A Murder at Rosamund's Gate

9

Lucy woke with a start, blinking at the sun streaming through the cracks of her bedchamber shutters. Not sunrise, but rather the full sun of midmorning. Why hadn’t anyone awakened her? Why had she been allowed to sleep so late? Bessie should have woken her—

She sat bolt upright. “Oh, Bessie,” she moaned. For a moment she could scarcely breathe as her throat clenched with tears. The last day and night had passed in a blur. She’d stumbled downstairs a few times to dump her chamber pot into the great barrel. Cook would press something hot into her hands, but she didn’t remember eating much, or doing much of anything. Snatches of conversation, hushed remarks from the neighbors, wafted by her, but nothing made sense. She felt like leeches had been placed all over her body, draining her of blood and spirit.

The emptiness of the bed nearly got her weeping again, but with some labor, Lucy pushed her legs over the edge and stood up. “The day must start,” she said to the wooden figures on her shelf, for a moment envying their place in the world.

When she entered the kitchen, Cook took in her neat dress and apron. “That’s a good girl,” she said. She seemed about to say something else, then stopped. Instead, she gestured to a tray of bread and hot mead. “Could you take that up to Master Adam?”

Lucy found Adam already up, sitting in his chair. A book lay open in his lap, but he was idly poking at the cold ash in his fireplace. When she set the tray on a little table beside his bed, he reached for a bun but did not bite into it. Instead, he crumbled it in his hand.

“Shall I light the fire for you, sir?”

He did not answer, seemingly deep in thought. She shrugged. Fine. As if she cared. “All right then, sir. Good morning.”

Just as she reached the door, Adam called out to her. “Lucy, wait.”

She paused but kept her tear-stained face slightly away from him, not in a mood to be doing anyone’s bidding, certainly no special requests. She just wanted to lie down and hold a sachet to her temple, which had just begun to throb.

“Tell me what you know about Bessie’s death.”

“Sir?” Lucy asked. “To be sure, I know as much as you.” Even those small sentences required a great deal of effort. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from weeping openly.

Adam might have seen that, because he abruptly stopped sounding like a barrister. He jumped from his chair and touched her arm. “Please, Lucy. Sit down for a moment. Here, by the fire.” They both glanced at the cold grate. “Well, all right, no fire, but please sit down. I didn’t mean to distress you further. Indeed, I am terribly sorry that you lost a friend. I know she was a companion to both you and my sister, and she will be heartfully missed.”

Well, that was better at least. Less like a noble. Barely listening, Lucy concentrated instead on a dark knot on the wood floor. It looked like a mushroom, she thought idly. She despised mushrooms.

“I’ve no news of the outside,” Adam said, making an impatient gesture. “This sickness has kept me abed, and I’ve not seen Father. I need to know what is being said of Bessie’s death. Who are they saying did it?”

Lucy made a face. “It’s all fantastic nonsense.”

“Yes, and?” Adam prompted. “What are they saying?”

She bit her lip. “Well, that Bessie had been in league with the devil.” Seeing his brow raise, she gave the slightest of smiles. “Not the real devil, of course, but some devilish man who seduced her. Convinced her to steal the silver spoons. And then he killed her.”

“Oh?” Adam prompted.

“He must have taken the spoons, you see. Because the spoons weren’t found where she was … killed. At Rosamund’s Gate.”

“How singular. Who was this supposed devilish man?”

At this, Lucy could not help but sneer. “Janey supposes a highwayman.”

“Of course. And what say the constable?”

“He thinks maybe it was the gypsies encamped to the south. He knew that Bessie had visited them a few times.” How tongues do wag, Lucy thought. An image of Maraid’s beautiful and wild face came to her then, asking for silver.

Adam seemed to follow her thinking. “The gypsies do require silver, do they not? Had Bessie particular need for their services?”

Lucy thought about this. Bessie had wanted something from the gypsies but had not confided in her, to be sure. Truly, her manner had been strange for some time—and what about the red lacquered box? If only she could just go somewhere and think. She scratched her arm, waiting for permission to leave the room.

Adam wasn’t done. “So Bessie was wearing a green silk dress when she was murdered?” Seeing her flinch, he added, “I’m sorry, Lucy. That was thoughtless of me. When she passed on, I mean. But the dress? What do you make of that?”

The question gave Lucy pause. Certainly, the green taffeta was not a dress to travel in. “Yes,” she said slowly. “It was one of her favorite dresses. She wore it to Lady Embry’s Easter masquerade. She looked lovely.”

Lucy gulped, recalling a vision of Bessie, beautiful in the green taffeta, generously lending Lucy her perfume. Lost in the past, she barely heard Adam comment, “I’m afraid I did not notice her.”

The memory was too raw to think of now. Lucy pushed it aside to concentrate on what Adam was asking her, but she kept thinking about the dress. She herself would have worn a more practical work dress, one of her gray muslins, if she were taking a journey. Bessie must have hoped to meet someone, nay, to impress someone. Perhaps those nosy neighbors were right. She sighed.

“What is it?” Adam asked gently. “I can see something has occurred to you. Will you tell me?”

His unexpected kindness loosened her tongue somewhat. “It’s just that this was a special dress. Not a dress she would have wanted to walk very far in, especially in such cold weather. She looked so beautiful in it. Not like a servant at all, sir. So she’d have worn it to impress someone.” Not some made-up highwayman, either. Someone more like Will, Lucy realized. Someone Bessie cared about.

Adam tapped his fingers on the wall, musing out loud. “Exactly. My thoughts as well. The constable could not be too aware of women’s clothes if he didn’t know that it was a servant girl’s best dress. Of course, it was no doubt the worse for wear when he saw it.”

Lucy had only half heard him, as she remembered Will whispering into Bessie’s ear. She put a hand over her mouth, the bile rising in her throat.

Adam saw the gesture. “Oh, I am a cad. Forgive me.” He paused. “So the dress suggests that she was planning to meet a sweetheart, not have an assignation with a highwayman. Why would he kill her?”

“Perhaps someone else killed her,” Lucy said. “Someone else she encountered on the way.”

“Perhaps. Did she have a lover, do you know?”

Lucy narrowed her eyes, not wanting to speak of her brother’s relationship with Bessie. She’d already been forced to mention it to the constable. Adam seemed tense, and his questions did not appear to stem from mere curiosity. She watched him trace a crack in the wall. As she gazed at his bandaged hands and body, she could not suppress the ugly and dark thoughts. What had he been doing to get himself all bloodied? The stories he had told, about running into a butcher’s stall, seemed far-fetched. She spoke carefully. “Oh well, you know Bessie. She had an eye for the lads, as they did for her. Now, sir,” she said, rising from the chair, “I really must get back to my duties.”

Adam scowled at her, his mood changed. “You’re not telling me something.”

Her heart jumped at how easily he seemed to see through her. “No, sir, there’s nothing else,” she said.

He jerked his head toward the door, and she scurried out. Rather than going down to the kitchen as she ought, instead she crept to her little chamber, trying to push away dreadful, ill-formed thoughts.

* * *

Bessie’s death gradually sank in, like a stone slipping into a pond’s deepest muck. At night, Lucy slept in fits and starts, lying alone in the chamber she had shared with Bessie, sobbing her way through several handkerchiefs. During the day, she tried to hide her tears in front of the family, but little things could set her weeping afresh. The iron that Bessie had cursed, a bit of ribbon that she might have worn in her hair, an untouched treacle tart that they might have shared when the chores were done—all shredded her deeply. Every movement was an effort, the most simple exchange a chore. She felt she couldn’t remember the most routine tasks.

“More ale, did you say, sir?”

“I forgot to light the hearth, sir? I’m sorry, I’ll get right to it.”

“Pardon me, mistress. I thought you wanted the brocade this evening.”

Lucy thought the magistrate might have awkwardly patted her arm once or twice, but she could not be sure. The mistress she saw weeping, sitting at her mirror, just staring at the brush Bessie would use to stroke her hair. Lucy wanted to go to her, but she did not quite dare. Only with Sarah did Lucy cry outright.

Once, in the courtyard, Lucas slung his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “Our dear merry girl is gone, ’tis true, but as the good Reverend Marcus would say, she lies sweetly in the Lord’s own hands.” This gave Lucy little comfort, but she nodded at the thought.

Only Adam remained aloof, although she looked up once to see his eyes upon her, as if measuring her in some way. That so unnerved her that she dropped her spinning wool and had to spend quite a long time to get it unknotted.

Lucy hardly dared put into words the ill feelings Adam stirred in her. Something was clearly amiss. The memories of that shared moment in the hallway, and later, when they walked home on Easter night, were images she fought to suppress. Instead, she forced herself to think about the last few weeks of Bessie’s life. Bessie had been acting strangely, but what about Adam? Could they have been sweethearts? She thought about how he had questioned her, his bloodstained clothes, his injuries the night of Bessie’s disappearance. All pointed to something that pained her deeply.

She tried talking to John about Adam’s odd injuries, but a single twitch of the servant’s cheek warned her staunchly where his loyalties lay. Cook certainly shared her husband’s loyalty to the household, and Lucy could not well speak to any of the family about her sickening worries. In any case, Sarah had been bustled off to her aunt’s in Shropshire, an event that sharpened her loss. Nor could she turn to her brother. Will had stopped by the day before, after the family had returned from church, showing a grayness to his features that surprised her. Bessie’s death seemed to have hit him harder than she expected. He was a lost soul, distracted by his sorrow, and as such was no use to her.

Lucy contemplated going to Constable Duncan but decided against it. She thought he would listen, but she was afraid to get in trouble. Afraid to be wrong, afraid to be right, afraid to be discharged without a reference. Afraid.

* * *

Lucy sat now in the kitchen, looking down at the small cup in her hands. She hardly knew what she was supposed to be doing. Basting the roast, perhaps? Chopping roots? She sighed.

Cook looked at her and scowled. “You’re hardly much use to me now. You take the afternoon to yourself. Go to St. Peter’s for some solace. The church won’t be too full on a Monday. Mind you, not the tavern. Don’t you come back until it’s time for supper.”

“But—” Lucy protested, thinking of all the work yet to be done.

Cook put her arms on Lucy’s shoulders and firmly marched her to the door. “Now, not another word,” Cook said. “If anyone asks, you are at market, but I think the family is like to give you some space to grieve and pray. The magistrate, he’s a good man. I can tell he does not like to see you so distressed. Just take care you get back for supper.”

With that final reminder, Lucy found herself out the door and walking down the dirt path to the road. The fog seemed less oppressive, less tyrannical, less determined today, though it still swirled about, questioning her will. She scarcely knew what to do, or where to go. To the church? No, she did not want to be reminded of Bessie, moldering in death. She shook off a little tremor and breathed deeply. See her brother? Unlikely. She wanted to see Will, desperately, but had to wait for his day off so they could talk properly. The market? She didn’t want to be around people.

Lucy toyed with the idea of getting a pint. She pictured herself handing over her coin, looking like she had a thousand crowns to her name, the tavern keeper plying her with the best meats and cheeses. Then another image arose, dampening her enthusiasm, as all the men in the pub looked suspiciously like Richard, elbowing their way to sit next to her.

Lucy sighed. So many oafish louts about. People could easily get the wrong idea if they spied her, a young girl, drinking alone in a tavern. Cook would not like it, and, of course, she’d hate to bring shame to the magistrate’s household. The fetters on a woman never seemed to break away.

As Lucy wandered, she found herself veering away from town and toward the open fields and glens. Above her, the birds of spring chirped, oblivious of her heavy spirit. As always, her thoughts turned to Bessie. Where had she been going? Who was she meeting? Why had she stolen the silver? Lucy’s fists clenched at her sides. “I didn’t even know you, did I?”

A fox bounding in front of her caused her to stop short. She looked around, realizing only at that moment that she had wandered right to Rosamund’s Gate, where Bessie had met her fate. The field had drawn her like a lodestone. Her stomach churning, she headily imagined the scene.

It had been dark, of course, but perhaps closer to twilight. Certainly, Bessie had not been around to help clear the evening meal. Bessie would have walked down the path that Lucy had just trod. How would she have walked? Gaily, with eager steps? Toward a lover? A highwayman? Had she walked slowly, worried?

Lucy’s mind shifted through the possibilities. Did Bessie think she would be caught, the silver in her satchel weighing down her soul? Had she worried that her rendezvous would not happen? Lucy found she preferred to think of Bessie as happy, her customary curls bouncing free beneath her scarf. Would her lover have been waiting already? Would they have eagerly clasped hands? Or would Bessie have stood here alone in the copse, growing more nervous of the forest sounds as each moment passed?

A twig snapped behind Lucy, and she felt the hackles on her neck rise. She leaped behind a large oak tree, not daring to make a sound and too fearful to move. A man clad in blue stepped from behind a tree some yards away, near a small pond, the fog putting him in stark relief against the gray landscape. Adam! What was he doing here?

As Lucy watched, he knelt down, and carefully passed his hands by the flattened grass of the bank, peering this way and that, finally poking his head into a log. From her vantage point, she could see his grim satisfied smile. After pocketing something Lucy could not see, Adam strode off.

For an instant, Lucy stood frozen in her spot behind the tree, then darted over to the pond. Kneeling down in the grass, she looked inside the hollow log. She could see that several stones were stained an odd dark brown. Blood! She snatched her hand away. Bewildered, she sat back on her haunches. This was where Bessie must have been killed.

Even as tears streamed down her face, she found herself deciphering the scene, as it might well have happened. Bessie had arrived first and had waited, perhaps idly throwing stones in the water to pass the time. Maybe her assailant had watched her a while, standing where Lucy herself had been, then silently sneaked up behind her. Bessie would have whirled around, her bright smile wide upon her lips. Too late, she must have realized his intentions as he set upon her. Perhaps they had struggled. Lucy liked to think that Bessie had gotten in a few swipes of her own.

What about her killer, that nameless monster? What had he done? Why did he do it? Was it all about the silver? And, oh! What had Adam found? Although Lucy was trembling, a calm began to pass over her. She knew what she needed to do. She needed to find out what Adam was hiding.

* * *

Deciding to search Adam’s room was easy enough, yet when to do so was another matter. Tuesday passed, Wednesday passed, and the whole time curiosity gnawed at Lucy. What was Adam hiding? He seemed to spend much of his time at his studies, but at night he still went out, though he spoke little of his activities. There could be no good reason for a young serving girl to visit the room of the young master at night, so she knew it could only be in the morning, when she could at least pretend to be cleaning or collecting linens, or some such business. If she were caught poking about his room, though, she’d likely be discharged, as the master would not brook another thief in his household. Lucy knew she had to bide her time.

The day of Bessie’s funeral finally arrived, just under a week after her body had been discovered. Dr. Larimer had at last turned her body over to her distraught mother, deciding that he and his students from the physicians’ college had learned all they could about Bessie’s murder for the upcoming inquest. Graciously, the Hargraves had agreed to pay for the funeral at St. Peter’s, truly a fine farewell for a simple serving girl like Bessie. Ten quid, Lucy had heard. “She was a good lass, who served us well,” the magistrate had said. “A thief she may have been, but she did not deserve this end.”

The funeral drew a large crowd, neighbors and strangers who relished being close to “the true tale of a murder most foul.” Booksellers were already shouting their wares. “Murder will out!” came one customary call. Another declared triumphantly, “Learn how the lovely corpse pointed to her very murderer, even after death.”

“What do they mean by that?” Lucy whispered to John, who stood at her elbow.

He looked disgusted. “Some people are saying that when her body was moved, having lost the stiffness of death, her hand pointed to her murderer and her eyes fell open upon him.”

“What? How could that be?”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Someone who was there when Bes—the body, I mean, was being examined.”

Lucy thought about that for a moment. “You mean, examined in the field? Where she was found? That would mean the constable, or the bellman.”

John looked decidedly uncomfortable now. “I think it was after that. When she was being moved to the physician’s surgery. When her body was identified.”

“But that would mean—” She paused, thinking. “Well, yes, I guess the magistrate was probably there, and—” She looked sharply at John. “W-who do they say the murderer is?”

He put his finger to his lips. “Not now.”

The reverend had raised his hand for silence. The crowd stood beneath the bare trees swaying gently in the breeze. Though it was still a bit icy for early April, a few birds twittered above them. The reverend had begun his eulogy, and, as always, Lucy found her mind drifting from his words, fiery and angry as they were.

Lucy struggled with the finality of it all. Soon Bessie’s body would be lowered by ropes into the cold, hard ground. Lucy hoped her soul had been welcomed to heaven. Some of the old parishioners swore, though, that ghosts of the wronged and the damned still lingered by the old church, in the hopes of finding salvation.

“We’ve several crossroads before our home,” she whispered to John. Everyone knew that ghosts got confused by crossroads. Still, the thought of Bessie haunting them made her sad.

The servant patted her arm. “Bessie won’t be coming to us as a ghost. Never you fear.”

The reverend concluded his sermon. “This audacious act is a sure sign of the wages of her sin. But, as Rahab of Jericho was forgiven, so must this young sinner be.”

Lucy clenched her fist. Cook patted her cheek. “Don’t you listen, my sweet. Bessie was a good girl,” she whispered. “She’s in heaven now, singing with the angels and tossing those golden curls.”

Soon after, Bessie’s coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. As the diggers shoveled fresh earth on top, Lucy cast in a nosegay with the few pitiful blossoms that bloomed this time of year. “To my friend. My sister,” she murmured. “May you bring your joy and laughter to heaven.”

Straightening up, Lucy noticed two poorly dressed, haggard women weeping. One of them was clutching a baby. They must be Bessie’s mother and sister, she thought, who had made the long trek from Lambeth. Shyly, Lucy walked over to introduce herself and utter a few words of solace.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered. Lucy could barely hear her over the baby’s crying. “I’m Rebecca, Bessie’s elder sister.”

They stood silent for a moment. Then Lucy blurted out, unable to hold her tongue, “Can you tell me? Do you know? Where was Bessie going, you know, that night? Was she coming to see you?”

Rebecca’s shoulders slumped. “I wish I knew. She was not coming to see me, or at least I did not know it. Damn the man who killed her!” Her voice broke. “That bastard should swing, and Lord knows if he will ever be brought to justice.”

Without even stopping to think how her words would sound, Lucy asked, “Do you think it was a stranger that killed her, then? Not a lover? Someone she knew?”

Rebecca pulled her hand away angrily. “Our Bessie was a good girl. You’ve no right to say otherwise.”

“Oh, oh!” Lucy said, contrite. “I’m sorry to have offended you, missus. I’m just trying to make sense of this.”

Only somewhat mollified, Rebecca sniffed. “No sense to be had. She was killed in cold blood, by a monster, and there’s little else to say. That I know for certain.”

Rebecca stated to walk away. Lucy remembered something else. “Your baby. Daniel? Is he well now? I remember Bessie telling me he took awful sick this winter past.”

“Not too sick, God be praised. He’s a strong one.”

“Oh, but I thought she came to tend him when you took the sickness, too.” Lucy floundered a bit under Rebecca’s hard stare.

“I think you are misremembering. The babe’s not took sick all winter. A miracle, to be sure, when so many others had the sickness.”

“Oh.” Lucy swallowed. “Oh, well. I’m glad to hear he is in good health.”

* * *

The rest of the family a few steps ahead, Lucy walked soberly home from the funeral. Trudging along, her head down, she spied a scrap of paper in a patch of muddy grass. It was a broadside, no doubt having fallen, unbeknownst, from a bookseller’s bag or from the hands of one of the many onlookers who had come to watch the spectacle. Lucy picked it up.

The text was a ballad—“Murder Will Out!” set to the tune of “Three Men in a Tavern”—and the words were striking. The broadside described the story of a young maid who fell in love with a rich lord, who made promises to her that he had no plans to keep. He persuaded her to run off with him, only to rid her of her hard-kept virtue. Then, when he wanted to marry another woman, he lured his young mistress to a secluded spot and killed her.

“The cad!” Lucy muttered, but she kept perusing the ballad.

The story did not end with the young woman’s death but shortly after her body had been discovered. When they moved her body, her hand fell open, so that one finger ended up pointing to the young lord, wordlessly naming him as the murderer. Lucy started to crumple the penny piece but instead put it carefully into her pocket.

* * *

When Lucy arrived back at the Hargraves’ house, she found that Cook had tied a wreath laced with black ribbon on their door. She saw, too, that rushes had been laid in the streets to muffle the sounds of carts and the footsteps of tradesmen and gawking passersby. Cook had prepared a bit of stew for the family, but Lucy found it impossible to swallow. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, and no one spoke directly to her. For this, she was grateful.

As Lucy lit the candles at the hearth that evening, she thought about her conversation with Bessie’s sister. It was as she had feared—Bessie had no doubt been keeping company with some gent. She had not been to see her sister as she had said. Where had she been? Why had she lied? Then there was the matter of the dressing case that she had tried to keep out of Lucy’s sight. So many times she had covered for Bessie, so many mysterious absences. Was it this same gent who had done away with her?

“I’m going to find out,” she said, kicking the stone hearth. “You’ll see, Bessie! I’ll find justice for you yet!”