From the Charred Remains (20 page)

“Yet the attacks continue on you,” Adam murmured. “Even though he has already taken the ring from you. Have you any thought as to why he would do such a thing? Why he would assert such an outrageous claim?”

“Madman,” the Earl shrugged. “Just a madman.”

Thinking of the man who had set upon her earlier, Lucy could not help but agree. Clearly, he was mad. She frowned. Yet why would he have wanted the ring back? She shook her head. Perhaps the man who had attacked the Earl was not the same man who had attacked her earlier.

Mistress Larimer passed the silver salver of chocolates to Lady Cumberland. “You say that your son is recovering? Thanks be to God! Is he at your family seat then, in Westmoreland?”

The Earl and his wife exchanged another quick glance. “No, he has come to London.” The Earl took a bite of his biscuit. “We thought it best that he recover elsewhere.”

“Why, then, have you not had this man arrested?” Master Hargrave asked sternly. For a moment, they could have all been in an assize session. “Attempted murder! This is a serious accusation.”

Hearing the magistrate’s tone, the Earl set down the morsel. “I should like to bring him to justice, certainly, but we have no interest in creating a scandal.” He seemed to be about to say something else, but thought better of it.

“What do you do for protection, then?” Adam asked. “Surely, you would like to be able to move freely about without fear of being set upon.”

“I have some men who work for me. They accompany me when I need them.”

Sensing an uncomfortable mood shift, Mistress Larimer took it upon herself to change a distasteful conversation, as any well-bred lady would. “Have you heard the latest of Lady Castlemaine?” she asked, before launching into yet another story of King Charles’s current mistress, and her extravagant actions at Court.

*   *   *

After Master Hargrave’s guests finally took their leave of the household, Lucy set down the tray of dirtied dishes and turned toward the magistrate. “I think the Earl was lying,” she said. “I think he lost the ring in a hand of cards. I don’t think the man stole it. Why else would he be looking for it now?”

“Lucy, the Earl does not seem to know that the ring was recovered from the Fire. This would suggest he does not realize we know anything about the game,” the magistrate said, carefully blowing out each taper. “We don’t even know how the ring ended up in the stakes. For all we know, the man still thinks the Earl has the ring, although why he has laid claim to it is anyone’s guess. Especially if he’s truly a madman—his wits may not be about him.”

“The madman, if he is the one, knows the Earl does not have the ring,” Lucy said, slowly. “He told me so today.”

“What?!” Both Adam and his father exclaimed at once. Reluctantly, Lucy described her encounter at Tyburn with the man. She did leave out her deepest worry—that she might have struck the man dead. To voice such a thought aloud! She shook her head.

“This has gone quite far enough, Lucy,” Adam said, glowering at her. “You must stop trying to help the constable. You are going to get hurt.”

“I have done nothing wrong!” Lucy cried. “That man set upon me because he thought I knew about the items that were found with the poem. I wasn’t trying to help the constable, with this—” She stopped abruptly, checking her words.

Adam glared at her. “You should not be out and about this way.” Seeing his father cough slightly, he said, “No, Father, it’s true! Lucy must stop this bookselling. Who knows where Aubrey will send you next!”

“I won’t!” She glared back. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m not so sure you can!” He took a deep breath. “I must clear my head. Father, do not wait up for me.” With that, he stalked out of the house without bidding her farewell.

Lucy felt stunned. The magistrate touched her elbow. “You must do what is right. That is who you are. Adam will understand that.” But his voice carried little conviction.

“I suppose,” Lucy said. “I truly don’t know.”

13

Lucy slipped out of the magistrate’s household early the next morning, just as dawn was breaking. She wanted to run back to Master Aubrey’s and get the fires stoked and ready for the day. Along the way, she kept darting quick glances around her, praying that no one would jump out at her. Although the air was chilly, she was sweating from the strain.

As she ran lightly through the muddy cart paths, Lucy tried to keep the memory of Adam’s angry countenance from her thoughts. “I must speak with him soon,” she whispered to herself. She could certainly stop helping the constable. Yet if Adam didn’t like that she was selling books, well, that was something she didn’t want to think about.

Heading down Fleet Street, she could hear small sounds of life inside the shops, as apprentices and chambermaids rose groggily from their rush matting and root cellars to start the day for their mistresses. Arriving at Master Aubrey’s shop, she could see the windows were still shuttered and she couldn’t see any candlelight coming from within. “Ah, Lach, you’re not up yet. Tut, tut!”

The next instant, she stopped short. A shadowy figure was lying on the cobblestones in front of Master Aubrey’s door. Her attack the other day fresh on her mind, she approached the figure warily. He was effectively blocking anyone from going in or out of Master Aubrey’s. The ever-present fog swirled about, adding to the figure’s mystery.

“Good day!” she called. Probably a poor chap who’d been too merry at the George the night before. Still, best to be cautious. “What cheer?”

The next moment, the figure sat up, a cloak obscuring its face. Lucy stumbled a bit back, trying to suppress a natural little shriek. “What do you want?” Lucy said, shivering. “You’d best get along now! Master Aubrey won’t be pleased to find you on his stoop!”

“Lucy? Are you angry with me?”

With a start, Lucy kneeled down beside the crouched figure. “Avery!” Lucy cried, looking with delight on her friend. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Avery came to see you.” His eyes were bloodshot and troubled. “Yesterday, I think.”

Lucy smiled at him, trying not to show the pity she felt. She’d known Avery a few years now. From his fragmented words and stories, she’d pieced together snippets of his life. A big man, he’d been a soldier who seemed to have received a head wound during the bloody wars between King Charles II and Cromwell. He’d also lost several fingers, no doubt from a musket injury. The last she’d heard, he’d been living at a local parish. He was not quick-witted to be sure, but he’d been quick enough when her life was in danger a few weeks ago.

“How do you fare?” she asked, as if he were a fine visitor coming to dine, rather than the bedraggled sort he looked. His brown hair curled damply over his face. He looked like he hadn’t bathed for a while. His eyes, usually shining with innocence, today looked troubled. “Why don’t you come in for a moment, get warm?”

Lucy unlatched the shuttered window, and climbed inside the printer’s shop. Like most of the shops on the street, it could only be locked from within, although a child or a lad slim like herself could climb inside and unbar the door. A moment later, she had opened the door and thrown the wooden shutters wide open. “Pray, come in, Avery.”

The ex-soldier came in, looking about. He did not spend a lot of time inside people’s homes, and with little coin in his pocket, he spent even less time within stores and shops. Lucy seated him on a low wooden stool as she stoked the banked embers. In a few minutes, she had set to brewing a warm drink for him.

“How are your mousers?” she asked. Avery took care of a number of cats, but none were as dear to him as the dainty white one with blue eyes that he had saved from being killed by some vicious boys a few years before. He did not talk, simply stared at her with round, troubled eyes. “Avery,” she asked, gently, “why do you stare at me so? Is something wrong?”

“Avery was afraid Lucy was hurt. In danger.”

“Why did you think I was hurt?” Lucy asked, placing a steaming cup of wormwood in front of him, hoping to dispel the morning chill. Avery didn’t answer; instead he rocked back and forth, looking away from her. “Avery,” Lucy pressed, a bit more firmly now, “please look at me.” When the man did, she asked him again why he had thought she was in danger.

“Avery came here. Last night. Lucy wasn’t here.” He blew on the steaming liquid before venturing a sip.

“No, Master Hargrave asked me to help him. He had a special visitor come to dine. I was with the magistrate.” She paused. “Don’t tell me you were here all last night?” At Avery’s nod, Lucy sighed. “Oh, Avery, I’m fine. Just because I’m sometimes away, doesn’t mean anyone has hurt me.” She began to lay out the paper for pushing through the printer’s press.

“Avery saw the man follow Lucy.”

Lucy stiffened. “Yesterday? Were you at Tyburn then?”

“Avery wanted to say good day. Avery saw you walking to the hanging place. He saw that man following you. Watched from behind.”

“So you saw someone following me. Why didn’t you say anything?” Lucy asked, trying to hide her annoyance. The next moment she was glad she had held her tone in check.

“Lucy went up to Tyburn.” Avery gulped, looking like he was going to cry. “Avery sad. Avery don’t like dead men. Hid behind tree. Then Lucy was gone.”

Lucy was starting to put it together now. Avery must have noticed the man follow her from the market, and was worried enough to follow her, even though he was afraid of the hangings. He must not have seen the man attack her. Like her, the wounded ex-soldier must have averted his eyes from the dreadful site of a man being hanged.

“Man walked away, but Avery came here. Must find Lucy.”

Lucy felt a wave of relief wash over her. The man walked away! She had not killed him with the stick. “Are you sure?” Lucy asked. “Are you sure he walked away?”

Avery nodded. “Avery thought man coming here. Had to take care of Lucy.”

She tapped her foot on the cold cobblestones. Hardly a comfortable bed. She felt a rush of affection for the scarred man. “Did he?” Lucy asked. “Come here?”

Avery shook his head.

“Thank God,” Lucy said. She would have hated to see anyone get hurt. She felt sick thinking about the man attacking Master Aubrey or Lach, or herself, of course. She looked at Avery. “Would you know this man again? Should you come across him?” she asked, not feeling optimistic about the prospect.

“Dunno,” he said, rubbing his head.

Lucy sighed. That would have been too much to ask. She’d seen the man herself and would have no idea how to locate him again.

“Sid would though,” Avery said. “I think.”

Lucy stared at him. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked. “How do you know Sid?”

“Seen him with Annie.”

Lucy didn’t like the sound of that. I need a talking-to with Annie, she thought. Why ever had she taken up with Sid? She couldn’t be concerned with this right now. “So Sid was at the hangings? I never saw him.” She wasn’t really surprised though. Of course Sid liked being near crowds, especially those where people would be too busy watching a spectacle to pay attention to their pockets.

Avery beamed, making Lucy grin widely in return. He truly did have the sweetest smile. “Avery asked Sid to follow the scary man, and he did. Avery said he’d wait here.”

“Let me get this straight. You asked Sid to follow the man who attacked me?” When he nodded, Lucy hugged him then, not caring about his layer of grime. Her hands still on his shoulders she said, “Now we just have to find Sid.”

“Oh, he told Avery. A few hours ago. Said the man was sleeping at St. Martin-in-the-Fields.”

*   *   *

By the time Master Aubrey descended the wooden stairs fifteen minutes later, Lucy had already hastened Avery off. She didn’t think Master Aubrey would take too kindly to her letting a strange man in his shop before it had been opened for the day. Now Lucy just had to convince Master Aubrey that he needed her to peddle some penny pieces at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. “Good morning, sir,” she said, smiling, and handed him a cup of warmed ale and a bowl of porridge. “I’m ready to do some selling!”

Lach wandered in then, slightly bleary-eyed. “Chipper today, are you?” The apprentice said, then lowered his voice. “Eager to be off, are you? Wanna leave me with all the work again, do you? Well, we’ll see about that!”

“Oh no, Lach, don’t,” Lucy said, alarmed.

“I see some dirt about,” Lach commented loudly, ladling a bit of porridge into his bowl.

“Hrrumph.” Master Aubrey sat heavily down, so that the bench groaned a bit under his weight. He looked around, scratching his whiskers. “Floors not swept, lass?”

Lucy groaned inwardly. How could she have forgotten? For the last two weeks, Master Aubrey had been reminding her again and again that the shop must be as free of dirt, leaves, and feathers as possible, lest they get caught in the press and muck up the works.

“Here you go, Lucy,” the apprentice said, handing her a straw broom. “I see some piles of dirt there, and there. Oh, and over there.”

“Thanks so much,” Lucy said sweetly, before sticking her tongue out at him. She took the broom and began sweeping vigorously.

“Easy lass! Easy!” Master Aubrey spluttered. “We’ve no important printing today. No need for such speed. You’re raising more dust than your settling.”

Gritting her teeth a bit, Lucy went a little slower with the broom. In the meantime, Master Aubrey set Lach to laying type. Another of Nicholas Culpeper’s apocryphal remedies. “I was thinking, sir,” Lucy said, “that we haven’t sold by St. Martin-in-the Fields.”

Lach raised his eyebrows. “Is that where you want to head to?” he whispered. “Why? Are you meeting your Master Hargrave there? Or is it the constable you seek?” He wagged his finger at her. “Naughty lass.”

“Stop talking, you silly boy!” Lucy hissed back. Truly, the lad was just impossible sometimes.

“All beggars and the sickly, seeking miracles and cures,” Lach said, with a mischievous glance at Lucy. “No one with any coin to spare. Better to peddle at Covent Garden again.”

Master Aubrey turned around. “St. Martin-in-the-Fields?” he asked. He seemed to be thinking. “You know, that may be quite a good place to sell.”