The Masque of a Murderer (16 page)

“Who was it?” Lucy asked.

“Sam Leighton. He purchased several a few weeks ago, including these. I remember him saying how he wanted these tracts specifically.”

“Sam Leighton?” Lucy repeated. “I wonder why.”

He grew more businesslike. “I do not know, nor, to be honest, do I particularly care. There are many reasons people seek out specific pieces, and I am sure I should not like to know most of them. Come now,” he said, shivering. “Let us haggle. This freeze is starting to tear my bones from the inside.”

After a few minutes of bargaining, Lucy and Lach left, having been relieved of all their penny merriments, a few religious pieces, and several last dying speeches of condemned murderers. In exchange they were bringing back a number of Quaker warnings to Londoners, including the ones she’d found among Julia Whitby’s effects.

Although Lucy wanted to look at the tracts right away, a cold rain began to fall. Master Aubrey would be none too pleased if she let the tracts get wet and mussed. Sighing, she made certain that her pack was tightly knotted. Any secrets that the Quaker tracts held would have to wait.

10

Several hours passed before Lucy had the chance to look at the tracts. When she showed them to Master Aubrey, he was too distracted to look at them properly. It seemed the stationer had been late on a shipment of paper, and the matter needed to be sorted out. Lach was to accompany him to the stationer, having been told by the printer that “you must learn to deal with these deceitful rapscallions, lest you never have any paper when you have started your own shop.”

For her part, Lucy was instructed to clean the typeset and break down the typeface. “Ensure that each letter, quoin, and woodcut has been returned to its proper place,” he said, pointing to the great wooden trays stacked along the wall. “Mind you be finished by evening,” he added as he and Lach prepared to leave. “Best be done before the light begins to fail. I will not have you wasting candles.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucy replied, eager to be alone in the shop.

When the door shut, she turned to the task at hand. Breaking down the typeface was quite tedious, but she had found ways to make the chore pass a little quicker. She liked to start with the largest font, picking out all of the same letters and placing them in their section of the tray. Then she’d pick out all the same letters in the next size font, usually picking out two that lay next to each other, to make the process quicker.

When the tiny font began to slip through her numbed fingers, however, she knew it was time to rest for a few minutes. Grabbing a red apple from the basket, she moved over to the bench below the shop window and sat down with the sack of tracts she had acquired from Master Wilson earlier.

After she slid the contents of her sack onto the table, Lucy picked out the copies of the two tracts she had seen in Julia Whitby’s bedchamber and began to examine them more closely.

Why would Miss Whitby have hidden such pieces away? she wondered again. Both
The Vision for London
and
A Lamentable Warning to London and Its Inhabitants
were fairly typical warnings from the Quakers to the citizens of the city. Since she was more familiar with the
Vision for London,
Lucy set it aside and focused on the
Lamentable Warning
instead.

Right away she found the reading to be slow going. The tract described at length the terrible treatment that the Quakers had received under Charles’s reign, but most of the interesting bits were only punctuations in a sermon as boring as what the ministers preached on Sundays. Lucy could feel her eyelids beginning to droop—the long walk from the morning was taking its toll.

Although she wanted to rest her head on the table, Lucy forced herself to turn the fourth page of the tract. Unexpectedly, a familiar name jumped out at her. Ahivah, the Woman in White.

Straightening up, Lucy read the passage out loud.
“As our own prophet
Ahivah,
whom our own King Charles did call his
Woman in White,
has warned: ‘If ye have not sinned, get ye to a safe place, for the Lord’s righteous anger will be soon upon us.’ Heed Ahivah’s words, for the Day of our Lord’s judgment does rapidly approach.”

Startled, Lucy read the words again.
“Get ye to a safe place.”

She sat back, placing the tract on the table, trying to make sense of it.

Could it be coincidence that such words of warning had been delivered to Julia Whitby? Was it strange that the person who had uttered them was Ahivah, a Quaker in her brother’s own close circle of acquaintances? More important, how had Julia Whitby read these words? Had she taken this message as a personal warning? Was that why she decided to flee the house?

“I need to show this tract to Duncan,” she said out loud just as church bells began to ring in the hour.

Jumping to her feet, Lucy finished putting the type away as fast as she could, praying that she had not mixed anything up. She was not entirely sure when Master Aubrey would return, but she rather hoped that he and Lach would stop at a tavern for a bite and some ale. She had learned that the master printer liked to celebrate his victories over the stationer with a pint, and she hoped that this time would be no different. He’d be none too pleased if he came home to a cold hearth and empty stew pot.

Nevertheless, Lucy said a small prayer and left the shop, hoping to find the constable at the jail.

*   *   *

When she arrived a few minutes later, Lucy found Hank in the front part of the jail, looking unusually haggard. “Hank, are you well?” she asked.

The bellman tried to smile, but his eyes looked bloodshot and weary. “My wife and wee ones—they have all been sick. This deathly cold has been taking the life right out of them. I’ve been at home with them these last few days. The worst of it is over though, thanks be to God.”

Lucy murmured her agreement. She hoped that the sickness did not return, although Culpeper said it was not uncommon for illness to linger in a household, even after it was believed to be gone. She turned her attention to the matter at hand. “Is the constable in?”

The bellman began to cough, a dry hacking sound, as he gestured to the back room. “Th-there!” he managed to sputter.

“Thank you,” she said. “Best take some honey for that cough,” she added as she passed him by.

She knocked on the door.

“Yes, come in!” she heard the constable call.

When she entered, Duncan looked up from his table in surprise. “Lucy!” he said, standing up. “What brings you here?”

“Constable Duncan,” she said, crossing the room toward him, “look at these tracts.” She handed him the two Quaker penny pieces.

The constable glanced at the tracts, and back at her. “Quaker warnings. What of them?”

Not replying, Lucy boosted herself up onto one of the overly large barrels that the constable kept in the room, smoothing her skirts after she did so. The barrels had been salvaged from the ruins of the Cheshire Cheese, an old tavern that had burnt down during the Great Fire. A few months ago, a body had been found inside one of the barrels, a knife through its chest. Having been one of many Londoners helping with the cleanup of the Great Fire, Lucy had been there when the body was discovered. The memory still made her shiver. She almost asked the constable if the barrel she had perched herself on was
the
barrel, but she opted against it.

Instead she answered his question. “I found them both in Julia Whitby’s bedchamber. Well, not these exact ones,” she added hastily when he frowned at her. “These are copies. I remembered their names. I saw them today when I was trading tracts with a Quaker printer, Master Wilson, and I thought we might learn something from them. And I did—” She was about to explain when he cut her off.

“
When
did you see these tracts?” he asked, his voice stern. “Did you return to Julia Whitby’s home?”

“I saw the tracts the first time I was there,” Lucy said, growing flustered by his tone.

“Why did you not speak of these tracts to me when you handed me the letters and the sketch? Why were you keeping this secret from me?”

Lucy tried to explain. “I saw them, but I did not think to take them. I remembered them later and I thought they might be important.” Growing exasperated, she added, “Which is why I am here. Do you not wish to know what I found?”

He took a step closer, looking up at her. “What is it?” he asked.

“Well, the tracts had been carefully hidden in the chest, I imagine by Julia Whitby herself,” Lucy said.

“Maybe she was thinking about becoming a Quaker,” he said.

“That is possible. Yet I remember that someone had written the word ‘Behold!’ on both of them. Someone wanted to draw attention to the tracts.”

Constable Duncan looked thoughtful. “Is that so uncommon? Do people not write on such tracts? Julia could have written the word herself.”

Lucy took a deep breath. “Or it could be that someone was deliberately sending Miss Whitby a message from the Quakers.” She directed Duncan to the
Lamentable Warning.
“Look at the part about Ahivah,” Lucy said. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that Jacob’s sister has a tract in which there is a warning from one of the same Quakers who sat at Jacob’s deathbed? A strange happenstance, would you not agree?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know.” He looked down at the tract again, as if seeking more clues. “Maybe they all know each other.”

“Moreover,” she continued, “Master Wilson, the Quakers’ printer, told me that Sam Leighton was the one who purchased the tracts from him.”

“He remembered that, did he?” Duncan said. “That seems a peculiar thing to recall, don’t you think?”

“He said that Mr. Leighton had been looking for those specific titles.” Lucy paused.
Had Sam Leighton known those tracts would end up in Julia Whitby’s possession? Had he sent them to her? If so, for what purpose? What if we asked him?
Lucy started to express these thoughts to Duncan.

“I wonder if I could speak to the Quakers again,” she mused. “Maybe speak to Mr. Leighton.”

At this, he frowned, and the tension had returned to his voice when he spoke. “No more of this piecemeal information, Lucy. If you know something, you need to share it with me. At once! I will not allow you to dangle bits and pieces before me as the whim strikes you.”

Lucy stared at him. Duncan had never spoken to her in such a way before, and she did not care for it. “I shall leave, then,” she said, hopping off the barrel. “I have no wish to dangle anything before you. I already explained myself, and I see there is no point in us conversing further.”

She had not taken a step when she found her way barred by the constable. Duncan had placed one hand on the barrel by her hip and his other hand on the wall, so that she was effectively trapped. She did not feel afraid, though her heart began to pound at their closeness.

“Lucy, I did not wish to anger you,” he said, searching her face, all traces of his earlier temper gone. “Yet I must know. Please! Have you told me everything now? No more secrets?”

“I have no more secrets to share,” she said. “Please let me by.”

He dropped his arms to his sides, but he still stood before her, just a few inches away. She could have moved around him, but remained where she was, looking up at him.

“I just think that secrets are what got Julia Whitby killed. Maybe Jacob Whitby, too,” he said.

Lucy nodded.

He looked at her intently. “That is why I worry about the secrets that you keep. Lucy, I cannot abide the thought of you being injured—” He broke off then. The lopsided grin he gave her seemed a bit rueful, maybe even sad. “I know it is not my place to say.”

“Duncan, I thank you for your concern.” She put her hand on his right arm, closing the gap between them.

Unexpectedly, he reached up with his free hand and covered her fingers, so that they fit neatly within his own. His hand was rough but warm.

The move surprised them both, and he stepped back, dropping his hand. “Beg pardon,” he muttered.

“’Tis no matter,” she said, her hand still tingling from the brief contact. Adam’s face rose in her thoughts, and she could almost hear him saying,
The constable’s interest in you is quite keen, I fear.
Then her own voice, from deep within, asked,
Is Duncan’s interest unwelcome, Lucy?

To cover her flurried thoughts, Lucy thought it best to change the subject. “Did you learn anything from the letters and the sketch I gave you?” she asked hurriedly.

A long moment passed before he replied. He seemed to be considering her. Perhaps he had expected her to leave, Lucy thought. Indeed, she was not sure why she had not left the jail. She had been ready to leave just a minute earlier.

“Not anything other than the obvious,” he finally replied. Then his manner regained its customary briskness. “That reminds me, though—”

He opened the door. “Hank!” he called. “Come look at these.” To Lucy he said, “I haven’t had a chance to show him the sketch.”

When Hank came in, the constable handed him the sketch. “What do you make of this?”

Hank picked up the sketch of the dead man with some trepidation. “
This is the dandy I told you about
,” he read. He looked up. “What dandy? Where did you get this sketch?”

“I found it at Julia Whitby’s,” Lucy said matter-of-factly, admitting her theft once again. “I don’t know where she got it or what it means.”

Hank continued to study the piece. “I think I know who drew it,” he said.

“Who?” Duncan and Lucy both exclaimed.

“The searcher. Sadie Burroughs. You met her the other day. She likes to draw the strange deaths. Don’t know why, but she does.”

“So does that mean that Mrs. Burroughs knew Julia Whitby?” Lucy paused, puzzling through an idea. “She is the one who reported her body. We need to speak with her! Find out what she knows about Miss Whitby!”

Duncan frowned. “She would not have been able to recognize Julia Whitby, since the scold’s mask had been affixed to her face. Still, I do not like such coincidences. I agree, we need to speak with her. How to find her, though, that I do not know.”