The Devlin Diary (29 page)

“Does this help her condition?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. I think it’s better than no medicine at all. At least I hope it is. I keep trying new combinations, but none so far has made a huge difference in her state of mind. Somehow it seems better than doing nothing.”

He gives the mortar and pestle back to her, his job completed. “I’ve been thinking about that story you told me.”

“Oh.” She turns away, self-conscious. “I’d rather hoped you’d forget.”

“I cannot.” His voice is serious enough to make her look back at him. “You said you were told to ease suffering.”

“Yes.”

His gray eyes are gentle, worried. “What about your own suffering?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Are you ill?”

It’s bad enough that he’s seen her as she was at the dance, seen her mother’s invalid state. “No.”

“Then why do you carry this?” From his pocket he takes the vial she had on the night of the dance. He holds it in his open palm. “It’s laudanum, if I am not mistaken.”

She has no choice but to explain. “I suffer from headaches. Megrims, they’re sometimes called.”

He puts the vial on the table in front of her. “Does it help?”

“Yes. Like nothing else.”

“When I was in Paris, I knew a few students who used opium to medicate themselves. One was consumptive, the others had various complaints. Some used laudanum, some took opium in the Oriental manner, by smoking it, something that is becoming more the fashion there. I think they believed it was harmless enough at first, but after a while, these men—men of good understanding and good character, mind you—cared for little else other than the drug. Little by little, every other pleasure was stripped away and replaced by opium. They became sad wrecks indeed, with no future, no hope. I could not bear to see this happen to you.”

“Do you truly believe that is a great danger?”

“I suspect it can happen to anyone, no matter how careful one is. Exactly what happened the night of the dance?”

“The laudanum was more potent than usual. Usually such a small amount does not affect me so powerfully.”

“Perhaps you took more than you realized.”

She thinks back; she is fairly certain she put the dropper in her mouth only once. Then Madame Severin interrupted her. This recollection prompts another thought. “There’s something I need to tell you,” Hannah says.

“What?”

“I can’t remember. Don’t look at me that way, I’m not being devious. It’s on the tip of my tongue—”

Downstairs, the front door opens and shuts, then a single pair of pattens clatters on the entry hall floor. Mrs. Wills has arrived. Hannah steps past Strathern and hurries down the stairs. Why did the goodwife leave her mother all alone?

“She’s gone,” Mrs. Wills says even before Hannah reaches her. “She’s left and taken all her things. I suppose we’ll have to check on the silver, too.” Mrs. Wills gives way with a short, choking sob, covering her mouth in a futile attempt to contain it. “She’s run off and we have no idea where to find her.”

Hannah doesn’t need any more explanation to understand that Hester’s run away. She has always worried that the girl would succumb to some passing evil. The runaway maid is an all-too-common story in London: everyone has heard tell of a girl who steals away in the middle of the night wearing two of her mistress’s best dresses underneath her own, a few spoons clanking in her pockets. Off to a life that may hold some excitement for a while but will never offer anything more than what she’s left behind, and usually a good deal less. She’s never heard from again, unless brought up before the courts…or the gallows.

“Hester’s gone?”

“Not Hester,” Mrs. Wills replies. “Lucy!”

H
ESTER ARRIVES ONLY
moments later, distracted and disheveled. “I’ve asked everywhere—no one’s seen her since yesterday.” She turns her red-rimmed eyes to Hannah. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“It’s not your fault, Hester. You’ll not be held accountable for what she’s done. Did neither of you hear anything last night?”

Hester shakes her head.

“I heard some noise, but I thought it was the storm,” Mrs. Wills replies, wiping her eyes. “Why would she leave us in such a way?”

“For the usual reason, I suspect,” Hannah says. “She’s fifteen and in love, or believes she is. Hester, you must tell me honestly—did anything happen between Lucy and Mr. Maitland on the night of the dance?” She should have kept a closer eye on them; she knew only too well that Mr. Maitland was more forward than he should be.

“What do you mean, ma’am?”

“I think you know very well what I mean. Was there any flirtation or intimacy between them?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t think they took at all well to each other. They hardly spoke. She was nicer to Mr. Clarke.”

“Was there any intimacy between Lucy and Mr. Clarke?”

“No.”

“Were you together all night?”

“Yes.”

Hannah sighs, stymied. So much for her suspicions.

Dr. Strathern descends the last flight of stairs and looks on, concerned. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’m afraid not. It appears our maid Lucy has run off.” Another red-letter day for her little household. What must he think of me now? she wonders, then brushes it aside; his approbation—or lack of it—is the least of her worries. She places a consoling hand on Hester’s shoulder. “You might as well hang up your coat. There’s no point in looking for her now. I suspect we won’t see her again until she wants us to.”

Hester takes a paper-wrapped package from her pocket. “The apothecary bid me bring this to you. He said you asked for it a few days ago.”

The Blackhorse Alley apothecary’s mark is stamped upon the paper. “Wait,” Hannah says. “I saw you and Lucy with a young man in Blackhorse Alley some weeks ago. Near Carter’s Lane.”

“A young man?” Hester’s eyes cloud over, a sure sign that she’s hiding something.

“Yes, a young man. Tall, fair. Could be an apprentice of some sort. It seemed as if you both knew him rather well.”

Hester’s lower lip swells and her chin begins to quiver. “You mean Thomas?”

“Is that his name?” Hannah senses that she’s getting closer to the truth.

Hester nods and bursts into tears. “Do you think she ran off with Thomas?”

“You tell me. Did she fancy him?”

Hester nods again, still sobbing. She manages to squeak out a “Yes,” and then adds, “we both did.”

“I see.” Now everything was beginning to make more sense. They’d both been in love with the same boy, no doubt the source of Hester and Lucy’s recent friction. Hester is crying about something more than Lucy’s disappearance; her heart’s just been broken.
“Hester,” Hannah says gently, “what is Thomas’s full name? Where does he live?”

“Thomas Spratt,” Hester manages to say between sobs. “He works for some funny old man who lives over on Bishopsgate.”

“What is his name?”

“I don’t remember—it’s odd, like a bird or a crow or something.”

“Theophilus Ravenscroft?” Edward asks.

Hester nods.

“Do you know him?” Hannah asks Edward.

“Mr. Ravenscroft is an acquaintance of many years,” he replies. “I’ve met the young man. Thomas Spratt is his assistant.”

Hannah immediately makes up her mind. “Mrs. Wills, Hester, please stay here in case Lucy should return. I’ll pay a visit to this Mr. Ravenscroft right away.”

“I’ll take you in my coach,” Edward offers.

“I haven’t seen the boy in two days,” Mr. Ravenscroft says. “No, make that three. If you should find him, please ask him what has become of my best microscope.”

“The microscope is missing?” Edward asks.

“Indeed it is.”

The same thought occurs to Hannah and Edward simultaneously: Thomas might have sold the instrument to pay for his and Lucy’s elopement.

The philosopher and his two visitors stand in the shadowy clutter of his laboratory. There are no chairs, just two long tables upon which the accoutrements of the philosopher’s art vie for space—three microscopes of various sizes, an alembic, boxes of glass slides, an air pump, blocks of wood and carving tools, along with their offspring of small whittled parts. At first, she felt some surprise upon entering a house and finding a laboratory instead, but as someone who has two alembics in her bedroom, she of all people should be the last to take issue: in fact, she feels quite at home. As for the man himself, Hannah guesses that Mr. Ravenscroft is nearing sixty. He is not much taller than herself, partly on account of what appears to be a crook in his spine,
and he has the beaked nose and hard, glittering eyes of the bird from which his name is derived. He affects an impatient, preoccupied air, as if they have interrupted him in the midst of some very important task. The only reason they found him at home and not at the Fleet Ditch, he informed them, was that it was the Lord’s Day, and the crews cannot be induced to work.

On the drive over, Edward told her something of his friend’s unusual character. Less to acquaint her with him, she gathered, than to distract her from worrying about Lucy, but she welcomed the diversion. “His manner is sometimes abrupt and lacking in…grace, if you will,” he said. “But I have met few people more devoted to natural philosophy. He is very clever, with a fertile mind, and he is actually quite pleasant once you get past the initial impression of…well, you’ll see for yourself, I’m sure.”

Indeed, when Mr. Ravenscroft opened the door he impressed her as pugnacious in manner; his hands were balled tight, as if ready to engage in fisticuffs, rather comical in a person so obviously unsuited to physical confrontation. But the instant he saw Edward his expression changed, and he greeted them warmly and welcomed them inside. She was quite relieved that he didn’t ask any awkward questions, such as who she was or what her relation was to Dr. Strathern. These inquiries didn’t seem to cross his mind.

“Do you know where we might find him?” Edward asks, looking closely at the empty place where Ravenscroft’s missing microscope once stood. He brushes a finger over the tabletop, then studies it curiously, turning his hand under the candlelight.

“Thomas? No, but his father can often be found at Garraway’s near the Old ’Change.”

“Have you not inquired after the boy yourself?”

“I’ve been much too busy—at the king’s behest, no less. Though I am quite cross that Thomas has not been here to help with the improvements to my design. He is much better at carving these small bits of wood. My eyes are not what they once were.” He picks up a silver candlestick and leads them into the adjoining room, which houses an unusual collection of natural phenomena. Hannah studies the shelves
filled with the skeletons of small mammals, snake skins, a sheep’s head with only one eye. But these are not the focus of Mr. Ravenscroft’s attention. On a table in the center of the room is a wood miniature of a complicated contraption. Actually three contraptions, a series of what appear to be latticed gates operated by wheels and cogs. “I have made a model of my invention for the Fleet Ditch. My system,” he turns to Hannah, for Dr. Strathern seems to be familiar with this device, “removes waste as it courses downstream, so that only clean water shall flow from Ludgate to Blackfriars.”

Hannah takes a closer look. The workmanship is remarkable, the invention quite ingenious. She turns one of the tiny wheels and the lattice gate rises up, then down again. “How is the refuse disposed of?”

“See here,” Mr. Ravenscroft says excitedly, “the filters trap the refuse while allowing the water to flow through. Then the refuse is loaded onto barges”—he points to the little wood platforms adjacent to the gates—“and taken downstream to the Thames and then to the open ocean. I believe that in this manner the Fleet may be cleansed of all its pollution—that’s if the laws barring the dumping of waste into the river are enforced.”

“What a noble scheme,” Hannah says. “What a difference you will make in the lives of people who live near this foul place. The number of children who die from pestilential miasmas each year alone is reason enough for your invention, Mr. Ravenscroft.”

“You understand,” he says with some surprise.

“Very much so.”

“Mrs. Devlin is not only educated, she is a physician and a believer in modern philosophy,” Edward tells him. Is that pride she hears in his voice, or simply the pleasure of introducing two friends to each other?

“I am always glad to have people of science in my house,” Mr. Ravenscroft replies. “If you should ever have need of a laboratory for any trials or experiments you wish to make, Mrs. Devlin, I hope you will call upon me. I have many fine instruments and should be happy to put myself at your disposal.”

“That is a most generous offer, Mr. Ravenscroft.” Indeed, she is deeply grateful. He speaks to her as an equal, without patronizing;
without, it seems, any belief in the supposed limitations of her sex. It’s as if he doesn’t even notice, or much care, that she is a woman. Her thoughts and ideas are all that matter to him. If only every man would treat her so. She begins to see the appeal of this odd little man. In Mr. Ravenscroft she senses a kindred spirit of sorts, in that they both revere knowledge more than respectability.

“Think nothing of it,” he says, blushing a little, as if he could read her thoughts. “We must encourage the younger people to follow in our footsteps, mustn’t we, Dr. Strathern?”

Strathern catches Hannah’s eye and smiles. “Yes, we must.” But he is not lighthearted for long. “I fear we must be on our way. Where did you say we could find Thomas’s father?”

They do not find Mr. Spratt at the coffeehouse but at a tavern on Suffolk Lane, where the coffeehouse owner has directed them. When Hannah and Edward step inside, more than a few faces look up from their pipes and pints. They’re all men, of course; no woman of quality ever sets foot in here. A proper young lady such as Arabella Cavendish wouldn’t have stepped out of the carriage, Hannah reflects. As they progress through the smoky, low-ceilinged room, silence falling in their wake, Hannah sneaks a quick glance at Edward. She saw his expression of shock when she insisted on going into the tavern, but it passed quickly enough. If he’s embarrassed by her behavior, he conceals it well. His dignity is such that he might be accompanying her to church.

The only other woman in the tavern is the proprietor’s wife, easily thirty years his junior, who lolls with her elbows on the counter next to where her grizzled husband sits sucking on a pipe, keeping an eye on the patrons. As they approach, she grins lasciviously at Edward and leans forward on the wood counter, revealing more of her well-endowed chest.

“We got us a gentleman here, Mr. Tupper,” she says to her husband. “I told you we’d improve our custom once we put that notice in the
Gazette.
” She turns to Edward, smiling wantonly, but her husband takes no more notice of her shamelessness than he would a bee buzz
ing around a flower. “The first pint is on us, sir, just be so good as to tell your friends. And we’ll throw in a glass for your lady, too,” she adds with a wink.

Edward coughs nervously. He looks away from Mrs. Tupper’s insinuating glances and addresses her husband. “We’re not here to sample your ale, which is very fine, I’m sure, but in hopes of finding a Mr. Spratt.”

With obvious reluctance, Mr. Tupper takes the pipe from his mouth. “Spratt? What d’you want ’im for?”

“We would like to speak to him about his son.”

Tupper looks them over carefully. Apparently he finds them harmless enough, for he points to the back of the tavern. “The other room. Tall fellow, head like a boiled egg. He’ll be the one losing at cards.”

A round table with six men fills the tavern’s back room. Judging by the tense silence and the pile of coins in the center, the game is being played for serious stakes. Edward whispers to the tavern boy at the door, who runs to speak to a bald man of middle years. He stands and walks over to them with a wary curiosity in his eyes.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, dabbing at his perspiring forehead with a cotton kerchief.

Edward introduces himself and Hannah. “We’re friends of Mr. Ravenscroft, Thomas’s employer.”

“Yes?”

“It seems that Thomas left three days ago and hasn’t been back since. Have you seen him?”

“Why, no. Has something happened?”

“We have no reason to believe that any harm has come to him,” Hannah says quickly, dispelling Mr. Spratt’s noticeable concern. “But we fear he may have eloped with my maid, Lucy Harsnett. Has he ever spoken of her?”

“Spoken to me about a girl? No, never. But Thomas is almost a man now, he’s got his own life. I’m just his old dad. He doesn’t confide a thing.” He wipes his wet forehead again, smiling ruefully.

“If you should see him,” Edward says, “will you ask him to go back to Mr. Ravenscroft’s? He is quite anxious for his return.”

“Yes, of course. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he nods at his empty seat, “I’ve had a run of bad luck and I’m trying to make up for it.”

The carriage is passing the charred ruin of St. Paul’s before either of them speaks.

“Mr. Spratt did not seem terribly concerned about his son,” Edward comments.

“But as he said, Thomas is nearly a man. Perhaps fathers naturally worry less about their sons than mothers do about daughters.” Or mistresses about their maids.

“Still, I find it odd. Mr. Ravenscroft told me that both Thomas and his father were reliable sorts, not the type one would expect to find gambling in a tavern.” He looks down at his hands, then into her eyes. “I fear we are no closer to finding Lucy.”

“And the day is growing dark. I pray she is somewhere safe.” She musters a brief, sad smile. “Dr. Strathern, in all this confusion, I never did learn the reason for your visit this morning.”

“I hope you will agree there is time for one more stop.”

“To do what?”