A Death Along the River Fleet (35 page)

“I had hoped to live that life with you, Jonathan,” she said sadly.

“I know. It was never meant to be.” He paused, and then continued to explain what had happened. “I followed that vile cur that evening, to the Cattle Bell Inn—he was following you. I was there when he set upon your brother, but I was too late to stop him. When he left, I thought that would be the end of it.” He searched her face. “My darling, I never would have supposed that you would chase him as you did. I ran beside you begging you to drop the knife, to come away with me. But your grief was too strong, and your anger too great.” He sagged a bit. “Oh, that you had done as I had said. We should have been far away from here by now.”

Miss Belasysse glanced at Lucy. “I am so sorry, Jonathan,” she whispered. “I was truly possessed, by a spirit I can little explain. I drove that knife in, and he fell.”

“But it was not you who killed him,” he said fervently, oblivious to everyone else in the room. “When you stumbled off, there was little more for me to do, but finish what you had started. It was I who dragged the body off and knocked a few bricks on top of him so that he would not be found.”

“Where did you go?” Octavia asked.

“It took me a bit to drag him away, and when I looked about for you, the heavy fog had set in. I stayed quiet so as not to draw attention to myself. When I heard voices, I thought I had best move away from the body. I went back to Bedlam, so that they would not know I was gone. No one suspected I had been missing when they began to look for him.”

“How did you find out where Miss Belasysse was?” Lucy asked. “When you came by Dr. Larimer's?”

“Well, the keeper had heard tell of a wild woman—forgive me, my love—who was having fits as if possessed by an imp or spirit. A vegetable-seller informed us that she overheard what you”—here he nodded at Lucy—“had told Miss Belasysse. That you were going to take her to see Dr. Larimer. It was easy enough to find you.”

He frowned and tightened his hold on Miss Belasysse's hand. With great anguish in his voice, he said to her, “The keeper told me that he came for you, my darling. When he realized that you did not remember him, he made up the story that he was your husband. He tried to take you back to Bedlam by force.”

“Then you came by,” Lucy said. “With the tisane she needed.”

“Yes, I could not let her suffer.”

Lucy nodded, but did not say anything. For a long moment, the apothecary and Miss Belasysse gazed into each other's eyes. Watching them, Lucy realized that she had written the wrong story for Master Aubrey, as a new title floated in her mind.
A Death Along the River Fleet; or, A True and Strange Tale of Love in Bedlam.

*   *   *

Three weeks later, Lucy stood at Holborn Bridge, a letter in her hand, looking down at the muddy River Fleet as it moved languidly below. The note was from Adam. He had decided to journey to the New World, where he would help further develop one of the colonial law courts. Not the Massachusetts Bay Colony, but maybe the Connecticut or even the Carolina colony.

Then there were the words that she had read so often, they were now emblazoned on her heart.
My heart will be sore without you, my dearest Lucy, but perchance, you will one day travel to this strange New World where, as Sarah has told me, the birthright of men is less fixed.

She smiled then, as she had done every time she'd read the last few lines.
I have heard tell, too, of several petticoat authors among the colonists. Perhaps, one day soon, even a female printer may find a way to ply her trade.
And then his signature, signed with a quick elegant flourish.

A step on the bridge caused her to look up. Duncan was walking toward her. He was smiling. “I thought you might be here,” he said.

“I have thought enough of this place these last few weeks,” Lucy replied. At each trial, she had been called to give testimony, detailing how she had come to find Miss Belasysse, as well as everything else she had learned and discovered since that moment. “I suppose I wanted to see it again.”

“I just came from the courts,” Duncan said. “The verdicts were as we expected. Miss Belasysse was acquitted of manslaughter. Although she was deemed guilty of willful battery, she has already been released.”

“What will happen to her, do you think?” Lucy asked.

“I cannot say for sure, but I did see Mr. Sheridan helping her out of the courtroom. I think he will look after her, at least for some time. I think it unlikely that she will return to her family.”

Lucy turned so that she could sit on the stone rail of the bridge. He sat next to her. “And the others?” she asked.

“Of course, Harlan Boteler and Jonathan Quade were both found guilty. They will likely be hanged in the next few weeks, with no pardon for either.” Duncan sighed. “The keeper was deemed innocent of all charges.”

“He was the one who would not let her leave Bedlam,” Lucy said angrily.

“I know. We can take consolation that he has been forced to resign his post. An official inquiry into Bedlam will be made as well.”

For a moment, they were silent, still sitting close together.

“Adam is leaving England,” Lucy said, speaking evenly. “He will be going to the New World. Carolina, maybe. To help work on the law courts there.”

Duncan nodded. “Yes, he told me. I saw him at the court today. He said that he wanted to go where he could make a difference. I admire him for that, I do.”

Lucy closed her eyes. She remembered another moment, as the Great Fire had begun its fearsome rampage, taking down the houses and shops of London. Adam had declared his love for her, and she for him. Sometimes it felt like the dream of her youth, even though it had only been eight months before. So much had changed, though, when she left the Hargraves' home and became a printer's apprentice. A new world had opened up, full of possibilities she would never have seen, had she remained a chambermaid.

She felt Duncan's hand cover hers, where it lay on the bridge. Opening her eyes, she found him regarding her intently. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“The Great Fire. The aftermath. How I became a printer's apprentice,” she replied lightly. She pointed to the east. “That way, my old life and the Fire.” She pointed toward Fleet Street. “And that way, my new life.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “I thought you might be thinking about me.”

She blushed, but returned his smile. “I remember the day that I met you. Three years ago, it was.”

“A terrible day that was—a woman was killed. And as I recall, I arrested your brother for that crime,” he said, still looking at her closely. “Why do you think of that now?”

She looked down at the dirty waters languidly flowing below Holborn Bridge. “So much muck and so many ill-smelling things have passed beneath us.”

“It is rather rank here, is it not?” he said, wrinkling his nose, when the wind brought the smell of the river to them.

Lucy smiled and looked away. “My words may sound odd. But verily, I have seen so many terrible things these last few years. We all have.” He waited while she gathered her thoughts. She looked back at him, gripping his hand more tightly. “But you, Duncan—you have been like this bridge. Supporting me. Keeping me away from those terrible things that flow all around us. Keeping me on my path, as it were.” She laughed a little.

“Ah, Lucy,” he said, reaching his hand out to caress her cheek. “I could so easily say the same of you.” He leaned closer and kissed her, a long kiss that set her pulse to racing. For a moment, her confused heart was at peace. There was no worry about where she belonged, she knew.

When the wind blew again, he hopped off the stone railing. “Shall we go?” he asked, putting his hands around her waist to help her down. Rather than letting her go as she expected, however, he kept his hands there and kissed her again, this time with more fervor. When the wind blew a third time, they broke apart, laughing.

As they walked hand in hand back across the bridge, Lucy could see a field of flowers ahead of them. Spring had finally come to London after the very long hard winter.

“Perchance, we will hear tell of a cow with two tails,” she said, giggling, as they passed some animals in a pasture. “Master Aubrey might be pleased for a true account of a most monstrous birth.”

Duncan hugged Lucy to him. “I have not your words, but I do like your stories.”

“That is good,” she said, looking up at him. “I think we have many more stories before us!”

 

HISTORICAL NOTE

In researching this book, I spent a lot of time thinking about the interplay of science and faith in seventeenth-century England, and what those practices meant for healing and medicine. I tried to pay attention to the complex relationships between physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries, and their attitudes toward well-known herbalists like Nicholas Culpeper and famous quacks like Valentine Greatrakes, although I simplified the roles that each group played in the healing process for the sake of the story. Similarly, physicians at this time did not all adhere to the same set of beliefs; for example, my physicians hold with the ancient theory of humors but are also knowledgeable about William Harvey's discovery of the circulation of the blood, although the latter may not have been widely known in 1667.

I also tried to be as accurate as possible about the seventeenth-century medical awareness and understanding of hysteria, epilepsy, and traumatic memory loss, which are all conditions that I ascribed to Octavia Belasysse. Epilepsy, the “falling sickness,” was well known, and all the remedies that I describe for its relief can be found in seventeenth-century medical treatises. Several of the tracts I refer to, such as Drage's
Daimonomageia
, are real, although I simplified the language to make it readable for the modern audience. Likewise, my description of Bedlam came from a number of firsthand and historic accounts, although I had to guess at some of the architectural features. Certainly the methods for keeping the inmates under control varied throughout the seventeenth century, but the abuses, such as tying the patient down during fits, have been well documented. While there were reforms throughout the seventeenth century, true humanitarian reform of the asylum did not begin until the nineteenth century, and arguably the mid-twentieth.

Lastly, I did draw on one true story to frame the overall backstory. There really was a historic figure named Henry Belasysse who, along with Lord Buckhurst (Charles Sackville), was involved in the manslaughter of a tanner whom they had mistaken for a highwayman in Waltham Forest. They were indeed pardoned by King Charles II, and Henry Belasysse became an MP for Great Grimsby in 1666. However, the rest of the story is completely imagined by me, and should be not taken as true.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

So many people have made this book possible:

First, I would like to thank my beta readers—Maggie Dalrymple, Heidi Janitschke, Mags Light, and Mary Schuller—for your gentle feedback and guidance. As always I would like to thank the wonderful team at Minotaur—Kelley Ragland, Elizabeth Lacks, India Cooper, David Rotstein, Sarah Melnyk, and the others who helped along the way—for the care you have taken with my books. I also feel grateful to my agent, David Hale Smith, for helping bring this book into existence.

I'd also like to thank those friends who are always so supportive of my writing, including Muveddet Harris, Greg Light, Erica Neubauer (who may or may not have a namesake in this book), Lori Rader-Day, Clare O'Donohue, Lynne Raimondo, Steve Stofferahn, and Sam Thomas. I also greatly appreciate the friendship offered by fellow Sleuths in Time authors: Tessa Arlen, Anna Lee Huber, Anna Loan-Wilsey, Alyssa Maxwell, Christine Trent, Ashley Weaver, and Meg Mims and Sharon Pisacreta (D. E. Ireland).

I would also like to acknowledge my readers, especially the ones who take the time to send me an e-mail. Your questions and ideas keep me motivated and excited to write, and I very much appreciate your enthusiasm about Lucy and her world.

Finally, I'd like to thank my family, especially my wonderful children, Quentin and Alex Kelley, for inspiring me each and every day. In particular, too, I must thank my husband, Matt Kelley, who, as my alpha reader and in-house cognitive psychologist, ensured that my descriptions of memory and cognitive impairment were all plausible. He also took care that the thousand monkeys typing on the thousand computers were fed and cared for—without his taking on those extra family responsibilities, this book would never have been finished. So, to Matt, I offer you my deepest love and appreciation for all that you do to support this crazy pursuit.

 

ALSO BY
SUSANNA CALKINS

The Masque of a Murderer

From the Charred Remains

A Murder at Rosamund's Gate

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR