A Murder at Rosamund's Gate

8

By morning, it was impossible to hide the fact that Bessie had left the household. Wringing her hands and sniffling a bit, Lucy told Cook and John first, where they sat having their morning mead.

At the news, Cook set her mug down on the table. “I don’t believe it,” Cook said. “Maybe the mistress sent her on an errand.”

Lucy shook her head. “In the middle of the night?”

“Well, maybe—”

“All her clothes are gone. Some of mine, too.” Lucy said flatly. “She’s left us.”

“Stupid cow,” Cook muttered through tight lips. A tear may have glistened in her eye. “She’s sure to be discharged now. What will become of her?” Throwing up her hands, she added, “You’d best tell the magistrate and mistress.”

Wretchedly, Lucy informed the Hargraves and Lucas about Bessie’s disappearance when they met for breakfast. Adam was not around.

“Stupid girl!” Lucas muttered, unconsciously echoing Cook’s words. He was clearly unhappy.

The master looked solemn but said little. The mistress was surprisingly calm. “Go check if anything is missing,” she commanded Lucy.

Trudging on heavy feet, Lucy went to count the silver in the sideboard. When she pulled open the drawer, she just stared down, her mouth agape. All of the mistress’s silver, some of it imported from Spain and Holland, was gone. She felt sick. Tearfully, she informed the master and the mistress. Both seemed pale.

The muscles in the magistrate’s face tightened. He seemed to find it hard to speak for a moment. “John, send for the constable.”

With a grim set to his face, John took off. He returned not a half hour later, bringing Constable Duncan and their local bellman in tow. Lucy did not know the bellman, Burke, very well, although she had seen him about from time to time, stopping drunkards on the street and banging pickpockets’ heads together. He was a stout man in his early forties, his hair already gray. Much older than the constable, he had the air of a man who had spent some time in the army, battering down enemy charges.

After hearing the magistrate’s account of Bessie’s disappearance, Constable Duncan asked to question Lucy. The mistress slipped out then, to soothe her scattered nerves. Lucy was grateful that the magistrate stayed nearby, seating himself on a low bench by the wall. His presence was watchful but not interfering.

Duncan peppered her with questions until her head was spinning. When had she last seen Bessie? Had Bessie seemed happy? Had she ever spoken of leaving? Of starting a new life? Of ending her current life?

She stayed silent. At the last question, Lucy looked up. “Bessie would never kill herself. Why would she?”

“All right,” Duncan said and tried to soothe her. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? When did you last see Bessie?”

Lucy tried to recall. Surely, she had seen Bessie just before supper, but she had not seen her afterward when it was time to clear the table. She was certainly not around when Lucy was fending off Del Gado.

Her mind drifted again. Why did you go, Bessie? she wondered for the hundredth time. Why would you steal the silver?

She almost missed the constable’s next question. “Did Bessie have a young man in her life?”

Lucy hesitated. She could feel the magistrate’s penetrating gaze upon her. She thought about the painter’s sketches, which she was not supposed to have seen, and she thought about her brother. Reluctantly, she gave the constable Will’s name. She cringed when Duncan and Burke exchanged a knowing glance.

Duncan twirled his quill pen. Lucy found herself looking at the nub, not so carefully sharpened as the magistrate’s or Adam’s would have been. It looked straggly and out of place, although she could see he had borrowed the magistrate’s ink.

A silence loomed as Lucy’s head began to spin. Had she missed another question? They seemed to be waiting for her to speak.

Lucy looked hopelessly at the magistrate. She felt like a mouse trapped in one of Cook’s baskets. “Will has done nothing wrong.”

The magistrate leaned forward in his chair, reaching to pat her hand, which gripped the table. “Don’t worry, my dear. The constable is just doing his job, gathering information. We will get this cleared up soon.”

Gulping, Lucy gave him Will’s address. They all watched the constable scratch something in a little chapbook. He paused, squaring his shoulders with the manner of a man asked to taste something he knew would not sit well on his tongue. “I understand you also have a son, sir. Is he in the house?”

The magistrate glanced at John before he answered the constable’s question. “I believe he had a late night with friends, so I do not think it is necessary to get his testimony about a disappearing maid, or a bit of missing silver.”

Burke smirked but instantly tried to suppress it under the magistrate’s stern gaze.

His manner bland, Duncan said, “Oh, of course. Well, I doubt we need to talk to him, then. I shall go question the neighbors and see if they know anything about this. If you remember anything else, sir, do let us know.”

As John ushered them from the house, Lucy saw the magistrate put his head down in his hands. For a moment, he looked older than she had ever known him.

* * *

When Lucy heard the watchman call the tenth hour of the morning, she was still sweeping snow from the front walk with a bit of birch. She had positioned herself out front, so she could track the progress of the constable and bellman as they talked to each neighbor in turn. Finally, they moved out of view, and Lucy turned to go back inside.

She noticed a small dead bird on the step, wings drawn into its soft downy chest. The little wren bothered her immensely, although she didn’t know why. Didn’t she see dead birds every day? Game hens, cocks, pheasants hanging upside down, throats garroted, heads chopped off, blood dripping from plucked bodies. Not quite like this bird, though. The stone walk looked almost tomblike, and something about the lay of the bird’s tiny corpse on the step made it look almost sacrificial.

Grimacing, Lucy carefully laid the bird to rest under a nearby bush, rather than throwing it in the raker’s bucket. No good sign there, she thought, but at least it was no raven. It was common enough knowledge that ravens brought no good to the world. Good thing Cook hadn’t seen it. She’d surely be brewing some potion to brush across the step to ward off evil. As the cold edged more into Lucy’s bones, she wondered if a wee prayer might not be in order.

At that moment, a dusty cart pulled up in front of the house. She was about to wave the driver around back when she heard a throaty cry from the cart. “Lucy!”

She stared as Adam, dirty and rumpled, toppled out of the cart, helped by a man that Lucy did not know. Adam growled something, and the man jumped back in the cart. Whinnying at the smart crack of the whip, the horses trotted away, kicking up dirt behind them as they passed.

Across the street, a curtain moved, unseen watchers taking in Adam stumbling up the path, slipping a bit in the snow, making his way unsteadily along the stones. What could he have been doing all night? He looked uncommonly disheveled.

Coming to her senses, Lucy sprang to meet him. Drawing his arm around her shoulders, she hastened Adam over the threshold. The smell of drink was heavy upon him, and she nearly gagged. Once inside, away from gossipy tongues, she shook him off, leaving him to lean heavily against the windowpane. Truly, he looked terrible.

“At the tavern, sir?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. While the rest of us are worrying sick over Bessie, she thought, he’s off tippling down with his mates. That was a magistrate’s son for you, she supposed—and yet something seemed off.

Adam shrugged, grimacing when he moved his arms. “In a manner of speaking, but not what you think. I was taking care of some unfinished business.” He looked at her. “Why am I explaining myself to you? Bring me some warm water and send John to me. I should like to clean myself up a bit.”

Without waiting for her answer, he limped carefully up the stairs, gripping the rail. Lucy stared after him a moment, then sent John up to attend him. After heating a basin of water, she carried it up to the second floor, grumbling all the while. The pot sloshed precariously as she knocked at Adam’s door.

Entering the room, she found Adam sitting on the edge of his bed, his outer shirt peeled off. Gasping, Lucy saw thin lines of blood soaking through his undershirt. “My God! What happened?”

John shot her a warning look. Adam looked down, seemingly puzzled by the blood on his chest and legs. “Oh, right. I seem to have had a mishap at the market today.”

“A mishap, sir?”

“Some damn fool bumped me into the butcher’s stall. That’s animal blood, Lucy, nothing more. Could you go ahead and wash this shirt out?” he said, handing her the shirt from the bed. “And be a good girl, keep it to yourself.”

“But I don’t understand, sir, are you all right? You’re bleeding. Shall I run for the physician?”

John gingerly dabbed at the blood on Adam’s back with a piece of soaked linen. At the word “physician,” he looked anxiously at Adam.

“No!” Adam replied, wincing as John dabbed at the deep scratches. “There’s no need to tell anyone about this. Do you understand me, Lucy? I must have gotten scratched when I fell. We don’t want to disturb anyone. It was just an accident. A minor one at that. Nothing to worry anyone about.”

Lucy looked at Adam doubtfully. She looked at John, and he shook his head slightly. There did not seem to be much more she could do. “As you wish, sir.”

* * *

Later that afternoon, as Lucy tried unsuccessfully to polish the pewter in the drawing room, John touched her shoulder. He looked worried.

“Yes, John? What is it?” she asked.

He grimaced. “It’s Master Adam. He seems to have taken a fever.”

Lucy shrugged. “Are you sure you haven’t mistaken a touch of brawling and drinking for a sickness?”

John knitted his brow, looking doubtful. “Just come see him, would you, lass? Mary is out visiting old Missus Healy, who took sick last week. I could sure use some help.”

When they entered Adam’s room, her tone changed. Lucy was not prepared for how much more ill he looked than he had in the morning. He looked young, with his tousled chestnut hair, even though he was a good five years older than herself. His face was a deep red with fever, and the cuts on his arms looked angry and raw. When the blanket moved, she saw he had more cuts across his chest. His gaze was wide and unfocused.

Lucy pulled herself up. “Cook must make a bit of a poultice as she did for me—a bit of a bread mold and spiderwebs as I’ve seen her do with scabby sores. John, you will fetch the surgeon. I think he needs to be bled.”

After the surgeon tended to him, Adam fell into a deep sleep and did not revive for a full day. Mistress Hargrave walked around wringing her hands, and the magistrate retreated to his study in a black funk. His servant had run off, his silver was missing, and his son was worse the wear for drink. Not a godly household, indeed.

* * *

Proper inquiries into Bessie’s disappearance yielded no results over the next few days. Lucy knew that Bessie’s sister and mother in Lambeth were questioned and their houses searched. After Constable Duncan talked to the Hargraves’ neighbors, Bessie’s absence was discussed with great glee.

The night Del Gado had joined them for supper was the last anyone remembered seeing her. No one could remember exactly, but several neighbors claimed to have seen her walking down the street that evening. The bootmaker said that when Bessie reached the corner she had turned west toward town, while the soap seller insisted she had turned east toward the forest. No one had seen her past the fork in the road. Depending on who was telling the story, Bessie had either been brandishing a small cutlass or nervously clutching her reticule, and had either been alone or skulking in the shadows with several nefarious sorts.

Everyone agreed, though, that swallowed up she had been, at a time when only the criminal sort walked and God-fearing folk slept easily in their beds.

Easily Bessie had moved from being a simple maid who sought to better her lot in life with the theft of the spoons to being a scofflaw’s moll, the likes of Moll Cutpurse robbing gentlemen at knife’s point.

“It’s lucky she didn’t murder you all in your sleep,” they hissed at Lucy. “She’s a right sneaky one, she is. ’Tis a good thing she took off with just your spoons!”

“She’ll be caught sure enough,” Janey said with a sniff. Lucy scowled at her, remembering her words at the Embrys’ Easter masquerade.

“And she won’t look so fine, will she, when she’s carted off to Newgate!” chimed in her sister Emma. “Those curls won’t be so gorgeous, will they!”

“I’ll pull them myself!” Janey shrieked, clearly delighting in Bessie’s comeuppance. “Serves her right! Dirty beggar!”

“Imagine! In the magistrate’s own household! A little thief!”

“A laughing-stock that magistrate is! Keeping order in his house, I think not!”

“Could not see past the end of his nose, to be sure. The tart must have had him magicked by her pretty ways. Could not even see her for the guttersnipe she was.”

“’Twas as bad as being cuckolded!”

Lucy kept her head up, trying to shut out the uglier servant voices that she heard along the street, malevolent as only the most sniping fishwives could be. Echoing what they heard whispered in the withdrawing rooms, they could barely contain their delight at a good family being brought down by scandal.

Thankfully, some voices were kind. Those who liked Bessie and respected the family just shook their heads. “I’ll pray for the lass,” good Mistress Fields told Lucy, pressing her hand as she passed her on the curb. “Your poor master. He does not deserve this. I should not have taken her for a thief. Let us just pray she’s come to no harm.”

During these fretful days, Lucy had seen Will only once, and he was so angry and sullen he scarcely spoke a word. Like so many of the neighbors, he believed Bessie had run off with another man.

Returning from market, Lucy stopped to look at a crocus just popping its head out of the thawed earth. She was glad spring was finally upon them; winter had seemed so long and dark. Pausing at the back gate, she could see Constable Duncan speaking to Janey.

Seeing Lucy, the constable strode across the grass toward her, Janey at his heels. “Lucy, a word if you will,” he called.

“What is it?” Lucy asked, running up the back path.

“I’ll tell you!” Janey sounded triumphant. “Bessie, the hussy! She’s been found. Oh, yes, indeed!”

Duncan grimaced, but stepped back when Cook came racing out of the house, a mass of aprons and pushed-up sleeves. “No, oh, no, you don’t, Janey Miller! You wait here, Constable! I’m going to tell her myself!”

“Cook, you’re weeping! Why are you weeping?” Lucy asked, increasingly frantic, letting the old servant pull her into the house. An unpleasant tingle ran over her skin.

Cook slammed the door, the pots and pans rattling with the blow. The smell of something burning assaulted Lucy’s nose. John was looking helplessly at a steaming mess in the pot, which he had evidently tried to quench with water. He stood up, casting a sorrowful look at Lucy as he passed out of the kitchen.

“The stew, Cook. I think it’s burn—”

“Never mind that!” Cook said, scrunching the muslin of her skirts with nervous fingers. She added softly, “Pray, child, sit down, here by the fire.”

Lucy sat down on the bench, her fingers clenched in her lap. She felt like a jumbler was tossing things around inside her stomach. She fixed on Cook’s red-rimmed eyes. “Is she in jail? Is she to stand trial?” A vision of Bessie getting egged in the stocks made her sick.

“No, no, child.” Cook gulped. “Heaven help us! Bessie, our sweet Bessie! She’s dead.”

“Dead?” Lucy repeated. A dull rushing sound filled her ears. How could she be dead? Bessie, so full of life and love and laughter, how could she be dead? She swallowed. “What happened?”

“Found in Rosamund’s Gate, she was, by a passing tinker. Her body had been hidden under snow and leaves. That’s why it took so long, to find her, I mean. The magistrate and Adam just went to identify her.”

Cook gripped both Lucy’s hands in hers. “’Twas no accident. Do you understand? Her death was not natural.”

“Not natural! But that would mean—did she kill herself? Self-murder?” Unbidden, the minister’s warnings about the torments of hell flashed into her head. Tears began to flow again. “Oh, Bessie, why?”

“No, dear. ’Twas unnatural, to be true, but she died at the hands of some rotter.”

Lucy could not speak.

Cook nodded. “A knife through her organs, no less.”

Numbly, simply, Lucy heard how Bessie’s body had been found, stabbed, in a secluded grove. Rosamund’s gate. A lover’s park, some called it, for along time ago, a man had killed his beloved and then himself, for reasons now long lost. She and Bessie had once talked about the legend. How romantic, Bessie had thought. Romantic that lovers would rather commit suicide to be together in death than be separate in life. Romantic! Ha! All she could think of was Bessie, freezing and alone in the brush, the March snow melting all about her. She didn’t even have her Bible.

Lucy barely noticed Cook holding her, barely heard someone howling. Was it herself? She could not tell.

And oh! That wretched foul-burning stew! Throwing off Cook’s arms, she grabbed the boiling pot and heaved it into the muck outside. She then sagged down beside the steaming pile, passing into unheeding oblivion.