A Death Along the River Fleet (7 page)

“And there is nothing you can do for her?” the constable asked. “Nothing that may be administered to revive her memory?”

“I am certain that we shall hit upon some concoction in time that will stir her mind. For now, this tincture will have to do. If you will excuse me, I must confer with Mr. Sheridan about another matter.” The physician left then, the aroma of herbs still filling the air.

“He is a generous man,” Constable Duncan commented. “To do all of this for an unknown woman, brought to him under such circumstances.”

“This woman puzzles him,” Lucy said. “I think that he feels responsible for her, too, even if he does not yet know how to make her well. Being that she is a woman of quality, he cannot just take her to the local parish as he would someone of my ilk—or yours.”

Duncan turned back to her, his hazel eyes intent. “What makes you think she is a woman of quality? After all, this would not be the first time that we have seen others try to pass themselves off as someone they are not.” Indeed, she had written of this in a recent tract that she had titled
The Masque of a Murderer.

“I know,” Lucy said. “I suggested as much to Dr. Larimer. When I first met the woman, I was of a different mind altogether. She seemed wild and strange, and more than a little touched by poverty. Her speech was so odd, I scarcely understood her. But later, after she calmed and the fervor left her words, her speech was that of a gentlewoman.” She laughed. “Not like me or mine, that is certain. A woman of Quality.”

He shrugged. “There is
Quality
and there is
quality,
” he said. “Some may not understand that distinction, but I do. I can assure you, I am not so impressed by the former, especially when unaccompanied by good sense and a courageous spirit.”

Lucy coughed. He had taken her far more seriously than she had intended, and the conversation was bringing them along a path upon which she did not wish to tarry, at least not at this moment. “There were other things, too, that made us suspect that she is gently born. Not just her voice.”

“Such as?”

“The amulet she was wearing is surely dear, and her shift was of a fine linen. And the lace was of a superior nature.”

At his interested look, she continued. Although she should have felt embarrassed speaking about the woman's undergarments with the constable, she found she was not. She explained about the nature of the stitches, and the kind of tailor who must have made them. Despite not having been employed as a lady's maid for overly long, she had learned much about such things in the Hargraves' employment.

“Mrs. Hotchkiss agreed with me as well. The most telling thing, I find, is that she seems to carry herself as a woman of quality,” Lucy said, thinking of the woman's haughty and arrogant tones. “She knows how to give orders, as if she was born to it.”

The constable listened carefully. “I should speak with her now,” he said. “I hope she will be more forthcoming with me.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later, the woman balked when Lucy explained that the constable had come to ask her questions, and was now waiting outside in the hallway.

“I do not think so, Lucy,” she said, accepting the tincture that Lucy handed to her. “It does not seem proper for me to speak with a constable.” She took a long sip and then frowned. “How can I remember this feeling, but I cannot know my own name?”

“I cannot tell you,” Lucy said as pleasantly as she could. “I do assure you though, that Constable Duncan wishes to help you. He might be able to help discover what happened to you. He is a good man, committed to his work.” Spying a bright wrap on the chair beside the bed, Lucy pulled it around the woman's shoulders. “There, that looks nice.”

The woman began to rub the bandage that covered the cut on her hand. “Maybe I do not want to remember,” she whispered.
“The memory of the just is blessed: but the name of the wicked shall rot.”

Lucy shuddered. She had heard the minister at St. Andrew's say those very words before, standing righteously at his pulpit, but never had Proverbs 10:7 sounded so ominous.

Soon the mixture of opium and wine had its desired effect, and the woman waved her hand at Lucy. “You may summon him.”

Opening the door, Lucy found both physicians waiting with the constable. “She does not quite think it proper that she speak to you,” she said, giving Duncan an apologetic glance, “but she has agreed to do so nevertheless.”

“I see,” he said. “Let us proceed.”

When the men entered the room, Dr. Larimer presented the constable to her.

Constable Duncan gave her a clipped military bow, the likes of which Lucy had rarely seen him do. The woman inclined her head graciously, much as Lucy had seen other gentlewomen do to acknowledge a gallantry. The gesture had seemed natural, not forced, and indeed, the woman drew herself up to full stately bearing. There was no evidence of yesterday's downtrodden state, or even the terror she had shown a half hour before.

Dr. Larimer pulled the chair away to the edge of the room and gestured for the woman to sit down. “If you would, miss.”

“Constable,” she said, sitting down grandly. “You have questions for me, I presume. I am doubtful that I have answers.”

At her voice, he looked at her in surprise. “You speak as someone from my own region. Have you lived near York, miss?”

“How can I know?” She shifted impatiently. “I knew there was no use speaking to you. Until I remember who I am, there is nothing I can do.”

“Octavia! I know it is you!” Mr. Sheridan burst out. “I am certain this is true.” He knelt by her bedside. “Can you not remember me? James Sheridan?” When she continued to stare at him blankly, he said again, “You
are
Octavia Belasysse!”

The woman gulped. “That name! I do not know. Am I she? I do not know! I do not know!” Tears began to stream down her face, and she pressed her hands to her head. Suddenly, her eyelids began to flutter. “Help me!” she whispered. “I beg of you—“

“What is happening?” Duncan asked. Lucy did not reply, watching as the woman's eyes rolled back into her head.

“She is convulsing!” Mr. Sheridan cried, grabbing the woman as she slumped to the ground, her body still contorting and shaking wildly. Gently, he laid her head atop a pillow that he pulled from the bed.

“Grab that comb. Place it between her teeth so that she does not bite off her tongue,” Dr. Larimer instructed with absolute calm.

Seeing where he was pointing, Lucy grabbed the short wooden comb from the table and handed it to Mr. Sheridan, who inserted it between the woman's teeth.

“Roll her on her side, with her knee out like so,” Dr. Larimer said to the younger physician as he positioned the woman's legs. “This way she shall not choke on her spittle or bile, should her mouth grow filled.”

For a moment, they all watched the woman shake uncontrollably. At last her terrible shaking subsided, and her cheeks were no longer so sallow.

“Let us get her back into her bed,” Dr. Larimer instructed.

Before anyone could step forward, Mr. Sheridan scooped the woman into his arms and, with a great grunt, managed to pick her up and lay her heavily onto the bed. The gesture was protective, intimate even. “I will tend to her,” he said, without meeting anyone's eyes.

Dr. Larimer gave his assistant a curious look as he sat beside the woman on the bed, but only said, “As you wish.”

“I shall take my leave as well,” Duncan replied, moving toward the door. Lucy found herself accompanying him down the hallway.

At the front door, the constable stopped and looked down at her. “If she is indeed Octavia Belasysse, we should know that soon enough. If she is not, well, I scarcely know where to start. I hope to know something soon, although a bootless errand I fear this may be.”

 

6

The rest of the afternoon passed painfully for Lucy. Miss Belasysse, as Lucy had taken to calling the woman in her mind, barely slept. When she was not weeping, she would rage around the room until she grew unnaturally calm. Underneath the woman's rage, however, Lucy could sense a great despair and frustration at her inability to remember, and a great fear that underlay everything else. Finally, the woman's fatigue overwhelmed her, and she seemed to drop off into a great sleep once again.

Around seven that evening, Molly tapped on the door. “If you would, miss, you have a visitor. Mr. Adam Hargrave.” The servant's eyes were wide with curiosity about the magistrate's son coming to call so late in the day, and seeking the company of a nursemaid at that.

Lucy took off her apron and smoothed her hair. She knew she looked tousled, but she did not wish to keep Adam waiting.
He has seen me look worse,
she thought to herself.

Fortunately, the Larimers were dining at a friend's house, and Mr. Sheridan seemed to have retired for the evening, so she did not need to explain Adam's presence to anyone else.

Not feeling comfortable greeting him in Dr. Larimer's drawing room, she drew him out into the courtyard, ignoring the curious eyes of Molly and Mrs. Hotchkiss as they passed through the kitchen. She pulled her cloak on as they went.

They sat down on the bench under the apple tree. It was a little chilly, but the garden smelled sweet, no doubt from the herbs that Dr. Larimer kept on hand.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, smiling up at him. She could still remember the first time she looked into his deep blue eyes, when she was still a servant. How he had wiped away the blood from her nose—an unexpected gesture that always reminded her of his sense of compassion and justice for those less fortunate than himself.

“I could ask you the same thing, Lucy,” he replied. Though he returned her smile, there was a serious note to his words. “I stopped by Master Aubrey's earlier this evening, hoping to see you, and that printer's devil told me that you were living here.” He paused, looking slightly hopeful. “Have you left Master Aubrey's employment?”

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. A quiver had pierced her heart at the thought of leaving the printer's shop permanently. “I do love printing books. I should never wish to leave my employment. Master Aubrey has been ever so good to me.”

Seeing the slight shadow that crossed his face when he heard her words, she began to hastily explain all that had transpired over the last two days.

“How curious,” he said when she was finished. “Why did you not tell me sooner?” Then, before she could answer, he touched her hand. “Never mind about that. It's all very strange, is it not?”

She nodded. “Do
you
know Octavia Belasysse? Have you met her? Or maybe her brother?”

He shook his head. “No. I have met Lord Belasysse, who would be this woman's father, if her identity is true. But he is in Tangier now, from what I understand.” He furrowed his brow. “Although he might have returned. Has anyone sent word?”

“I imagine that Dr. Larimer and Constable Duncan have thought to do so. I believe they have sent messages to the family, here in London and at the family seat,” Lucy replied.

“Duncan? You have spoken with him about all this, have you?”

“Yes,” she said hurriedly. “He was summoned here this morning.”

Molly opened the door that led out to the courtyard. “If you would, miss, the woman is awake again. We need you.” She darted back inside the house, leaving the door open.

“I am sorry, Adam, I must leave.”

He nodded. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do in this matter. Other inquiries I could make.” He seemed about to say something else, but did not. “You must go. I shall show myself out.”

*   *   *

As Lucy approached the bedchamber, she wondered if she would be met with another dramatic hue and cry. Instead, when she opened the door, she found the woman lying on her stomach on the floor. She was not suffering from convulsions; she was just tracing a crack on the floor with her fingernail, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

“Miss,” Lucy said, kneeling beside her, “may I help you back into the bed? It is too cold to lie here.”

When the woman did not reply, Lucy sighed and began to tug the straw pallet from the bed onto the floor. The woman's eyes flickered over to her, but she seemed otherwise wholly disinterested in what Lucy was doing.

Without saying anything more, Lucy rolled the woman on top of it. After covering her with a blanket, Lucy finally crept back into her own room, keeping the door open between them, so that she could listen for the woman's breathing. Finally the woman began to breathe more deeply and, except for some odd grunting and exclamations, soon fell into a mostly sound sleep.

Lucy, however, found it hard to grow accustomed to the strange bed, and could not keep from tossing and turning. Eventually she went over to the small window and unlatched the shutters so that she could peer out at the moonlit world below. For once, the fog was not rolling in, and she could see the shadows of houses and church pinnacles in the distance, beyond the branches of the apple tree.

She sighed. It was not just the strangeness of her surroundings and the oddly sleeping woman in the next room that were keeping her awake. Seeing both Adam and Duncan earlier that day had brought up feelings that she was still not ready to address.

*   *   *

By morning, the woman's lethargy had deepened, and she would answer only yes or no or shake her head. She seemed unable to eat or drink on her own, as if all the energies from the day before had been spent.

Even using the chamber pot became an ordeal, because the woman suddenly seemed completely unable to tend to even her most private acts. Dr. Larimer said that she was entering a melancholic state, which was common with those who had experienced great anxiety, trauma, and loss.

“We must tend to her carefully, Lucy,” he said. “I fear now that her moroseness will weigh her spirit down so that she may not ascend again. I have seen such despondency precede the most wicked act, that of self-murder.”