A Murder at Rosamund's Gate - By Susanna Calkins Page 0,36
floor. It looked like a mushroom, she thought idly. She despised mushrooms.
“I’ve no news of the outside,” Adam said, making an impatient gesture. “This sickness has kept me abed, and I’ve not seen Father. I need to know what is being said of Bessie’s death. Who are they saying did it?”
Lucy made a face. “It’s all fantastic nonsense.”
“Yes, and?” Adam prompted. “What are they saying?”
She bit her lip. “Well, that Bessie had been in league with the devil.” Seeing his brow raise, she gave the slightest of smiles. “Not the real devil, of course, but some devilish man who seduced her. Convinced her to steal the silver spoons. And then he killed her.”
“Oh?” Adam prompted.
“He must have taken the spoons, you see. Because the spoons weren’t found where she was … killed. At Rosamund’s Gate.”
“How singular. Who was this supposed devilish man?”
At this, Lucy could not help but sneer. “Janey supposes a highwayman.”
“Of course. And what say the constable?”
“He thinks maybe it was the gypsies encamped to the south. He knew that Bessie had visited them a few times.” How tongues do wag, Lucy thought. An image of Maraid’s beautiful and wild face came to her then, asking for silver.
Adam seemed to follow her thinking. “The gypsies do require silver, do they not? Had Bessie particular need for their services?”
Lucy thought about this. Bessie had wanted something from the gypsies but had not confided in her, to be sure. Truly, her manner had been strange for some time—and what about the red lacquered box? If only she could just go somewhere and think. She scratched her arm, waiting for permission to leave the room.
Adam wasn’t done. “So Bessie was wearing a green silk dress when she was murdered?” Seeing her flinch, he added, “I’m sorry, Lucy. That was thoughtless of me. When she passed on, I mean. But the dress? What do you make of that?”
The question gave Lucy pause. Certainly, the green taffeta was not a dress to travel in. “Yes,” she said slowly. “It was one of her favorite dresses. She wore it to Lady Embry’s Easter masquerade. She looked lovely.”
Lucy gulped, recalling a vision of Bessie, beautiful in the green taffeta, generously lending Lucy her perfume. Lost in the past, she barely heard Adam comment, “I’m afraid I did not notice her.”
The memory was too raw to think of now. Lucy pushed it aside to concentrate on what Adam was asking her, but she kept thinking about the dress. She herself would have worn a more practical work dress, one of her gray muslins, if she were taking a journey. Bessie must have hoped to meet someone, nay, to impress someone. Perhaps those nosy neighbors were right. She sighed.
“What is it?” Adam asked gently. “I can see something has occurred to you. Will you tell me?”
His unexpected kindness loosened her tongue somewhat. “It’s just that this was a special dress. Not a dress she would have wanted to walk very far in, especially in such cold weather. She looked so beautiful in it. Not like a servant at all, sir. So she’d have worn it to impress someone.” Not some made-up highwayman, either. Someone more like Will, Lucy realized. Someone Bessie cared about.
Adam tapped his fingers on the wall, musing out loud. “Exactly. My thoughts as well. The constable could not be too aware of women’s clothes if he didn’t know that it was a servant girl’s best dress. Of course, it was no doubt the worse for wear when he saw it.”
Lucy had only half heard him, as she remembered Will whispering into Bessie’s ear. She put a hand over her mouth, the bile rising in her throat.
Adam saw the gesture. “Oh, I am a cad. Forgive me.” He paused. “So the dress suggests that she was planning to meet a sweetheart, not have an assignation with a highwayman. Why would he kill her?”
“Perhaps someone else killed her,” Lucy said. “Someone else she encountered on the way.”
“Perhaps. Did she have a lover, do you know?”
Lucy narrowed her eyes, not wanting to speak of her brother’s relationship with Bessie. She’d already been forced to mention it to the constable. Adam seemed tense, and his questions did not appear to stem from mere curiosity. She watched him trace a crack in the wall. As she gazed at his bandaged hands and body, she could not suppress the ugly and dark thoughts. What had he been doing to get himself all bloodied? The stories he had told, about running