From the Charred Remains (14 page)

A long moment passed as she studied him. He did not seem to mean her harm. She could feel the rapid pace of her heart subsiding. “You are a member of the Royal Company of Playing Cards?” she asked.

His eyes flickered slightly. If he was surprised by her question, years of card-playing had taught him to bluff well. For a second, she thought he wouldn’t answer. “Yes,” he responded, regarding her steadily. “I was invited to join the guild as a very young man, even though I was not,” he paused, “English.” He looked at her intently.

She thought about how he pronounced his name.
Jacques,
not
Jack.
“You are French,” she said.

“Back then, it did not matter!” he said. “Not like now.” It was now his turn to look at her appraisingly. He took a step back toward the door, as if he were ready to flee. “We were not so harassed, so ridiculed, as we are now!”

“I know you are French,” she said, glancing quickly around, “and what it costs to admit that. But I am not one of those silly sorts who would hold such a thing against a man.”

Hearing the sincerity in her voice, Mister Durand relaxed and went on. “I was one of the very few allowed to make cards. As you can imagine, I was quite welcome at court. Then Cromwell came along and changed everything.” He rubbed his hands together. “The guild’s since been reestablished, of course, but the restrictions also changed, and I was not allowed back in. However, I’ve no need now to make a name for myself as I once did.” He took a step closer. “Now tell me why you were really looking for me. I know it isn’t to learn about my trade.”

Since he’d been forthright so far, Lucy thought she could be honest. “The constable is simply trying to discover who murdered the man at the Cheshire Cheese,” she said. “He knows you were there that night, playing cards.”

“That does not explain why
you
were asking about me. Why are you doing the constable’s work?”

Lucy paused. Images flashed through her mind. Duncan’s pleased countenance at her assistance. Rhonda, bewailing the loss of her sweetheart. Finally, the body tumbling from the barrel. Darius. “I was there when the man’s body was found. No one deserves to die like that.”

Unexpectedly, Jacques moved toward her. Before she could stop him, he had gently taken his hand in hers. “
Mon ami!
I cannot agree with you more. I think the same thing myself.” He smiled at her then. It was clear he’d been a great charmer in his youth. She almost returned his smile. “That’s why I came to see you. I should not like to speak to the constable myself,
comprenez-vous.
He might not like my entertainment.” He winked. This time, Lucy could not help but smile in return. Card playing and gambling were no longer banned in England, of course, although the law did not look kindly on those who promoted licentious behavior.

Hearing the bellman call the hour, Lucy knew Lach might return soon. She did not want to lose the opportunity to speak to the sharp. “You arranged for the card game?” she asked.

Jacques nodded. “
Oui.
I can tell you no names, you understand. One man, a noble, I invited. I will say no more about him.” He looked toward the ceiling, trying to remember the scene. “There were five others at the Cheese already. One was spoiling for a game. I’ve seen his type before. They get the gambling in their blood, and they will not be soothed until they have card and coin in their hands.”

Lucy nodded. This fit with Tilly’s description of the man with the gambling sickness. “What about the other men at the tavern?” she asked. “Did they not join the game?”

Jacques furrowed his brow. “I invited the others to play. Two men—oafish sorts, vagabonds really—just drank and flirted with my Tilly. One said he did not play cards, which was a shame because I could see his clothes were a finer cut. He took a keen interest in the game though.”

“Another noble?” Lucy asked hopefully.

“I don’t think so. Gentry, though, to be sure.”

“What about the last man?”

“Ah, the last man.” Jacques furrowed his brow. “Him, I could not place. Thick accent from the north. Soldier, I could tell, but that was all. He did join the game. Within a few minutes, though, it was clear that he did not play cards. He lost all that was in his pockets very quickly. He had, as you English say, not a rag in his sock.”

“Why do you think he joined the game then? For the pleasure?”

Jacques shook his head. “No. He was a man who knew no pleasure. He was, how do you say,
très désolée.
A deeply unhappy man. His unhappiness made him bitter.”

“What did he lose?”

“Some coins right away. By the second hand, he had lost a brooch. A very fine one, at that. Three flowers intertwined around a heart. I’ve rarely seen the like. He kissed it for luck, for all the good that kiss did him. He went out the same hand.”

“Did he leave then?”

“No, he moved off to the corner. Very out of sorts. Nursing his ale, drinking in tiny sips. He would’ve had to leave, you see. Innkeepers don’t let penniless sorts take up a table.”

“Who put in the verse?” Lucy asked. “Tilly said you read the poem out loud.”

Durand sighed. “The man with the sickness—the one who was killed—put it in.”

Lucy nodded. This confirmed what they already knew, that Darius had put the poem into the pot. “Why did you let him put in the poem?”

“We didn’t know. He made much show of the value of that little oilskin package. Told us there was something valuable hidden inside. It was clear that he did not wish to put it in the pot.” He shook his head. “He was full of drink, full of passion. We believed him. We
wanted
to believe him. I should have known. Men with the gambling sickness lie about everything when they want to play in the game. He’d parted with all his coin, everything he’d carried in his pockets.” Durand made a regretful sound. Lucy couldn’t tell if he was regretting having been conned, or that a man would be so besotted by gambling he’d risk everything. He continued. “Then he lost the hand. I won it.”

“Then you read the poem?” Lucy asked.

“I was curious. I wanted to know what I had won. When I opened it up, to find that … that … paper!” A shadow passed across his face. To her surprise, Jacques wiped his eyes. “Blessed Mary, I wish I had not taunted the man as I did. I was angry,
comprenez-vous
? The man had led us to believe there was something of extraordinary value inside. He had already put the jade elephant in, so we all assumed he must have some jewel or some such thing.

“I should have known better. He was too feverish in play. I’ve seen men wager their shoes, their wigs, even their undergarments, just for the thrill of the game. They all end up losing everything. So I was angry,” Jacques said wearily. “To deceive me!
Moi,
Jacques Durand! After I put my winnings back in the bag—it was clear I’d taken nearly everything I could from these men—I read the poem aloud. I did not stop, even though the man begged—begged!—for my silence. I did not care you see. If I knew what would happen, well—” He paused.

Lucy waited for him to continue.

“After I read the poem, he came at me!” Jacques frowned at the memory. “I had no choice but to scoop up my winnings and flee. I ran out the back door, only to find this man was hot on my heels. He backed me up against the empty malt barrels and stole the bag back from me! I would have”—here he made a fist—“taught him a lesson in losing with honor, but alas, I did not get the chance.”

“Why not?” Lucy asked.

Jacques looked away, perhaps in shame. “The two other men, the ones who’d been flirting with Tilly, followed us out of the tavern.” His voice dropped. “Completely worse for drink, they were. They set upon him, calling him all sorts of names, striking and kicking him until he dropped. One of them told me I’d get a beating too, if I stayed. I assure you, I did not need to be told twice.” He sighed. “By then, the bells were ringing with such force. I knew something dreadful had happened.”

For a moment the card sharp seemed overwhelmed. “Even before the Fire, I have often hid that I was born a Frenchman. I’ve no wish to be pulled apart by angry mobs, as some of my comrades were. Just for being French!” He gave a very un-Gallic snort. “I fear now that he was set upon—and killed—for being a foreigner,” Jacques sighed. “But so many are out for blood.” Jacques looked straight at Lucy, the twinkle gone from his eyes. “Those two men were just drifters, vagabonds—up to no good. It is quite tragic that this harmless man was killed, but I have no doubt his killers have long moved on. They will find their justice before the mighty sword of the Lord, of that I have no doubt. You can pass that on to your constable.” Impulsively, Jacques reached over and drew the back of her hand to his lips.

Before he could release her hand, Lucy instead clasped his hand between her own. She was not completely sure he was telling the truth. Besides, he seemed to have left a few details out. “Were those men traveling with the nobleman you invited?” Drifters and vagabonds indeed! That did not fit with how Tilly had described the men.

This time, Jacques could not quite hide the slight widening of his eyes. He wagged a free finger at her. “Tut tut,
mon cherie,
” he said. “I cannot tell you.”

“Did you learn anything about the man who was killed?” she persisted.

“Nothing more than what I have already told you. A stranger, from a far-off land, bearing an important message to his sweetheart. I know nothing else.” He glanced down at her hand, which was still holding his tightly. “My dear,
s’il vous plaît.”

“Was the nobleman you invited by any chance related to the Clifford family?” she asked, desperately. “Lord Cumberland, perchance?”

To her disappointment, Jacques’s noncommittal masque slipped back over his features. “I do not know the man of whom you speak,” Jacques said, “or how that guess may have come about.” Pulling his hand from her grasp, he added quietly, “I would suggest that you do as I have done—accept that there is nothing more to be learned about this poor foreigner’s death and convince the constable to put the matter to rest. With that, my dear, I bid you farewell.”

*   *   *

“That’s all he had to say?” Duncan asked, disgusted, a short while later. “That divine providence would be sufficient to bring the man to justice? He wouldn’t share any names? No descriptions? I mean, does he even know with certainty whether those two men were the ones who killed Darius? Or was he just speculating? ‘Vagabonds,’ he called them?” The constable broke into a bad French accent. ‘They killed him because he was French!’” In his regular speech, he added, “What am I supposed to do with that?! Truly, Lucy, I fear you do not ask enough questions.”

They were walking through Covent Garden, accompanied by Annie. After her conversation with Jacques, Lucy had sent Duncan a note to meet her at the marketplace, not wanting to miss a minute of her afternoon off with Annie. If he wanted to hear about what Jacques had told her, the constable would have to meet her on her own terms. After all the markets in the eastern half of London had been destroyed by the Fire, Covent Garden had quadrupled in size. Even in September, there was an abundance of fruit, vegetables, and flowers spilling over the stalls, as ships bringing goods from the continent and the New World were finally able to dock along the Thames and unload their wares.

“Well, we learned who was there, even if we don’t know all their names.” Lucy ticked them off with her fingers. “I count eight who were at the Cheshire Cheese that night. Darius, of course. Tilly. Jacques Durand. The Earl and his two companions. A man ‘with sad eyes,’ who put the brooch in. The gentleman who didn’t play but who watched the game. We know only four played.” She stopped at the herbalist’s stall, and picked up a piece of dried thyme.

After rubbing the dried leaves between her thumb and forefinger, she raised her fingers to her nose and sniffed. Satisfied, she counted her pennies to pay for the thyme as well as a bit of sage, bedstraw, and wood betony. She wanted to stock up on all the herbs Nicholas Culpeper, that esteemed physician, had recommended in the
Complete Herbal.
“Besides, is it for me to ask questions?”

“Of course it is,” Duncan stated. “I don’t hold that women are supposed to be silent. In my experience, none of them are anyway.” He grinned at her.

“Didn’t you tell me the very same thing, after my dear friend was murdered two years ago?” Lucy asked, carefully placing the herbs in her basket, for fear they would be crushed. “That Divine Providence would take its due course.” Seeing that Annie had moved on ahead to pick out some vegetables for Cook, Lucy continued, “I despised when people would say that to me. In this case, though, I wonder if they’re right. We didn’t know the victim and—”

“I can’t let it go, Lucy. I’m surprised that you of all people would even ask that.” Lucy looked up at him. Duncan seemed uncharacteristically vehement. “You said that his sweetheart—Rhonda?—was quite distraught.”

“She asked me to let it go. She thinks there’s nothing that can be done.” Lucy looked up at him. “Duncan, why are you angry?”

Duncan glanced down at her, then looked away, fingering a brightly colored woolen scarf hanging at a stall. “I’m not angry at you. I didn’t listen to you, and I should have.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lucy asked, stopping. “When didn’t you listen to me?”

“Your brother. Will. He could have died at Newgate. He could have been hanged. He would have been too, had your Master Adam not stepped in. Helped him at the trial.”

Although it pained her deeply to think of that time, Lucy put her hand on his arm. “Duncan, you were doing your job.”

He shook his head. “I’ve got to finish this investigation. I must discover who Darius was. I must find out the truth.” He pulled out a second scarf. “To do this, I must speak to Rhonda Rivers or Water or whatever her bloody name is!”

Lucy did not feel very optimistic. “Duncan, I don’t know. She said to let it go—”

Duncan waved off the weaver who owned the stall. “I’m not buying,” he told her. The woman sat down, clearly disappointed. To Lucy, Duncan said, “Interested in taking a little journey?”