A Murder at Rosamund's Gate - By Susanna Calkins Page 0,3
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 everything 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.
Just then, one of the boys grabbed her purse, snapping the flimsy cord. The other boy scooped up two of her packages, and they took off, out of the market, in separate directions.
The woman, first stunned and mute, shook herself and began to wail, a shrieking, piteous sound. Nearby faces turned and conversations stopped, but after a moment, everyone returned to business. Pickpockets were a fair menace to the streets, but as the woman was a