A Death Along the River Fleet (3 page)

“I do not know, sir.”

The physician frowned. “I am not liking this,” he said. “Her legs and feet are bruised and bleeding, and the scratches are all recent.” He pointed to the purple marks on the woman's wrists and ankles. “Then there are those marks, too.”

“What are those marks, sir?” Lucy asked.

“I would surmise this woman has been bound in rope.”

“Bound?” Lucy gasped. “How awful!”

Still frowning, the physician began to examine the gashes on the woman's right hand. “These cuts will need to be bandaged before the great pus sets in.” He paused, holding her limp hand up to the light. “Strange.”

“What is it?” Lucy asked.

“The nature and position of this cut.” He pointed to the long slash that cut across her palm from below the smallest finger on her right hand. “If I had to guess, she inflicted this herself.”

Lucy stared at him. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“I mean, as if she had been holding a knife in her hand. Like so.” The physician gestured with the knife, making a quick cutting movement in the air.

“Might she work for a butcher? I did find her not too far from the markets,” Lucy said. She doubted it though. The woman looked scarcely strong enough to be involved in such a profession, at least not in the capacity where she would be butchering the beasts herself.

The physician did not answer. His eyes, trained on the woman, were speculative. “I need to see if she has been further injured or,” he said briskly, “otherwise violated. Remove her cloak.”

Lucy stepped forward and carefully loosened the cloak from around the woman's neck, all the while murmuring soothing sounds. The woman squirmed, but allowed Lucy to remove the cloak. As she lay there in her flimsy undergarments, the long streaks of blood and mud across the front of her shift were obvious in the brighter light of day.

The woman closed her eyes, and at last her breathing began to slow. Her tight hold on Lucy's hand finally began to loosen, as the opium and wine took effect. Without encountering any more protest, Lucy helped the physician pull the dirty shift over the woman's head.

Hearing the physician click his teeth, Lucy glanced at the woman's naked form. Startled, she could see that the woman had more bruising around her upper arms and shoulders. There was something tied to her neck with a bit of black string as well, which fell atop her chest. Lucy pulled a blanket over her while the physician examined the woman's private parts, a serious look on his face. “No sign of the bloody flux,” she heard him mutter. “But nothing of the whore upon her either.”

For a few minutes more, he examined her body, before he began to bandage the cuts on her feet and hands.

As he wrapped one hand, Lucy pointed to the cloth object hanging around the woman's neck. “I wonder if that could tell us anything about her.”

The physician slipped the filthy piece from around her neck and passed it to Lucy with a grimace. “I doubt it,” he said. “Best burn it.”

Taking the object, Lucy glanced at it. She could see it was covered in muck and grime. She placed it on the table and stood up then. She had heard the church bells ring a while back, and it was high time for her to return to Master Aubrey's. She looked down at the woman, who was now sleeping. Her hair was spread wildly about on the white pillow, and she still looked dirty and unkempt. Unprotected.

Though she might have to take on extra chamber duties for a month and be banned from setting type or, worse, selling books, Lucy knew she could not leave. “Shall I bathe her a bit?” Lucy asked, spying a porcelain ewer and basin on a side table. “She could do with some clean clothes as well.” She bit her lip. She did not want Dr. Larimer to ask one of his servants to give the woman a dress to wear, as it was likely that they only had one or two spare garments, and one would be for Sunday church-going.

To her surprise, Dr. Larimer seemed to understand the dilemma, or more likely did not even think to ask his servants for an unused dress. “My wife surely has an old frock on hand that she could at least loan to this misfortunate soul. She is visiting her family outside London but should be back for our evening meal. I shall send in Mrs. Hotchkiss to assist you.” For a moment, he stared at the woman lying on the bed. “With any luck, her agitation will have subsided when she awakes, and her memory will be restored. Surely then we will be able to return her to her family.”

After he left, Lucy began to smooth the long tangled hair from the woman's face. She recalled the streaks of blood on her face and hands.
What happened to you?
she wondered.

 

3

Not too long later, the door opened and Dr. Larimer's maid came in, carrying a heavy metal tub full of hot water. Someone had probably been boiling the water for soup in the kitchen, for Lucy caught the smell of boiled onions. Dr. Larimer's housekeeper strode in behind her, holding a plain gown over her arm and a lump of soap in her hand.

“Set it there, Molly,” Mrs. Hotchkiss instructed the servant, who was gaping at the woman in the bed. After the girl complied, the housekeeper all but pushed her out of the room. “We shall call you if we need you,” she said, shutting the door firmly behind the maid.

Lucy took the soap that Mrs. Hotchkiss handed her and sniffed appreciatively. “Lavender,” she said.

The housekeeper only grunted in reply. The perfumed soap probably belonged to the physician's wife, and Lucy thought it better not to say anything else about it.

After dipping a small cloth into the hot water, Lucy began to gently wash away the light grime that covered the woman's face.

The housekeeper stared down at the sleeping woman. “The Lord's will be done,” she said, clucking her tongue. “Though it hardly seems likely that a bit of soap will wash off this woman's sins.”

How easily we pass judgment,
Lucy thought. She was about to say as much when Mrs. Hotchkiss spoke again. In a decidedly different tone Lucy heard her whisper, “Oh my.” She had seen the bruises around the woman's wrists, and the other marks across her body.

The two women exchanged a look. That something terrible had happened to this woman could not be denied. They continued to bathe her with care, so that they would not bring her pain, toweling her off and pulling the dress over her head. “An old one belonging to Mistress Larimer,” Mrs. Hotchkiss whispered. “She only wears it on wash-days, when she oversees the laundering of the linens.”

Though she tried to sound certain, Lucy caught a note of hesitation in her voice. Not every woman would take too kindly to seeing one of her frocks being worn by another woman, particularly without her say-so.

Lucy sought to reassure her. “It is warm and serviceable, and I cannot imagine that your mistress would begrudge the loan. Besides, I know that, like her husband, she would take care of another in need.” At least she hoped that to be the case. She did not know Mistress Larimer all that well. Sometimes the Larimers had dined at the Hargraves', and Lucy remembered her as a gossipy woman, but not an unkind one.

Together, they pulled the blanket over the woman so that she would not develop a chill. Studying her, Lucy could see that the woman's features were delicate and well formed, although a little drawn, probably from sickness or hunger. She was a bit puny of frame as well.

Mrs. Hotchkiss gazed down at the woman, too. “Did she say nothing at all?” she asked softly. “Who is she? What brought her to this state?”

In her mind, Lucy could hear the woman's terrified whisper.
Has the devil come? Did he follow me?
She shivered at the thought.

“No,” Lucy replied, her voice a bit shaky. “She's spoken so very little.”

Molly came back in then with a straw basket. “Doctor says I am to burn all her clothes,” she said, gingerly picking up the woman's shift. “Dirty as a beast, ain't she?”

“Wait!” Lucy said. “Pray, let us examine them first.”

Both the physician's servants stared at her. “Whatever for?” Mrs. Hotchkiss asked.

“We might learn something about her. Some clue to her identity.” Lucy looked down at the shift, rolling a bit of the dingy white material in her fingers. “What do you make of this?” she asked the housekeeper.

She half expected Mrs. Hotchkiss to turn away with the garment, but instead she felt the cloth expertly in her hands. “Linen,” she said. “Of a fine quality.” Taking it from Lucy, she held it up to the light. Her eyes widened, taking in the intricate tatting at the bottom. “Lace?”

She looked back at the woman. Lucy could guess what she was thinking. This was the undergarment of a noblewoman.

“Likely stole it,” Molly interjected.

“Or someone gave it to her,” Lucy said. “Her mistress?”

“Be a shame to burn it, then,” Mrs. Hotchkiss said. “A good dosing of lye-soap will get those bloodstains out. The master must have thought it was ridden with mites, but I don't see any, do you?”

Lucy shook her head. Gently, she picked up one of the woman's hands, turning it this way and that. Although the woman's fingernails were ragged and torn, and her hands were a bit scratched, her palms were soft and devoid of calluses or other indicators of hard work. “This is not the hand of a servant,” she said. “Or of a woman who must ply tools in a trade. Who is she?”

“She's a madwoman, she is,” Molly offered, unhelpfully. “'Tis easy enough to see! Don't know why we haven't just sent her on her way.”

Lucy frowned at the maid. “Dr. Larimer wouldn't do that.”

Molly sniffed. “Well, maybe he should.” She poured the dirty water from the basin into the larger tub she had carried in earlier. Picking it up in both hands, she looked at the housekeeper. “Got to start cutting potatoes and carrots for dinner,” she said, making a big show of leaving. “Master will not like it if the stew's not on the table when he asks. I've enough on my plate to do without tending to this one.”

The housekeeper nodded in agreement, but seemed a bit more reluctant. “Yes, I've got duties to attend to myself.” She hesitated, looking down at the woman. “She needs looking after, she does.”

“I could sit with her for a bit,” Lucy offered. Something about the woman made her so curious. And her vulnerability made Lucy wish to protect her. “If she wakes up, she may be less startled if she sees me again.”

“Does your master not expect you back?” Mrs. Hotchkiss said a bit suspiciously.

“Yes, of course. But he knows I was making a delivery and that I would be selling near Holborn Market after that. I am a bookseller, you know.” As always, when she told people that, a bit of pride had crept into Lucy's voice. “Of course, I should not like to be away very long. I can manage, though.”

When Mrs. Hotchkiss and Molly left, Lucy poured a little more fresh water into the basin. After wiping the woman's face, she pulled a stool over to the bed, to be close to the sedated woman.

Lucy picked up the dirty object that had been tied around the woman's neck. Examining it closely, she could see that a bit of cloth had been wound around a hard object. Carefully, she unwound the dirty cloth, until she was staring down at the object in her hands in amazement.

It was a beautiful talisman of some sort. A polished reddish stone, shaped liked a teardrop, had been inlaid into an elaborate silver setting. The stone was smooth to her touch, and she could see that it had flecks of pinks, taupes, and whites deep within it. She had scarcely seen anything so lovely.

The physician came back in then. “What is that?” he asked.

“This is what was around the woman's neck,” Lucy said, still staring down at the remarkable object in her hands. A line ran along both sides, and she could see a hinge at the teardrop's base. “I think it is an amulet.”

With great care, she undid the clasp and opened the amulet. Inside, there were two chambers, each filled with a familiar dried herb.

“Rosemary,” she said, sniffing. She handed the amulet to the physician.

“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance: pray, love, remember,
” Dr. Larimer said, taking the piece from Lucy.

“Pardon, sir?”

“Ah, a line from the Bard. The poor mad lass Ophelia says it to the Dane.”

At their voices, the woman began to revive. “Please,” she murmured, her voice still drowsy. “I must continue on my journey. Pray, let me leave. At once!”

Lucy and Dr. Larimer looked at each other. Now that the woman was no longer weeping and carrying on in that insensible manner, her voice sounded cultured and genteel, and her words were those of a lady. Indeed, there was no trace of her earlier lunacy in her speech.

“Madam,” Dr. Larimer said, using his most soothing tone, “would you be so kind as to tell us your name? I should very much like to contact your family.”

“My name?” she asked. She sat up straight, the sleepiness leaving her body while the earlier fear returning to her eyes. “I-I do not know!” She searched their faces. “Why do I not know who I am? What have you done to me?”

“We have done nothing to you!” Lucy burst out. “I found you wandering about in the ruins, by Holborn Bridge. I brought you here!”

“Lucy, please,” Dr. Larimer said. He turned back to the woman. “You cannot remember your name? What about that of your family? Your surname?”

“I tell you, I do not know that either!” she said, her voice rising. “I know the words you say, but there is no sense to be made in my mind.”

She looked around at the physician's study, for the first time taking in her surroundings. Her eyes lingered on a large print depicting a man's body, half with flesh and half just a skeleton. “What is this place?” she whispered.

“This is my study, where I see my patients,” the physician replied, uncorking a vial. “You seem to have suffered some sort of shock, although of what nature I cannot say for certain.” Carefully, he poured some of the liquid from the bottle into a smaller cup. “Drink a little more of this tincture. It will help soothe you.”