitby. His is a name I’ve not heard for some time.” Sighing, he added, “This is a tragedy indeed. I thank you for letting us know. I will inform my son when next I see him.” He moved toward the man, as if to escort him out.

To their surprise, Sam did not move. “His wife, Esther Whitby, I fear, is in great need of womanly solace and a spiritual outpouring of strength and love. Jacob asked for our Sister Sarah to attend to her.”

The magistrate stiffened. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I will not permit my daughter to attend a sickbed.”

On this, Lucy heartily agreed with the magistrate. She did not want Sarah venturing into a house of sickness. They’d both seen firsthand the horrible effects of the plague. Lucy had some knowledge of the physick and the healing, having read several of Nicholas Culpeper’s household remedies.

Although it was not her place to speak, Lucy did anyway. “What is wrong with Mr. Whitby?” she asked. “From what ailment does he suffer?”

The man smiled down at her in a grave, kindly way. “No need to be a-frightened,” he said. “Brother Jacob was run over by a cart. The two horses did stomp upon him greatly. I am aggrieved to say that his injuries are within his internal organs. The physician was called in, but assured us that there is too much damage, too much bleeding inside his body. There is nothing more that can be done for his physical body. Soon he will be in heaven, flooded with the love and light of God.”

“Sarah!” the magistrate said sharply. “What are you doing?”

His daughter had retrieved a heavy, nondescript gray cloak from a hook by the door. “’Tis the Quaker way, Father. To give solace to those in need.”

“How well do you even know this man?” her father asked, in his quiet dignified way. Because Lucy knew the magistrate so well, she could hear the deep anger—or was it fear?—in his voice as well. “I cannot allow you to accompany a man with whom I have no previous acquaintance to visit the deathbed of another.”

“Please, Father,” Sarah said. She then repeated what she had said before, with more urgency this time. “’Tis the Quaker way!”

Seeing that her father had not relented, Sarah turned to Lucy, her eyes pleading and serious. “Lucy could accompany me, could she not? Wouldst thou, Lucy?” In an instant, Lucy was thrown back three years, when Sarah pleaded with her father to see the wondrous sites at Bartholomew Fair. This time she had none of her wheedling ways.

Lucy glanced at the magistrate but remained silent. She had no wish to step in between father and daughter.

The magistrate studied his daughter’s now-resolute face. “All right,” he consented. “So long as Lucy does not mind.”

“Indeed, sir, I do not,” Lucy said, despite her mouth watering for the last few bites she had left on her plate. Tugging her cloak into place, she followed Sam and Sarah into the unpleasant winter sleet.

3

The walk to the Whitby home did not take long. As they followed Sam Leighton’s brisk stride through the chilly, foggy streets, Sarah clutched Lucy’s upper arm.

“I’ve not seen Jacob Whitby in three years. Since before either of us found our Inner Light,” Sarah whispered. “To think that he is asking for me now—” She choked back a sob. “I wish I could have seen him before this. If only the Bull and Mouth had not been destroyed in the Great Fire, I might have met him then. As it is, I have scarcely met any Friends since my return to London.”

Lucy nodded. She had heard of the Bull and Mouth, that Quaker stronghold. She had never been inside, of course, but she knew that the meetinghouse had been located near Newgate prison and that the Quakers had long been assembling there, since the earliest days of Cromwell’s reign. She knew, too, that many Quakers had been hauled off to jail from that very place, under the terms of the Conventicle Act, which barred nonconformists from meeting in secret. Sarah’s own father had sentenced some of these men and women himself. Thankfully, the persecution of the Quakers had lessened in recent years.

Voicing none of her thoughts, Lucy turned her attention back to Sarah, who had continued speaking. “They had announced Jacob’s donation to the widow’s fund.” Her voice trailed off.

“Widow’s fund?” Lucy asked, stepping carefully around a puddle of sludge and muck that had pooled along the street.

Pulling herself from her reverie, Sarah explained. “We have a fund to ease the existence of those wrongly imprisoned in the jails or to help their wives and children. We call it the widow’s fund.” Her voice grew tense. “How wronged so many of us have been, by men like my father!”

Sarah jutted out her chin, as if daring Lucy to reproach her for her defiant words. When Lucy stayed silent, she continued more calmly. “A sizable sum it was, too. When I heard them say the donor’s name, I could scarcely believe it. Jacob Whitby! I had not even known that he had become a Quaker.” She smiled slightly. “He was hardly a man that one would have believed to seek out the Inner Light. Perhaps, though, he would say the same about me.”

Sarah paused again, still lost in thought. “I looked for Jacob after the meeting, but he was away, petitioning King Charles to repeal those unlawful acts against the Quakers. His wife was there, though. I met her briefly.” Even in the overcast light, Lucy could see Sarah frown. “I hadn’t known he was married. But why wouldn’t he have married? He was always so charming.” She choked a bit on the last words.

Lucy pressed Sarah’s arm, hoping to offer her a bit of comfort.

To her surprise, Jacob Whitby lived less than a mile from the magistrate, on Whitcomb Street in the expanse northwest of the burnt-out area of London. His was one of the few homes in the area that was not connected to other homes or shops on either side. Seeing this home confirmed Lucy’s recollection that Jacob Whitby came from a family of some means.

At Sam’s knock, a woman dressed in a drab gray dress and white apron opened the door. If not for the Quaker’s customary white collar about her neck, Lucy would have taken her for a washer-woman, for her hands were more ruddy than her cheeks. Her face was wide and flat, and her eyes were as faded as her dress. Lucy guessed she was probably in her early thirties, about ten years older than herself, but life had clearly exacted a great toll from her.

“Theodora,” Sam said to the woman, “I have brought Sarah, as Jacob bid me to do. This is Sarah’s companion, Lucy.”

Hearing Sam Leighton refer to the women by their first names quite jarred Lucy, but neither woman seemed affronted or even surprised. Lucy supposed such leveling was also part of the Quaker way.