From the Charred Remains (10 page)

“What do you mean?” Lucy asked, feeling her own excitement grow in the light of his.

“Well, several lines are from Rumi’s poem, yes?” the magistrate asked.

Lucy marveled at Master Hargrave’s vast knowledge. “You know this poet?”

“Know of him, yes. He’s been long dead. Some four centuries now, I would say.”

“Miss Rivers said that this passage was one of her favorite poems by Rumi, except that Darius had added the word ‘remember,’” Lucy explained. “She thought Darius must have added the other lines to make the acrostic happen. To spell out Nasrin’s name.”

“Her given name is Rhonda,” he mused, scratching idly on the paper. The next moment he sat up straight.

“Aha! Look at this! It’s an anagram!” He exclaimed. “Another puzzle, hidden inside the first.”

“Oh! Like L’Estrange’s London poem?” Lucy peered at the poem, trying to see the other puzzle.

“Read this first line,” commanded the magistrate.

Dutifully, Lucy read what he had copied onto a sheet of paper. “‘Now, Dear Hart—’”

Master Hargrave stopped her. “If you look carefully, you can see the name “Rhonda” spelled out in here. Do you imagine that’s a coincidence?” Without waiting for her to answer, he began to strike out letters. “Let’s see what happens when we remove the letters of her name. ‘R-H-O-N-D-A.’ That leaves us with “W-E-A-R-T.” The magistrate looked at her expectantly. “What could that spell?”

“We art?” Lucy read. “‘We art Rhonda.’” She put down the paper. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“I agree, there’s no sense to it. How about ‘A Trew Rhonda’?” The magistrate shook his head. “Possibly. Not much sense though, does it?”

Lucy shook her head, still peering at the puzzle. “How about ‘Water’? I can see that word,” Lucy said. “Does that make sense? Does she remind him of water?” She paused. “Could ‘Water’ be her last name? Rhonda Water?” She rapped her knuckles on her table. “She did give her last name as ‘Rivers.’ Rivers, Water. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” the magistrate replied. “Perhaps not.”

They both studied the poem for another moment. Lucy sighed. “Can we ever find the answers here?”

The magistrate looked at her, a keen expression on his face. “Why does it matter to you? To solve this riddle?”

“I’d like to find Miss Rivers again. Miss Water. Rhonda. Whoever she is! I’d just like to speak to her again. She was so sad today at the Golden Lion. I wonder if the constable would be able to give the items back to her, if this message could truly prove the poem was intended for her.”

“There’s no way to know that they did belong to her sweetheart. You know that, Lucy. The constable can’t return those items to her, I should think.”

“I suppose I just would like to help her discover his last words to her,” Lucy said slowly, pondering her own motivations. “I find it quite tragic to think they were parted by the Fire, never to be reunited.” Unexpectedly, she found herself almost near tears, as inexplicably she thought of Adam. They hadn’t been parted by the Fire, had they?

“Ah, I see.” From his tone, it seemed the magistrate did see, more than she wanted him to. “My son has been—” he began, but broke off when she looked away. She did not want him to speak of Adam. “Lucy, I do not wish to distress you further. Certainly, you’ve been as a daughter to me, a solace especially now that my own dear Sarah has taken up with the Quakers. As I told you last night, please don’t let anything keep you from visiting here.” Did he have tears in his voice? She wondered, even as he continued. “You should get some sleep. You have a big day ahead.” As she stood up, he modified his words. “No, not a big day. A big life ahead! And I, for one, am eager to see what you make of it.”

Lucy hadn’t realized until this moment how much she needed the magistrate to be pleased with her plan. A great weight lifted from her chest. Impulsively she dropped a kiss on the magistrate’s forehead, something she’d never dared do before. “I’ll always come back,” she said, “I promise!”

“To bed, my child,” he said gruffly.

She tiptoed up to the tiny room on the top floor that she’d been sharing with Annie these last few weeks. There she found Annie asleep, tired out from her long day’s labors. For a moment she gazed around the darkened room. Her own little respite, her place of solace and girlish dreams. The moon gleamed through the window, giving her enough light to begin to pack her worn valise. She moved quietly, not wanting to wake Annie.

She didn’t own much. Two work dresses, a good dress for church, a few petticoats, a second cap and apron. Her old shoes. Some wooden animals, carved by her father before he died. A jar once full of lavender scent, given to her by a friend whose time had come too soon. Ribbons and baubles from Sarah. A packet of pamphlets and her own scribblings. A few books given to her by the magistrate, and of course, the Bible her mother had long ago pressed into her hands when she had first entered the magistrate’s employ.

Leaving the valise by the door, she sat down beside her friend’s sleeping form. “I’ll miss you, Annie,” she whispered.

“I’ll miss you too, Lucy,” Annie murmured, still half asleep. “But I understand you have to go.” She stretched out her hand. Lucy climbed in beside her for the last time, and soon they fell asleep, their fingers intertwined.

6

When she arrived at the printer’s shop the next morning, Lucy stood uncertainly by the open door with her small valise. The presses weren’t running yet, and the fires hadn’t even been lit. Indeed, the place seemed a bit of a mess—papers were strewn all about. “Good day?” she called. “Master Aubrey?”

The master printer came from the back room, his face looking more red than usual. “We had a thief here last night,” he said. “I heard him, a few hours ago, poking around a bit down here. Nothing seems to have been taken though. As you can see, I haven’t had a chance to pick up the place yet.”

“Oh!” Lucy exclaimed. “I wonder what he was looking for.”

“It may have been one of those hacks, Hanson or Ellsbreth,” he said, referring to two rival printers. “They both lost their printing shops in the Fire. They might be looking to start up again. Take some typeset, or a bit of my press. Not much here that would interest anyone else. The man fled when I came down the stairs.” He looked around at the mess. “Help me pick these papers up, will you? We’ve must get this batch ready.”

After she and Lach straightened up the shop, Master Aubrey watched her set the movable type into the press. “An apprentice who is topsy-turvy with his letters is not too useful to me,” he told her.

Even though she knew what to do, setting the type was hard work. Within minutes her fingers felt a bit numb from pulling the letters from the typecase and setting them in place. Remembering Master Aubrey’s speed, and even how quickly Lach had moved, she was determined to train her fingers to fly too. Still, there was much to remember. As it turned out, many parts of the press were named for different parts of the human body. There were heads, cheeks, faces, mouths, and even toes, in addition to the body of type such as roman, italic, and gothic.

Lach came over once or twice to laugh at her. “Can’t you keep it straight?” he said, adding with a leer. “This is the male-block, and this is its tongue. The tongue fits into the groove of the female-block. Like so.” And then he proceeded to cast the letters for type. “See, the stick of letters is transferred to the male-block, so that the face may rest upon the tongue of the female block…”

Blushing, Lucy interrupted him. “Yes, yes. I see. Thank you.”

“Do you?” Lach said, running his tongue over his own teeth. “Do you indeed?”

She rolled her eyes at him. She soon learned too that Master Aubrey and Lach regarded the two presses almost like children to be tended to. “They eat, they sweat, they grow weary, they stop working, and when they do,” Lach kicked the machine when he thought Master Aubrey wasn’t looking, “we punish them.” Seeing her giggle, he held up his hand. “Don’t laugh,” he said. “You’ll see. They even piss blood after we add the dye!”

Lucy found her fingers grew clumsier as the morning passed. Master Aubrey worked his apprentices hard, but he was not unkind, letting them take quick breaks to dip their cups into the water pail, or relieve themselves in the pot out by the woodpile. He also left them some bread and cheese to have for their noonday meal. For his part, the printer spent most of his time up front, hawking different woodcuts and ballads, and Lach helped him do this. She began to see that the master had a system, rotating true accounts of murders and monstrous births, with bawdy jokes and scenes. Jack and Jill stories about cuckolded husbands and the scolds who boxed their ears seemed to go over well.

Lucy was working on a piece about three witches hanged in Dorset when Duncan called to her. She had not even heard the constable enter the noisy shop.

“Lucy,” he said. “I was thinking about the signet ring we found. It occurs to me we might be able to trace the owner through the coat of arms.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Lucy said, wiping her brow. She thought about reminding him how she’d suggested as much the other day, but refrained. Her mother had told her many times that men liked to believe they had come up with ideas for themselves. “I’m sure Master Hargrave would know. He knows many noble families. He might recognize the family insignia.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Duncan agreed.

“I have news too,” Lucy said. “I also talked to the magistrate last night about the poem. He thinks that there is an anagram hidden within the acrostic.” Lucy picked up a copy and pointed to the line in the poem, showing him how the letters could be rearranged. “See, it spells Rhonda Water. That could be the name of the woman I met at the Golden Lion.”

“I thought you said she was Miss Rivers?” he said, confused.

“I also said that I didn’t think that Rivers was truly her last name. Water makes sense,” she insisted. Something made her add mischievously, “You know? The magistrate agreed with me.”

The constable raised his eyebrows. “I’ll look into it,” Duncan said. He moved to the front door and Lucy followed. “See if I can find anyone named Water. Or Rivers. I might be able to discover if they have a relative named Rhonda. In the meantime, here is the ring. Pray do not lose it!”

He pulled it out of his pocket and placed it into her hand. For a moment, his hand closed around hers but then let go, even as she pulled away. A momentary awkwardness came over her, and she looked down at the signet ring. She was flipping the ring’s movable face again, twisting it between the coat of arms and the tiny hunting scene, when a familiar voice said her name.

“Adam!” Lucy exclaimed, hardly noticing when Duncan stepped away. “What are you doing here?”

“Good morning, Constable,” Adam said, still standing outside the door, stiff-backed in his fine embroidered coat. His handsome features were taut, unsmiling. He seemed to be studying the constable. “What brings you here?” His voice, always a bit noble-sounding, seemed chilly to Lucy’s ears. When he glanced at her, his gaze softened slightly, and he reminded her of how they had been when they had first met.

“The constable wanted me to ask your father about the coat of arms on this ring,” Lucy said eagerly. “Did you know it was found on a body that—”

“I know all about it, Lucy.
Father
told me.”

“I would have told you myself,” her voice trailed off. He seemed angry. “Is something wrong?”

“So you don’t know anyone else but my father who might be acquainted with heraldry?” Adam asked, turning to Duncan. He squared his shoulders. “So, you needed Lucy to do this for you?”

“I suppose I don’t travel in those circles,
sir,
” Duncan replied, his own voice tight. “Yes, I thought Lucy might be able to take on this small inquiry faster than me.”

Lucy stared at them, a bit bewildered by the exchange. Why Adam was angry, she could not understand. A year ago she’d been quite angry at Duncan herself, for hauling her brother off to Newgate, but she’d long since forgiven the constable.

“I’ll be off, Lucy,” Duncan said, turning to go.

“Wait a moment, Constable,” Adam said. He sounded reluctant. “Father informed me that he did indeed recall a tutor of the Near East, a Persian scholar over at Oxford. The man goes by the name of Water. He was not sure which college he was in, but thought perhaps Merton. I was going to stop by the jail to tell you this, Duncan. I didn’t know that I’d so conveniently encounter you here, with Lucy.”

“Oh, I knew it!” Lucy squealed, clapping her hands. “Didn’t I just? I’d wager you anything that he is Rhonda’s father! You should be able to find him straightaway.”

“Thank you, sir,” Duncan said, looking more annoyed than pleased. “I am in your debt.”

“Constable,” Adam said, suddenly seeming uncomfortable. “You will not be able to approach him directly. He will not see you. Oxford’s out of your purview.”

“Thank you. I assumed as much. Nobles aren’t too keen on thief trackers, now are they?” Duncan grinned, but did not look particularly friendly. “Too good, aren’t they, for the likes of me?”

Lucy looked from one to the other. There was clearly something unspoken going on here. She cast about for a different tack. “Well, perhaps I could just see Rhonda whatever-her-last-name-is myself. No one needs to talk to Master Water at all.”

“This is not your business, Lucy,” Adam frowned. “Why are you getting involved here?”

“She wants to help,” Duncan said. “I, for one, am not trying to stop her. I’ve got a dead man to identify, and I’ll take any help I can get. If you’ll excuse me, I need to return to work. Lucy, if you’ll let me know what you learn about the ring, please come to the jail or send me a note.”

Lucy nodded and the constable took his leave.

“He seems very familiar with you, Lucy,” Adam said, carefully. “I do not think he harbors ill intentions toward you,” he added hastily, seeing her frown. “It’s just that,” he paused, “everything is so different.” He paused again. “
You’re
different. I thought—” he broke off, running his hand through his dark hair. Unlike many other men of his station, he did not wear the extensive curled wigs made popular by the king. He had told her once that though he was no Puritan, he had no wish to be adorned with such frippery.