The Masque of a Murderer
Read The Masque of a Murderer Online
Authors: Susanna Calkins
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To Matt, Quentin, and Alex
There are many people I wish to thank for their invaluable support in helping me create this novel. To Lindsay Yoelin, speech teacher extraordinaire, I appreciate the time you took to figure out what kinds of sounds a person without a tongue can actually make. To Gretchen Beetner, thank you for allowing your namesake to be killed off in the plague. To my beta readers, Maggie Dalrymple, Margaret Light, and Mary Schuller, thank you, thank you! My characters would have been doing all kinds of weird things if you hadn’t questioned their actions and speech. Your comments inspired me to improve. To my amazing editor, Kelley Ragland, and all the other wonderful people at Minotaur, thank you for taking such care of Lucy. Your thoughtfulness and dedication are truly impressive. To my readers who ask me all sorts of interesting questions, I thank you for helping me think through my subplots. To my family and my children, Alex and Quentin, thanks for being awesome. I love you! And last, to my husband, Matt Kelley, who humbly said I didn’t need to dedicate another book to him, I thank you for everything you do. You are on every page, and it is to you I dedicate this novel.
“Let me tell you!” Lucy Campion shouted, trying to make her voice heard against the rising wind. She scrambled onto the overturned barrel outside of Master Aubrey’s printer’s shop. “Of a murder most absurd!”
A few passersby on Fleet Street stopped at her words, eager for a story, despite the bitter chill that had marked the long winter months. Huddled together, they looked up at her, waiting. Taking advantage of the gathering crowd, another woman took down a heavy earthenware pot that she’d been balancing on her head and began to sell hot cooked pears to the freezing people around her.
“Go on, lass! Haven’t got all day!” a man called to Lucy, shifting a dead chicken from one gloved hand to the other.
Over her head Lucy waved a ballad that Master Aubrey had recently printed. Taking a deep breath, she began to half sing, half chant the song as the printer had taught her. “A cheesemonger, tired of his cuckolding wife, did end her life with his sharpest knife!”
Lucy looked about. Good. A few more people were moving toward them. Ever since the Great Fire had beset them some six months before, Londoners had sought out any entertainment they could find, hoping to dispel the dark mood that had descended upon them during the long gray winter.
She continued, adding a flourish here, a flourish there, using the little tricks she had learned to keep her listeners enthralled to the very end of the tale. With any luck, the people would throw a coin or two into the small woven basket resting against the barrel, or better yet, buy a penny piece to take back with them to share with their family or neighbors.
Reaching the end of the ballad, Lucy delivered the last jest with a chuckle. “Had he been more cheese than whey, she’d not have cozened him that day.”
Satisfied, the crowd guffawed and pressed in toward her, coins in hand. She and Lach, Master Aubrey’s other apprentice, scrambled about, selling their ballads. She sold a few recipe books as well—they had found the story of the murderous cheesemonger always left people longing for delicious fresh cheese.
As the small crowd dispersed, someone stepped forward, quietly murmuring her name.
Lucy stood stock-still, squinting at the young woman standing before her. Clad in a Quaker’s gray gown and cloak, the woman was pale and drawn, her brown hair pulled back severely under a white cap. Looking straight into the woman’s blue eyes, Lucy stiffened in shocked recognition. “Sarah!” she croaked, a flood of emotion filling her.
It was Sarah Hargrave, the daughter of the magistrate, Lucy’s former employer. For several years Lucy had worked as a chambermaid in Master Hargrave’s household, emptying pots, scouring bowls, and making beds. There, she’d also learned to read and write, as the magistrate did not approve of dull-witted servants. She and Sarah Hargrave, while not friends exactly, had been companions of sorts. Later, after several tragedies befell the Hargrave family, their bond had been further solidified.
Staring at Sarah now, Lucy could scarcely recognize the girl she had once known. Dressed completely in gray, unrelieved by a single ribbon or flash of color, Sarah Hargrave was nothing like the merry girl Lucy remembered. This young woman looked drawn and serious, more like a wren than a blue jay. Nearly two years had passed since she’d last seen Sarah, during those terrible days before the plague had cast its vengeance upon London. The magistrate had sent his only daughter far out of harm’s way, only to discover too late that he’d sent her to live among Quakers and that she had taken up their convictions.
They’d all been a bit shocked, saddened truly, by Sarah’s decision to join the Quakers. She’d always seemed a bit silly, more interested in silks and laces than in pursuing a path to God. Master Hargrave, in particular, seemed to have been devastated by his daughter’s decision, rarely speaking her name. As a magistrate, he had prosecuted a number of Quakers and others who violated the Conventicle Acts, a fact that must have added to his deep disappointment in his daughter’s choices. Her family knew very little about what she’d been doing. From the few letters they had received from her, they learned that she’d been traveling through Barbados and the colonies, seeking to share what she called her Inner Light with others. Beyond that, they knew little else.
Now, as they regarded each other uncertainly, Lucy did not know whether she should curtsy or embrace her. Although she was no longer Master Hargrave’s servant, Lucy’s years of training won out. “Miss Sarah,” she said, doing a little bob. “I am truly glad to see that you are well.”
“Lucy, my dear. Thou dost not need to bow to me.” Sarah spoke in the odd manner of the Quakers, all thees and thous. The plain speech, they called it. From some Quakers she had once known, Lucy knew that the Friends, as they called themselves, used the more familiar form of speech because they did not recognize one man as having authority over another.
Despite her funny Quaker speech, the smile Sarah gave to Lucy was kind and loving. Extending her arms, Lucy found herself caught in a warm embrace. As they hugged, Lucy could feel Sarah’s slight frame beneath her wraps.
“When did you return?” Lucy asked, stepping back to study Sarah more carefully. Clearly, Sarah had lost weight, but there was a sturdiness to her demeanor that kept her from seeming frail.
“I have only just returned to London,” Sarah replied. “My companions and I arrived in Bristol ten days ago, and it has taken us that long to walk from there to here.”
Lucy’s knowledge of geography was scant, but she knew Bristol was a good distance away. Her amazement must have shown on her face, for Sarah laughed slightly. “Yes, it was about one hundred miles we walked. I am well used to traveling such distances. ’Tis the Quaker way.” She hesitated. “My father, thou mayst know, wrote to me bidding me to return home.” She shivered as a gust of wind blew against them.
“Pray, let us go inside,” Lucy said, opening the door to Master Aubrey’s shop. As they stepped inside, she asked, “Is that why you have returned?”
Following her in, Sarah shook her head. “No, ’twas the letter that thou sent me that compelled me to return. I cannot describe the joy I felt when I received it, although I was quite pained by thy news.”
Lucy nodded, understanding. Last November, Sarah’s brother, Adam, had been hurt, and Lucy had taken it on herself to inform his sister of the strange events that had led to his injury.
“I would have returned when I first received thy letter,” Sarah said. “Few ships will traverse the ocean during wintertime, though. So I was not able to book passage for several months.” She paused. “Home is different now. Everything is different.”
Lucy nodded. The Hargraves had moved shortly after the Great Fire. “That is to be expected,” she replied. “Your father—Master Hargrave—must be so pleased that you have returned home.”
“I suppose,” Sarah said, craning her head this way and that as she took in the details of Master Aubrey’s shop. Lucy tried to see the printer’s shop through Sarah’s eyes. Two printing presses in the middle of the room. A few tables and shelves, all holding the boxes and trays containing different fonts and types of letters and woodcuts. Tied leather bags stacked side by side under the benches, containing older pamphlets and tracts. All manner of strange tools hanging from pegs on the walls. A great stack of common-grade paper that Master Aubrey used for the cheaper pieces. The finer paper used for the occasional special printing.
“I can scarcely believe that thou art a printer’s apprentice now,” Sarah said. “My father’s letters have been few. However, he did inform me of thy grand new occupation. A printer! Father is so very proud of thee.” A funny look crossed her face then. Hurt? Confusion? Lucy couldn’t tell.
Nevertheless, Lucy patted her hand. “I am but a simple apprentice. Truth be told, not even that.”
“Well, now, the lass speaks the truth,” Lach interrupted, moving his stool over to the long wooden table. “’Tis not likely you will ever be recognized by the guild.”
Lucy frowned at the gangly redheaded youth. Lach’s dig reminded her again of the tenuous nature of her current employment. She scrambled to explain her odd position to Sarah. “I started working for Master Aubrey shortly after the Great Fire. The printer was looking for something special to print, and, well, I provided it to him. A story that had emerged from the ashes—I promised it to him and he agreed to take me on.” She paused. The tale that had come from that discovery had been very strange indeed. “I could not pay the full apprentice fee, you see. So I agreed to take on many of the household duties, though a washer-woman does the heavy work. In exchange, Master Aubrey has been teaching me the trade. I have learned much about printing books, and selling them, too.”
It was also true, as Lach had said, that Master Aubrey had not introduced her to the Worshipful Company of Stationers, nor, she suspected now, did he intend to. Lucy guessed the printer was not sure how the guild would respond if he put forward a female apprentice, although Lord knew that since the plague and the Fire, there’d been few enough able-bodied men interested in joining the trade. “Thus my brother, Will, and I have leased rooms above the shop,” Lucy concluded, pointing at the stairs that led to their chambers, “and Master Aubrey pays me a smallish wage.”
For now,
she thought. She smiled at Sarah, hiding the tingle of worry that flickered over her every time she wondered how long the printer would keep her on.