Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

“Our Lord will judge her from her heart, but I heard she was free with her favours,” I said. “But that is mere tittle-tattle, no doubt.”

“Lies,” Micah roared. His ancient three-cornered hat and beard gave him the look of the Bible prophet after whom he was named. “Their tongue is deceitful in their mouth,” he quoted. “She was my friend, she was, and I saw her there dead, with such a look of surprise on her dear sweet face.”

“Was Lord Foppington a friend also?” I needed to establish this.

Another roar. “Rich men are full of violence, so the prophet tells us. Always there he was, he and that Mr. Percy Trott. Promised her a pound when the season was over. She just laughed at them, knowing they didn’t mean it.”

Had Annie laughed once too often? Had she and not Miss Cherrington been his lordship’s Fairest Nymph?

“You swept the Walks last evening. Did you not see her then? Did you see anyone with her?”

He stared at me, then said, “I will bear the indignation of the Lord, for I have sinned against him.” He would say no more, but rocked to and fro in his grief.

I sighed. Was Micah’s idea of sin that he loved Annie more than he should, or that he had not protected her — or that he himself had killed her?

The market was nearly over now, but the day’s bustle continued, as groups gathered and spoke urgently amongst themselves. There was an edge to the atmosphere today. The voices were low and none invited me to join him. I was a visitor, and, worse, an enemy when one of their own had died.

On the Upper Walk, society was reluctantly vanishing to prepare itself for the next stage of their day. But as with yesterday, many still lingered. The crowd, at the well, of ladies in their negligees spoke less of enthusiasm for the cure than of worldly prurience. The dippers were making the most of their companion’s tragic death and who could blame them? Coins were changing hands with great speed for accounts of what an angel Annie had been — or, as I listened to another, what a devil she had been. My heart was full as I thought of Annie’s dead body lying here alone last night. I was paying dearly for the cups of water I had taken from her hands, and vowed I would first be sure that Jem Smith had been her murderer, but if in doubt would seek the truth.

I could endure no more, and walked quickly to the bookstore, where another crowd had assembled outside. A distraught Mr. Thomas guarded the door and caught sight of me with relief.

“Come quickly, Parson. There’s another verse from Lord Foppington.”

I could scarcely believe it. If his verse referred to Annie’s death, not Miss Cherrington’s, then surely he would not write another. I hastened inside, where Mr. Thomas led me to the table where the Book of Poets lay, with Mrs. Thomas grimly guarding it. The verse was brief and to the point:

Fairest nymph, thy end was just indeed

Thy beauty too great for this world’s need.

I blenched. If I had needed proof that the fairest nymph of yesterday’s poem had been Annie, this was it. And yet, to what purpose had the foul deed been advertised? A fearful thought came to me.

“Miss Olivia Cherrington?” I cried. “She is safe?” Could there have been another death besides Annie’s?

“Thanks be to God, she is,” Mr. Thomas said fervently. “I sent to her lodgings for word.”

“It seems it was the water-dipper on whom Lord Foppington’s true fancy fell,” Mrs. Thomas said sadly. “His lordship has a roving eye, I fear, and no doubt the girl was all too willing — at first.”

“Hush, wife,” her husband said angrily. “Annie is dead, and must be mourned. She was a bright star in this most unnatural world. And we must recall that Lord Foppington denied writing yesterday’s poem.”

Mrs. Thomas looked chagrined and I hastened to ask, “Did this verse arrive this morning?”

“It awaited me at the door again. The poet, whether Lord Foppington or Mr. Trott, would hardly have brought it in person, any more than he cared to sign his name.”

“But why display the poem at all? If he killed the girl, would he blazen the fact abroad?”

“Because he might kill again?” Mrs. Thomas ventured.

“I think not,” I assured her gently. “But why should her murderer wish to announce her forthcoming death here, where Annie would not see it? Only the ton would do so. Poor Annie could doubtless not even read, let alone appreciate verses, even of the dire quality displayed here.”

“Lord Foppington is a loose fish,” Mr. Thomas observed, “who professes weariness with everyday life. He and Mr. Trott were members of the Hell Fire Club, where such monstrous folk fed on the death of others for their pleasure.”

This was a new thought to me, and must be considered. Held in the caverns of Wycombe, terrible practices were said to have taken place at these orgies — practices to which the Miss Cherringtons of this world would be strangers, but which were part of the risks of living for the Annie Brights. Had she fallen prey to either or both these fops? Were the poems merely part of their sinister game?