From the Charred Remains (19 page)

“Your father wants to see justice done as much as we do,” she said quietly.

A knock at the front door saved them from further conversation. Dr. Larimer had arrived with his wife, who immediately went upstairs to use the necessity. Adam left to fetch his father, a grim set to his features. As John easily could have summoned the magistrate, Lucy knew he did not wish to stay in the same room as her.

Thankfully, Dr. Larimer did not seem to notice, or didn’t care, being more interested in the Rhenish wine Lucy was pouring into his goblet. “Lovely, Lucy,” he said. “Thank you.” He took a sip. “Trust Thomas to always have something fine in his stock.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucy said, twisting the brooch in her hand. She took a deep breath and jumped right in. “Sir, could you please tell me where this ivory brooch might have come from? Who may have made it? Or at least, who might trade such a thing?” She paused. “Maybe it’s from outside England?” Hoping she wasn’t going too far, she added, “As a man of the world, I thought you might know.”

Reaching for the brooch, Dr. Larimer gave her a keen look. “Hoping to build your dowry a bit, hey?” He turned the brooch this way and that. “Quite ornate,” he mused. “Real workmanship.” He paused, a quick look of disgust passing over his features. He did not finish the thought. “Where did you get this?” he asked instead. “Did someone give it to you?”

“I found it,” Lucy responded, wondering at his tone. “Why?”

Instead of answering her, the physician walked over to one of the candles. “I need to inspect this brooch more closely,” he muttered more to himself than to her, opening up the bag of medical instruments he always carried with him. As Lucy watched, the physician took out a small horn case about the size of his palm. Opening it, he took out a circular piece of glass, which he positioned a few inches away from the brooch.

“What’s that?” Lucy could not help but ask.

“This is a flea-glass,” he answered, still studying the brooch. “It magnifies what I look at. Other fellows use it to look at fleas and flies. I find it useful to discern details that the naked eye cannot readily see.” Now he took a long thin needle from his bag. To her surprise, he held the needle’s point in the candle flame for a moment, then touched the tip to the back of the brooch. Leaning down, he sniffed deeply.

Lucy sniffed too, an unpleasant smell wafting along her nostrils. “What’s that smell?” she asked.

“Ever been to a tooth-puller? Or a sawbones?” the physician said, still looking closely at the brooch. The needle had left a small scorching mark on the surface of the brooch. When Lucy shook her head, having never had a tooth or limb removed, he went on. “A fortunate thing that. Wretched occupations. That’s the smell of burning bone.”

“Ivory is bone?” Lucy asked, curious. She’d never thought about where ivory came from. “Oh, that’s why the comb-seller had a picture of an elephant.”

“In a manner of speaking. But ivory comes from the tusks of the elephant, which are on the outside of the animal. No blood flows through those tusks. Moreover, with ivory there is generally some color variation, from the tusks having been exposed for so long to the elements. But this piece—” He frowned at the brooch. “There’s very little variation in color, which suggests that it was internally located, not external. I was able to burn it just now, and it’s my understanding that ivory does not burn. The brooch is smooth, presumably, because the artisan polished it. However, if you use the flea-glass, look at those tiny spaces between the heart and roses. There are tiny ridges that the artisan could not smooth.”

She looked, but did not know what to make of what she saw. She said as much to the physician, who was looking at her expectantly.

“Lucy, unless I’m not mistaken, which, quite frankly, I’m not, this brooch was carved from human bone, not from the tusks of an animal.”

“Human bone?” Lucy repeated, feeling sick. Instinctively she stepped away from the table where the brooch rested.

“Indeed. If I had to guess,” the physician continued, “I would suggest that this was made from a recently deceased person. Not some old papist relic, made from the finger of a long-gone saint. More malleable, you see.” He bent the brooch slightly. “Old bone is far more dry and brittle.” Grimacing, he added. “Probably from a woman.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m just guessing, you understand. If it were a part of the pelvis, I’d know for sure.” He turned it over in his hand. “I’ve just seen this kind of brooch before, and it’s always from the bones of a woman.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Lucy asked, slightly ill.

“Someone deeply distraught, I’d imagine.”

“The Church wouldn’t approve of that,” Lucy said. “Would it? I mean, bodies are supposed to be buried, not—” she cast about for the word, “defiled.”

“You’re quite right,” Dr. Larimer said. “If I were to guess, the Church didn’t want to bury this woman in sacred ground. A fallen woman. Without being able to mark her death properly, I imagine the family wanted to remember her in a different way. A scandalous practice, to my mind.” He held it out to her. “Not a nice piece for your collection, I’m afraid.”

Lucy was just pocketing the brooch when Adam led the Earl and his wife into the room. As she rushed to take wraps and fill goblets, she tried not to feel repulsed by the object under her skirts. The Earl had affected one of his sheepskin wigs, dyed black as favored by King Charles, although he looked neither foppish nor effete. While in his early fifties, indeed, he looked vigorous and strong, seeming more like a medieval chieftain than a member of the House of Lords. He reminded Lucy a bit of pictures she’d seen of Henry VIII in the handsome days of his youth, not the dissolute figure he became in his final years. Lady Cumberland, a sallow, refined creature dressed in a fluff of lace and taffeta, looked about the room, a speculative expression on her face.

The magistrate had spared little expense on supper. The six dined on Cornish game hens and treacle tart, washing their meal down with Rhenish wine and claret. Cook had even procured a bit of chocolate, to the delight of the ladies.

Throughout, Lucy hovered nearby, refilling wineglasses and clearing chargers, trying to ignore Adam’s gaze. As she expected, though, the conversation at supper remained mainly at the cordial acquaintance stage. As a rule, the men avoided politics, although Christopher Wren’s plan to rebuild London came up. Discussion of the Fire led naturally to Robert Hubert’s confession.

“The man, it’s been proved irrefutably,” Adam said, “was not even in London at the time of the Fire.”

“Yet the watchmaker confessed?” Lady Cumberland asked. “Why ever would he do such a thing? He’ll be hanged for sure.”

“If not torn apart by a mob,” Master Hargrave said, his voice grim.

“The man’s wits are surely addled,” Dr. Larimer added. “There’s little hope for him if he keeps up with this ‘confession.’”

“The whole confession is riddled with holes,” Master Hargrave commented, his tone brittle. “’Tis a shame that everyone is so quick to believe.”

“I have not read the confession,” Lady Cumberland commented, taking a delicate nibble of sweetbread.

“I would have Lucy run and fetch her pack,” Mistress Larimer commented, “if I thought it was of interest.”

Lady Cumberland raised an eyebrow. Her eyes flicked toward Lucy, but then looked away as though she’d seen something distasteful. “Her pack?”

The magistrate hastened to explain. “Lucy works for Master Aubrey now, selling books,” he beamed at her. “I just borrowed her back for the evening, since she was our very best maid at one time. I should not think, however, she need fetch the tract. She’s got quite a gift though. Wrote one about a poem found in the Fire.” Catching sight of their dismissive expressions, the magistrate tightened his jaw. “Lucy’s very dear to us. A member of the family still.”

The Earl scrutinized her for a moment. Seeing his wife sniff, the Earl said, “Indeed. How interesting. Publishing is a lowly occupation, but a necessary one.” He poured some more wine into his goblet. He turned back to the magistrate. “What news have you from the Court?”

Stinging a little from the noble’s rebuke, Lucy stepped back into the shadows. Adam’s face was inscrutable, although for a moment she thought she saw something pass across his features. Disgust? Unease? Worry? She couldn’t tell. For the first time, she wondered about the profession into which she had blindly apprenticed herself.

Not until the group had retired to the drawing room, to sit before the carefully gated fire, did the conversation grow interesting. As Lucy filled the men’s pipes with New World tobacco, Master Hargrave turned to the Earl’s wife. “How is your son faring?” he asked, his voice low.

“He is well,” Lady Cumberland responded, darting a quick glance at her husband.

Dr. Larimer, hearing the exchange, asked, “Was your son ill?” His inquiry sounded more out of politeness than true professional curiosity. Lucy could understand. These days, everyone was suffering from some malady or other.

“I should say so!” the Earl exclaimed. “He was poisoned a few months ago!”

“Poisoned! Oh my!” Mistress Larimer said, gulping down a bit of her wine. Lucy could almost read her thoughts. One might gossip about murder and intrigue when one’s husband was a royally appointed physician, but it was quite another thing to speak with intimacy of such a sordid thing. And for an Earl! Still, such details must be known. “Who could have done such a terrible thing to your son?” the physician’s wife pressed.

Again, the Earl and his wife exchanged a glance. “I’m afraid,” the Earl said slowly, “our family’s been targeted by lunatics.”

Lucy almost spluttered into speech, but remembered to keep silent just in time. Servants do not speak to, let alone question, earls. Master Hargrave gave her a meaningful glance. Taking the hint, she began to refill goblets. This little act gave her the chance to remain in the room without drawing attention to herself.

Luckily, Dr. Larimer asked the question burning on Lucy’s tongue. “Whatever could you mean? Sir, I beg you to explain such a surprising statement!”

Taking a deep swallow of wine, the Earl continued. “First, a young woman in our employ thieved from us and then attempted to poison our son. Fortunately, the dose was ill-prepared and we were able to provide a remedy in time.”

“Indeed!” the magistrate murmured. “Do tell.”

“Then, a month or so before the Fire, a man plundered by his own bad luck made several attempts on my life. These occurred at our family seat.” The Earl looked around. Everyone had leaned forward. Satisfied, he continued his story. “Once, the reins on my horses were suspiciously worn, where no such wear had previously occurred. On another occasion, a shot from a flintlock pistol came bracingly near my head, and no hunt was in progress.”

“A flintlock pistol is hardly used for hunting,” Larimer commented, having gone on many hunts himself.

“Precisely,” the Earl agreed. “We felt compelled to leave, and return to London. Yet, this very afternoon, some rocks were lobbed at me as I was walking. The madman must have followed me here.”

“Why do you suppose it was the same man?” Adam asked, without looking at Lucy. She appreciated him asking the question she wished to pose, but wished he did not sound so resentful. “Unfortunately, despite His Majesty’s best efforts, London seems a bit lawless at the moment.”

“I have seen him. ’Tis the same man, I assure you. Thrice he has accosted me, each time making wild claims that I had stolen something of his.”

“Oh? He claims
you
have something of
his
?” Adam asked. “That hardly seems possible.”

The Earl laughed, a low angry noise that sounded like a growl. “A ring. One that has been in my family for generations. Crafted for my own great grandfather. The First Earl of Cumberland.”

His wife sat mutely beside him, her hands clenched tightly. “Can you imagine? Trying to claim the symbol of an earl’s birthright. Makes no sense, does it?” He took another long draught from his goblet. “Indeed, I believe he’s behind the current rumors being spread about in Parliament that I’ve not a legitimate claim to my seat in the House of Lords.” He set the cup down with a bang, so that a few drops spilled out. “Poppycock all.”

“I must agree. Dashed odd,” the magistrate said. His tone was dry, unreadable. “Simply owning such a ring would not make one an earl, after all. Although, I suppose in your case, it may help clarify your claim. Since you’re rather new to us.” Master Hargrave poured some more wine into the Earl’s goblet. “I understand that you grew up with a distant family member. The title was dormant for a while, was it not? It hadn’t been held in a few generations.” The magistrate’s voice was deceptively bland, inviting confidences in his quiet way.

“That’s correct. The last Earl only had a daughter, so it passed through to his nephew, my grandfather. Under Cromwell, my family couldn’t very well lay claim to the title. Fortunately, a few years ago, some papers were unearthed that proved I was who I said I was. That I was the rightful heir.” The Earl reached over and topped off his glass of wine. A gauche gesture to be sure. “Of course, by then my guardians, who were supposed to have watched over my inheritance, had squandered a bit of it. Fortunately, my wife had a tidy sum. Her father was in—” he stopped abruptly when his wife coughed into her handkerchief. It was ill-bred to speak of one’s fortune in social circumstances. Lady Cumberland flushed, realizing her husband’s faux pas.

Smoothly, the magistrate handed him the tray of sweets. “Do you still have the ring?” he asked.

“Why no, I don’t, in fact,” the Earl said. “I think the dastardly fellow stole it from me.”

Lucy caught the magistrate’s eye, puzzled. Jacques Durand had said the ring had been put in the stakes during that ill-fated game of cards. Perhaps by the Earl himself. The magistrate seemed to understand exactly what Lucy was thinking. Ever so slightly, he shook his head. “When did the theft happen?” he asked the Earl, taking a last bite of pie.

“A few weeks ago,” the Earl said, vaguely. “I bloody well want that ring back! Excuse me, ladies, this fine wine is helping my tongue run a little free.”