A Death Along the River Fleet (9 page)

Instead of heading straight to the printer's shop, however, Lucy stopped first at the shop of a goldsmith she knew, to inquire about the amulet. Like many other guilds, the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths had seen most of their members lose their shops and livelihoods during the Great Fire. Originally, all the goldsmiths' shops had been located near St. Paul's, to the south of Cheapside, but now they were spread throughout the city. Ogden Dalrymple had been the first to resettle on a side street off of Fleet. She knew him to be reputable and, as rumor would have it, quite knowledgeable in jewelry.

When she walked in, Mr. Dalrymple looked up. He was a short, rather sickly-looking man, who moved as if every joint pained him. When Lucy had met him before, she recalled, he always had a bit of a smile on his face, but now he looked world-weary.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. She noticed then a huge man sitting in the corner, who opened his eyes when she walked in. He was dressed as a simple tradesman, but she suspected that he was employed by the jeweler to protect him from bodily harm and theft.

“Is there some trinket I may show you, my dear?” the jeweler asked gently, trying to smile. It looked like his jaw hurt him, though, for he moved his hand to his teeth.

“Are you all right, sir?” she asked.

“Must see the tooth-puller,” he said rubbing his jaw. “I am very sorry to say that I am likely to have another cursed tooth. The perils of aging.”

As he spoke, he ran his eyes over her in a professional way. She could see him taking note of her unfashionable sack and the mud splattered along the hem of her dress. “Or are you here on behalf of your mistress, perchance?”

“Well, not exactly either, sir,” she said, turning away from him for a moment, and away from the probing eyes of the large man in the corner.

Swiftly, she pulled the amulet out of the pocket that lay hidden below her skirts. “There is something I should like to show you.”

Turning back around, she faced him again, amulet in hand. The jewelry-maker did not seem nonplussed or taken aback by her brief lack of modesty. He must have seen women do this many times over his decades buying and selling jewelry.

Lucy held out the precious piece. “Sir, could you please tell me about the amulet?” She hesitated. “It belongs to my mistress, and she would like to know more about it.”

“Looking to pawn it, I suppose? Well, we shall see,” Mr. Dalrymple said, accepting the piece. “I am moving out of the trade soon, as my goodly years are leaving me at last. Still, I will examine the piece and let you know if it has any value. Since the Great Fire, I have had to turn away many pieces that rummagers unearthed from the scorched-out areas. Twisted and burnt beyond repair. I can do little for them.”

He moved over to the light and picked up his spyglass so he could see more clearly. Lucy saw his eyes widen in delight. “Why, this is quite remarkable,” he exclaimed.

First, he examined the outside, stroking the gemstone, running his finger over the hinge. He refrained, Lucy noticed, from touching the dirty cord that had been strung around the woman's neck. Finally, he pressed the clasp so that he could open the hinge. He examined the chambers, even holding it to his nose. He took a deep sniff. “Rosemary,” he murmured.

Lucy nodded, even though he was not looking at her.

After a few more minutes, he finally looked back at her, speaking in a quick, excited voice. “This piece is quite fine indeed. Except for this bit of filthy twine, of course.” Before Lucy could protest, the jewelry-maker took a knife and cut the cord off. “Ah, that is better. I could not abide such a hideous thing—something so profane should not come in contact with something so sacred.”

He continued. “I have seen such pieces before, but they are rare. It is likely from Germany or France and is maybe fifteen years old.” He pointed to the stone in the middle. “This is agate,” he said, “which is a member of the chalcedony family. Specifically, bloodstone. Many people believe it to have healing properties.” He opened the clasp and pointed to the two inner chambers. “Someone has put rosemary in here, but it was made to hold relics.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Like saint's bones?” She knew that was what papists did to commune with the Lord. It seemed a rather odd practice to her.

“Bones, or teeth, or bits of skin or hair, perhaps. Or even just a piece of a special shroud.” He touched it. “So smooth to the touch. This gem was cut and polished by a great craftsman, and set by another brilliant artisan.”

“Do you have any idea who the artisans may have been?”

He shook his head. “No, but I have seen such things on my travels through the Continent. After completing a pilgrimage, the devoted might have been able to purchase such a thing to hold relics from the shrines and churches that they visited.” He looked at Lucy. “We English, of course, do not hold with such idolatrous practices. So I would suspect that it has lost any religious significance, although its original health-giving purposes may have been retained.”

“I see,” Lucy said.

“Does your mistress wish to sell it?” he asked. “I have some customers who might enjoy a piece such as this.”

“Alas, my mistress is not well,” Lucy said. “I am afraid, to be truthful, she is quite ill indeed. This amulet brings her great comfort in her illness.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well, please allow me to extend a small courtesy to the owner of this beautiful piece.”

Opening a box, he took out a small silver chain and quickly looped the amulet through it. He held it out to Lucy, who looked at him stunned.

“I-I have no money to pay for this gift. My mistress sent me no coin, either.”

The man looked at her. “I am an old man. I have acquired many beautiful things in my lifetime. I will never sell everything I own, and I have no children to pass my life's work to. If your mistress is sick, maybe this will give her a little pleasure. It will give me pleasure to imagine someone enjoying my gift. Take it, my child, and bless you on this good Maundy Thursday. In honor of the King of Kings, if you would.”

Lucy looked over at the huge man sitting in the corner. He nodded and jerked his head toward the door. As she walked out, the man followed her. “The old man is doddering a bit now. You must tell no one about what he has given you. And keep it to yourself. I do not want your friends coming around, sniffing about to see what they can take from him. He gave you a gift—which I hope will indeed go to
your ill mistress
”—he emphasized the last three words as if he did not believe her—“but do not take it into your pretty head to come back. Do you understand?”

Afraid of the way the man loomed over her, she nodded and stammered, “Th-thank him again, if you would,” before she walked quickly to the printer's shop.

*   *   *

“Did not expect to see
you
for a while,” Lach sneered when she entered the printing shop a few minutes later. He had just been getting the flames under the great pot going in the hearth at the back of the main room. “How about you get our afternoon dinner ready for us? Master Aubrey is out selling, but he said he'd be back before noon.”

“Can't. I don't have time,” she said breathlessly. “I said I would be back to Dr. Larimer's shortly. Before I do that, would you be so good as to locate some tracts?”

“What sort of tracts?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Any that speak of Henry Belasysse,” she said. “Do you not remember what Master Aubrey said when Dr. Larimer was here? He spoke of an affair, a scandal of some sort, from his tone, about our patient's brother—well, assuming she is who we think she is.” Seeing the fleeting recognition in his eyes, she grabbed his arm. “You know what the story is, do you not? Tell me!”

“I am sure I do not recall the particulars,” he replied in his teasing way.

“Argh!” Lucy cried. “Lach, it is clear that you know the story. Tell me.”

“I do recall a broadside, or a pamphlet, providing the ins and outs of that particular scandal. But who is to say where they are?” He began to whistle then.

“You know exactly where they are. I know it, you dreadful lad!” Lucy cried. “You spend more time poking around down in the cellar than anyone. Tell me where they are.”

“Find them yourself, then, why don't you?” Lach replied. “I do not have the time.” He looked over at the type from a broadside he and Master Aubrey must have printed the day before. The typeface still needed to be cleaned and sorted back into the massive trays of wooden boxes that lined the walls of the printer's shop.

Lucy rolled her eyes. They both knew she would not be able to find the tracts in a timely way. She knew that Master Aubrey had a system of grouping different types of tracts and penny pieces into bags that hung on pegs in the cellar and throughout the shop, but, in her eight months as an apprentice, she still did not fully understand how they got grouped together or where the different groups were kept.

“All right, Lach,” she said. “How about I break down this type, while you locate the tracts for me?”

“Deal,” Lach said, sticking out his hand to shake. Lucy was just glad that he had not spat on it first or cut it with a blade to seal the promise.

Lach went down into the dark cellar with a lantern to look for the tracts while Lucy cleaned the typeface with a rag and began to nimbly sort the type. Long ago, when she had first started working for the printer, such a task had been quite arduous, for each piece of type was small, and she had to make sure that each piece was properly sorted. Gothic. Italic. Roman. But she had learned that there was a rhythm to be found in the dismantling of each quoin and the text held within, and her fingers flew as she tossed the type rapidly into the correct spaces in the tray.

After about fifteen minutes, though, she began to wonder where he was. “Lach,” she hissed down the stairs. “Hurry up!” Had he tricked her? Was he even looking? This would not be the first time the printer's devil had convinced her to do something for him.

“I'm coming, I'm coming!” he called. A few minutes later, he came back into the main part of the shop with a grin. “It took me a while, but here you are.”

From the broad grin on his face, it was fairly clear that he had stayed away so that she could do more of the tray in his absence.

Lucy snatched them from his hand and went upstairs to the third floor, to enter the rooms she shared with Will. She was not surprised to find him awake, munching on a bit of hard cheese and bread.

“Good morrow, Brother,” she said, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek. “How goes the life of a master smithy?” She sat down at the table next to him, the printed pieces still in her hand.

Will stretched out, putting his arms behind his head, and preened a bit. “Quite well, actually. I have several orders to fill today, but I have a few moments to hear about this mysterious woman you are tending for Dr. Larimer.” He looked over at her in mock despair. “Chambermaid, bookseller, nursemaid … what is next, I wonder?” He punched her softly on the arm. “Wife?”

“Not straightaway,” she said, making a face. “You shall not be dancing at my wedding anytime soon. There's something I need to do right now,” she said, pointedly changing the nettlesome subject.

She pulled out the tracts that Lach had found for her and spread them out on their low table. Her brother continued to chomp noisily on his food. As he ate, she told him quickly about the mysterious woman. “Mr. Sheridan is convinced that she is Octavia Belasysse. It seems that Mr. Sheridan's brother and her brother, Henry, were Cambridge chums or something of that nature.”

She picked up the first tract, her eyes widening as she read the title out loud.
“The Strange and True Tale of Two Noble-born Men Who Did Most Ignobly Kill a Man.”
She broke off, starting to scan the tract more quickly.

“Killed a man?” Will repeated. “Who did?”

Lucy kept reading.
“Henry Belasysse and Lord Buckhurst did kill a man after a night of tippling down in Waltham Forest.”

She stared at Will. “I can scarcely believe it,” she said, before turning her attention back to the printed page before her.
“Upon leaving the local tavern, the two ignoble nobles did mistake a poor tanner as a highwayman and did kill him for fear that he had designs upon their wealth.”

“Were they hanged, then?” Will asked, touching his neck beneath his collar. Lucy did not need to see his face to know what he was thinking. There was a time when his own life had hung in the balance, before the fates had intervened and justice was restored. The noose had nearly brought an end to him, and only she knew the despair that he still sometimes felt when reminded of this bleak moment in his life. “Shame about the tanner.”

She pressed his hand. “No, I do not think they were hanged for this crime.” Lucy returned her attention to the other piece, this one a broadside. “Ah, the rest of the story.
The Murderers Pardoned,
” she read. Frowning, she added, “It seems that the case never went to trial.” Skimming the page, she read,
“‘O! the folly of youth!' His Majesty lamented. ‘A youthful mistake need not end with the hangman's noose.'”
She pushed the piece away. “It appears that King Charles pardoned them both. And Henry Belasysse ran for Parliament a few months later. He is now an MP for Great Grimsby.”

“You mean they did commit the murder and got away with it?” Will's brows furrowed. “Ninny-hammers.”

Lucy skimmed the rest of the piece. This one gave a little more information about the life of Henry Belasysse. It seemed he had been widowed at age nineteen and married his second wife a few years later. Here, she began to read out loud again.
“Having made some waste in his estate, he was compelled by his father to marry a lass just thirteen, but possessing great fortune—”