From the Charred Remains (12 page)

“I like the deer. They’re sweet,” Lucy said. “Do they mean something?”

“Yes, indeed. Every element of a coat of arms conveys a different virtue. From what I understand, the deer on the shield are meant to convey that my family will not take to arms unless provoked. I always assumed we had quite a cowardly ancestor to have earned that title.” He chuckled. “It doesn’t help that Hargrave comes from an old town in Cheshire, and means ‘Grove full of rabbits.’ I suppose I should be glad that our heraldry is not festooned with the noble rabbit.” He pointed to the red lattice intersecting the shield. “These crossed lines here are called ‘frets.’ They are meant to convey persuasion. The blue background of the shield, and here on the wreath and mantle, means truth and loyalty, while the gold means elevation of the mind. The helmet on top—a standard feature on most coat of arms—conveys protection and defense.”

“Maybe your ancestors were magistrates too,” Lucy said. “Protectors of truth, doing battle with words, not arms.” She savored the words. “‘Elevation of the mind.’”

“You know, Lucy,” Master Hargrave said, flipping the pages of the book toward the front. “The Campions are a noble family too. They came over from Normandy after the Battle of Hastings, over five centuries ago. You descend from Norman champions.” Chuckling, he showed her the Campion family coat of arms.

“I never knew my family had a coat of arms,” she said, examining the image. The Campion family emblem depicted a dog’s head above a knight’s helmet. Below was a shield with three dogs’ heads, similarly looking to the left, two thick black lines intersecting them. In the background, there was a great deal of red foliage. “Do you know what the dogs mean?”

“It’s been a long time since my tutor insisted that I learn these symbols, but I’ll see what I can recall. The dog, placed as it is above the helmet, is your family’s crest. Dogs usually convey courage, vigilance, and loyalty.” He tapped the helmet. “The presence of the helmet here means your ancestors were also protectors. This is further conveyed by the chevron.” He pointed to the thick black lines. “The chevron indicates protection. Usually it indicates builders, or those who have accomplished some work of faithful service.” He glanced at her. “Your ancestors must have been loyal and faithful servants too. Maybe they helped build castles or bridges.”

For some reason, knowing that her family had a place in the magistrate’s book of heraldry made her feel proud. Even if her parents hadn’t descended from any gentry that she knew about, perhaps her own ancestors had been friends with the Hargraves. She said as much to the magistrate.

For a moment the lines on the magistrate’s face softened. “Yes, I would like to think that our families were comrades. Today, as you know, these coats of arms still mean a lot. They serve to legitimize claims and prove a person’s place in society.” He gave his customary chuckle. “Now let us try to determine which family has lost this most fascinating ring.”

“Try the ‘Water’ family,” Lucy suggested.

The magistrate nodded, but the coat of arms did not match that family name. “Too bad,” he said, pulling out his timepiece, one of the rare indicators of wealth that he carried about with him. “I’m afraid, Lucy, I must read over some documents before court tomorrow. Why don’t you look through the book of heraldry yourself and see if you can find the coat of arms that appears on the ring?”

For the next hour, Lucy sat in the chair by the magistrate’s unlit fire, patiently looking at each coat of arms, painstakingly comparing the ring to the image on the page. Some insignia were close, bearing a similar blue-and-gold-checkered pattern, which she now knew was called “chequy.” Most displayed the helmet. Some had blue and gold wreaths and mantles. Very few had the red griffin on top. She did laugh once, softly so as not to disturb the magistrate, when she saw the chamber pot with the Chamberley name. “That well could have been my name,” she murmured, “should they be still giving out names now.”

After a while, her eyes began to blur, and several times she nearly rested her head on the table. To wake herself up, she began to flip back and forth through the book, no longer reviewing them systematically. As she turned the page, about to give up, she noticed that a few pages toward the front of the book had stuck together. Excitedly, she compared point by point. Chequy, red griffin, blue and gold flourishes—all exactly the same. “Sir!” she called to the magistrate. “I think I found it!”

Master Hargrave came up and peered at the book of heraldry. “The Clifford coat of arms. Interesting. This would suggest this ring belongs to the family of the Earl of Cumberland,” he mused.

Lucy peered at the coat of arms. She didn’t see anything about Cumberland. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

“The surname of the Earl of Cumberland is Clifford. If we think this ring belongs to a noble, which I believe it does, it stands to reason it would come from that branch.” He stroked his chin. “To my knowledge, the title hasn’t been used in a while. I seem to recall, though, an issue about someone trying to claim the Earl’s seat in the House of Lords.”

Lucy wasn’t truly listening. “Do you think an earl was playing cards in the tavern?” Her thoughts flashed to Sid. “More likely someone filched the ring and wagered it during the card game.”

“Hmmm. Men can be desperate.” He paused. “There was something else too. About his son. I don’t quite remember—” He dropped off. Lucy waited, but she knew he would not be inclined to give in to gossip. He surprised her though. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

*   *   *

Lucy had no reason to think about Rhonda or the puzzle over the next few days. September was passing quickly now, with so much to do. Each morning, Master Aubrey had her first boiling pulp to make into a lamentably cheap paper. She came to learn that a finer grade was made elsewhere. The lesser grade that was made in the shop was far more flimsy and often did not make it through the press intact. Master Aubrey used it only when he wanted a bigger batch of the more popular pieces. “Gives us a chance to make more coins on each printing,” he had explained, rubbing his hands together. When the printer’s back was turned, Lach had turned to Lucy and whispered fiercely, “Can’t wait to see
you
try.”

On Thursday afternoon, Master Aubrey sent her out to hawk a few sheets, including the broadside about the Dorset witches. After several hours of plying her pamphlets and tracts, she glanced at the sky. Nearly dark. The curfew was still in effect, so she began to wend her way back to Fleet Street. As she passed by the remains of the Cheshire Cheese, she could see Duncan digging through some of the rubble.

“Find anything interesting?” she called, tugging at her green cloak. The wind had picked up a bit.

“Not much,” he said. He brightened when he saw her pail. “You weren’t coming by with my supper, by any chance? I haven’t had any time to eat all day.”

“Sorry, this is empty.” Lucy looked at the darkening sky. “You won’t get much more done tonight, will you? The sun is nearly down. I don’t think the Lord Mayor would care for you walking about with lit torches, do you think?”

Duncan scratched his head. “I’m sure you’re right. They want this rubble cleared now! It’s all I can do to keep them from carting everything away.”

“Do you expect to find anything else? Something that will help you?”

His face said it all. He looked so tired, defeated, and just disappointed, Lucy was sorry she had asked him. Without stopping to think, she blurted out, “Would you like to sup with us? I’m just above Master Aubrey’s shop.”

Duncan was silent for a moment. Lucy felt uncomfortable. “I mean, we haven’t much. It’s just me and Will. And of course your wife must be waiting—”

“Yes, thank you. I shall be glad for a bite to eat.”

They walked back to the shop, neither talking much. For her part, Lucy was frantically reviewing the contents of their stores, hoping she could at least make a bit of stew. When they arrived, Master Aubrey was not around and Lach was just shuttering the windows.

She was grateful that Duncan was angled away from Lach, who was making mocking faces at him behind his back.

“Lachlin, this is
Constable
Duncan,” she said meaningfully. “He’s joining
Will
and me for supper. Constable, this is Master Aubrey’s other, less quick, apprentice.”

“Constable? You don’t say. You know we were burgled last week?” Seeing Duncan’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Oh, you mean Lucy didn’t tell you about it?”

Duncan cocked his head at Lucy. The gesture contained both a question and a command to explain.

“It happened the night before I moved my belongings from the Hargraves’ household. Master Aubrey said nothing was taken. He thought it might have been a rival printer seeking to rebuild his shop.” She turned back to Lach. “Has Will come home yet?”

“No, not yet.”

Not to be deterred, Duncan pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket already stuffed with papers. “Any names of these ‘rival printers’?”

“I don’t think we need worry about it,” Lucy said hastily. “Master Aubrey wasn’t concerned.”

“As you wish.” His suspicious look remained, although he followed her up the stairs without another word.

When they reached the rooms that she shared with Will, she seated Duncan on one of the low stools and put a pot to boiling. Dumping in the last of the stew and some rabbit she’d picked up at the market, she told him about the Clifford family crest.

“Thank you, Lucy,” he said, watching her. He voiced the question in his eyes. “Why are you so keen on helping me? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your help.”

She shrugged, turning back to the boiling pot. Hearing her brother’s step on the stairs, she added, “Hand me those bowls, will you?”

Will entered the room then, stopping short when he saw the constable, the wooden bowls in his hand. Lucy hastened to break the silence. “Will, you remember the constable. Duncan, I’m sure you remember my brother, Will Campion.”

For a moment, the two men stared at each other. The last time they had faced each other was at the Old Bailey when Will was on trial for murder, and Duncan had been the one who had put him there.

“I take it I’m not under arrest?” Will said stiffly.

Duncan clenched his jaw. “I take it you haven’t murdered anyone?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Of course he hasn’t. Now sit down, both of you. Duncan was working pretty late, so I invited him to break bread with us.”

The tension broken, they squeezed in at the small wooden table. Over their simple meal, which Duncan ate heartily, they discussed the murder.

Will mostly listened, but asked questions here and there about the different items they had discovered. “You know, if I were you, I’d try to talk to the barmaid again.”

“Tilly Baker?” Lucy asked.

“Yes. She probably knows more than she lets on. Barmaids always do.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Lucy nudged her brother gently.

“She shut down when I tried speaking with her before,” Duncan said. “I’m not sure what more I can get out of her.”

Lucy darted a glance a Will. “Maybe
we
could talk to her. She said she’s working at a tavern in Smithfield. What was it called again?” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, right. The Fox and Duck. What do you say, Will?”

Will set down his cup. “What?”

“
You
could talk to her,” Lucy said. Duncan looked startled, but then more contemplative as he considered Lucy’s comment.

Seeing Duncan nod in agreement, Will scowled. “Me? Why me? Why should I talk to Tilly? I’m no thief-taker.”

“You’d be able to put your charm with the ladies to good use for once,” Lucy pointed out, her smile a bit wicked. Then turning serious, she added, “We need to find out more about that card game. Someone at that game murdered Darius, I just know it.”

Will scowled. “I thought that was
his
job to figure it out,” he muttered, jerking his head toward Duncan. His hostile look returned. “Why do we need to get involved?”

“Because,” Lucy said simply, “that poor murdered man deserves better. It is the right thing to do.”

Both men glanced at her, taking in her set jaw. “Alright,” Will said grumpily. “I’ll do it.”

8

Around noon the next day, Lucy stood on Cock Lane in Smithfield, staring across the street at the Fox and Duck. She’d been waiting for Will about ten minutes already, and was starting to feel a bit anxious. Though he’d agreed to speak with Tilly Baker, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had changed his mind. When she’d awoken that morning, she found that he had already left, forgoing his usual hot pottage.

She opened her peddler’s pack. At least I could be making some coins, she thought. “Oh! Where are you, Will?!” As she waited she looked around. She hadn’t been in Smithfield since well before the Fire. Yet, to her eyes, it looked remarkably as it always had, since it had stretched beyond the Fire’s mighty reach. Cock Lane ran between the livestock market and the open grassy area that once a year held Bartholomew’s Fair, a wonderful fortnight of fortune-tellers, flamethrowers, games, and dancing. Before the plague, two years earlier, the magistrate had let Lucy and the other servants accompany his daughter Sarah to the Fair. Even Adam had accompanied them on one of his rare visits home from the Inns of Court. Such wonderful times they had had! For a moment, Lucy felt the happy memories absorb her. How young and carefree she’d been then. So much had changed now. Not for the first time, she felt a little shadow pass through her heart.

A familiar voice roused her from her dark reverie. “Lucy!” her brother called to her as he strode up. “Why ever are you waiting over here?”

Lucy smiled brightly at Will. Why had she doubted him? She followed him into the Fox and Duck, trying to keep her gaze averted so she would not catch Tilly’s eye.

“Let’s sit here,” Will said, pulling out two chairs from a corner table. He positioned them so they could both see the ale-house. When she sat down, she rested her cheek on her hand to better obscure her face.

Will nodded toward a comely tavern maid as she passed near their table. “Is that her?” he murmured to Lucy, rolling up the sleeves of his gray woolen shirt.