A Death Along the River Fleet (28 page)

He nodded toward the door. “I shall bring Dr. Larimer instructions for making up another batch. He could take it to another apothecary, if he does not wish to make it himself. Pray, leave here and do not come back again.” He turned away then, staring at his collection of amulets, looking lost and forlorn.

Lucy left, moving quickly through the corridors, trying to keep her footsteps from echoing in the stone halls. Lost in her own thoughts, she almost moved into full view of Mr. Sheridan speaking to another man in the great hall.

Squinting into the shadowy room, she could see it was the same man who had assaulted Miss Belasysse outside the physician's house, calling himself her husband, Mr. Nabur. Ducking behind one of the great stone pillars, Lucy said a small prayer that no one would see her.

They were evidently concluding a conversation. “Well, Mr. Sheridan, I thank you for your visit today,” she heard the man say to the physician. “As you can see, we do have room for a few more patients, provided they can pay their lodging and treatment fees. Any referral from you, we shall consider most closely. Good day.”

After the man walked past, she was able to move through the great room and out the front door. Mr. Sheridan was outside the stone wall, looking about unpleasantly.

“Who was that man you were just speaking to?” she asked breathlessly.

“The keeper,” he growled. “Not a physician at all. He just manages the building and the inmates.”

She pulled on his sleeve. “The keeper. He was the man who came after Miss Belasysse, earlier this week!”

He shook his hand free of her and returned to walking at his usual brisk pace. “That does not surprise me.” He kicked a stone along the path. “They think they are doing right by the inmates. Tying them up is a very common treatment for those with afflicted minds, particularly those who are not easily controlled.” Mr. Sheridan continued to fume. “How could they have done such wrong to such a beautiful creature?”

“I am certain that the keeper would have little qualms in keeping Miss Belasysse tied up, as some of the others were,” Lucy said. “It is shameful.”

“You do not understand! They placed her there purposefully. Can you not see that?” Mr. Sheridan cried. “Where is that intelligence that Dr. Larimer and Mr. Hargrave purport you to possess?”

“Who placed her there?” Lucy asked, stopping short. “I spoke with the apothecary. He said Miss Belasysse did not know who had brought her to Bedlam.”

Mr. Sheridan rolled his eyes. “It was her parents, naturally. Lord and Lady Belasysse.”

“He told you that?” Lucy stared at him.

“He did not have to,” Mr. Sheridan replied. “It is not mumpers and mendicants who stay at Bedlam, but those who can afford the lodging and care. Is it not obvious? The keeper was being paid quite handsomely. No wonder he tried that ridiculous guise, to pass himself off as her husband. He lost a fortune when she escaped.”

“Why would they put her there? Why would they lie about it?” Lucy asked.

Mr. Sheridan was unusually forthcoming. “Her mother was ashamed of her, that was easy enough to see. Her father, too. Her brother was the only one to care a whit about her. His only redeeming quality, in my mind.”

Lucy nodded. She had seen something of the mother's vitriol toward Miss Belasysse herself. However, something still did not make sense.

“Why then?” she wondered out loud. “Miss Belasysse told me that her mother had tried all kinds of healers and soothsayers and priests. Had she just reached a point of utter despair? Why would she have pretended her daughter was dead? Why have the funeral? It does not make sense.”

“I do not know. And I do not wish to discuss the matter further.”

They fell silent then, each caught in thought. For Lucy's part, the shrieks of the man tied to the bed haunted her for the rest of the walk back to the Larimers'.

 

22

“I need to speak to the constable,” Lucy told Mr. Sheridan when they reached the Larimers' home.

“As you wish,” he said, without even glancing at her. He seemed distracted and tense. “No matter to me.”

He went inside, and she continued on to Fleet Street, to see Duncan at his jail.

“Constable,” she called when she arrived, “please do not arrest Miss Belasysse. I think there is more going on here than we realized.”

“Lucy,” he said, pulling over a stool. “Pray, sit down. You look quite pale indeed.” He pulled over another stool so that he could sit across from her, his knees touching hers. “Tell me what happened.”

In fits and starts she told him everything—everything that the apothecary had told her, even all that she had witnessed. He nodded when she described how some of the people lay tied and screaming in their beds. “But I do not think they were wholly untended,” she said, thinking about the apothecary. “There were many abuses to be seen, and it was shocking to think that Miss Belasysse, the daughter of a baron, should have suffered at their hands. It was rather like a prison,” she ended. “I cannot understand why her parents would have sent her there, to languish as she did.”

She then described what the apothecary had told her about Henry Belasysse taking his sister away from Bedlam the week before. “We know, too, that he had made no plans to prepare the London house for their company,” Lucy added. “The servants seem to have been completely unaware of their arrival.”

“A bad business, indeed,” Constable Duncan said. “I cannot imagine that Henry Belasysse would have sought to free his sister without a thought of where to take her. No matter how excited a state he was in when he left, surely he had time to form a plan.”

“So, where?” Lucy asked.

“Let us see what we can determine.” From the corner, he picked up a large roll of paper that was tied with a bit of a brown string. “Stow's survey of London,” he explained as he unrolled it. “Here, hold that end down.”

Lucy looked at the map, full of streets and lanes, dotted with houses and churches, cows in their pastures, and boats on the River Thames. She had seen such maps before. Master Aubrey had a rather tattered version that Lucy had consulted in the past, and Master Hargrave had a great map of London pasted to the wall of his study.

“This map does not show the destruction from the Great Fire, of course, but it should suffice.” With his left forefinger, he pointed to a location on Fleet Street. “Here we are,” he said. Moving his finger a bit north and east, he continued. “And here is Holborn Bridge, where you encountered Miss Belasysse. Nearby this point, I found the body of the dead man. From the amount of blood on the ground, I feel I can say with some certainty that he was killed on that spot where his corpse was discovered.” With his right forefinger, he pointed to another spot. “This, here, is Bedlam.” He tapped both locations at once. “The question is, what happened in the two days between the time she and her brother fled Bedlam and the time you found her, a mile and a half away, alone and covered in blood?”

Lucy continued to study the map. “Where would they have been going, though? Those pastures and lanes disappeared in the Fire. Even if they had sought hospitality with an acquaintance, all these homes were burnt up these seven months past. Surely Mr. Belasysse would have known this.” She looked up at the constable. “Would Henry Belasysse truly have taken his unwell sister through the remains, on foot?”

“I do not know the man, but it hardly seems likely,” Duncan agreed. He traced his finger along a faint red line that had been colored on the map. “Here, to the best of my estimation, is the line of the Great Fire, before the wind shifted and the Fire turned back on itself. This area is all burnt. I hardly think they would be walking in the ruins. Even though you did find her there.” He pointed again to Holborn Bridge. “Quite a distance.”

“They would have been seeking refuge,” Lucy decided. “A church maybe, or even an inn.” She put her hand to her head. “Or, Henry Belasysse had an acquaintance with whom he felt he could stop with his sister.”

Duncan began to roll up the map. “Stow's map, as useful as it can be, is at least a hundred years out of date. I know at least five taverns and inns that are not on that map. I will take Hank and make some inquiries. Perhaps they stopped somewhere along the way. The question remains, however—what happened to her brother?” A chill ran over Lucy when he grimly added one more thing. “Even a man fleeing from a tedious wife will not keep himself invisible to others. At least, that is not the action of an honest man. And we know, from his past actions against the tanner, that Henry Belasysse is anything but an honest soul. For all we know, Henry Belasysse killed that man and is now hiding from his crime. He has killed before, that much we know to be true.”

“And Miss Belasysse?” she asked.

“I am not at all convinced of her innocence either. She may very well know her brother's whereabouts.” He looked at Lucy. “Can you help me find out where they may have gone? I have an idea.”

*   *   *

When Lucy arrived at Master Aubrey's, she found Lach inside sorting letters into trays. As usual, his reddish brow furrowed more deeply when he saw her in the doorframe. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Greetings to you, too, Lach,” Lucy replied. She went over to the tray and started to sort out the second typeface. “Thought I would help you a bit. Least I can do, leaving you with all the work like I did.”

He shrugged. “No matter to me. Quieter when you aren't around anyway.”

“I will be quiet,” she said.

He just grunted in reply, and after that they worked silently for a bit.

“Lach,” she said finally.

He groaned. “What? I knew you couldn't hold your tongue.”

She ignored his surly tone. “Do we have tracts about Bedlam? I know
Mad Tom of Bedlam
—”

Before she could finish, Lach whooped and began to sing the popular tune, in a more raucous way than she had done earlier when walking with Mr. Sheridan.

“But I was wondering if we had any others,” she continued, as if he were not jumping about, pretending to be Mad Tom escaped from Bedlam, looking for his Maudlin Maeve.

“Why ever for?” he panted, still cavorting about the room.

“To have them come and collect you, of course. You are a mad fool, Lachlin. On this point, I do not jest.”

He pulled at her cap. “Tell me why you want to know about Bedlam or I shan't give you any.”

“I would just like to know more about the place,” she said, edging away.

He stopped then, a mocking look appearing on his face. “This is about the madwoman you are looking after, is it not?”

Lucy could tell that he would not give up asking questions until he was satisfied. “Yes, it is about Miss Belasysse. She is not mad, just confused.”

“Dr. Larimer is going to tuck her away in there?” He stuck his tongue out at her. “Knew someone in that mad place once. Went in and never came out.”

“What? Heavens, no.” Seeing that he was not going to budge, she sighed, giving in. “We think she may have already been in there, these last ten months.” She frowned, remembering what the apothecary had told her. “Someone else tucked her away in Bedlam.”

“You finish putting away that type. I will be back directly.” Lach disappeared into the cellar.

He returned a few moments later, blowing dust off some of the pamphlets. Clearly these were not part of Master Aubrey's regular rotation of stock.

“This one is about the keepers of Bedlam,” he said, handing it to her. He looked at another and began to laugh. “This one I will keep.” Another about Mad Tom, no doubt. That was all right. The one he had handed to her looked to be more useful.

“An enquiry into the affairs of Bethlem Hospital,”
Lucy read out loud. “Oh, look, it tells the history of Bedlam. Begun in 1377, called then St. Mary of Bethlehem.” She continued to skim slowly through the dense text.
“Helkiah Crooke, physician to King James, was dismissed as keeper under King Charles, after an enquiry disclosed a series of abuses and neglect.”
She paused, thinking of what she had just seen. “Abuses. Yes, I would say so.”

“The hospital is now run by resident steward Mr. Frederick Crouch, a keeper who, while not a physician himself, would sell off his own children into slavery to put a few more coins in his pocket,”
she continued, ignoring Lach as he dramatically yawned.
“In this regard, he is assisted by a second resident steward, a former jailer at Newgate, who—”

She broke off from reading the tract when Master Aubrey walked into the shop then. “Good day, sir!” Lucy called, hopping off the stool.

The master printer's eyes brightened when he saw her. “All done at Larimer's?” he asked. “None too soon! We have several new pieces to put together, and a few others to hawk.”

“Er, well, no. I am not yet done at Dr. Larimer's,” Lucy said.

Master Aubrey looked at her sternly. “I made an agreement with the physician, Lucy. I expect you to honor your obligation.”

“I know, sir. I think, though, there is value in me staying a few days more.”

With a quick immodest movement, she hiked up her skirts so that she could pull the piece she had been writing from her pocket. “I did write this for you, sir. Perhaps you can use it.”

Master Aubrey glanced at it.
“A Death Along the River Fleet,”
he read out loud, then stopped, squinting at the next line. “Your script lacks a much needed clarity, my child. It would be best if you could improve your hand. I can barely discern your words.”

She held out her hand. “Shall I take it back?” she asked.

Master Aubrey held it away, turning slightly. “No, no. Though 'tis mostly rooster scratchings, I can make it out.”

Lucy hid a smile. It was clear that the master printer was a bit intrigued, as he pored over what she had written about the recently found corpse.