The Masque of a Murderer (22 page)

“They … I … I … We ran over a man last week. In my cart.” He looked away. “It was the worst day of my life. Worse even than when my wife died. She died in her sleep, painless. This man—” He shut his eyes. “I can still hear him screaming.”

“How terrible,” Lucy said quietly, not wanting to break the spell. “Did he trip? Or just not see your cart and horses?”

Mr. Redicker shook his head, wiping his brow. “I could not say for sure what had happened. How could he have not heard my cart? He must have heard my cart.” He stood up and began to pace around. Sensing his nervousness, the horses began to pace again as well. “I thought my eyes were deceiving me. A break in the fog, you see.”

Lucy and Lach exchanged a glance. Lach began to stroke the horses’ manes, trying to restore their sense of calm.

“Did you see something then?” Lucy asked, trying not to sound excited. “What was it?”

Mr. Redicker looked heavenward. “I’ve been a God-fearing man my whole life. Never missed a day of church, never failed to pay my Sunday bits. I read the Bible, and I live as the Lord intended. Every day I ask myself, Why did he step into my path? Was it the will of God, asking me to better myself?’ Why was I given this terrible burden?”

Lucy waited for the man to stop. “So no one else was there, then?” she asked, disappointment washing over her. “He did trip?”

Mr. Redicker paused. He seemed so lost in his nightmare. “It looked like another figure crept up behind him and pushed him before my cart.” He closed his eyes again. “I was so intent on the screaming and what had happened to my poor horses that when I looked again, the figure was gone. Could that have happened?”

“Did you tell that to the constable?” Lucy asked quietly as if speaking to one of the horses, not wishing to spook him.

Mr. Redicker’s weariness seemed almost palpable now. He gave a tired chuckle. “Lord help me. I lied to that constable.”

“What?” Lucy and Lach exclaimed in unison. Lucy was grateful that for once Lach kept his jest-spewing tongue still.

Mr. Redicker began to speak more quickly, with the air of a man trying to remove an enormous weight from his chest. “The devil tricked me into this evil. I took money to say that that poor man tripped. I pray that the Lord will forgive my weakness.”

“Who paid you the money?” Lucy whispered.

“I was heartsick, you understand.” To their chagrin, the man began to weep. “I did not know what I had seen in the fog—I could not say whether it was a trick of the light. So I told everyone the man must have tripped. To think otherwise…” His voice trailed off. “And yet, I did wonder.”

He took a deep breath, trying to control himself. “That same night, I heard a knock at my door. A man said he was there on behalf of the chap’s widow. He said that she was worried about how I was feeling, and that they wished to give me money to fix my cart or to buy a new one. I was indeed bitter about the ruin caused to my cart and horses, and I readily took the money offered to me.”

“That was very generous of his widow,” Lucy said.

“Yes,” Mr. Redicker said. “A charitable act indeed. To think that I, who had taken everything from her, who dealt her husband his fatal blow, would benefit so from her largesse. I felt guilt then, of such magnitude as I had never before experienced. So I told him that I wondered whether her husband had been pushed.” His voice broke again.

“Yes, what did he say?” Lucy asked.

“He said no good could from disturbing the man’s widow with so wild and strange an accusation. He told me that they were assured that it was an accident, and they knew I was assured of that truth as well. Then he passed me the money.” He swallowed. “I knew then, you see.”

“You knew what?” Lucy asked, confused.

His brow furrowed. “I knew then that I had made a pact with the devil. The money he had given me. It was far more than what was necessary to fix my cart and tend to my horses.” He stood up and started stroking his horse again.

“You must tell the constable what you just told us,” Lucy said.

Mr. Redicker’s brow furrowed. “I have no wish to discuss this heart-sorry mess again.”

“But what of your conscience? Do you not owe it to this man, and his widow, for the truth to be known?”

He gulped. “I have given more than my fair share to the church. I hope the good Lord will see fit to absolve me of my sin.”

“Please, sir, just one more question. What did the man look like? The one who came on behalf of the man’s widow?”

Mr. Redicker turned dull eyes toward Lucy. He now seemed spent and listless. “Why ever would you ask such a thing?”

Lucy and Lach looked at each other, not sure what to say.

“You are not here to buy woolens, are you?” he said wearily. He seemed resigned. “Why are you here? Did someone send you?”

“Please, sir. Absolve your conscience. Please describe the man who paid you the money,” Lucy urged him. “I promise you, it is important.”

Mr. Redicker spat on the ground. “His frame was not overly large, I should say.” His tone grew dismissive. “The cut and quality of his cloth were quite poor. Never seen a tailor, of that you may be certain. Indeed, I remember being surprised that a man in such shabby clothes would have so many coins.”

“His hair, what color was it?” Lucy pressed. “Brown? Black? What about his eyes?”

“Not sure. He was one of those damn Quakers. I could tell by his hat. He did not remove it when he spoke to me. No respect for his betters.” He spat again.

Lucy sighed. The description was so vague.

Then Mr. Redicker spoke again. “I do remember, though, that his hand shook when he spoke. I could tell he had a tremor. Same as my grandfather.”

The clothier turned away. “Please leave. I do not have the heart to speak of this matter again. I see it over and over again in my dreams. I do not need to revisit it in my waking hours as well.”

Before she walked out, Lucy turned back to him. “It was not your fault, sir.”

He just shook his head numbly. “That may be true, but it does not take away the screams.”

Lucy and Lach hurried out, past Redicker’s boy. Once they were at the street, Lucy turned to Lach. “Someone tried to hide the fact that Jacob Whitby was deliberately pushed in front of poor Mr. Redicker’s cart. We must tell the constable.”

Lucy fully expected Lach to start singing
The Constable Confounded
at the top of his lungs. Instead he just nodded and stayed silent all the way home.

*   *   *

When they entered the shop, Lucy was relieved to see that Master Aubrey had not yet returned. Working quickly, she and Lach finished typesetting Jacob Whitby’s
Last Dying Breath
within the hour. After that, Lucy began to pace, occasionally popping her head out of the door, looking to see if Master Aubrey was making his way along Fleet Street. She was itching to tell the constable everything she had learned, but she also wanted to make sure the piece was correct before she requested an hour away from the shop.

“I’d send a message to the constable if I could find a lad to run it over to him,” she said, sighing. The street seemed unusually void of boys lagging about, eager to earn a quick penny.

Finally Master Aubrey returned. He’d scarcely hung up his hat before Lucy pulled him over to show him the completed typeset quarto. Holding her breath, she watched as he looked it over. Lach, too, was watching him carefully.

At last, mopping his brow, he looked at them and smiled. “Good, good,” he said. “A fine piece. We can print it out first thing tomorrow.” He looked at Lach. “Well done, lad.”

Lach grinned. For a moment Lucy bristled in indignation that she had been left out of the praise, but unexpectedly, the apprentice gestured toward her. “Lucy was, er, very helpful, and, er, the piece was a good one.” He nodded meaningfully at Lucy.
Ask him,
his glance seemed to say.

“Master Aubrey, sir,” Lucy said, trying not to sound desperate or pleading, “could I please have an hour’s leave to speak to the constable?”

“What’s that?” The printer eyed her. “Whatever for?”

“I’ve got some news. About Julia Whitby’s death. We could use it for
The Scold’s Last Scold,
” Lucy replied. Truly her news related to Jacob Whitby’s death, but that distinction did not seem to matter at the moment. “But first I need to speak with the constable.”

Master Aubrey looked at Lucy with the same bemused expression he often had when considering her requests. “Female apprentices, bah!” he muttered. But he let her go, and for that fact she was grateful.

*   *   *

Hearing about her conversation with Mr. Redicker, the constable swore, a more vile oath than she had ever heard him express. “I am sorry, Lucy, to use such language before you. To think that Mr. Redicker lied to me angers me greatly. I should arrest him as an accomplice to this murder.”

They were standing in the makeshift jail. Today two ladybirds were sitting dourly on the bench inside, one half asleep, the other watching them with mild interest.

Lucy put her hand on his arm. “Please, do not arrest Mr. Redicker, I beg you. He is heartfelt sorry about his lie.”

“That may be so. Still, this means I need to investigate Jacob Whitby’s death more fully.” He paused. “I agree, though, it may make no sense to arrest the man. I will certainly press him for more details.”

Lucy nodded, although frankly she doubted that Mr. Redicker would have more information on the matter. The poor man seemed to have expressed all he knew in that one tortured outbreak; she did not think he would likely break down again in the presence of the constable.

Duncan was still mulling over what she had told him. “From his description, you believe it was one of the Quakers who spoke to him? The one who paid him for his silence?”

“Yes,” Lucy said softly. “Mr. Redicker said as much.”

“Then I believe it is time that I pay Mrs. Whitby and the others a visit. Quaker conscience be damned.”

15

Over the next two days, Lucy could not keep from fretting about everything she had recently learned. Her head ached constantly, and she felt snappish and out of sorts. She was not alone in her ill humor, though, for it seemed much of London was feeling a strange wave of lethargy. The physician Larimer would have said they were all phlegmatic, needing wine to restore balance to the humors. Certainly, a bone-chilling rain had brought much sneezing and nose-blowing—so much that some called it the return of the plague. Anyone who had lived through the great sickness, though, knew that the dreaded Black Death had not returned. Master Aubrey blamed their collective peevishness on the looming Ides of March, and Lucy was not completely sure that he was wrong.

They spent much of the morning printing, drying, folding and cutting the quartos, so there were thirty complete copies of
The Last Dying Breath
as the Quakers had requested. In the early afternoon, Master Aubrey sent Lucy to Esther Whitby’s home to deliver the tracts and collect their agreed-upon fee.

At Lucy’s knock, Esther Whitby opened the door and looked out. Seeing Lucy, she raised one of her finely arched eyebrows. “Yes?” she asked.

“Who is it, Esther?” she heard Theodora call from inside the house.

Her beautiful purple eyes still trained on Lucy’s, Esther turned her head slightly. “It’s Lucy. Our printer’s apprentice.”

Theodora appeared behind Esther then. Her face looked particularly mottled and suspicious. “Why hast thou come here?”

“I-I have brought copies of Jacob Whitby’s
Last Dying Breath
for you,” Lucy said, wondering at the cool reception. After all, the other day they had treated her like a valued acquaintance. She gestured at her pack. “They are here.”

“Let me see one,” Theodora said, sticking her hand out. “We won’t pay for filthy lies.”

“N-no, of course not,” Lucy stammered, increasingly confused. What would Master Aubrey say if they refused to pay? She handed a copy to Theodora. “I only wrote down what you told me. They are mostly your husband’s own words,” she said, turning back to Esther, “straight from his lips.”

As Theodora perused the tract, Esther suddenly smiled at her, all traces of the earlier unfriendliness gone. “Oh, Lucy, we did not mean to frighten thee,” she said. “It’s just that the constable was here since we last saw thee.”

“Oh! Is something the matter?” she asked. Esther seemed to be watching her carefully.

“I should say so!” Theodora cried. “Full of a false authority, mercilessly wielding his power against the handmaidens and servants of the Lord!”

“I do not understand—” Lucy began, but Esther broke in.

“He questioned everyone who was here, particularly the men,” she explained, quietly and still watchful. “The constable said that the poor clothier who ran over my husband had come to believe that someone had pushed Jacob into the path of those wretched horses! He said, too, that someone had paid him to lie about what he had seen.”

“Oh!” Lucy said, hoping she looked sufficiently startled by the news. “Indeed, we wrote nothing about Jacob having been pushed,” she said. “Or that the clothier believed such a thing to be true.”

Theodora glanced up sharply. “Thou hast heard tell of this ridiculous lie, then? Did the constable tell thee?”

“No, the constable told me nothing of the sort,” Lucy said. At least that part was true. She was the one who had passed the information on to the constable, not the other way around. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“I am afraid that Theodora and I assumed that he might have told thee about this terrible accusation,” Esther explained, “because we know that he and thou have some sort of friendship.”

Her comment was made without insinuation, and yet Theodora looked at her in a knowing way. Wishing to change the subject, Lucy said, “If the tract is to your liking, I should like to receive my payment. My master will be waiting.”

“This is fine, Lucy. Thank you. We are indeed indebted to you,” Esther said. “Theodora, dear sister, pray fetch Lucy her coins. I should not like her to have troubles with her master.”

Theodora still seemed a bit surly, but she duly went away to get Lucy’s payment.