From the Charred Remains (27 page)

When she knocked on his study door, the magistrate’s eyes widened with real delight when he saw Lucy. He glanced at Annie then, his brows rising slightly when he took in her anxious eyes, her hands tightly gripping the tray. He looked back at Lucy for an explanation.

“Annie made you her first apple pie,” Lucy said, carefully unloosing Annie’s fingers from the tray, and setting it down on master’s table. “I’m sure you will find it delicious.”

“Indeed!” the magistrate exclaimed, picking up his fork. “Let me make haste!” He took a bite, and both Annie and Lucy watched him carefully. “Delicious, just as you said. Thank you, Annie.” Lucy beamed under his warm words, as if she’d made the pie herself. She was glad he understood what his words would mean to the lass.

Annie bobbed, her face bright and happy. She backed out of the room, no doubt back to the kitchen to flirt a bit with Lach, who’d been clearly bewildered by her ways.

The magistrate smiled at Lucy. “I thought for a bit she sought to poison me, she looked so frightened of putting the tray down before me.” He took in her basket. “Have you something else?”

Lucy set down the small plate. “A bit of dried pineapple. I bought some at the market today. It’s not nearly as nice as fresh apple pie, mind you. I thought you might like it,” she said.

Standing up, the magistrate surprised her by clasping both her hands in his, before saying in his grave way, “Thank you, my dear. Please join me.” He pulled the other chair next to his.

Sitting back down, he took a bite. Like herself, he savored the first bite without chewing it straightaway. “Pineapple! Delicious! Thank you, Lucy. This was quite kind of you. I’ve heard the King himself has not yet tried this delicacy. To his credit, he made it clear that he is waiting to try the pineapple until his colonies in the New World can produce it. If that is true, he is truly missing out, for this dessert is fit for a king!” He paused. “I seem to recall a fresh pineapple had been sold here in London.”

“Yes,” Lucy said eagerly. “In Covent Garden. It came from a hothouse in Cambridge. It seems that Master Greenleaf was quite famous at one point!”

“Ah, I see.” The magistrate took another careful bite, and then another. Lucy watched him fondly as he took the last crumb of the apple pie from the small silver salver, and laid his fork down with satisfaction. “My dear. Thank you. Now, before you tell me why you’ve actually come, I have something for you.”

To her great surprise and delight, Master Hargrave pulled out a small leather-bound book and set it in front of her. “I happen to know that today is your twenty-first birthday. I thought you might enjoy this piece.”

Lucy picked up the slim volume carefully. “
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
? Shakespeare? You’re giving this to me?” She felt her throat catch. “That is very kind of you, sir. How can I accept it?” She could hardly put it down, wanting to tear into it straightaway.

“Ah, Lucy. ’Tis no kinder than you stopping by to cheer an old man with a bit of pineapple.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now tell me, why do I suspect this was more than a social visit?”

Lucy had to hide a smile. How preposterous it was that a former servant would ever call on a magistrate. And yet, wasn’t that what she was doing? As always, her heart warmed a bit when she regarded the magistrate. He certainly had never held her lowly station against her.

Lucy pulled out the
London Miscellany
again. Seeing the well-worn piece again, the magistrate shook his head slightly in wonder. “I declare, Lucy. I can’t remember anyone ever as interested in sorting out puzzles as you.”

“Excepting yourself, sir.” She rushed along.“I just think there’s more to this poem than what we’ve seen.” She pointed to the line about pineapples. “I think he was telling Miss Water something.”

“About pineapples? Are they usually available in the ‘first freezes of autumn?’” The magistrate looked at the poem again and then squinted at Lucy. “That may be true, but we’ll never know. Wasn’t this poor man killed in the Fire?”

“Oh no, sir! As it turns out, that man was not Darius at all, but rather his manservant, or something like that—Miss Water wasn’t sure. His name was Tahmin and—”

“I see there’s a bit more story here.” His eyes twinkled. “Let me first have another piece of this most excellent apple pie.”

He rang for Annie, who brought him another large slice of apple pie and some more wine. Her smile was wide and happy. When Annie left, Lucy told him everything she had learned over the last fortnight. As always, the magistrate listened attentively, his eyes slightly closed. She knew from seeing him at court that this was how he listened to testimony after testimony, seeking the truth from the great mounds of evidence that came before his bench.

When Lucy finished recounting everything, the magistrate remained silent for a moment. Then his eyes opened. “You think there is one more puzzle in here?”

Lucy nodded. “I know it sounds odd. I think Darius was telling her something specific, without her father discovering their relationship. He had to disguise his words, in case his poem fell into the wrong hands.”

“Which it did.”

“Which it did”—Lucy sighed—“when I asked Master Aubrey to print it.”

“Are you telling me that you think this love poem is a real invitation? Not just a reminder of their romance, but a real reminder to her? Why ever do you think so? Forgive me, but the verse is a bit vague.”

“I think when he wrote
‘I’m here,’
he wanted Rhonda, Miss Water, to know he was in London. The fruit-seller mentioned that there are some hothouses near London that grow pineapples, which is the only way they might be able to bloom in autumn.”

“Ah, I see.” Master Hargrave sat back in his chair. “You believe that Darius was telling Miss Water where to meet him? Interesting.” He spooned some tobacco into his clay pipe from a small silver box on his desk. Unlike other men of his acquaintance, he had not yet taken to snuff. “How could she possibly know when?”

The magistrate looked at Lucy with a half smile. She got the feeling he already knew the answer to the question, and wanted to see what she had figured out. “The last line,” she said. “I think there is another puzzle here. ‘
Even kings can wrong a fey duet.’
That doesn’t sound right, does it?”

“Well, perhaps. Let’s look at that line a little more closely. Bring that candle over, would you, my dear?”

After Lucy set a second taper down on the table, he smoothed the much-wrinkled verse. “First there is the notion of a king, and then a ‘fey duet’ being wronged. He may have been apologizing for something he did.”

“What do you mean? Is that referring to His Majesty?” Lucy asked. “I don’t see anything about an apology.”

“No, I shouldn’t think that by ‘king’ he was referring to our king of England. Darius was the name of a fifth-century Persian king. Perhaps he was alluding to a wrong he did to her, to ruin their ‘fey duet.’”

“So, you think the letter was simply an apology? That he wasn’t planning to come at all?” Lucy suddenly felt disappointed, thinking about Miss Water, whom she knew missed Darius terribly.

“No, let’s not jump to conclusions.” The magistrate took a sip of his wine. “Indeed, I think you are right. There is one last message hidden here, even if there was also an outward apology. Another anagram, perhaps.”

“That’s what I was thinking!” Lucy said, regaining her earlier excitement. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Well, let’s ascertain your first guess. You said that the pineapple was grown in a hothouse outside Cambridge. Perhaps the name ‘Cambridge’ can be found here. Why don’t we see?”

Just as he had done before, when they discovered Miss Water’s name hidden in the first line, Lucy carefully copied out the last line.
Rose, my love—Even kings can wrong a fey duet.

She then crossed out the letters C-A-M. She stopped. “There’s no “B” in this line. So not Cambridge.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe the word London is here. L-O-N-D-O-N,” she spelled. “The letters are all here!”

“And what letters remain?”

Lucy read them out loud. “R-S-E-M-Y-V-E-E-V-E-K-I-C-A-N-W-R-O-N-G-A-F-E-Y-U-E-T.” She looked at the magistrate doubtfully. “That’s a lot of letters still. And ‘London’ seems so vague.” She thought back to her conversation with the fruit-seller. “Wait a minute!” she exclaimed. She grabbed the quill again without thinking. The magistrate watched her as she worked it out. “The fruit-seller said pineapples had only been sold in Covent Garden, even before the Fire.” Carefully she crossed out C-O-V-E-N-T-G-A-R-D-E-N.

“All the letters are here. That must mean something.”

“Perhaps it means something, perhaps it doesn’t,” the magistrate warned her, but she could hear the rising excitement in his voice too.

She looked at what was left in the sentence. “That’s certainly a lot of letters. What could they spell? A date?” Her face fell. “The date may have already passed.”

“Well, we won’t know unless we figure it out. Shall we try each month?”

“May!” Lucy exclaimed. “Look, here’s May!”

“As well as the first few letters of August and November. Any dates?” the magistrate said. “Let’s see, I see the numbers ‘one,’ ‘four,’ ‘five,’ ‘seven,’ ‘nine.’”

“And I see ‘eleven,’” she sighed. “But nothing like ‘first,’ ‘second,’ or ‘third.’”

Finally, seeing how the candle had burned nearly to the quick, Lucy reluctantly laid down her quill. “Maybe we’re trying to find something that isn’t there,” she said, carefully replacing the stopper in the magistrate’s inkwell.

“I’ll try to keep thinking about it,” the magistrate promised, although Lucy knew he was quite busy. “Let us not give up.”

As she was leaving, he surprised her by taking her hand for a moment. “Lucy, I do not truly like these investigations you are taking on yourself, and I know Adam does not either.” He released her hand. “Indulge an old man, will you? Please. Be careful.”

17

The next afternoon, Lucy stood before The George, seriously displeased. For mid-October, the weather was a bit warm, even though the morning had started off chilly. She loosened the faded green scarf she’d crisscrossed on her body. Now she could feel sweat trickle uncomfortably down the insides of her dress. She’d barely sold any penny merriments, let alone the longer—and far duller—chapbooks and pamphlets. She had no true accounts of murders or any last dying speeches left with which to tempt the crowd, although she had one piece detailing a monstrous dog, and a bawdy tale of a man thrice cuckolded. Londoners just didn’t seem to be buying today. As Master Aubrey would say, “The crowd can be fickle as any false-hearted lover. What they want today, they’ll forget tomorrow.”

As she hefted her still heavy pack back onto her shoulders, Lucy got the queasy feeling she was being watched. She peered at the crowd, passing around her, trying to see if anyone was indeed looking at her.

Straining her eyes, she looked between a soap-seller and two young women eagerly sniffing at her pots and jars. Sure enough, Ashton Hendricks was standing there. She didn’t know how long he’d been watching her. When she marched right up to him, he didn’t seem too surprised.

“Why in Heaven’s name are you following me?” she asked, trying to look more angry than afraid. “Are you planning to drag me somewhere again? I’m going to scream for the constable, if you don’t tell me this instant.”

“Why did you go see the Earl’s son?” Hendricks demanded. “I saw you there, speaking to him.”

“Have you been following me since then?” Lucy countered. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

They stared at each other fiercely for a moment.

Then Hendricks gave in, sighing a bit. “No,” he said. “I haven’t been following you. I saw you, and I needed to know what you were up to.”

Lucy shrugged. “I suppose I’m a bit nosy.”

“Hoping to add some gold to your pocket, are you?” His yellowish teeth and skin took on a fierce, feral quality. “Trying to make a few coins?”

Lucy stepped back. “No! Whatever do you mean?”

“So, you weren’t the one who sent me this?” He brandished a piece of paper in her face. “I just received it.”

Lucy read the letter over quickly, the base quality causing a sickening feeling in her stomach. The author threatened to tell everyone that Amelie had been prostituting herself and had not even known the father of her son. The last line read “Just Ten Sovereigns, or I will Publish her Deeds for the World to Know.”

“I swear to you,” she said, handing it back to him. “I had nothing to do with this. I never even knew you.” She frowned. “So someone was blackmailing you about your daughter. I wonder if anyone else was being blackmailed.”

But Hendricks wasn’t interested in her musings. “Tell me, then, what you wanted from that bloody son of Cumberland. If you weren’t there to blackmail him, then why?”

“I’m hoping to find out who killed the man in the Cheshire Cheese. His name was Tahmin.”

Hendricks blinked in surprise. This was not what he was expecting. “The Arab?”

“He was Persian, actually.”

The distinction seemed lost on Hendricks. “Why ever do you care?”

“He was a—” she sought to explain, then stopped. Who was Tahmin to her, anyway? “Friend. Of a Friend.” He was a friend of a friend of a woman Lucy scarcely knew. Not for the first time she wondered at her own drive for the truth.

Hendricks leaned back against the stone wall. He seemed to be trying to think. “There were only a few of us there that night.”

Lucy nodded. “That’s right. You. Lord Cumberland. Jacques—he was the card sharp. Tahmin—the man who was killed. Tilly, the barmaid. And you said you heard the bells tolling the Fire soon afterward.” Lucy continued. “Tahmin must have been killed soon after you left.”

Lucy saw him open and shut his mouth without speaking. “Yes? What is it?”

“I only just thought of it,” he muttered.

“Yes?” Lucy felt a surge of excitement.

“Your friend. Tahmin—was his name?”

“Yes.”

“I saw Tilly whisper something to those men. While he was arguing with Jacques. I thought this was odd you see.”