A Death Along the River Fleet (2 page)

As they passed through the edge of Holborn Market a few moments later, she could see the merchants eying them suspiciously. No wonder. The woman looked quite frightful indeed, with her wild hair and stricken features. Lucy feared she looked little more presentable herself, without a cloak to keep her tidy.

The woman began to move more sluggishly, now fully clinging to Lucy as if she were unable to move without the support of her strong young arm. “They are all staring at me,” she whispered. “They think I have done something dreadful.”

“No, no,” Lucy murmured. “Let us keep moving. The air is too cold, and we are not dressed for such a chill.” She began to pull the woman more forcefully. “Come on, now. We should not dally.”

But the woman stood stock-still and began to mutter to herself.

“What is it? What are you saying?” Lucy asked, putting her ear closer to the woman's mouth. “I cannot understand you.”

Then, unexpectedly, the woman began to jerk her head to one side, her dark eyes once again taking on that fearful unseeing look.

“M-miss?” Lucy said, taking a step back. “I fear something is wrong.”

A few steps away, a boy tugged on the sleeve of his mother's brown cloak. “Ma, look at that woman there!” he said loudly. “What is wrong with her?”

His mother turned away from the stall of vegetables. “Dunno, Tim,” she said to her son, yanking him away. “Nothing good comes from crossing paths with them sort.”

But Tim continued to stare at the woman. “Got a wild look to her, don't she?”

Lucy glared at the boy. Unfortunately, her response drew an equally baleful look from his mother. “Devil has her!” his mother hissed, looking at the vegetable-seller, who nodded in agreement.

“Witch's eyes, she has!” the vegetable-seller said loudly, planting her hands on her plump hips. “Off with you now! We're godly folk in this market. There is no business for the devil here.”

“No, no!” Lucy cried out, putting up her hands. “She is injured, she needs help! She is not accursed! Please, I am bringing her to a physician! The good Dr. Larimer. He lives near here! Pray, let us pass!”

She pulled at the woman, who still stood as if her feet had frozen to the ground. “Miss,” she whispered urgently. “We must leave here.”

Other people who had been milling about at the small market began to gather around them as well. “Devil got her!” they began to call and jeer. “Cast her from the market!”

“No, please!” Lucy pleaded, above the growing din. “We are just passing through the market. A stone's throw away, I tell you. That is where we are going.”

Suddenly a potato glanced off Lucy's cheek, and she turned angrily to face her assailant.

“There is your stone's throw!” The vegetable-seller cackled. “Take that cursed woman away from my goods, lest she draw down the hex!”

Although Lucy desperately regretted having taken charge of the pitiful woman, there was no way she could leave her to this frenzied crowd. “Come with me,” Lucy said, putting her arm around the woman, trying to steer them both away from the market and away from the cruel chants and jeers of the crowd.

At that moment, the woman, who had not moved for the last two minutes, suddenly seemed to leap back into her senses. “What is going on? Where am I?”

She stared in fear at the taunting faces around her, digging her nails hard into Lucy's uncloaked arm. It was all Lucy could do to keep from crying out herself. Lucy did not want to rile the crowd any more. She pulled the cloak up around the woman's head, hiding her wild hair again. “Please, miss,” she said again, more urgently. “We must keep moving.”

The woman began to sob quietly but allowed herself to be led. Her change to a more piteous creature did not pass unmarked, and Lucy could feel the mood of the Londoners around her changing as they continued through the market. Thankfully, the crowd did not follow them, and they soon found themselves away from the busy stalls, in an old abandoned cow pasture.

Lucy let go of the woman and looked at her. There was a time when she might have feared the woman as one beset by the devil. Her years living in the magistrate's household, though, had taught her to be suspicious of those who spoke too easily of witchcraft and magical doings. Still, had she not seen, with her own eyes, the movement of God working among those who called themselves Quakers? So who was to say that the devil could not move those weak of heart and faith? She shook her head.

At the edge of the dusty road, Lucy spied a well. Fortunately, when she pulled up the bucket, the water was not frozen and seemed clean enough, aside from a few dead bugs floating around. Using the little tin cup that she always carried in her pack, Lucy scooped out some water and bid the woman to drink.

Her hand now clutching the side of the well for support, the woman drank a bit, sputtering at the taste. Ignoring the shouts still ringing in her ears, and the still-rapid beating of her heart, Lucy regarded the woman critically. Between her wild unkempt hair, the bloodstains on her clothes, and the dirt and blood on her hands, they would likely be barred entrance to the physician's home on sight. No, the woman's wild beggarly state required attention.

Dabbing her handkerchief into the pail, Lucy washed the woman's hands and face, scrubbing away some of the dried blood, before drying them with her own cloak. Then, reaching under her white cap, Lucy carefully untied a ribbon from her hair. Before the woman could resist, Lucy created a quick knot so that it lay at the nape of her neck, securing it with the ribbon. Though her hair was still untidy, the woman looked a shade more respectable.

“He will see us now,” Lucy murmured to herself.

A few minutes later, she tiptoed to the tradesman's entrance at the back of the physician's house.

“What is this place?” the woman asked. “Where have you brought me?”

“Dr. Larimer's,” Lucy said. “Now, hush.”

When Dr. Larimer's housekeeper swung open the door, she took in their bedraggled appearance and immediately began to close the door. “Off with you,” she said. “The doctor don't do charity.”

“Please,” Lucy said, sticking her foot in the door so that it would not close. “I have a delivery for Dr. Larimer. From Master Aubrey, the printer.” Lucy crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping that the small lie would pass unnoticed. “My master did tell me to get the payment before I left.”

“What about her?” the servant asked, flicking a finger toward the woman. “She has a sickly look to her.”

“I do not know her,” Lucy said. “Truth be told, I found her nearby. There is something amiss with her. I
do
think she requires a physician. I thought since I was coming to see Dr. Larimer anyway—” She broke off, hating to lie. She spoke more quickly. “Please tell your master, I beg you. I cannot in good conscience leave her on the streets. My name is Lucy Campion. I sell books for Master Aubrey, and was employed with Master Hargrave before that. He knows me.” She pushed against the door a bit more firmly. “And I think you know me, too.”

Something about Lucy must have stirred the housekeeper, for she opened the door and allowed them entrance. “Come with me,” she said. “Do not let her touch anything, though. I do not want her muck all over my clean floors.”

Lucy had started to step in when she realized that the woman was hanging back, a fearful look on her face. “'Tis all right,” Lucy said taking the woman's hand again. As they entered, Lucy saw a young girl about seventeen years of age, wearing a servant's cap and apron, peek out at them, taking in their appearance with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

The woman seized Lucy's hand then, so tightly it hurt. Together they followed the servant to a room near the front of the house. “Wait here,” the housekeeper said tersely. “Both of you. I will fetch Dr. Larimer.”

 

2

Awkwardly supporting the strange woman with her left arm, Lucy looked about the physician's office with interest. Like Master Hargrave's study, the physician's had several shelves of old leather books, like the three she had lugged all the way from the printer's shop. He had a desk with writing implements—quill, ink, paper, sealing wax, and a seal—and sheaves of paper everywhere. There the resemblance stopped. Unlike the magistrate, the physician had instruments hanging from one wall, most of which Lucy did not recognize, as well as shelves of vials and jars. All the while the woman paced anxiously beside Lucy.

Dr. Larimer walked in then, scowling. “Lucy, what is this nonsense you told my housekeeper, Mrs. Hotchkiss, about a delivery from Horace Aubrey?” He eyed the woman. “I do not think that even he would find it humorous to send me such a sickly piece.”

Despite his jest, she could hear the annoyance in the physician's voice. The woman backed up against the wall.

Though a flush of shame passed over her, Lucy kept her head up. “I am aggrieved that I told that story,” she said. “It is just that I encountered this woman on my travels this morning. I do not know who she is. Indeed, she seems unable to explain anything for herself.” She paused. “Please, sir. I think something terrible has happened to her. I was hoping you could help her.”

“Lucy, I do not take charitable cases,” he replied sternly. “If she is injured, you should have brought her to St. Bartholomew's. That hospital would take her, as they do all the indigent.” He turned to go. “Please remove her from my home at once.”

“Wait, sir,” Lucy cried. “If you could just look at her. I dread taking her to the hospital, and I should hate to simply leave her on her own. I think she is wounded; I saw blood on her hands and body. She might grow worse, unattended.”

At her last words, Dr. Larimer raised a fist heavenward. “Oh, Hippocrates!”

“Sir?” Lucy asked, confused.

“Blasted Greek.
I will use my power to help the sick to the best of my ability and judgment; I will abstain from harming or wronging any man by it.
” He glanced at Lucy. “Never mind, Lucy. Though some of my fellow physicians may disagree, I am obligated to seek to preserve life, no matter how lowly.” Still a few steps away, he scrutinized the woman, raising an eyebrow when he noticed her feet. “No shoes? But a cloak?”

“'Tis my own cloak wrapped around her, you see,” Lucy explained. In a softer voice she added, “She wears no frock either. She is only in her shift. This is how I found her.” She chose not to add that the woman had claimed that the devil had been chasing her.
All in good time,
she thought.

“I see,” he said. “That she is standing, and was able to walk from where you found her to here, makes me suspect that her injuries are not substantial. I shall examine her.” The physician leaned over to open her cloak.

At his touch, the woman began to scream, great terrible shrieks that made the hairs on Lucy's neck rise up.

Unexpectedly, Dr. Larimer reached out and slapped the woman smartly across her mouth. She stopped screaming abruptly, though tears filled her eyes. “That is better,” he said. “Now, let us continue.”

Lucy hesitated. “Shall I leave, sir?”

But as she turned to go, the woman clutched Lucy's hand, a mute plea evident in her anguished eyes.

“She does not seem to want you to leave her,” the physician said drily, observing the gesture. “She is showing great suffering of the womb. The
hystericus
is evident upon her, which I will treat most appropriately with a tincture of opium. Surely, for that alone, my dear Hippocrates will allow that I have done all I can before I turn her loose. At the very least, I can seek to redress her obvious humoral imbalance.”

Opening the door, he called down the corridor. “Mrs. Hotchkiss! A white wine posset, if you would.” He began to crush some ingredients with a mortar and pestle. Both women watched him.

Shortly after, Mrs. Hotchkiss entered the room, with a mug of warmed wine. Dr. Larimer stirred in some crushed ingredients and held it out to the woman. “Drink!” he commanded.

When she did not take the mug, he brought it to her lips as if he were going to force her to swallow the warm liquid. Clenching her teeth together, the woman shrank back and began to flail her arms, trying to bat away the drink.

Dr. Larimer scowled. “I do not have time for this nonsense.” He gestured to the long bench. “Sit down, woman.”

“Let me try,” Lucy said hastily, taking the fragrant drink from his hands, before he could cast the woman out of his house. She had dealt with sick and frightened people before. “Please, miss,” she said, patting the long bench. “Sit here beside me.”

To both their surprise, the woman stopped struggling and sat down.

“That's right,” Lucy said, keeping her eyes steadily on the woman. “You must drink this. It will help you feel better.” She wrapped the woman's now docile hands around the warm mug. “Take a nip.”

Obediently, the woman took a small timid sip. Evidently finding the posset to her liking, she took a few deeper sips, and then a few mouthfuls, before draining the cup.

“She had blood all over her hands and feet when I found her,” Lucy said quietly to the physician. The woman's eyes were already starting to flutter. The wine and the opium were no doubt working quickly on her emaciated body. “Perhaps you could start there?”

Together they eased the woman back on the bench, and Lucy slipped an embroidered pillow under her head.

Carefully, the physician grasped the woman's hands. She moaned and tried to pull them free, although her movements were slow and lacked power. But he would not let them go.

“Hold there, miss!” Dr. Larimer said, examining the palms and backs of the woman's hands. “Sanguine? No, cold and dry. Full of black bile. Likely melancholic.” He released the woman's hands and touched her face. “No fever, at least. That is a blessing, to be certain.” He scowled when he examined her feet. “Why was she wearing no shoes?”