A Death Along the River Fleet (21 page)

After that, to pass the time, Lucy pulled out the tract she had begun to write the other day. “
A Tale Most Strange, of a Woman Found near Holborn Bridge,”
she said out loud, then crossed the words out heavily with several swipes of her pen. Turning the paper over, she started again.
“A Death Along the River Fleet, or—”

She paused. What would be the second part of the title? She ran the quill back and forth across her cheeks, until she straightened up with a smile. She began to write again.
“Or, The True Account of a Most Strange Murder That Did Occur at Holborn Bridge.”

With the title in place, she began to write in her laborious uneducated script, a tract about the murder that she hoped would please Master Aubrey.

Hearing the church bells chime two hours later, she decided to go outside to collect a few of the flowers she'd seen beginning to grow along the grassy stretch in front of the house.

Leaning against the stone wall of the house, Lucy stared up at the clouds, enjoying the slight warmth of the sun on her cheeks. Above, two birds flitted by, chirping at each other, and a third followed with a twig in its beak. Readying for a nest, no doubt, she thought. Taking a great breath, she inhaled the fresh April air with a sense of deep enjoyment.

These last few hours had been rather precious; indeed, she could not remember the last time she had done such little labor. With a guilty pang she thought of the unopened Bible upstairs, and she said a little prayer to God, asking him to forgive her for indulging in what was truly a merry pastime. However, she could not wait to finish the tract and give it to Master Aubrey. Would he think it fine enough to print?

“If he does not like it, I will change it until he does,” she whispered to herself. “And won't Lach be mad when Master Aubrey prints another of my pieces?” She giggled, thinking of how annoyed the redheaded printer's devil would be if he had to sell another of her pieces on the streets. “I should turn it into a ballad, and hear him sing my words.”

The sun went behind the cloud then, and a brief darkness overcame Lucy's thoughts as well.
How lucky I have been, to be apprenticed to Master Aubrey,
she thought.
Whatever shall I do if he should choose not to keep me on?

Get married, she supposed. As always, her thoughts drifted then to Adam, and to Duncan, too. In particular, she remembered the exchange she had had with Adam the other day. These last few weeks, since the day they had all saved Sarah from the clutches of a murderer, he had still been kind and courteous, but she'd sensed a new reserve there. He had not otherwise sought to renew his addresses and indeed, seemed to be in a waiting, watchful state. Only when they had spoken in Dr. Larimer's courtyard had she seen the reserve fall away. “Have you left Master Aubrey's employment?” he had asked, his tone so wistful. And then so disappointed when she said she never wanted to leave the printer's shop.

Was she daft? Some people would say so, she knew that for certain. But others would say she was the practical one, and he the fool. Had Mrs. Larimer not been wholly astonished by the notion that she might sup with Lady Belasysse? Lucy could scarcely imagine a day when she would ever be truly welcome in the circles in which the Hargraves traveled. And then there was Duncan—

Her thoughts were interrupted when someone coughed. “Pardon me, miss.”

Lucy's eyes flew open. A tall, thin man dressed completely in black was standing before her, a large black satchel gripped in his hand. He wore a somewhat worried expression on his face. “This is the residence of Dr. Larimer, is it not?”

“The doctor is not here. He is at Easter service,” Lucy replied.
As so should you be,
she added to herself. She looked at him more closely. “Why do you ask? Are you in need of a physician?”

He opened his bag. Lucy could see it was full of bottles and vials. “I am an apothecary,” he said. “I thought he might have interest in my wares.”

Lucy looked at him doubtfully. “I do not know how Dr. Larimer obtains his medicines. I am sure you should take it up with him directly.” She started to go, when he put his hand on her arm.

Growing alarmed, Lucy jerked her arm away, even as the man apologized. “Miss, I am sorry, I did not mean to offend you. I just wanted to speak with you. The patient you are looking after, is she a young woman? Maybe a little older than yourself? I thought I saw you with her yesterday.”

“Who is she to you?” Lucy asked, with a quick glance up and down the street. She could see the first few people returning home after their church service had concluded. Their presence soothed her somewhat. Surely they would pay heed if the man attacked her. “Do you know her?”

The man was starting to look visibly nervous now, sweating. He held out a large vial toward her. “Please. For her fits. It will help her. I promise what I say is true.”

“Why in heaven's name should I trust you?” Lucy asked, making no move to take the bottle. “This could be poison!”

“Please, I would never hurt her. You must believe that to be so.” Then, to her surprise, he unstoppered the bottle and took a great sip. “See? It is harmless. Why would I wish to poison myself?” Before she could reply, he continued. “Please, if this were a deadly bane, I'd be turning blue, gasping for breath, or going into spasms right now. Am I doing any of those things?”

When Lucy only stared at him, he replied. “Nor, I promise, will I succumb to a long-lasting poison in three days' time. Can you please just believe that I am trying to help her? Have your physician test it first. He will know what it is, I can assure you.”

“Who are you?” Lucy asked. “Tell me why you have brought this medicine to her. Who is she to you?”

“I do not wish to say,” he said, his words coming out in a rush. “Please, believe me. I do not wish to bring her any harm. In God's name, on this holiest of holy days, I ask that you please just give her the tincture—sixty, eighty, or a hundred drops, more or less, as her distemper requires—and when in extremity, thrice or four times a day.” He spoke even faster. “Well mixed in a glass of sack or other wine. Have her take it first thing in the morning, and the last at night. Do you understand?” He peered at her intently.

“Yes, no—who are you? How did you know about her?” Lucy persisted.

“Please, repeat it to me. I must know that you understand the dose.”

Seeing that he would not be dissuaded, Lucy dutifully repeated the instructions he had just told her. Years of remembering ingredients and recipes with Master Hargrave's cook had made such a skill come naturally. This recipe seemed particularly easy to recall.

“I must go,” the man said, looking more nervous when the lanky figure of a young man could be seen walking directly toward them and even more nervous still when the man called out a greeting. “Good Easter, Lucy!”

It was Sid, a pickpocket Lucy had met on streets of London, before the Great Fire. An orphan, Sid had long survived the streets by stealing a bit of this here and a bit of that there, but for the last few months, he had been doing odd jobs for Master Hargrave and seemed to be mending his ways. They were friends, although he could be a scamp and a bit of a rogue.

“That is all I may do for now.” The man in black turned and began to walk quickly away. “I must go. Godspeed.”

“Wait, stop!” Lucy called.

“What was that all about?” Sid asked, a mischievous look on his face. “Stepping out on young Master Hargrave?” Giving her a mocking bow, he held a note toward her. “A note from his father, for Dr. Larimer.”

After taking the note, Lucy gripped his arm. “Sid,” she whispered. “Please, I need you to follow that man. Find out where he is going. Do not let him out of your sight.”

Sid looked down at her. “Desperate, are we not?” His tone was still teasing.

“Please, Sid. I must know.” When he didn't move, she tried to explain. “He told me that he is an apothecary, and he seems to have some knowledge of a woman in my charge. I need to know more about him. Please, follow him quick. He is almost out of sight!”

In a most infuriating way, Sid yawned. “Depends. What is it in for me?”

“Half a crown,” she said desperately, regretting the huge sum the moment it came out of her mouth. She batted away his hand. “Not now. Early tomorrow morning. Whistle near the kitchen, and I will meet you there.” She pointed to the large oak tree still mostly bereft of leaves. “Be quick now, or you will lose sight of your prey.”

“Right-o!” Sid replied, finally taking off.

Lucy stared after the young thief for a moment. She knew she did not have to warn him to take care. In his years of being orphaned on the streets, Sid had long ago learned how to look out for himself, and become adept at the art of thievery, even if he was not always as subtle as he assumed. He had, however, proved himself quite helpful and resourceful in the past, when she had needed his assistance. She could only hope that he proved so useful today.

*   *   *

Before long, Dr. Larimer's family and servants returned from Easter service and began to settle in for the afternoon. Lucy waited anxiously for a time to speak to Dr. Larimer privately.

This moment finally occurred when Mr. Sheridan went to check on Miss Belasysse, Mrs. Larimer followed the servants into the kitchen to confer about Easter dinner, and Lucy was able to follow Dr. Larimer into his study. In her pocket, she had both the letter and the vial.

She handed him the note first. “From Master Hargrave.”

“Ah, wonderful!” Dr. Larimer said, reading the note. “Thomas has confirmed the presence of himself and his son for our Easter meal. Lucy, would you be so good as to inform my wife?”

“Certainly, sir,” she said. More hesitant now, she held out the vial. “There was another delivery as well.”

“Oh? On Easter Sunday?” he asked, still glancing at his letters on his table. “From whom?”

“From a man who promised that this substance would help Miss Belasysse control her fits.” Lucy found herself plucking at the folds in her skirt, but forced herself to stop.
Young ladies do not fidget,
she could remember Mrs. Hargrave reminding her daughter, Sarah, on many an occasion. Lucy strove to remember such lessons even if, strictly speaking, they had not been intended for her.

Dr. Larimer put down his quill and stared at her. “Whatever do you mean? Who was this man?”

Lucy told him about the man who had stopped at the house. “He knew all about her condition,” she explained. “Unlike the other man who tried to trick us into thinking she was his wife, this man seemed genuinely concerned about her.”

Frowning, Dr. Larimer took the bottle. “I do not like this,” he said. “It could be poison.”

“I thought so, too,” Lucy agreed. The man had seemed so eager to help, though, and there was such a sadness there, that deep in her heart, she believed that the stranger's intentions were good. “He did drink a bit of the liquid to prove that he was not seeking to poison her.”

“He did, did he?” Dr. Larimer asked, still regarding the vial with distrust. Carefully, he unstoppered the container and poured a bit of liquid into a small marble bowl, holding it close to his eyes so he could see the color.

“He said he was an apothecary?” the physician said over his shoulder. “What did he look like?”

Lucy described the man. Though she did not say this to Dr. Larimer, she had been struck by the man's soulful nature as well as the dark circles that ringed his eyes. He had been a man who did not sleep well, of that she was certain.

“All in black, you say?” he asked. “That sounds about right. Apothecaries always wear black, to show how seriously they take their practice. They are a solemn lot.”

Dr. Larimer rolled the drops about in the bowl, before he held it to his nose and sniffed. “He certainly knew how to mix the potion properly. Strange, I thought I knew most of the apothecaries in London,” the physician mused. “Even before the Fire, when their hall at Blackfriars was destroyed, there were only but a few plying their trade in the City. All members of the Society of Apothecaries. Any would know to speak to me directly. Or Mr. Sheridan.” He looked at Lucy. “Why would he approach
you
in such a manner?”

“Maybe he is lying about being an apothecary, and could not run the risk of you questioning him. He could have pilfered the vial from someone else,” Lucy replied, watching him work. “Still, he knew that she would be in need of this medicine.”

Finally, Dr. Larimer put the tiniest bit of the liquid on his littlest finger and gingerly touched it to his tongue. With a grimace he said, “St. John's wort and perhaps a few other ingredients. Yes, it could work. No, it is not poison. I should like to confer with Mr. Sheridan first, who I believe is with Miss Belasysse right now. Come along, Lucy.”

A few moments later, they entered the bedchamber. “We have a medicine that may help your fits,” Dr. Larimer said to Miss Belasysse, passing the vial to Mr. Sheridan. “An apothecary stopped by with it earlier, and gave it to Lucy.”

Miss Belasysse had been lying in the bed, but sat up abruptly at Dr. Sheridan's words. “An apothecary?” she asked.

“Wherever did that come from?” Mr. Sheridan said, uncorking the bottle. Setting the bottle down on the table beside the bed, he gingerly sniffed the cork. “What apothecary is selling on the Lord's Day?”

“Someone brought it for Miss Belasysse,” Lucy said, watching the woman's face. She'd seen a flash of recognition there. “Moreover, I think she knows who it was.”

“No,” Miss Belasysse said, starting to tremble. “I do not know who brought it, but somehow I can remember that this is no poisonous bane.”

Before anyone could stop her, she picked the vial off the table and took a deep swallow.