A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate Read online

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Part 1: London, March 1665

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part 2: Warwickshire, March 1666

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  To Matt

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Before I was a writer, I was a reader. To this end, I must thank my bibliophilic parents, James and Diane, for literally lining the walls of our house with books, and instilling in me a deep love of reading. I must also thank my siblings—Vince, Becky, and Monica Calkins—for sharing (or letting me steal) so many of their books growing up. For my love of writing, I owe great thanks to the dedicated teachers at J. R. Masterman Laboratory and Demonstration School in Philadelphia, especially Mitzi Brown. For my curiosity about English history, I thank my first history professor, George Stow, at La Salle University.

  A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate began with an image that came to me after Professor Melinda Zook first introduced me to seventeenth-century murder ballads and broadsides at Purdue University. For about ten years, I worked on the manuscript in bits and pieces, until I finally had a draft to share. With the encouragement of my husband, I offered it to my first readers—Franny Billingsly, Maggie Dalrymple, Denise Drane, Margaret Light, Steve Stofferahn, and Shyanmei Wang—who patiently read through odd passages and dangling clues, offered gentle feedback, raised hard questions, and most importantly, gave me the confidence to pursue my dream as a writer. To them I owe my deepest appreciation. I also wish to thank the many friends and family who celebrated my writing and helped me feel like an “author,” especially Lisa and Nikhel Bagadia, Jeremy Beck and Chris Ehrick, Jolly and Chris Corley, Noyna Debburman, Marilyn Kelley, Robin Kelley, and Angie Betz, Andrea and Rob Lemke, Olivia Lemke, Greg Light, Sonal and Vas Maniatis, Elizabeth Marquardt, Jennie McNaughton, Marina Micari, Duane Swierczynski, and Steve Wagner. I am also grateful to my late mother-in-law, Terry Kelley, who always had faith in me.

  The journey from manuscript to book continued with David Hale Smith, the best literary agent in the world and all-around good guy. I appreciate his belief in my book and in me—and for connecting me to Kelley Ragland. I am extremely grateful to Kelley for understanding my characters, and for her reflective and compassionate approach to editing my story. I also wish to thank all the wonderful people at Minotaur, especially Elizabeth Lacks and India Cooper, who made my dream tangible. A writer could not ask for a better team, and to everyone who worked on my book, I offer my deepest gratitude.

  I could not have written this book without the love and understanding of my family. My children, Alex and Quentin Kelley, never seemed to mind little Rosamund dragging me away to coffee shops or tagging along on vacations, and for that I am very grateful.

  Most importantly, I thank my husband, Matt Kelley, for giving me the confidence, space, and time to put the images in my mind to real words on paper. He took on many roles as I completed this book, most notably Alpha Reader (his favorite title), Senior Vice President for Continuity Management (double-checked all my dates, events, character descriptions, street names, etc. to make sure I hadn’t goofed), Acting Head of Public Relations (bragged about me to all his friends), and Executive Administrative Assistant (made sure I always had time to write). To my partner and best friend, I dedicate A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate.

  LONDON

  March 1665

  1

  A great pounding at the door startled the chambermaid bending to light the morning hearth. Jerking upright, Lucy Campion swore softly as a bit of hot beeswax stung her wrist. Slapping the taper on the mantel, she sneaked a glance over her shoulder. She could hear Bessie and Cook rattling pots in the kitchen, but the rest of the magistrate’s household was still. Her muttered oath had not carried. Though theirs was not a stringent Puritan family, the magistrate frowned on ill language, and Lucy always took care not to annoy him.

  Lucy was feeling out of sorts, though, having been awakened an hour too early—not to the usual sound of roosters crowing but instead to their frantic squealing. Local boys had been casting stones at the witless birds, all mercilessly shackled to wooden stakes on the street outside her window. Although the Church officially did not condone such activities, the community accepted that boys would have their fun. Fortunately only the servants, light sleepers that they all were, had been awakened by the disturbance. The rest of the household, the magistrate’s family, had slept blissfully on.

  Now, tugging her skirts into place, Lucy moved across the long wooden floor into the great hall. Who could be calling? Deliveries from the haberdasher or the vintner usually were made at the kitchen entrance, and no decent visitor would call before the family had broken their morning fast.

  As Lucy swung open the heavy oak door, her scolding words withered on her lips. Instead of a journeyman plying his trade, a straight-backed man in uniform regarded her sternly. Lucy recognized his red coat and insignia immediately. He was one of King Charles’s own men. Although Redcoats were a common enough sight throughout London, a soldier at the stoop, even at the magistrate’s household, disquieted her. Ever since she was a child, soldiers had filled her with unease.

  He spoke without preamble. “I’m Duncan, the new constable. I must speak with the magistrate at once.”

  Youthful mischief, no doubt. The boys had probably caused some damage with their early-morning antics. Lucy took a deep breath. “Of course, sir. I’ll fetch my master. Pray, warm yourself by the fire.”

  Inside, Lucy saw the constable’s otherwise set face twitch in appreciation. The magistrate’s home was fine enough, it was true. The place was not quite so decorated as some, for the master had a mean practical streak and would not let his wife furnish as lavishly as she would like. Still, it had a pleasing elegance that well suited the master and his family. The house had three floors, with the living quarters on the first floor, the sleeping chambers on the second, and the maids’ cramped quarters on the very top floor. John, the master’s servant, slept with Cook, his wife, in the tiny niche behind the kitchen hearth, among the potatoes and onions. How they fit, Lucy had often wondered, as John was a great burly man and Cook an ample woman herself.

  Even as she turned to locate John, the master himself appeared. He could have been in full magisterial garb instead of a simple sleeping gown, so dignified was his bearing. This morning, the habitual twinkling of his eye and rueful grin were missing, replaced by the slightest of frowns. He summoned the constable to his private chamber, and they disappeared down the hallway.

  Bessie came from the kitchen then, her blue eyes wide, having passed the constable in the corridor. Like Lucy, she had been awake for some time, tending to the early-morning duties of the household.

  Two years older than Lucy, Bessie was a farm girl from Lambeth hired by the master at a Micha
elmas hiring fair some five years back. Before coming to the Hargraves, Bessie had been a nursery maid in a “family of quality,” tending to three small children. As she had confided to Lucy once, however, the master grabbed at her more than the tots did, and she was nearly thrown out when the mistress discovered her husband’s sneaking ways. She was in that household two years before ending her contract with the family. Bessie had quickly found the Hargraves’ household to her liking, just as Lucy did later. Master Hargrave paid well, son and father treated her courteously, and the mistress was not jealous of her pleasing ways.

  Now Bessie giggled, revealing a large gap in her mouth where her tooth had cracked some years before. “So handsome, isn’t he?” she whispered. “I just love the gold on the constable’s red coat. I’ve never seen him before, though. Have you? I wonder where he came from.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Yorkshire?” Lucy guessed, for the soldier’s voice reminded her a bit of a distant cousin she had met once. But who could know? After King Charles was restored to the throne, he had dispersed many of his men throughout England, Ireland, and Wales, to help restore order. Likely as not, the soldier was far from his childhood home.

  Cook soon swatted Bessie. “You’d best be getting to your chores and forget that constable. It’s not likely he brings good tidings at this hour,” she said, her pockmarked face growing impish. She winked at Lucy. “’Twould be best if you kept your mind on good honest boys like my Samuel.”

  Bessie flounced off to tend to the mistress, her curls bouncing beneath her cap. Lucy hid a smile. Bessie despised Samuel, a stocky lad of fourteen years who as a child used to pull her curls with sticky fingers, and who now would pinch her rear when out of his mother’s sight. Thankfully, they saw him only rarely these days, for he had lately begun work as a fishmonger in Leadenhall.

  Regarding the closed study door, Lucy wondered what business had brought the constable to the magistrate at such an hour. This was not altogether unusual, to be sure, since the magistrate often had constables and the like stopping by the household, but the grim set to this soldier’s jaw made her especially curious.

  After a half hour, the constable left, and Lucy brought out the master’s breakfast to the dining room. There, the master downed his kippers and bread with a bit of wine, not lingering long, preferring to remain in his study until the noon meal. A member of the King’s Bench before the war, and a magistrate since Charles II’s return, he was beginning to write his memoirs when the assize courts were not in session. Lucy watched him closely. If he was bothered by the news Constable Duncan had brought, he hid it well.

  * * *

  Lucy’s curiosity about the stranger faded as she spent the next hour emptying chamber pots into the cesspit and shaking out rush mats on the stones outside the stoop. These heavy tasks numbed her fingers and made the sweat run down the back of her woolen dress. She had received the dress when she first entered service with the Hargraves two years before, when her dear mother had come down with consumption. When she bent over now, she realized anew how the dress was pulling across her front, although not as tightly as it had on Bessie, who had worn the dress before her.

  Lucy was just starting to rub the pewter with marestail, a plant that smelled and turned her fingers green, when Cook called her into the kitchen. “Where’s your pocket?” she asked Lucy, taking down an old stone jar from an alcove above the cutting bench. “We’ve got guests for supper, and I need some ox tongue, coffee, and eggs from the market.” She counted out a few coins and handed them to Lucy. “Don’t pay more than six shillings, you hear me?”

  “Oh, yes!” Lucy said, dropping the coins carefully in the pocket she kept hidden beneath her skirts. The promise of the unexpected jaunt made her fairly dance down the front path, despite the chill in the air.

  As she opened the gate, someone called to her from the doorway. “Hold on a moment, Lucy.” It was Adam, the magistrate’s son. “I’ll accompany you to market.”

  “Sir?” she asked. She did not know the magistrate’s son very well. He’d been at Cambridge for the last few years and had only just returned to the household three weeks ago to finish up his studies in law at the Inns of Court. Unlike Sarah, the magistrate’s daughter, and Lucas, the magistrate’s ward, Adam always heeded the difference in their relative stations. He treated Lucy and the other servants courteously but never teased them in the playful way he did his sister and Lucas. Certainly he’d never volunteered to walk her into town.

  “’Tis no day for a lass to be traveling alone.” He started down the narrow cobblestone path. Seeing that she was still standing there, he tilted his head at her. “Coming?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, scrambling to keep up with his lanky pace.

  A moment later they passed the cocks Lucy had heard that morning. Now they were battered, plucked, and no longer squawking. Mercifully, the birds were all dead, and their youthful tormentors had long fled. Some of their neighbors were cutting them off the stakes to pop into their kettles. Adam frowned but didn’t say anything.

  “Yoo-hoo, Lucy!” one of the neighbors called, elbowing another servant in the ribs. It was Janey, the most miserable gossip on the street. “Where are you off to?”

  “Market,” Lucy responded through gritted teeth, trying not to flush at Janey’s knowing smirk. She’d already been treated to Janey’s vile opinions about what the gentry believed was their due. Seeing Lucy with the magistrate’s son would certainly fuel the morning’s gossip. Lucy shook her basket at her. “See?” With that, Lucy picked up her step, Adam matching her easily. Soon they were beyond sight of their neighbors’ spying eyes.

  As they walked along the dusty road to Covent Garden, Lucy found herself chattering far more than she usually did, trying to mask her discomfort at his presence. Why had Adam chosen to accompany her? she wondered. Did he think she wasn’t safe?

  Adam barely spoke at all during their half hour trek, and indeed, she was not even sure he was listening to her nervous chatter. He seemed distracted, ignoring all her comments about the weather, Lent, what Cook would be making for supper, and the new foal arriving in their neighbor Master Whitcomb’s stable. Only when Lucy speculated aloud about whether the Whitcombs’ groom would have to turn the foal in the womb did Adam give her a sidelong glance. She laughed a little to herself, feeling far less tense.

  Even with that minor victory, Lucy was getting tired of the one-way conversation. She finally asked the question that had been on her mind all morning. “Why do you suppose, sir, that Constable Duncan came to see your father this morning?” She hopped over a muddy puddle, landing with a squish on the still-sodden ground.

  Adam brushed off some drops of mud that had landed on his coat. “My father’s business is his own, Lucy. It is not our concern.”

  “So early he came, don’t you think?” she persisted. “It must have been a matter of great importance. The pounding he made, why, I thought he’d knock the door down!” She opened her eyes wide in pretended dismay.

  Adam shrugged, refusing to take the bait. “’Tis best if you put the constable’s visit out of your head, I think, Lucy,” he said.

  “Do you think it had something to do with those boys mischief? That was some carousing!”

  Seeing Lucy’s hopeful look, Adam sighed. “The constable’s visit did involve a crime, and a serious one at that. As you know it, is my father’s right and duty as magistrate to be informed of ill happenings in his area of jurisprudence. Regardless, Father’s business is—”

  “I know,” Lucy interrupted, “his own. You said so already.” She almost winked at him, as she would have, had she been talking to Sarah or Bessie, but stopped herself just in time. “Don’t worry. I’ll pretend I never saw the constable.” Besides, she thought to herself, someone will know what happened. This crime won’t stay secret for long.

  * * *

  Nearing the market, the cobbled streets grew crowded and noisy. The ever-present din of London grew louder, and the foggy haze made ev
erything a little darker. The second stories of the buildings jutted into the narrow lanes, teetering on timbers some two or three centuries old.

  As always, Lucy found herself ducking so that she would not be struck by the low-hanging wooden signs that swung into the streets. Since she could read better than most townspeople, she did not need to rely on the images painted on the signs to tell her the kinds of shops below. A picture of Adam and Eve hung above the apple sellers, a cradle hung above the basket makers, a cupid and torch above a glazier, an elephant above an ivory-comb maker, and so forth. She shuddered when she passed the bloodied bandages hanging from the windows of the barber surgeons. Brave souls, those who ventured inside.

  A thin haze of smoke, arising from many ill-kept chimneys, lay dimly in the air. Steaming dung heaps littered the stones, and wild cats sniffed around doorways.

  “Mind your step,” said Adam.

  Lucy grimaced. The corpse of a dog lay in one corner, where it would remain until the chief ditcher carted it off to Houndsditch.

  No one gave Lucy and Adam any mind as they made their way through the streets, but Lucy looked about, always eager to connect with the life that teemed about her. Servants from large houses and the wives of merchants scurried about with baskets, bargaining for fresh vegetables, meats, breads, and other goods. All about, traders sang their wares.

  “Candles and ribbons!”

  “Spices from the East!”

  “Woolens to keep you dry and warm!”

  “Fresh fish!”

  Covent Garden was full of children, some darting in and out of narrow shops, some playing, others clutching bundles and baskets or clinging to their mother’s skirts. Almost all were dirty and pale, nothing like the red-cheeked children Lucy had known growing up outside London.

  As she chose a bit of tongue from the fleshmarket, Lucy noticed two boys about her age, or maybe a little younger, sidling up to a woman bargaining with a butcher over a succulent cut of meat. Balancing three packages under one arm, the woman reached for her pocket to pay him.