A Death Along the River Fleet (6 page)

They entered the room. The young woman was lying in the bed, fast asleep, her rich black hair loosened about her face. It was still a bit wild, although it looked like someone had attempted to get a comb through her thick locks. “Your room is just beside hers,” Mrs. Hotchkiss whispered, whisking Lucy through a second door. “You may put your satchel there,” she said, pointing to a small table.

Lucy looked about. The room was finer than what she had had at Master Hargrave's. There was even a small stack of kindling.

“This used to be the nurse's room,” the housekeeper said, “and next door, where that miserable woman is lying, the nursery. We have not used these rooms in some time. I am on the other side of you,” she continued, “should you need me.” A bit of steel had entered her voice. It was clear that she did not expect Lucy to need her for anything. “Molly will be in at seven to bring you some water and take your pot.”

Lucy nodded as if she had not been doing those very duties herself for the Hargraves just a year before.

The housekeeper looked at her curiously. “Sitting with the woman is a bit of a dull task, is it not? Unless she wakes up, I think the time will pass by slowly.” She patted the Bible on the table. “The Good Book, of course, is here.” The housekeeper turned to go. “I will have Molly bring you a small bite to eat.”

“Thank you,” Lucy replied. Fortunately, the herbal mixtures she had been drinking for the past few hours had done much to relieve the soreness of her voice. She dared not speak any longer, for it still hurt her throat, but for now she could at least be understood again. Then, before the housekeeper left, Lucy asked, “Are there some other books I might read?”

“Other books?” Mrs. Hotchkiss looked taken aback. “That you might read? Whatever do you mean?”

Having seen the physician's study the day before, Lucy knew Dr. Larimer possessed fairly far-reaching reading tastes. Her tone firmer, she said, “I think a bit of lighter fare to start. Something of the Bard, perchance?”

Mrs. Hotchkiss raised an eyebrow. “I shall have to confer with the physician, of course.”

After she left, Lucy opened the door to the sickroom. The woman was still sleeping deeply, though her cheeks were flushed. Pouring a bit of water into a small ceramic bowl, Lucy began to bathe the woman's forehead, trying not to disturb her. She peeked inside the wardrobe and was surprised to see three dresses hanging there, one of which she remembered seeing Mistress Larimer wear in the past when she had dined with the Hargraves. Clearly, Mistress Larimer was not taking chances. If this woman was indeed a lost noblewoman, as Mr. Sheridan suspected, then Mistress Larimer would make sure that she was well dressed while recovering in their home. She would hardly have done such a thing for a pauper, of that Lucy was certain.

As she continued to move around the room, Lucy felt restless. In the drawer of the dressing table, she found a few combs and some dust balls but little else. Clearly, no one had resided in the room for some time. There was a trunk as well, and lifting the lid, she found a few spare blankets, an old kerchief to wear to bed, and some clean hand towels obviously meant for use alongside the pitcher and basin on the table.

Lucy peered out the window then, into Dr. Larimer's courtyard far below. There was a large apple tree right outside and she could see tiny buds already starting to sprout. Soon the buds would grow into lovely pink and white blossoms along the great branches that stretched across and shaded the ground below. There was a small stone bench, where someone might go to do embroidery or sketch. What would it be like to own a fine home like this, she wondered.

She wandered back through the connecting door to her own chamber. The room was fairly similar in layout, though smaller, again with table, mirror, and Bible beside the bed.

Unused to sitting about idly, Lucy picked up the Bible and returned to the woman's room, leaving the door between the rooms open. Taking the chair in the corner, she sat down with the Bible on her lap. After reading a few passages here and there, she set it aside.

She half wished the woman would wake up, so that she could ask her some more questions. But the woman continued to sleep, breathing deeply, making odd gulping and grunting sounds from time to time. Lucy watched the woman's eyes move rapidly under her lids, and she could see her fingers begin to twitch.

Why did I bring nothing of my own to read?
Lucy thought, sighing. Then she remembered Lach, looking unusually impish, tucking a tract of some sort into her satchel before she left. “Might come in handy,” he had said, and winked in a knowing way.

Passing back into her own room, she reopened her satchel and withdrew the piece Lach had given her. Glancing at the title, she groaned.
The Daimonomageia: A small treatise of sicknesses and diseases from witchcraft, and supernatural causes.
Hardly light reading, but it looked worth the effort.

Returning to her chair in the corner, she examined the tract. Written by a man named William Drage, it looked to be one of the ponderous tracts that Master Aubrey hardly ever tried to sell. Many of the words were beyond her, and slowly she worked out the difficult subtitle:
Being useful to others beside physicians, in that it confutes atheistical and skeptical principles and imaginations.

At a cumbersome pace, Lucy began to read the tract, intrigued despite the difficult language. Drage mostly described how to help those who were afflicted by demons or otherwise touched by witchcraft.
Hold the head of the be-witched over a pot of boiling herbs. When the fit approaches, be mindful of what might leap forth from the mouth of the afflicted.

Lucy frowned. Whatever could that mean? Fortunately, Drage explained in the next line:
Master Gibbson of Hatborough cured a serving girl just so, and a mouse leapt forth of her mouth. Thus, the girl was absolutely freed of the demon. A deep glimpse into her eyes proved this to be so.

Lucy shuddered and continued to leaf through the long tract. Her eye was caught by another passage:
All diseases that are caused by nature, may be caused by Witchcraft; but all that are caused by witchcraft, cannot be caused by nature
.

She continued to read, occasionally glancing at the woman lying on the bed. As if sensing her appraisal, the woman began to stir, anguished lines appearing on her forehead. “No, no!” she murmured. “Devil take you!”

Lucy felt a tingling on her skin. Who could say for sure that the woman was not possessed? Setting aside her jangling nerves, Lucy grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her hard. “Miss!” she cried. “Miss, please wake up! You are having a nightmare.”

The woman's eyes flew open, and she pulled herself away from Lucy. “Where am I?” she asked, her eyes darting around the bedchamber. She stared at Lucy. “You. I remember you.” She looked at her bandaged wrists. “You brought me to the physician who tended my wounds.”

“Dr. Larimer asked me to tend to you, for a short while,” Lucy explained, her voice still a bit hoarse. “I am staying in the chamber next door. You have been asleep for much of the day.” She hesitated. “You were speaking in your sleep. Do you remember who you were dreaming about?”

“Nothing that concerns you. My head pains me, and I am hungry,” she said, a bit petulantly. “If you are indeed here to nurse me, as you say, then I require some victuals and something for my tender pains. If you cannot provide me with such relief, then pray, leave me be.” She sank back into her bed, clearly spent by her outburst and the general fatigue that had not yet lifted. She began to stroke her amulet.

Seeing that she would not get any further with the woman, Lucy edged out of the room and headed down to the kitchen. There was a great kettle in the hearth, and when she peered inside, she could see that a venison or rabbit stew was bubbling away.

Molly looked up from chopping vegetables. “Hungry?” she asked.

“Would you please take a bowl of the stew to the woman upstairs?” Lucy asked.

Molly's smile fell away. To Lucy's surprise, the maidservant crossed her arms. “No,” she said.

“Of course she will,” Mrs. Hotchkiss said, frowning at Molly.

“Something not natural about that woman,” the maidservant sputtered. “Her shaking and contorting, not to mention all that wailing. There's a demon inside her, trying to find its way out. Don't want it finding its way into me!”

“You are paid to tend to Dr. Larimer's guests,” Mrs. Hotchkiss reminded her. “Do not forget that, lest you are thrown out on the dusty road, with no coin in your pocket! Do you understand that, Molly Greenbush?”

Molly stretched her lips into a smile, though her manner remained sulky. “Yes, Mrs. Hotchkiss.”

When Lucy left to go speak with the physician, the maid came trotting down the corridor after her. “Lucy, a she-devil she is! Did you not see her eyes? She is accursed, likely by the devil himself!” Molly looked around, and took a step closer. “What if she puts the curse on
me
?”

Lucy thought of the tract she had just read. With a tug of her lips, she said, “Yes, but according to the
Daimonomageia
such a thing cannot pass.” Seeing Molly's eyes grow wider, she could not help herself. “If she be be-deviled, then she may not be the be-deviler. Or perhaps she is be-witched, not the witch herself. We must look elsewhere for such a being and rout it out—”

“Lucy Campion!” came a roar behind her. It was Dr. Larimer. “Such words I should never hear in this household! I thought you knew better than to spew such nonsense. Be-deviled and deviltry indeed.”

To her chagrin, Constable Duncan appeared from behind the physician, looking fine in his customary red coat. From his slight grin, she could tell that he had heard every word she had just spoken.

“Nay, sir, I was just teasing the lass. Pray forgive me, Molly,” Lucy said contritely. “The poor creature upstairs is not be-deviled or accursed, though sickly she may be.”

“That will be all, then, Molly. Please take the bowl up in a few minutes' time. Miss Campion will spoon it to our patient herself.”

The physician gestured that Lucy should follow them both back into his study. “I asked Constable Duncan to come around, to speak to the woman,” he said. “Maybe there is more he can learn about her.” He gestured to a bench against the wall. “Go talk while I prepare another tincture. The other did not calm her as I would have liked. I should not like people to think the woman is bedeviled, especially the servants in my own household!”

“Yes, sir,” she said, catching Duncan's eye. He winked at her.

The physician began to mix different ingredients in a small stone bowl. “Any illness she has is natural, I can assure you. Not brought on by deviltry and foolishness.” He wagged his finger at her.

“Yes, sir,” Lucy said again, more sincerely this time. Although she knew that the physician was not actually angry at her, he did care about his patients, and he did not like to see them mocked. He also cared greatly about the dignity of his profession, and she did feel a bit ashamed about the teasing he had overheard.

“Enough of that,” Dr. Larimer replied. “Now tell the good constable how you came to find her.”

Taking a seat on the bench, Lucy related to Duncan how she had come across the woman and everything the woman had said.

“Has she truly forgotten everything? Her name? Her family?” Duncan asked in his Yorkshire dialect. “Could she be lying?”

Lucy sighed. “I do not know. I do not think so. She seemed genuinely agitated and confused when I met her. If you had seen her as I did—” She broke off, recalling the woman's distraught and undressed state, her amulet her only possession. “I know it sounds foolish, but when I found her, she told me the devil had been chasing her.”

Duncan did not laugh. “Do you think someone
was
chasing her?”

Lucy closed her eyes, imagining how the woman had drifted toward her, in and out of the fog, like an apparition in a dream. “She did not move with the haste of one being followed,” she said. “She moved through the rubble as one in another world. Her eyes, I thought, seemed without vision, and it looked as if an unseen force were working upon her.” When Duncan raised an eyebrow, she gave a short self-mocking laugh. “Heartily, I do admit this. I did believe her to be a ghost, and I hoped to trick her by leading her to a crossroads.”

She saw Dr. Larimer roll his eyes at her words, and she continued. “But then she sneezed. It was all quite strange, to be truthful.”

Duncan nodded. “It is all very strange indeed,” he agreed. “I wonder what it was that frightened her so?”

Lucy could not help but think of the cuts on the woman's hands, the rope burns on her wrists. What had the woman gone through? “You believe that she sustained a fright so great that she lost her memory?” Dr. Larimer had said something similar.

Duncan considered her question. “Yes, she may well have experienced something that has destroyed the natural balance of her mind. I have witnessed this deep loss of memory for myself, usually after a terrible battle.” For a moment, a shadow passed in front of his eyes. Lucy knew he had fought in the King's Army, from a regiment outside York, but she knew little else about that part of his military experience. She touched his arm, and he smiled down at her.

“What do you make of her amulet, sir?” Lucy said, looking back to the physician. “You mentioned before that rosemary was for remembrance. Could someone have been trying to help her regain her memory? Maybe someone gave it to her?”

“That may be so. The ancients were convinced that convulsions, hysterics, and vertigoes were caused by mischievous—even evil—spirits and demons,” Dr. Larimer explained, still carefully grinding something with the pestle. “So they tied amulets with such herbs as rosemary, along with rue, birch, and peony, about their necks, with the hopes of keeping such malice at bay.”