Accidents of Providence (3 page)

“Tell me how you became acquainted with the case at hand.”

“I have no relation to the case at hand.”

“You just said this case was unfair, so clearly you know something about it. You are not a good liar. Your face is blooming red.”

“Then you already know how I am acquainted with it, else you would not have called me in here.” Elizabeth tapped her heel against the leg of the stool. He noticed her black boot, with its high arch and tarnished buckle.

“You are friends with the woman under investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you know, please.”

“I have nothing to say.”

He waited. He did not think she was the kind of woman who could stay quiet long.

“This is an illegal investigation,” she flung at him, confirming Bartwain’s hypothesis, “and you are working for an illegal government. The Council of State is a government of the sword, not of the people. So I have no words for you today, Investigator.”

“You will have to stop talking for me to believe that.”

“You treat me like a fool.”

“Be careful, or I will hold you in contempt.”

“You already do.”

They went back and forth, Bartwain making little headway. Elizabeth Lilburne was as belligerent as her husband. Finally he badgered her into admitting it was
possible
her friend Rachel Lockyer had been with child, and it was
possible
she had tried to hide this pregnancy from others, but he could not provoke her into saying anything definite. When he asked if Rachel could have laid a hand on her infant, Elizabeth’s face darkened. Only a savage monster could harm its own young, she said. When he asked if Rachel had confided in her, perhaps confessing to some kind of mishap in childbirth, she retorted, “Why would you care? The law still holds a woman responsible.” She went silent, holding the investigator’s gaze.

If he could not wrangle information out of her directly, he would have to do so indirectly. “Would you say Rachel Lockyer went into a fit of grief after her brother’s execution this past spring?” he asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

“You mean his murder.”

“Call it what you will. Would you say she went into a fit of grief?”

Elizabeth was not falling for the question. “I would not. For then you would use my words to paint her as a madwoman, capable of anything, even strangling her child.”

“So you admit the child was hers.”

“I was speaking hypothetically.”

“That is some sleight of hand,” he observed. “You have spent too much time in your husband’s company. I hear he can make a cunning argument masquerade as a plain one.”

“He speaks the truth,” she snapped. But her strained expression made Bartwain wonder if Elizabeth Lilburne defended her famous husband more vigorously to others than she did to herself.

“I have read your Leveler pamphlets, with all their prattle about the rights and privileges and freedoms of the people. Did Rachel Lockyer believe those teachings?”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“I never knew any woman to harm her child without pleading some doctrine or justification to excuse herself,” he told her. “‘The child made me ill,’ she will say. ‘The child made me poor and wretched.’ It is the same principle you rebels and libertines rallied behind as you dragged this country into war. ‘The king makes us slaves,’ you said. ‘The king makes us pay taxes.’ Both of these—”

“The Levelers did not kill the king.”

Bartwain groaned. By nature he was not a political man. He did not think anyone could claim victory in the aftermath of civil war. How it was possible for a dead king to be the only one left standing at the end of a conflict, he didn’t know. But it had happened. He waved Elizabeth’s words away. “You’re missing my point. Both of these arguments are rooted in self-preservation. Both insist that what matters most is
my
life,
my
survival, even at the expense of others. Even at the expense of a child.” He should not have been discussing intellectual matters with a woman. When faced with a moral problem, with a case of conscience, as the casuists called it, women tried to solve their dilemmas by referring to examples and stories. They refused to think abstractly, to seek universal principles of reason.

“You think a woman such as Rachel Lockyer has the leisure to sit around and consider what law or doctrine she will use to justify her behavior?” Elizabeth tossed back. “You think she asks such questions while she is sweeping the walk or rolling out the dough before dawn—while she is up to her elbows in flour?”

“If a woman has no time to think on such things, then why did you and Rachel Lockyer spend so many nights with the Levelers at the Whalebone tavern?” He was genuinely curious. “What could you possibly have wanted that would make you leave the house?”

“We wanted a drink,” she said.

The investigator burst into laughter, which metamorphosed into a walloping cough. Spluttering, he called for White, who whisked into the chambers with a pitcher of water; White was used to this.

When Bartwain’s cough subsided he dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. “You are not half bad, Mrs. Lilburne.” Then, taking a breath, he returned to his investigation. “Isn’t there anything at all you can tell me about these events? You might be called to testify if there is a trial. In the courtroom you will not have so much room to dodge and trim and equivocate.”

“I’m not equivocating.”

“You are,” he said, “but I admire your effort and your talent.” He rose from his desk, his stomach tipping it forward as he did. A stack of parchments slid to the floor. Elizabeth did not pause to help him retrieve them. She stepped over the papers with a queenly resolution and bade him good morning as she glided out of the chambers. He watched her leave the courthouse on her high-arched boots, saw her tightening the strings of her hat and shoving her blond curls under the brim.

B
Y THE START
of his third interview, Bartwain’s head was throbbing. He placed his head in his hands and pressed his fingers against his temples. He did not glance up when the Leveler William Walwyn entered his chambers.

“Name for the record,” Bartwain said into his papers.

“William Walwyn.”

“Title, living, lodgings.”

“Merchant. Former merchant. Formerly of the Merchant Adventurers Company. My home lies at the eastern end of Moorfields, just north of London.”

“Former?”

“Yes. I resigned.”

Bartwain raised his head. On first glance he was not impressed. His witness was silver-haired and lean from nine months in the Tower of London, with a restive, almost refractory stare. But then Walwyn turned to the side and Bartwain reconsidered his opinion. William Walwyn was one of those men who looked markedly different in profile. Viewed directly, his face tended toward the flat and pallid; he would strike you as the kind of man who rarely apologizes. From the front he looked quarrelsome, abrupt, and his full forty-nine years. In profile, everything changed. If you were to assess him from the side, as Bartwain was doing, he became a lean and graceful man, a thinking man, a philosopher whose only fear was ignorance.

“I heard you broke your oath to the Merchant Adventurers, that you are now their Judas. Sit down.” Bartwain relit his pipe, which on long days gave him solace. “I also hear you are trying your hand at medicine—at physic.”

Walwyn remained standing. “Why does my profession concern you? I have no idea why I’m here; your secretary never bothered to tell me. Is this about John Lilburne’s latest pamphlet? I don’t know how many times I have to explain to you people I had no part in it. That last one was entirely John’s.”

“I’m not interested in you Levelers and your seditious scribbling. I have brought you here on a serious subject. This is a murder investigation, Mr. Walwyn.”

“Murder?”

“Yes. There is always a murder when I am on the case.”

“Who has been murdered?”

“We’ll get to that.”

“Mr. Bartwain,” Walwyn said, leaning forward, leaning all the way across the desk—rudely, the investigator thought—“I have been under wrongful imprisonment in the Tower for the past nine months. I was released just a few days ago, and since obtaining my freedom I have been busy with household obligations. I have no knowledge of whatever hideous crime you are investigating.” He sat back.

“You Levelers are all the same.” Bartwain fought off a paroxysm of coughing. “All of you talk about how busy you are. Too busy to think about doctrines, says one. Too busy to engage in king killing, says another. It’s a wonder you have time to do anything. Yet here you are, a prolific writer. You know which one of your works is my favorite? I liked
The Power of Love.
I wonder why you wrote that one. It’s not very political, is it?”

Walwyn looked at him.

“Now you see where we are heading? Now will you tell me about Rachel Lockyer?” He picked up his quill.

Walwyn leaned forward again. He laid both hands on Bartwain’s desk. If the two men had been playing fox and geese, they would have been well-matched opponents. “Rachel Lockyer is a good woman, an excellent woman, a hard-working woman. What has she to do with any murder?”

“Tell me how you came to be acquainted with her.”

“Why in God’s name should it matter?”

“Tread carefully, Mr. Walwyn.” He is confused, Bartwain thought. He has not spoken to her since his release. He has no idea about the child.

“I met Rachel Lockyer three years ago at the Whalebone.”

“Do you still frequent that tavern?”

“Not anymore.”

“What is the nature of your relationship?”

“She was among those who spent time at the Whalebone. Again, why is this relevant?”

Bartwain laid down his quill. “Mr. Walwyn.” He spoke quietly, for maximum effect. He was halfway enjoying himself. “Your time in the Tower has left you blissfully unaware of current events. Rachel Lockyer, your old friend, is under suspicion of murdering an infant. The poor creature was dug up in the woods near the Smithfield slaughterhouse. Widow du Gard practically saw Rachel bury it with her bare hands. I would like to know if the child was hers. I would like to know if she was involved in a sexual dalliance.”

Walwyn took a step backward.

“You should sit down. You look ill.”

Walwyn sat.

“Now do you understand why I have called you here? I have called you here because I need your help.”

He shook his head. “I cannot help you.”

“Cannot or will not?” Pushing back from the desk, Bartwain rose to his feet and stood as tall as he could, which was not very. “Have you seen Rachel Lockyer since you left prison?”

“No. I told you. I have not seen anyone except my family.”

“You and your fourteen children, is that what number you’ve reached?”

“For God’s sake, why should that matter?”

“A strapping brood,” Bartwain mused. “Any man would be proud. So, let’s see if I have it right. You remain in Moorfields to care for your fourteen children while Rachel Lockyer has been busy in London destroying her one.”

“Take that back or you will suffer for it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“What do you think?” Walwyn reached in and seized the investigator’s lace collar. He was so close Bartwain could smell perspiration and wormwood. “And what will you do, Investigator? What? Are you going to call for help from that fledgling Friend out in the hallway who pretends to be your secretary? He will fall like a dead leaf as soon as I blow on him.”

“Stop it. I will call the officers of the court,” Bartwain bleated. “Stop it, let me go. My lungs are not strong.” He coughed, louder than was necessary.

“I will let you go when you apologize.”

“I never apologize when I am in the right!”

Walwyn pushed Bartwain away and knocked him into the wall as he headed for the door. “Damn fool,” he muttered. “Your investigation will come to nothing. She could not have done what you are insinuating. She is incapable of it.”

“Incapable of conceiving a child? Or incapable of harming a child once she had one?”

Walwyn opened the door.

“So you are arguing on the basis of Rachel Lockyer’s good character?” Bartwain pressed.

“Yes!”

The investigator’s lungs were whistling as he breathed in and out. “There are plenty of women of good character who find themselves in damned and desperate circumstances.”

“Rachel Lockyer is neither damned nor desperate.”

“I wonder if she knew that.” The air in the chambers hovered, squalid and damp. “Did you know the infant was found with a ring of bruises around its neck, Mr. Walwyn? The poor thing’s skin had turned purple.”

“I will not listen to this.” The Leveler was out the door, striding down the corridor.

The investigator shuffled out after him. “For the last time, what was the nature of your relationship?”

“She was a friend and a true Christian.”

“You speak as if she’s dead. Tell me: were you the father of that poor bastard they found behind the slaughterhouse? Yes or no will suffice.”

Walwyn halfway turned. “Say what you will. I don’t care about my reputation.”

“I see.” Bartwain nodded. “Your wife will be pleased, I’m sure. Now she not only has to endure the humiliation of your weakness but also stands to lose you to the high tide of consequences.”

“Love is a weakness?”

“You’re the philosopher. Answer the question.”

“Which one?”

“The one on which your reputation depends, of course.”

Walwyn flashed a reckless smile. “Love is no weakness,” he said. He took the steps two at a time outside the courthouse and disappeared around the corner.

Bartwain’s afternoon interviews went by without incident. He spoke with Jack Dawber, the overseer of the Smithfield slaughterhouse, who had glimpsed a woman digging at the edge of the wood and who seemed obsessed with the color of the moon on the night he witnessed the incident; he said it looked “nefarious.” Next Bartwain interviewed a butcher and his wife who lived down the street from Du Gard Gloves. They said Rachel had shown up on their stoop in the middle of the night that same evening. Soil and mud streaked her clothing, they reported, and she seemed disoriented. When the butcher identified her as the glovemaker’s assistant, the couple dragged her back to Mary’s residence and deposited her on the stoop. They assumed she was intoxicated. Bartwain asked if she had said anything, made any kind of statement or confession. The butcher shook his head: “She did not say a word about it that I remember.”