The Masque of a Murderer (25 page)

Master Hargrave pointed at another sheet of paper. “Several trials may be listed at once, as they are on this next page. If you look through these”—he handed her a few folded pages, leaving another stack in front of him—“and I’ll look through these, we can see if anyone named Esther appeared at my bench.”

Lucy looked through the names of the accused. Mary Dinkle, fortune-teller, accused of theft. Nathanial Clarke, dish-turner, accused of poisoning. Gray Fitch, shoemaker, accused of drunken battery. The names and offenses went on. They looked through the session notes from 1663 and 1662 as well.

Finally the magistrate frowned at the darkening room. “I have kept you for too long, I am afraid, Lucy. You should be off. I can only try old Horace Aubrey’s patience for so long, keeping his apprentice away.” He began to carefully refold and stack the last set of papers they had just reviewed. “I just can’t understand it. I know I couldn’t have seen her between 1660 and 1663, because I was serving as a judge on the circuit courts for many sessions.” He tapped his head. “Yet I can remember her before me at the Old Bailey. I remember her violet eyes, so cold and defiant.” He shook his head. “It will come to me, I know it.”

17

As Master Aubrey and Lach scrubbed the ink off their hands, using the harsh lye soap they kept by the basin, Lucy ladled a bit of leftover rabbit stew into three wooden bowls. The conversation she’d had with Master Hargrave the day before was still weighing heavily on her mind. Sarah was convinced that Esther Whitby was in danger. What if she had it backward? What if Esther Whitby was the one causing the danger?

Lucy pulled out Jacob Whitby’s
Last Dying Breath
, reading through the now-familiar bits.
I met Jacob Whitby when I was living with the Beetners,
Esther Whitby had told them.
Before the good tailor and his wife succumbed to God’s Will and the plague.

“Master Aubrey,” she said when the printer had taken his seat, “do you think it’s unusual for a tradesman to leave his trade and all his movables to a servant? One who had only been with them a short while?”

He gave her a suspicious look. “Let me say the prayer, lass,” he said. Obediently she set aside the tract and, like Lach, bent her head while the printer said the prayer. Never one to let food grow cold, Master Aubrey said the benediction and slid his spoon into the stew.

After swallowing with an appreciative murmur, Master Aubrey raised an eyebrow. “Planning to do away with me, are you?” he asked.

Lucy smiled. “No. I am not the servant in question. However, I should be interested in your thoughts, sir. What would you think if one of your friends did such a thing? Would you think that servant must have been particularly good and loyal?”

“Perhaps,” he said, taking another bite. “Likely not.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“A man just does not do such a peculiar thing,” he said with finality, as if that explained everything.

“I see,” she said. Refolding the tract, Lucy resolved then to learn more about the Beetners and Esther Grace’s former life. “Master Aubrey,” she said, handing around slices of thick bread, “I was thinking I could sell out by Smithfield. We’ve not sold there for a while.”

“Good Lord, this bread is hard,” the printer said, banging a chunk on the table. It sounded like a rock. “Didn’t you just get it from old Liddell this morning?”

“Yes, at quarter cost. Day old, Liddell told me. Try it with the stew,” Lucy said, making a dunking motion. “It will soften in no time.”

“Hmmph. Made Saturday, I’d wager. I’m all for your penny-pinching, but I like my bread fresh, miss.” Nevertheless, he did as Lucy had suggested, sopping a bit of the hard bread in his stew. “Smithfield? In this cold?”

Lucy shrugged. “I don’t mind.” She ignored Lach’s suspicious look. “There’s a printer out there, isn’t there? Master Blackwell? I saw his name on a tract.”

Master Aubrey wiped his mouth. “Blackwell? Yes, I know him. Good sort. Why?”

“I was just thinking that he might like to trade a few pieces with us, too. Like we did with the Quaker printer.”

Master Aubrey continued to chew thoughtfully. “See what he is peddling, hey?”

Lach snorted into his hand. “Wasn’t Lucy supposed to help with
The Three Witches of Dorchester
today? And we still have not finished the
The Scold’s Last Scold.
”

“I can sell along the way,” Lucy said hastily. “And I can finish off what you started this morning. I’ll be back in three hours, and I can work later, too, after supper.”

She held her breath, watching Master Aubrey cock his head back and forth as he contemplated her request. He had a keen business mind, Lucy was coming to realize. Unlike other masters, who might be loath to give their apprentices much liberty, he did not govern them with an overly firm hand. Indeed, so long as they managed to bring in an extra shilling or two, let alone a crown or a sovereign, he was sure to be pleased.

Unexpectedly, though, he leaned over and lightly boxed Lach on his right ear.

“Hey!” Lach yelped, jumping away. “What was that for?”

The printer wagged his finger at him. “About time you start coming up with some good ideas, too. Right now, we need to reset that last tract, as the frontispiece was smudged. I think the typeset must be off.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I accompanied Lucy?” Lach asked, a shade too innocently. She could read his thoughts. Even accompanying her was better than the tedious task that Master Aubrey had laid out before him. “Help her carry the packs.”

“Oh, would you?” Lucy asked, with a similarly feigned sweetness. “You are
such
a dear.”

Master Aubrey looked at him. If Lach had stopped there, the printer might have let him go. Instead Lach had to add, “I should very much like to keep Lucy safe.”

Since he had been unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice, sure enough, the master printer scowled. “Bah! None of your larking about,” he told Lach. “Lucy can manage fine on her own. Just don’t load the pack too heavy,” he warned, turning back to Lucy. “I don’t want you dragging the sack like I’ve seen this imp do. And I expect you back in three hours’ time, so you had best not gad about either.”

*   *   *

Within the hour, Lucy was now closing in on Hosier Lane, where the Beetners had lived, a heavy bag hoisted over her shoulder. As she walked north, she could still smell the residual smoke that arose whenever debris was moved about. Nothing was actively smoldering, of course, though the smoke still lingered in the fog and remained trapped below the remaining rubble. Finally, as she neared Smithfield and St. Bartholomew’s, she passed by Pye Corner, where the flames of the Great Fire had stopped and turned back upon themselves on that fateful third day.

Hosier Lane was not a very long street, consisting of a few homes and a few shops. Though it had long been associated with stocking-makers, now she saw only one sign that indicated cloth and thread. There was an instrument-maker’s shop and at the corner a printer’s shop as well, which she noted with great interest. “So that’s where Master Blackwell works,” she said to herself.

Passing by the shop, Lucy knocked. No one appeared to be in. No doubt he was out selling. She continued on, resolving to stop in the printer’s shop on her return, since she had promised Master Aubrey that she would do so.

She walked up to the hosier’s shop first. This shop was much older than the others on the street, more like a merchant’s stall. The merchant had hung cords from the edge of the shutters to a pole several feet away. Along the cords hung all sorts of woolen and embroidered silk stockings for men and women, as well as children. There were even some tiny ones for infants, although only the richest sorts would purchase such finery for babes still in arms.

Seeing Lucy, a man standing beside the shuttered windows called over to her. His face brightened when he saw her. “New stockings, miss? Some hose for your master?” he called, his tone friendly if a bit pleading. “Some warm woolens for yourself? Couldn’t hurt on a day like today!”

As if confirming his words, the wind picked up then, blowing a few stockings from the line. Bending over, Lucy helped pick up a few stockings that had fallen so that they would not grow sodden in the mud. She handed them to the merchant.

“I was wondering, sir,” she said. “Did you know the Beetners? They used to have a shop here on Hosier Lane.”

“Can’t say I ever knew ’em,” he said cheerfully. “Bought this establishment a year and a half ago. After the plague was sorting itself out, and before the Fire. Young woman sold me the place and the livelihood. I’d just become a master, you see, though I had not yet had a chance to establish myself.”

Lucy couldn’t explain it, but from the look on the man’s face, she suspected he was lying. Probably he wasn’t truly a master in his own right. Since Guildhall had succumbed to the Fire, it was unclear how many of the guild records had survived. Fishing out a coin, she bought a pair of bright red woolen stockings.

Taking the coin, he relaxed a bit and became more talkative. “From what I understand, the Beetners succumbed to the plague. Only their loyal servant survived. They had willed everything to her when they knew they were likely to die. She then was able to sell everything to me.”

“Did you know her name?” Lucy asked eagerly. “The woman who sold you the place? How did she approach you?”

Instead of answering her question, he blew warm air onto his hands. “Sometimes I don’t know what I was thinking, buying this place. Not too many sales in winter, I can assure you of that.” He said the last meaningfully.

Lucy took the hint. If she wanted more information she would have to buy something else. Looking through a straw basket on the floor, she picked out another pair of gray woolen stockings that she thought would suit Will.

Accepting the coin Lucy passed to him, the hosier smirked at her. “Her name was Esther Grace. We met at the Ivy and the Oak. Burnt to a crisp now.” He held up his hand to ward off her next questions. “That’s all I can tell you.”

Thoughtfully, Lucy went into the instrument-maker’s shop next door. Unlike the hosier’s shop, this store was not quite so old. She was able to press open the door and walk in. The welcome warmth of the room engulfed her, and she breathed in hungrily. Somewhere in the house, someone was making bread.

She looked around the quiet room, noting the instruments hanging from nails on the walls, stacked in the corners, and laid out on the overfull shelves. “Good day!” she called out. “Is anyone here?”

“Yes, yes, here I am,” said a voice from a far corner near the hearth. Peering behind a great harp, she spied an old man sitting in a soft embroidered chair, a lute or some other stringed instrument in his lap. A large dog lay companionably at his feet. “Are you interested in a musical instrument, my dear?” the man asked. “Or were you hoping to warm yourself on this chilly winter’s day?”

“I am very cold,” Lucy admitted, looking longingly at the fire in the hearth. “I was also wondering if you knew the Beetners? They used to own the shop next door.”

“The Beetners! Oh, a lovely family, they were. Oh, where are my manners? Pray warm yourself by the fire. Martha,” he called to someone in the back room, “we have a visitor! She wants to know about the Beetners.”

“Well—” Lucy started to say, although before she could finish her thought, an old woman came out.

“The Beetners!” she exclaimed. “Dear me! Sit down, my dear! I’ll bring you something warm to drink.”

Before long Lucy was settled on the low bench by the fire, appreciatively sipping a mug of hot mead. The honey soothed her throat. The old man and woman, she had learned, were the Fletchers, and they had owned their shop for nearly thirty years. They had lived above the shop for the same length of time, having survived the plague as well as the recent exodus from the city following the Great Fire.

“I did not actually know the Beetners,” Lucy began, wanting to make her intentions clear from the start. “I was just interested in someone who used to work for them. Esther Grace?”

The Fletchers exchanged a glance. “Yes, we knew her.” They looked disgusted. “What do you want to know of her?”

“Well, her husband passed away recently and—”

“Did she kill him?” Mrs. Fletcher interrupted with a humorless laugh.

“Now, now, Martha,” her husband chastised her while Lucy stared at her.

“Why ever would you think that?” she asked.

“Because I’m fairly certain she killed my dear friend. May she rot in hell.”

“I thought the Beetners died in the plague,” Lucy said, gripping her cup more tightly.

“So
she
claimed!” Mrs. Fletcher said, crossing her arms. “All I know is that I had stopped in the night before to see her, find out where they planned to go. Mr. Fletcher and I were planning to leave London, stay with my kin out in Bath. I knew they had no other relatives in England, being Dutch, you know. We’d heard the sickness was bad in Holland, too, so we didn’t think they’d be going there.”

She stopped, closing her eyes as she recollected those dreadful days. Lucy remembered them, too, and it was all she could do to keep her own terrible memories clouding over her. Though her own mother and sister were safe, countless other acquaintances had not survived the scourge.

“You saw them and—” Lucy prompted gently.

“I saw them and they were not the slightest bit sick. Not a bit of it. You can’t tell me that they all succumbed so rapidly. All I know is, when the searchers came by, ringing their bells, she declared all three bodies. The Beetners had an older unmarried daughter, Gretchen, who’d been living with them. Recently back from service, she was. We saw the bodies laid out, in their sheets. Dumped onto the back of the cart, taken to the plague-pits.” Mrs. Fletcher sniffed. “Not even a proper burial. Good God-fearing folks they were. They deserved better, even if they were foreigners.” Tears filled her eyes.

Something wasn’t making sense. “If they were shrouded, why did you think they were murdered?” Lucy pressed. “The plague could take its victims rapidly. I saw that myself. Sometimes a body looked healthy, even though it was not. The sickness had already sunk in.”