A Murder at Rosamund's Gate - By Susanna Calkins Page 0,110
together, indicating that Lucy should step into his intertwined fingers. Soundlessly, he raised her up, so that her hand could push up through the grate. She tried to push the rush matting away, but it was old and heavy. Several seconds passed before she could wriggle her fingers through. Tears flowed down her face; she desperately hoped Avery might see her hand.
“Avery,” she whispered. “Avery!”
Yet her soft words did not carry. Feeling Adam start to tremble under her weight, with renewed strength Lucy managed to get all of her fingers into the grate and pushed as hard up as she could. The grate, freed of the matting, moved up easily.
Unable to bear its weight, though, Lucy had to let it go, so that it banged and reverberated about the chamber and in the transept above. Desperately, Lucy screamed, “Avery! We’re here! Under the grate! Help us!”
At the same time, Lucas swiveled and bore toward them in the catacombs, his boots echoing madly on the stone floor. Above them, a lantern shone down in their faces, and they saw the grate miraculously lift. Avery’s gentle face peered anxiously down.
“Avery!” Lucy screamed again, clawing at the air, trying to get a grip, desperately keeping herself from toppling to the floor. “Help us!”
The next instant, Lucy felt herself lifted through the grate by Avery’s massive arms. Adam helplessly put up his own arms, as if to follow, but he was a few feet too far from the opening in the ceiling. Avery bent down to catch Adam, his claw hand stretching as far as it could. Lucy lay across the man’s barrel legs so that he would not fall through, but they were still too far. Lucas was rapidly closing the distance between him and Adam.
“Adam!” Lucy pointed. “The pedestal!”
Instantly comprehending, Adam pushed over the marble statue of a saint and stepped onto the plinth it had occupied, which allowed him to reach Avery’s outstretched hands. For an instant, Adam dangled precariously as Lucas pounded forward, the knife in his hand held high. Feverishly, Avery and Lucy helped pull Adam through the narrow hole just as Lucas bore down.
Unable to stop, Lucas plowed straight into a massive statue standing tall in the shadows. The impact brought him to his knees and caused the statue to wobble dangerously. He gazed up in horrified supplication as the angel’s head lolled grotesquely on its shoulder. The next instant, the great stone head plopped down on Lucas with a sickening crunch.
Stunned, Lucy could not understand what she was seeing as she lay on the floor above. The head of the angel rested atop the prone body of Lucas, its cherubic face mischievously looking upward. “Here is the Lord’s blessing upon you,” the kind, gentle eyes seemed to say, even as Lucas’s blood began to pool from the angel’s curling marble hair.
“I don’t understand,” Lucy heard herself saying, allowing Adam to pull her gently away. She buried her face in his chest.
“It’s over, dear. It’s over.”
* * *
When Lucy and Adam opened the church door, they stared out in stark disbelief. In their own excitement, they had forgotten the fire that was gripping London. The city is burning. London is in flames.
They could see the golden hue in the distance. Everywhere bells were clanging and people were racing about. They all coughed in the smoke that darkened the sky.
“We must get a constable,” Lucy said, her mind still caught in the drama that had just unfolded. “Tell him what happened.”
Someone called to Adam. “You there! You must help us! Join the water line or help move the livestock! All able men to help the city!”
“No!” Lucy said, seizing his arm. “You can’t! You’re injured.”
“Lucy, I’d be hardly a man if I turned my back on the city. You must go to my father and tell him what happened. Keep each other safe. I’ve hidden behind rank and privilege long enough. I shall see you at our home. You must see to Father and, if the fire looks to spread, leave London! Then, by God’s grace, I shall see you at the family seat in Warwickshire.”
* * *
For two days, Lucy waited for Adam to return. Exhausted, she had sobbed the whole story out to the magistrate, who after an initial moment of shock listened with his customary calm. He seemed to see all but say little.
Pressing a cup of hot mead into her hands, he patted her awkwardly on her shoulder. “We’ll have our boy back soon,” he