A Death Along the River Fleet (11 page)

Though she was trembling greatly herself, Lucy forced herself to step in front of the woman. “What is her name? Can you tell us that?” she asked the man. “For she does not seem to know you.”

His brow cleared. “Oh, I see. She is having one of her little spells again? That happens. Loses her memory and wanders off. My poor sweet dear. It will come back to you soon enough. It always does, you will see. Then we will have a hearty laugh.”

His words startled Lucy. Indeed, he seemed familiar with the woman's ailments.

The man continued. “My wife's name is Erica. Erica Nabur. And I am Gunther.” Again he held out his hand. “Come, dear, it is time for us to go home. Let me take care of you.”

The woman was now clutching Lucy's arm, painfully digging in her fingers. “I do not know him,” she whispered fiercely. “Please do not send me with him. I do not know him.”

“Do not be ridiculous, my dear wife!” To Lucy he said, “She knows not what she speaks. We have been married these past five years.” When his lips parted, she could see that he was missing a few teeth, and his grin looked a bit more feral. More menacing. “Come along, my dear,” he said to the woman. “We have tarried here long enough.”

Lucy began to pull the woman away from the man. “We were on our way to see the constable. If you would be good enough to show him your papers, then I am sure we can—”

She did not get a chance to finish her thought before the man grabbed the woman's other arm and began to forcibly pull her away from Lucy. “How dare you try to keep my wife from me!”

Without thinking, Lucy began to slap and kick him hard. In the months she had spent selling books, she had learned quite a bit about how to land a blow that would hurt. At first, the man held on, but under Lucy's relentless assault he broke away, stumbling a few steps back. Rather than running off, though, as Lucy expected, he just gazed at the women, leaving her oddly uncertain.

“Leave us!” Lucy commanded, fearful he might try to forcefully drag the woman down the lane.

At that, the man turned on his heel and strode away.

Lucy turned back to stare at the woman, both of them breathing heavily. “Are you all right?” she asked. When the woman nodded, Lucy took a step closer. “I do not believe for a moment that that growling cur was your husband. He was a charlatan, of that I am certain. But are you quite certain that you are not Mistress Nabur?”

The woman's face went blank again, but she didn't say anything. She began to rub her wrists as if she were cold. “I am not she,” she whispered. “That is not a name I know.”

“An odd thing, though, that he was so familiar with your fits,” Lucy said as they began to walk again, more quickly now. She kept darting glances over her shoulder, in case the man decided to follow them. “And yet you say you did not recognize him.”

“I cannot explain it,” the woman gulped. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead, and she had begun to breathe more rapidly.

Something else was bothering Lucy. “He also lied to you outright. He claimed to be your husband because—”

“Because he knew I would not recognize him,” the woman concluded. “He knew I would have no memory.”

Lucy frowned. “That must mean he knows you. But what he wanted with you is another question altogether.” Seeing the woman's face blanch, Lucy took her arm. “Let us get quickly to the constable's. He resides just a small distance away, on Fleet Street.”

*   *   *

Shortly after, they arrived at the constable's jail, Lucy having kept a tight hold on the woman's arm the entire time. She did not think anyone would try to tear the woman away again, but the strangeness of the incident made her wary.

The jail had been a candle-maker's shop before the Great Fire, and was just to the west of where the Fire had stopped. The owner likely succumbed to the plague that had decimated London, or fled when the Fire started, for there had been no sign of the former inhabitant in the eight months since the Lord Mayor had allowed Duncan to set up a temporary jail. They went straight inside.

“Lucy!” Duncan exclaimed in obvious pleasure when he saw her. “What brings you here?” When she coughed, he became aware of the woman's presence behind her. He flushed slightly, but drew himself up sharply. “Miss,” he said, bowing his head. “Good day to you.”

“I have just been assaulted,” the woman said.

“What?” Duncan cried, looking at Lucy. “Explain, if you would!”

“We are fine,” Lucy replied, hastening to reassure him. Quickly she explained what had just occurred.

“Are you certain you did not know him? That you are not his wife?” Duncan asked, repeating the same questions that Lucy had just posed.

“I am certain I am not his wife,” the woman replied. But she did not claim again that she did not know the man, Lucy noticed.

Duncan might have had the same thought, because he glanced at Lucy. “Let me escort you ladies back to Dr. Larimer's. This assault does not sit well with me, and I should prefer that you are both somewhere safe.”

“Oh, no!” the woman exclaimed. “Please, I beg you. Not yet.” She looked at Lucy with pleading eyes. “Despite the mishap that just transpired, I should very much like to stay outside where I can breathe fresh air. I cannot bear to be locked up again.”

“Locked up?” Duncan looked puzzled. He glanced at Lucy.

“Miss, I can assure you,” Lucy said, trying her best to keep from scowling at the woman, “we have not locked you up.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Shall we go to the market? It will do you good. The constable can accompany us.”

Lucy gave Duncan a meaningful look. This might be the opportunity they were looking for to bring the woman back to where Lucy had first discovered her.

“Surely Constable Duncan has more important duties?” the woman asked. “You may attend me at the market.”

“What if that man is still about?” Lucy asked. “What if he tries to attack you again?”

Seeing the woman frown, Duncan bowed slightly. “I, like any of the king's men, am entitled to an occasional break from duty,” he said. His tone was decisive. “I shall go inform Hank.” He headed into one of the back rooms to speak with his bellman.

Lucy and the woman stepped back onto Fleet Street. “I do not quite think it proper for me to be seen in the company of a constable,” the woman said, her tone once again sounding haughty. “I see, though, that I seem to have little choice in the matter.”

When Duncan approached, the woman did not accept his proffered arm. “No, thank you. I shall manage on my own. Which way?”

Lucy pointed in the general northerly direction of Holborn Market, and the woman began to walk quickly along the street, without looking back at either of them. Her gait was purposeful, and her stance was proud. All in all, she moved like a gentlewoman who waited on no one.

Duncan raised his eyebrow, and Lucy shrugged, following after the woman.

Mindful of Dr. Larimer's instructions not to let the woman grow too tired, Lucy called out to her. “Pray, slow your step. I am afeared that you will be overtaxed by this short journey, and Dr. Larimer will not be pleased. He said not to let you grow exhausted.”

“Kind though Dr. Larimer may be,” the woman panted, “the whole place smells like physicks and medicines and reminds me how unwell everyone thinks me. I simply cannot slow down.”

Lucy found herself a few steps behind the woman, with Duncan easily matching her stride. Naturally, he had not offered Lucy his arm, nor did she take it.

“A pleasant enough day,” he murmured, looking about.

Lucy agreed. The soft fog from the morning had long been dispelled, along with the chill in the air. In the distance, she heard church bells begin to toll. Once. Twice. Two o'clock.

Duncan put a hand on her arm. “Let us slow down a trifle. We can keep her in our sights.” He moved closer to her as they slowed. “Have you learned anything more of her identity?” Duncan asked, speaking softly so that his question would not be overheard.

Lucy shook her head. “Mr. Sheridan is still convinced that she is Octavia Belasysse. He remembers the birthmark on her wrist. But she still claims no memory of that name.”

Duncan snorted. “A recollection of a birthmark is little enough to go on.”

“Dr. Larimer is hopeful that her memory will be restored in time,” Lucy offered. “He is loath to cast her out, though, in case she indeed is the daughter of a baron.”

“And if she is Erica Nabur, wife of Gunther?” Duncan asked. “What then?”

Lucy shrugged. “She shall be released from the physician's charge, and I shall return to Master Aubrey's.” She gave a half smile. “I suppose, as Erica Nabur, she will have to give back Mistress Larimer's dresses, too. Oh, how disappointed Mistress Larimer will be, if this woman does not turn out to be the daughter of a baron!”

They both laughed. Then Lucy turned back to something Duncan had said earlier. “You know, Mr. Sheridan also said she had always had fits. That is why he is convinced this woman is Miss Belasysse. I got the feeling they might have been closer once. He knew her brother, and her family, back at university.”

“I see,” Duncan said, guiding Lucy around a still-steaming pile of horse manure.

“And what's more, she said his name in her sleep. ‘Leave me alone, James,'” Lucy said. “I just know she was referring to Mr. Sheridan. But naturally she claimed not to know him when I asked her about him later.”

Duncan repeated her words. “How curious,” he said. After a short pause, he asked, “Didn't Dr. Larimer say that the wounds on her neck indicated that someone had been letting her blood? Someone with great knowledge and skill? A surgeon, or even a physician?”

“Yes,” Lucy said slowly. “What are you getting at?”

Duncan scratched his forehead. “Is it a coincidence that this woman was found traipsing about near Dr. Larimer's residence?”

“Well…”

Duncan did not wait for her to reply. He seemed to have seized on a new idea. “Mr. Sheridan has been acting familiarly toward this woman, which belies his usual manner toward his patients, does it not? He is certainly familiar with her treatments.”

“If he knew her before—” Lucy paused, realizing the direction of his thoughts. “You think that Mr. Sheridan had something to do with her condition?”

Duncan shrugged. “It is something we must keep in mind,” he whispered. “Let us catch up now with this woman. Perhaps she will say something that gives us more clues to her identity, so we can find out once and for all who treated her in such a terrible and strange way.”

 

9

When they reached Holborn Market, Lucy watched the woman's expression to see if she recalled anything. But she seemed distant and uninterested in the market, if anything a bit disdainful of some of the cheaper wares. At one point she did whisper to Lucy as they looked at silk wraps. “They are trying to say that these silks come from China. But it is clear that they are from a weaver in Lyon, and should not command the price that merchant asks.”

Lucy was not sure if that was true or not, but the woman clearly spoke with an unexpected knowledge of the quality of the silks and clothes being sold at the market.

When the woman was sniffing some early flowers, Lucy tugged on the constable's red sleeve. “I think we should lead her over to Holborn Bridge. Before she grows too weary. We might not get this chance again.”

To the woman she said, “Miss, let us begin our journey back before you get too tired. We should not like for Dr. Larimer to refuse you such a stroll again.”

“I
am
growing weary,” she murmured, grasping Lucy's arm. Once again she had dropped her imperious manner.

They left the market, and casually Lucy led them toward Holborn Bridge. She mounted the three steps. “Do you know,” she said, her voice even, “this is where I first encountered you.”

Lucy pointed. “Just there, beyond the bridge. About thirty steps away. You appeared out of the fog.” She glanced at the woman, keeping her tone light. “You looked to me a most unnatural specter.” She smiled. “Then you sneezed, and I knew you to be flesh and blood.”

The woman did not smile. Instead, she began to look about, a wondering expression on her face. Moving over to the stone bridge, she mounted the three steps before gazing into the muck and ill-flowing water below. Just then the wind picked up, and they all grimaced.

“Oh, that smell!” She looked at Lucy. “I remember, I think, crossing this bridge with you?”

“That is right,” Lucy said. She desperately wanted to ask more questions, but she remained silent, allowing the woman to capture what she could of her memory.

The woman looked down at her bandaged hands. “You washed my hands,” the woman replied. “There was bl-blood on them?”

“Yes,” Lucy nodded. “Not here. At a well outside of Holborn Market. Past the crowd.”

The woman nodded, still seemingly lost in thought. “There was another woman, though? Someone who was with me?” she asked Lucy.

Lucy shook her head. “I saw no one else.”

The woman walked quickly across the bridge and down the three stone steps on the other side, carefully moving into the burnt-out expanse.

Lucy exchanged a puzzled glance with Duncan, and then they both followed the woman over the bridge. “I wonder who was with her,” Lucy said.

“People have been living out here, amid the rubble,” the constable replied, in a low tone. “Illegal, of course, but such activity is hard to contain.”

He looked about, at the foggy gray expanse in front of him. “Not a day goes by that I do not remember the terror that the Great Fire brought. And when I first came out here to patrol the grounds, the destruction was so immense, I could scarcely take it in.”

Lucy nodded. “I remember, too,” she said softly. A few days after the Fire had subsided, she—along with hundreds of other glazed-over Londoners—had been part of the brigade of laborers tasked with clearing away the rubble. For days, they had toiled, side by side, shoveling debris into buckets and wheelbarrows for hours on end, earning a few coins a day. A dead body had even been discovered, with a puzzle upon his corpse. That story had become
From the Charred Remains,
a tract that sold well among the Fleet Street sort.