The Masque of a Murderer (11 page)

“Yes, miss,” Evie said. “I will.” She turned and scurried back into the bedchamber they had just left, shutting the door behind her. Lucy found herself alone in the corridor, exactly as she had hoped.

7

After Lucy quickly used the privy, she opened the door a crack and peered down the corridor. No one seemed to be about, and Mrs. Whitby’s bedchamber door was still shut. Saying a quick prayer, Lucy stole over to Miss Julia’s door. After pausing to listen for any sounds, she stole inside.

The room was cold and dark without a fire in the grate. Lucy could see a slight light streaming through the shutters. Fortunately the sun had not descended into evening. Carefully she opened up one of the shutters so she could see the room more clearly. Besides the bed, there was a small table with a candle and a Bible, a large chest, another table with another mirror draped in black wool, a few shelves along the wall, and a small chair. Swiftly, she started at Julia’s lace-covered dressing table, opening her small jewelry boxes fearfully. Her heart was pounding. If she were caught in here she’d be thrown in jail for certain. There could be no reason for her to be in Julia Whitby’s private chambers. Even her friendship with the constable could not save her.

She opened the walnut wardrobe and ran her fingers thoughtfully along Julia’s dresses. They were fine, to be sure, but had been indifferently maintained, unlike her mother’s immaculate mourning costume. She shut the door.

Next, she peered into the large chest by the bed, which seemed to contain mostly blankets. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly, except that she knew she was looking for some hint of the information that Julia Whitby had wanted to pass on to her brother.

Her eyes fell on a small wooden chest on the lowest shelf. Kneeling beside it, she opened it. Inside, she found a few scarves, ribbons, and the like. Moving those items aside, she uncovered two packets of letters, each tied in string. One appeared to be correspondence she had received from her friend Elizabeth Wiggins, n
é
e Stirredge. The other packet seemed to be letters she had received from her brother.

Still straining to hear any sound from the hall, Lucy untied Jacob’s letters. A glance at the dates told her they had been written in the last few months, but she couldn’t take the time to read them properly. She bit her lip. Then, without thinking, she thrust them into her bodice, where they could be concealed until she had more time to peruse them carefully.

Her heart pounding painfully now, she was about to close the chest when she saw that the green silk lining was bumpy and mussed, as if something had been thrust underneath it. Holding her breath, she carefully peeled back the lining.

There she discovered a few more papers all oddly creased and bunched up. The first two appeared to be Quaker tracts, one titled
A Lamentable Warning to London and Its Inhabitants
, published by Elizabeth Calvert at the Bull and Mouth, and the other was Humphrey Smith’s
Vision for London,
a popular tract sold by many printers. Atop each title someone had handwritten the word “Behold!”

Lucy was familiar with one of the tracts, Smith’s
Vision for London,
having peddled it for Master Aubrey herself. Because of its prophetic nature, describing how London and its sinners would be burnt up, yet printed several years before the Great Fire, the
Vision for London
was a piece that had been reprinted several times. When she used to peddle it, one fanciful passage had always struck her, and she found herself whispering the words from memory:

“All the tall buildings fell, and it consumed all the lofty things therein, and the fire searched out all the hidden places, and burned most in the secret places.”

More prophetic words have scarcely been spoken. Indeed, she had learned for herself a secret that the Great Fire had so vividly exposed. The other tract she was not familiar with, but it appeared to be a standard warning to the citizens of London.

Lucy turned her attention to the third paper, which was a penciled sketch of some skill. A gentleman dressed in what looked to be a fine suit lay on the ground, propped up awkwardly against a grand column. His face was turned away, but his eyes were closed. A vizard, of the type worn at fancy masquerades, rested by one of his outstretched hands. Beside that, a goblet lay overturned, as though the man had spent a good night tippling the spirits. Though roughly drawn, there was real artistry there in the simple lines of the man’s form.

Lucy was about to refold the drawing and place it with the Quaker tracts when she noticed a line that had been added in rough script at the bottom.
This is the dandy I told you about. Set upon and killed.

Her eyes flew back to the image. With a start, she could see now that the man had a knife inserted deep in his abdomen, so that only the hilt was visible to the viewer. Initially the hilt had looked to be part of his ornate coat, which was why she missed it when she first examined the image.

Shocked, Lucy nearly let the small chest slip onto the wooden floor but regained herself in time. She wrestled with whether to take the picture or to leave it where she had found it. The packet of letters was already chafing against her skin, an uncomfortable reminder of her theft. Truly, what difference would taking one more piece of paper make? “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she whispered to herself with a shrug, slipping the folded sketch inside her bodice. “I’ll replace them later,” she told herself. Although how she would do that, she didn’t rightly know.

After replacing the chest on the shelf, Lucy eased open the door and peeked out. No one was in the corridor, so she stole out of the room and back down the stairs.

She found Adam still waiting where she had left. “I am ready,” she said, and together they left the Whitbys’ home.

She was not surprised when outside Constable Duncan rejoined them as well. He seemed to have been loitering at the end of the street, clearly waiting for them to leave the Whitbys’.

“Did you learn anything more?” Adam asked her. Turning to the constable, he added, “Lucy was kind enough to help Mrs. Whitby upstairs after the madness overcame her.” His tone was amused.

The letters were now painfully rubbing against her. She wanted to tell Adam and the constable about what she had discovered, but truth be told, even the thought of telling them about this rash theft made her cheeks flame. She knew neither man would take kindly to her little theft.
Best be prudent,
she warned herself.
I will read through the letters first.
No point in telling anyone about her transgression unless she discovered in them some news to share.

Still, she could not help wondering. Why had Julia Whitby possessed those tracts? Had someone—perhaps her brother—given them to her to read? Seeing Mr. Whitby’s angry response to the Quakers, it was obvious why she would have kept such pieces away from his eyes. But why keep them at all?

She realized both men were looking at her, waiting for her to reply to Adam’s query.

Gulping, she spoke quickly. “Mrs. Whitby thinks her daughter is hiding at Mrs. Wiggins’s,” she said. “Or else that she has run off with the Quakers. Although I told her that seemed unlikely. Thankfully she didn’t ask me why I thought so.”

The constable looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. “I cannot make inquiries now, that’s for certain.” Stopping, he said to Lucy, “Perhaps Master Aubrey would not mind you selling out in Bishopsgate? I could come by for you around nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Is it not on Tuesdays when you make your longer journeys?”

Before Lucy could reply, Adam broke in. “Constable,” he said, clearly irritated, “why ever would you expect Lucy to accompany
you
on such an investigation?”

Constable Duncan smirked slightly. “This is Lucy we’re talking about.” He turned to Lucy. “Tell me you weren’t thinking of making this inquiry on your own.”

Feeling slightly abashed, Lucy nodded. Indeed, she’d been thinking about how she could speak to Mistress Wiggins that very minute.

“Just so,” the constable said, squaring his shoulders. “I think you would agree that Lucy should not go to this house unaccompanied.”

Adam straightened up. “Well, that may be so. As it happens, I was planning to make the inquiries myself. I will accompany Lucy.”

Lucy looked at him in surprise. He had not indicated anything of the sort when they were in the Whitbys’ home.

Adam went on. “Indeed, I am sure that Jacob’s mother would expect no less of me, as an old family friend.” His emphasis on the last few words seemed deliberate.

“Are you not expected at the Fire Court in the morning?” the constable asked. His manner had once again grown stiff.

Adam looked slightly defeated. “Yes, I am. I thought I could see the Wiggins family afterward. But,” he said, “I suppose we would not want to delay so long.” Looking pointedly at Duncan, he added, “Good night, Constable.”

Still smirking, Duncan saluted them with an exaggerated military gesture and strode off to the makeshift jail on Fleet Street where he’d lived since the Great Fire.

Lucy and Adam continued on to Master Aubrey’s shop. The sky was darkening rapidly, although a few kind souls had put lanterns in their windows to assist those who dared venture out after nightfall.

As they walked, Adam drew her hand into the crook of his arm, carefully steering her around a steaming pile of manure in the road. She looked up at him, admiring the clean lines of his face.

He looked down at her, smiling slightly. “So you do not mind taking this journey with the constable?” His tone was gentle, not accusing. “I know he was glad enough to accompany you.”

Mrs. Whitby’s sorrowful face flashed into her mind. “I do not mind being with the constable,” she said, without realizing how it might sound to Adam.

At his silence, she glanced up at him and saw that he had lost his earlier smile. Hurriedly, she sought to explain. “I mean, it is the least I can do for Jacob Whitby and his mother.”

He frowned now. “Lucy,” he said, “why do you suppose Jacob Whitby wanted to speak to me specifically?”

“You and he were good friends, were you not?” Lucy asked, not following. He seemed a bit perturbed.

“Well, that’s just it,” he replied. “Jacob and I were never very good friends. I knew him at Cambridge. He dined with us on a few occasions, too, although that may have been before you entered my father’s employ. He and I”—he paused—“enjoyed different sorts of amusements. Indeed, we nearly came to blows once.”

Lucy gave him a quick measured glance. “Over Sarah?” she guessed.

Adam frowned. “Yes. Do you remember how my sister was? A bit flighty? Impetuous? Do not mistake me. Jacob was never a bad man, but I did not like his interest in my sister.” He shook his head. “I never dreamed he would become a Quaker. Of course, I still find it hard to believe that Sarah became a Quaker.”

“You believe in their cause, though,” Lucy said. “I remember that you wrote several petitions to the king and Parliament in the Quakers’ defense.”

“Yes, because I do not believe men and women should be persecuted for their religious beliefs. That is different than supporting their faith or the actions they take on behalf of their faith.”

“Maybe that is why Jacob wanted to see you. He knows you’ve been a friend to their cause. Perhaps he wanted to make amends.”

“Perhaps.” But Adam did not seem convinced. Having reached Master Aubrey’s shop, they turned to each other. Gazing down at her, he brushed away a strand of her brown hair that had come loose from her cap. She thought for a moment he might forget they were on a public street and kiss her. But honor and decorum won out.

“Be careful, Lucy” was all he said before walking off toward home.

*   *   *

At nine o’clock that evening, after she had finished cleaning all the pots from supper and had tidied up the workroom, Lucy finally was able to retire to her bedchamber. Closing the door behind her, she pulled out the packet of Jacob’s letters she’d hidden under her straw pallet. Sitting at the table, a thin wax taper at her side, she carefully untied the string around the packet. There were six letters altogether, three that were dated, three that were not. All were in that same educated hand that reminded her of how the magistrate and Adam fashioned script.

In the first one, Jacob must have been writing shortly after he became a Quaker and was repudiated by his father.
Dearest sister,
he wrote,
I cannot tell thee how thoroughly thy letter did give me hope and comfort. It gives me great pleasure to know that thou hast survived the plague and returned to London, safe from harm. I do not understand why our father has forsaken me, but I know now to seek solace in the Lord and to be nourished by the Inner Light that resides within us all.

It went on like this at great length, ending with a great flourish.
Thy Loving Brother, Jacob.
A quick read of the second letter revealed much of the same sentiment, describing how he exulted in the love of Christ, and then spoke of meeting George Fox, the founder of the Friends. The third letter was different in tone. Jacob seemed more despairing.
I thank thee, dearest sister, for trying to arrange reconciliation with our father. It is enough to know that we shall be reunited in heaven one day. Please, Julia, thou must ask Mother to stop paying tithes to the church on my behalf. It makes the other Quakers doubt my conviction, and I feel I must share in the same imprisonments as the others. If I do not have my faith, and the companionship of those who share my convictions, then I have nothing else.

The next letter she read more slowly, a familiar name having caught her eye. This letter seemed more buoyant. Toward the end he described, with great rapture, a woman whom he had recently met.
Her name is Esther Grace,
he wrote,
and as her name suggests, she has transformed me, helped me regain what I believed I had lost. It may seem rather fantastical to say, but she has woven a spell—not of magic, but of God’s love—over me, which I shall not likely recover from soon.
The letter continued in this vein for a few more sentences before his customary signature.