Free From the Charred Remains by Susanna Calkins Page A

directed his gaze toward the woman’s face.
    To Lucy’s surprise, the woman pulled out the London Miscellany and pointed to the very poem they had just been discussing. “This! This is what I’m here about!”
    Duncan’s eyes widened slightly, but he did not otherwise betray his surprise. He did, however, smile at the woman. He had quite a friendly grin, when he wanted. “Sit down.” He pulled a bench toward her. Lucy moved to go, and without looking at her he said, “No, Lucy. Why don’t you stay?” Turning back to the woman he said, “Now first things first, my dear. What is your name and occupation?”
    “Tilly Baker, since the day I was born and until the day I marry,” Tilly simpered, warming under Duncan’s attentions. “Although I’m still quite young, so that day’s likely some time off. Not that I don’t have my fair share of suitors, don’t I?” She looked at Lucy then, as if daring to be contradicted. Since Tilly was well into her thirties, a spinster now, Lucy doubted this statement. “You can call me ‘Tilly,’” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.
    “Thank you,” Duncan said. He took out some paper, and began to sharpen his quill, with careful deliberate strokes of his knife. “Tilly, you must have them dancing on a stick. Tell me, my dear, where do you live and work?”
    “The Fox and Duck. Over in Smithfield. Before that wretched man set fire to London, I was tavern maid at the Cheshire Cheese, wasn’t I?” Tilly had a funny way of ending her statements with questions. “I had a room there, just above the tavern. Didn’t I just?”
    Lucy found herself leaning forward. That’s where the body had been found.
    Tilly’s face darkened. “Now I’ve nary a coin to speak of, my fortune and dowry all burned up.” Having arrived at the heart of the matter, her fawning manner ceased. “That’s why I’ve come. To get what’s mine.”
    Duncan’s smile remained friendly, but his eyes narrowed. “What, pray tell, Tilly, would that be?”
    “A small leather bag, full of belongings valuable only to myself, I can assure you. I know that you have it. I heard her”—she bobbed her head at Lucy—“say so. And I can see my poem has been printed too. I aim to get my fair share for that, don’t I?”
    “ You wrote the poem?” Lucy asked, trying to hide the disbelief that threatened to creep into her voice.
    “Nah, I didn’t say I wrote it now, did I? ‘Dear heart,’ it says, right? That’s from one of my suitors. I put it in a bit of oilskin and silk for safekeeping. And my brooch in the wool. And my coins. And my ring.” Reading their exchange of glances correctly, Tilly added, “You didn’t think I’d know what was in the bag, did you?”
    Duncan was silent a moment. He appeared to be thinking. Lucy waited for him to tell Tilly that knowing the contents of the bag did not mean she was the bag’s owner. Instead, his reply was mild. “Yes, of course. It sounds like it must be your bag.” Duncan said. “Perhaps you’d care to explain first how your bag came to be found with the body of a murdered man?” Tilly opened her mouth, and then promptly shut it. Duncan continued. “Because I can’t think of many good honest reasons why the belongings of one person might be found on the corpse of another? I’m sure my bellman can’t. I wonder how the magistrate would look up such evidence. It doesn’t look good, hey, Lucy?”
    Lucy solemnly shook her head.
    Tilly began to look afraid. “Whatcher mean? I ain’t have nothing to do with no murder! I don’t know nothing about no dead man, do I?”
    “Well, let us start from the beginning, shall we?” Duncan soothed her. “Tell me what you know about this bag and the contents.”
    Somewhat mollified, Tilly sniffed. “I saw the bag during the card game. Someone read the poem out loud. That’s when I heard it. That’s all I know.” She stood up. “I’ll be off now.”
    “Hold on a moment, Tilly.” The constable’s