The Masque of a Murderer (21 page)

The servant looked around. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him since the last time I gave her the message. Not fifteen minutes after that, she said she had to leave. To see Mrs. Wiggins.” She stopped, looking puzzled. “She never had a sweetheart, you see, so I thought perhaps she was going to run off. Lord knows she could have some diversion in her life.”

Thoughtfully, Lucy thanked her. As she walked Annie back to the market, she resolved to stop by to see the constable on the way home.

*   *   *

Arriving at the jail a little later, Lucy called out, “What news, Constable Duncan?” as she stepped inside.

The constable did not smile in return. “I cannot talk now, Lucy,” he said as he tossed Hank a beating stick. “We’ve just received word there is a scuffle over at Jackson’s coffeehouse. A couple of shifty fellows, knocking each other about. We need to restore order.”

Since there was no one in any of the cells, they simply locked the jail and hurried down the street. Lucy trotted after them.

Seeing that she had accompanied them, the constable frowned. “Go home, Lucy,” he said sternly. “A brawl is no place for a woman.”

Lucy did not slow down. “Fiddle-faddle,” she replied. “I need to speak with you.”

“I mean it, Lucy,” the constable said more tensely, glaring at her over his shoulder. “Hank, could you ensure that Miss Campion finds her way home?”

“He is mad who quarrels with women or beasts,”
Hank said, quoting an old proverb by way of reply. “Besides, I think you need me here,” he added as Lucy smirked at the constable.

Her smirk fell away then when they began to hear terrible shouting. This was not the tussle she had assumed. This looked like an out-and-out brawl.

“Please, Lucy,” the constable said to her again. Hearing the slight note of pleading in his voice, she relented.

“I promise I will stay back,” she said.

The constable and Hank looked at each other. “Ready?” the constable asked, his voice tight and hard. The bellman nodded grimly in return.

Holding their beating sticks in the air, they moved into the fray. “Break it up, break it up,” they began to cry, pushing the crowd away.

Lucy watched anxiously from a safe distance. She could see the flash of their clubs as they moved through the crowd. At first, when the spectators caught sight of the constable, they began to jeer and laugh. Seeing a constable brought down would be as entertaining as the men brawling, it seemed. However, as he and Hank continued to wield their sticks with strength and purpose, it became clear who would remain standing. At that point, the crowd began to disperse, their sport ending.

Now she could see just a few bloodied men at the center of the spectacle, still landing tired blows upon each other. At least their fight seemed to be only with fists. She saw the constable and Hank nod at each other before each grabbed one of the men and wrestled him to the ground. They pulled the men’s arms behind their backs and laced them tightly together with a bit of rope.

Hauling them up at the same time, Hank managed to knock the heads of the two ruffians together, causing them both to groan loudly.

“Clumsy me,” he said, broadly grinning all the while.

“What was this fight about?” Constable Duncan demanded.

Both men looked at him with sullen expressions.

“Ale,” the scrawnier of the two men said.

“Coffee,” the burlier man said.

At that point, the two men began to shout loudly at each other again. It seemed that the new coffeehouse had taken up residence directly next to the alehouse that had been there at least a hundred years. The tavern-keep was angry that the owner of the coffeehouse was stealing his customers. They were then arrested for disturbing the peace.

Hearing the church bells chime for the hour, Lucy knew she had to get back to Master Aubrey’s. As Hank single-handedly wrestled the two men back to the jail, the constable turned to Lucy. “All right,” he said. “Tell me what’s so important.”

She told him what she had learned from Evie, as well as the conversation she had overhead between Gervase and Sam. “I am worried that they did something to the searcher,” she said.

He nodded. “I will look into it.”

As she started to go, he touched her arm. “And thank you, Lucy. For telling me, and not keeping these secrets to yourself.”

14

The next morning, Lucy showed Master Aubrey all the testimonies about Jacob Whitby she had painstakingly assembled over the last few evenings.

“I was thinking that we could call it
The Last Dying Breath,
” Lucy said, showing him her handwritten pages. Her script was still not overly neat, but she had rewritten anything that looked particularly strange or illegible.

“See, this first part tells how he was struck down, in the prime of life, by Mr. Redicker, cloth merchant,” she explained, her nervousness making her speak quickly. “In the next part, I have Jacob Whitby’s sinner’s journey, what he told me in his own dying words. After that, I have the words from his wife and his dearest friends, speaking of his spiritual conversion, lamenting his death and the loss of his good works.”

Both Lach and Lucy watched Master Aubrey peruse the tract. He did not say anything as he read, so Lucy continued to speak in a breathless way. “Naturally, in this piece, I did not mention anything about his sister Julia’s death.”
Or Jacob’s belief that he had been pushed in front of the horses,
she added to herself.

“Hmph,” Master Aubrey grunted. “I was planning to sell at the Fox and Hound this morning, and then meet a few chaps there for my noon meal. I was not planning on composing the type today.”

“We can do it, sir,” Lucy said.

Lach frowned at her. “
I
can do it, sir. She can help me.”

Master Aubrey looked at them. “All right, then.” He gave some quick instructions to Lach about the length of the quarto, and what to include on the recto and verso. “I expect the first two parts to be set by the time I return this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” they both dutifully replied.

As soon as Master Aubrey had departed, Lach turned to her. “I will compose the piece. You can clean the hearth and take care of the pots.” When she made an indignant sound, he added, “You can help with the typesetting, of course.”

“I am sure that Master Aubrey expected me to compose the piece,” she protested, picking up a quoin. “
I
wrote it, after all.”

“I am sure he did not,” Lach said curtly. “Not when you think composition starts with simply putting quoins together.”

“Well, show me, then,” Lucy said, setting the quoin back on the table. When he didn’t reply, she added, “I’ll do your chores for the rest of the week.”

He grunted. “Starting with those pots!”

Lucy stood beside him then to watch the composition process unfold. Even though she had worked for Master Aubrey for six months, she had not yet measured and laid out a tract from the very beginning of the process.

Lach began to work, composing the different sections so that it would become an eight-page piece. Although she didn’t like the high-handed way he ordered her about, Lucy had to admit that he was very deft in arranging the parts of the tract. Within the hour, Lach had sectioned off the different parts, assembled the various woodcuts and necessary plates, and used the quoins, wedges, and crossbars to separate the text and images accordingly. They used the plainest type, all ten and twelve font, which seemed appropriate to tell a tale of a sinner’s journey. Only the title would be in the more elaborate Gothic font.

For the next thirty minutes, they worked, Lucy trying to ignore the ache in her lower back. Setting type was always difficult, painstaking work. Sometimes she sat for a while on one of the tall stools, but bending across the type was still a bit painful.

As she pieced together the words of the tract, putting in each letter backward as she had been trained, she recalled how each person had testified about Jacob’s spiritual journey. She thought, too, about Julia Whitby. What had she known?

Without her realizing it, Lucy began to slow down.

“Lucy!” Lach cried harshly.

The quoin she was filling with the tiny lead type flew out of her hand, spilling onto the floor and skittering in every direction. She stared in dismay first at Lach and then down at the mess.

“Lucy!” Lach growled.

“I am sorry, I am sorry,” she said. “I will take care of it.” She began to scramble around. To her surprise, Lach put down the quoin he’d been filling and began to help her, even though he grumbled under his breath the whole time. Finally they had picked up all the pieces. Still sitting on the floor, they leaned back.

Lach mopped his sweaty brow with a dirty bit of cloth. Rather than wiping his face clean, unfortunately, he had smudged ink all over his cheeks and forehead. The result made him look ridiculous.

With great effort, Lucy refrained from laughing. Instead, she stood up and went over to a small basket she kept on one of the lower shelves that was full of laundered scraps of cloth. She had even put a lavender sachet in the basket to make the cloths smell good. She placed a cloth in front of him without a word, then turned back to the type she was setting.

From the corner of her eye, she could see him stare at the cloth before dabbing gingerly at his face. He hesitated, then buried his face in the cloth, breathing the lavender scent in deeply.

He turned to her then. “All right,” he said. “Spill it. What have you learned about all this? It is easy to see that you’ve been woolgathering this whole time.”

Excitedly, she set down her printer’s tool and told him everything she had learned so far.

As she spoke, Lach shook his head. “I cannot believe no one has asked him.”

“Who? What? What are you talking about?”

Impatiently, Lach pointed at
The Last Dying Breath
, now laid out neatly and waiting to be pressed. “The driver of the cart who struck Mr. Whitby. James Redicker. Maybe he saw something!”

“He said he didn’t…?” Lucy said doubtfully.

“People always tell the truth?” Lach returned.

Of course, Lach was quite correct. Lucy could have slapped herself. Remembering her promise to Adam, she added, “You will have to come with me.”

Lach shrugged. “Best that I come anyway. I will have the truth out of the man in two shakes of a goat’s tail.”

Lucy raised her eyebrow. “We shall see, will we not?”

After they closed the shop, Lucy and Lach walked the half mile to see Mr. Redicker. When they arrived at his shop, Lucy could tell that his establishment was new. She could see that there had been another business there once, perhaps a smithy, although she could not know for sure. If she had to guess, Mr. Redicker must have been one of the many shopkeeps whose businesses had been disrupted by the Fire. Unlike most, he looked to have his own stable in what was once a small courtyard. They could see a horse and a small cart from the street.

A boy, maybe about fifteen or sixteen, came out then. “Seeking some new woolens?” he asked cheerfully, looking at Lach’s worn cloak.

“We were hoping to speak with Mr. Redicker,” Lucy replied.

“Inside,” he nodded toward the stable. “He is tending the horses. He will be in there a while. Perhaps you would like to look at some woolens while you wait? Nice for blankets—where are you going?”

Lucy was pulling Lach to the stable. “Our master expects us back soon, I am afraid. You do not mind if we speak to your father now? Our master is
very
rich and is looking to get new materials for his summer home. I do not wish to offend you”—she smiled at the boy—“but he would prefer us to speak to your father directly. You understand.”

Before the boy could protest, Lucy pulled opened the stable door. A man—whom she assumed was Mr. Redicker—was standing beside a chestnut brown horse, speaking quietly, his hand stroking the horse’s long mane.

At the sound of their entrance the horse jumped nervously, rearing backward and whinnying. Lucy stepped back, pressing upon the stable door. The black horse in the next stall began to stamp fearfully as well.

The man glanced at them. “What are you doing in here?” he asked tersely, trying to calm the horse down. The horse had stopped rearing but was still stamping. The black horse had started to whinny now.

To her surprise, Lach stepped forward, murmuring something to the black horse that Lucy could not quite understand, for he was speaking with an uncharacteristic brogue. She thought it might have been “There, there, little bairn,” but could not be sure.

The horse looked at Lach and brought his head over to smell him. Slowly, Lach yawned. While Mr. Redicker and Lucy watched, Lach leaned up and placed his own head against the horse’s and began to breathe at the same time. The horse immediately began to calm.

Mr. Redicker looked at him. “Thank you. How did you know how to do that?”

Lach shrugged. “Grew up on a farm, sir.”

The cloth merchant looked them over, his eyes expertly gliding over their garments. “Purchasing something for your mistress, lass? Or perhaps your master?” he asked, correctly determining their station.

“Yes, sir. Our master is interested in some woolens,” Lucy said, nudging Lach. She did not want to leave the stable, and she wanted to stay on the topic of the horses.

To her surprise, he understood what she wanted him to say. “Are your horses usually so skittish, sir?” He continued to stroke the horse’s nose and murmur quietly to her.

Mr. Redicker’s face paled, and he wiped some sweat from his brow. “No. Something terrible happened to my girls last week. They have not been the same since.”

Lach continued to stroke the black horse. “They are both beauties, sir.”

Seeing a bag of apples, Lucy picked one up and offered it to the chestnut horse. She glanced at Mr. Redicker over her shoulder. He had sat back on a low stool, watching them. His face was drawn, and he had huge bags under his eyes. She recognized that look. She had seen it before, on men who had faced death or great loss. Indeed, he looked haunted.

“What happened to the horses?” Lucy asked, trying to sound innocent.