The Masque of a Murderer (6 page)

Jacob began to cough then, and could speak no more. Lucy brought the cup to his lips, but he could not swallow. “My time has come!” he said, his voice raspy. “Oh Lord! My time has come. I feel no pain. I have seen his glory and tasted of his most precious Truth, and it is sweet unto my taste. Judge me, Lord. Judge me.” His voiced faded away.

“Mrs. Whitby! Miss Sarah!” Lucy went to the door and called out in fear, then returned to his bedside.

The women burst back into the room. Esther threw herself on her husband’s form. “Oh, dear husband,” she called to him, weeping. Lucy backed up against the wall, still shocked from what she had just learned.

Sarah backed off. Lucy slipped her hand in hers. Together they all watched Jacob take his last dying breath.

“Did he say anything else?” Esther demanded, turning back to Lucy. Her purple eyes glowed with tears. “Any other message?”

“No.” Lucy gulped. “Just that his last thoughts were of you and that”—she could not keep her voice from breaking—“he felt his time had been called too soon.”

Even as she spoke, Lucy could hear the man’s last whispered words over and over in her mind, as though he were still there to utter them. Their significance began to settle more deeply upon her. Mr. Whitby had been murdered, and no one knew it but her.

4

The next two hours passed in a strange blur of tears, shrieks, and general confusion. Never in her life, not even when she saw neighbors and friends felled by the plague, had Lucy witnessed such wild, unchecked distress.

Esther Whitby had begun to tremble and shake in the most alarming way—“Quaking in the presence of the Lord,” she said. Joan had begun to shriek outright, half praying, half crying, proclaiming her gratitude to the Lord for relieving Jacob of his suffering. Deborah had begun speaking in what seemed like another tongue; Joan, regaining her own lucidity, called her name sharply, and the young Quaker continued her lament in English.

At some point Theodora and Sam returned. Theodora took one glance into the room and began to wail much as Joan had done. Sam let out one sad gulp and sat back on a bench, preferring to remain in the shadows with his sorrow.

Amid it all, Sarah sat silently, staring at Jacob’s corpse, tears slipping down her pale cheeks.

Since the Whitbys had no servants, Lucy began to do what she knew best, more to calm her own tumultuous thoughts than anything else. Creeping down to the kitchen, she prepared a soothing brew of chamomile, lemon peel, and nutmeg. She wished for a bit of wormwood, but she could see none in the Whitbys’ bare stores. Instead she took the last drops of Jacob’s restorative and added them to the concoction, then began to pass it out among the Quakers, pressing a mug into Sarah’s cold hands first.

Jacob’s last words weighed heavily on Lucy. As she walked into Esther’s bedchamber with two steaming mugs, she looked at the Quaker lying facedown on her pillow. Esther had taken off her dress and was now wearing a sleeping gown. Joan was sitting beside her, humming a tune and stroking her long blond hair, which had been released from its bun. Theodora was sitting on the other side, silent now, but rocking back and forth, a great pain evident in her face.

Hearing Lucy’s soft step on the floor, Esther rolled over, looking for a moment more like a forlorn child than a woman who had just lost her husband. She even managed a tremulous smile as she reached up to accept one of the mugs from Lucy. Joan leaned over and pushed some wayward hairs off Esther’s flushed forehead and cheek. The gesture was loving, compassionate. Esther just couldn’t be in danger, Lucy thought. Jacob had to have been mistaken. It was difficult making sense of anything, with Sarah so distraught. After a while, not having anything to do, she just sat beside Sarah, and neither one spoke.

*   *   *

When Lucy heard a knock at the servants’ entrance, she was ever so grateful to see John standing there, having been bidden by the magistrate to bring them home.

“How does Mr. Whitby fare?” he asked, shuffling back and forth, trying to warm his feet.

“Oh, John,” she said, sinking down onto the kitchen bench. “Jacob Whitby is dead.” She sat there for a moment before heading off to tell Sarah that John had arrived to escort them home.

Sarah followed her back to the kitchen, and Lucy picked up their cloaks, prepared to leave. “Please leave my cloak, Lucy,” she said. Turning to John, Sarah said, “Thou must tell Father that I am needed here. Pray, escort Lucy back to Master Aubrey’s. My place is here. I will return to my father’s home in the morning.”

From behind Sarah’s shoulder, Lucy met John’s eyes in mutual comprehension. This was the old willful Sarah speaking, chaffing at her father’s bidding, and such blatant rebellion would never do.

Besides, Lucy was uncomfortable leaving Sarah at the Whitby home. Could one of these mourners have murdered Jacob? Her duty was first and foremost to the Hargraves, even if she was no longer employed by the magistrate. She could not, in good conscience, leave his daughter in such a place.

Lucy touched Sarah’s arm gently, hoping to work on her more tender sensibilities. “Miss Sarah, please. I beseech you. Return to your father’s home tonight. Do not force John to explain his failure to do as the magistrate asked.”

Sarah looked from Lucy to John and sighed. “I should not like John to bear the burden of my liberty.” She passed her hand to her forehead. Lucy tensed, anxious that she would swoon. But instead she smiled wanly. “I admit, too, that I should like to lie down. I will return home with thee. I do not promise, though, how long I will stay.”

It did not take long to bid their farewells and head out the door. As they started down the street, Sarah began to shiver violently, so much so that she could barely walk. The shock of Jacob’s death had begun to overcome her at last. Without speaking, Lucy took one of Sarah’s arms while John took the other, supporting her so that she would not stumble on the icy streets.

Over and over again, as they drew closer to the magistrate’s house, Lucy could hear Jacob’s whispers in her mind, raising disturbing questions. Had he truly been pushed as he claimed? Could someone he knew have done such a thing? Or had he imagined the hands on his back? And what of Jacob’s sister—what had she known? She glanced at Sarah’s downcast face.
I must tell her,
Lucy thought,
but how?

Before she could speak, Sarah broke the silence. “Jacob was such a charming man. A gadabout, to be sure, cavorting and gaming. Yet there was a goodness to him, despite that. Quick with a jest. Of course, I was different then, too.” She sighed. “Jacob and I—we had gotten on very well. I do not know if he would have asked for me, but I cannot imagine Father having approved our match. I know that Adam did not approve.” Her lips twisted. “Then I found the Quakers. Put him from my mind, as a figment from my youth. When I learned that he had found the Quakers, too—” She broke off with a choked sob.

Lucy waited helplessly, tightening her cloak about her to ward off the chill. So she had not been wrong when she’d seen the anguished love in Sarah’s eyes earlier. Regaining her composure, Sarah continued. “I know I should say that I am grateful that Jacob is now cradled in the arms of the Lord,” she said, her voice low and full of emotion. “But I am angry. Angry that such a terrible accident should have befallen a man as good as he. He was too young to die.”

Hearing those words strengthened Lucy’s resolve. “Miss Sarah,” she said, “there is something I must tell you.”

Sarah gently squeezed her arm. “Thou mayst simply call me Sarah now, dearest Lucy. We Quakers do not recognize such earthly markers of status. All men are equal in the eyes of the Lord, and women, too.”

Lucy put that thought away to ponder later. “Sarah,” she started again, a little awkwardly, then stopped. How could she explain what Jacob Whitby had told her? Perhaps it was better to say nothing, she thought again, miserably.

“I have cut thee off,” Sarah said. “Pray, Lucy, share thy thoughts with me.” Her eyes were kind and encouraging.

That was all Lucy needed. “Mr. Whitby said it wasn’t an accident,” she said in a rush. “He told me he’d been pushed in front of that cart.”

“What?” Sarah exclaimed, pulling herself free, her mouth agape. Behind her, John wore a similarly shocked expression.

“It’s true,” Lucy said. “Jacob Whitby told me he had been pushed.” She almost added
And his sister may know who did it,
but something kept her tongue still.
Let her recover from the first blow first,
she thought.

“Why ever would you say such a terrible thing?” Sarah demanded, angry tears slipping down her cheeks. Dimly, Lucy noted that she had dropped her Quaker speech again. “Surely you could see his torments! You must have misunderstood his words!”

Sarah’s pain was difficult to bear, and Lucy hastened to explain, in heavy, halting words, what Jacob had whispered before he died. “Mr. Whitby was afraid that the person who had hurt him would try to hurt his wife, too.”

Even to her own ears, the story spoken aloud sounded fantastic and unbelievable. Still, she went on. “Mr. Whitby was afraid to tell anyone there, out of fear that he would confide in the wrong person, and put her in danger. He told me he did not know who to trust.”

This was the wrong thing to say, which Lucy realized when Sarah’s face darkened in anger. “So he would trust thee? A stranger?”

Lucy sighed. The burden of Jacob’s words was already flattening her under its great weight. Reluctantly, she explained the rest. “Mr. Whitby said he had reason to believe that his killer was someone he knew, although he didn’t know who. Maybe even a Quaker. I think that’s why he told me, since I am not part of your sect. He tried to warn his wife, he said, but she did not believe him. He was very anxious, being worried that she will confide in the wrong person. I know it sounds far-fetched,” she added, her voice fading away.

“Far-fetched! I should think so!” Sarah exclaimed. “Why, that would mean—”

“That he’d been murdered,” Lucy concluded. She straightened up, no longer wishing to mince words. “Yes, I daresay that’s exactly what he meant.”

Behind Sarah, John was shaking his head at her. Lucy tried to ignore him, but they’d worked together long enough for her to know exactly what he was thinking, and she felt a flash of shame.
Why would you say such a preposterous thing to our young mistress, particularly when she’s grieving so?

However, he did not voice his thoughts. “I will fetch a lantern,” he said to Lucy. “Master Hargrave would want me to see you back to Aubrey’s.”

As John walked away, Lucy caught Sarah by the arm before she could go inside. “Mr. Whitby wanted me to tell Adam what had befallen him. He believed that Adam would have his murderer brought to justice,” Lucy said, sounding more determined than she felt. “We should tell your father, too.”

Sarah stamped her foot. “Lucy Campion! Thou shalt do no such thing,” she cried. In a more strangled voice, she added, “Promise me thou wilt not. We Quakers are already stifled under the Conventicle Act. News of a murder would bring suspicion down upon us all.”

Lucy sighed. Truth be told, she knew the magistrate could do nothing. The man bore no obvious marks of murder; it was clear his injuries had been sustained in being trampled by the horse and cart. Without a witness, it would be nearly impossible to prove. “Fine. I’ll say nothing to your father. For now.”

“Or to Adam either!” Sarah said hotly. “I know thou dost think this will give thee a reason to see my brother—”

Lucy held up her hand in warning, much as the magistrate would do, to keep someone from speaking. She did not know what Sarah knew or assumed about her relationship with Adam, but she could not let such aspersions be stated aloud.

To her surprise, Sarah stopped in midsentence, looking a bit ashamed. “I am sorry, Lucy. I did not mean what I uttered just now. Jacob’s death has upset me more than thou canst know.” She stifled a sob.

“Please, Miss Sarah,” Lucy said, knocking on the front door. She put her ear near the wood, listening intently for movement within. “Go inside and get warm.”

When Annie opened up the door, Lucy spoke quickly. “Miss Sarah is unwell. Have Cook prepare her a tisane. After that, please help her to bed.”

Annie nodded and put her arm around Sarah’s waist, supporting her. Before they went inside, Sarah looked at Lucy over her shoulder. “Please, Lucy,” she said. “Promise me that thou wilt forget what Jacob said. He was under great distress when he passed. Promise that thou wilt not speak of his words to anyone else.”

“What if Mrs. Whitby is in danger?” Lucy pleaded. “I cannot go against a man’s dying words. Pray, do not request this of me,” she said, feeling a bit sick. “I will not tell your father, but please, I must tell Adam. Please let me make good on the promise I made to Mr. Whitby.”

Sarah frowned, but did not speak again as Annie helped her inside before shutting the door behind them. For a moment, Lucy stared at the wooden door. Although she did not like to anger Sarah, she knew it was important that she learn about Jacob Whitby’s life. That meant she needed to return to his home on the morrow.

*   *   *

The next day, the Sunday morning service at St. Dunstan’s finally concluded after three long painful hours. The sermon had been very dull indeed, although the minister had spoken passionately enough about Original Sin and the evils that women continued to bring upon their menfolk.

Standing alongside Master Aubrey, Lach, and her brother, Will, Lucy smoothed her best Sunday dress, trying to relieve some of the numbness and pain in her legs and haunches. Like most of the congregation, she tried not to fidget very much, lest she draw the ire of the minister, which would in turn draw the anger of Master Aubrey, who did not enjoy, as he would say, “being on the outs with the Lord.”

Her mind had wandered, though, as she kept thinking about what she needed to do. She’d spent much of the night tossing and turning, worrying about what the dying man had whispered before he slipped away. Was it true? Or was it as Sarah supposed, the confused thoughts of a pain-riddled man?