The Sudbury School Murders

by Ashley Gardner

  "In case he had anything to do with the murder?" She tipped her head to one side, and her childlike look returned. "I might be persuaded."

  "For a reasonable fee, of course," I said. "But please be discreet."

  "My dear Lacey, I am discretion itself. Were I not, many a gentleman in London would fall. I am amazed at what they confide in me."

  I could imagine. Gentlemen said things to their lovers that they told to no other.

  Marianne agreed to fetch Jeanne Lanier for me, and I waited while she made her way upstairs.

  I had always wondered about Marianne's origins. She spoke well, as though she'd come from at least a middle-class family, and she did know manners, if she did not always use them. At the same time, she could swear volubly with words even an army man would hesitate to use. Her knowledge of men, and her frank admission to manipulating them through their desires, could be a bit embarrassing. And yet, she put herself above the street girls who lured men to their dooms, and even above the other actresses with whom she shared the stage.

  Asking direct questions of Marianne had never gotten me far, however. When she wanted me to know about her past life, she would tell me.

  After a few more minutes, Jeanne Lanier arrived.

  Marianne had been correct when she said that Jeanne was not much older than Sutcliff. I put her age at about twenty, possibly a year less. Dark brown ringlets trickled down her neck from under a small white cap. She had a pretty face that was not beautiful but pleasing. Part of its pleasantness came from her dark-lashed blue eyes and wide mouth.

  She made a curtsey, held out her hand. "Captain Lacey?"

  I bowed, took her hand, and said, "I've come from the Sudbury School. Mr. Sutcliff told me about you."

  She smiled wisely. "Ah, Mr. Sutcliff. Please sit down, Captain. The chairs are horrid, but I can offer you no others, unfortunately. Your leg must be tired from the ride."

  She spoke with a very charming accent. Most children of French emigres that I had met, born and raised in England, spoke English in a manner quite the same as any English person. But perhaps Jeanne Lanier had learned that a gentleman finds a slight misuse of English intriguing.

  "I would offer you refreshment, but again, I fear . . ." She shook her head. "You would do better to visit the tavern on the way out of Hungerford."

  I returned the smile. She was indeed quite charming. "I am sorry you must stay in such accommodations. Mr. Sutcliff should do better for you."

  She waved this away. "When we are in London, I assure you, my accommodations are quite fine. Here in the country, one takes what one can find. Mr. Sutcliff is most generous. He is not to blame."

  I had difficulty reconciling young Sutcliff, the lanky youth with his nose in the air, with this quiet young woman. Their ages were close, and yet, Jeanne Lanier was far more sophisticated than Frederick Sutcliff would ever be.

  "It is of Mr. Sutcliff that I wish to speak to you," I said. "To ask you, specifically, if he visited you here on Sunday night."

  Her smile turned coy. "He visits me nearly every night, Captain, so indeed, he visited me on Sunday."

  "Will you tell me what time?"

  "You wish to know because that was the night the murder happened?" she asked, her expression intelligent. "Let me see, he arrived a little after ten. He stayed quite late--or quite early, I should say. I believe he left for home when the clock was striking four. He made certain everyone at the school would be asleep before he went. If his headmaster found him sidling back into the school . . ." She made another gesture, but smiled as she did it, imagining Rutledge's explosion.

  "Thank you, that is most helpful."

  "But why do you ask? I thought the murderer had already been found."

  "A Romany has been arrested, yes. But I like to put everything in order."

  She cocked her head. "So you must have learned in the army. I admire a man who puts things in order."

  I wondered whether, had I confessed to a chaotic life, she would have admired that instead.

  "Did Mr. Sutcliff ever speak of the incidents at the school?" I asked. "The pranks and so forth?"

  She spread one long-fingered hand on her knee. "Goodness, yes. He finds them most annoying. As prefect, he must make the younger boys behave, and he is distracted to know who is doing these dreadful things. Mr. Rutledge is quite put out with him."

  "Mr. Rutledge is put out with everyone," I remarked.

  Her smile deepened, a glint of true humor in her eyes. "That is so. I have not met Mr. Rutledge, but Mr. Sutcliff tells me much."

  "How did you meet Mr. Sutcliff?" I asked, curious.

  Her gaze shifted, though her charm did not diminish. "Oh, in the usual manner."

  I had no idea what was the usual manner, never having looked for a contracted paramour myself. Only very wealthy gentlemen were so able. She must have guessed this, because she added, "My former protector introduced us. He thought Mr. Sutcliff would suit me."

  I had heard, through Grenville, that when a gentleman tired of his mistress, he sometimes introduced her to a friend and more or less suggested that she try her luck with him. The previous gentleman said his good-byes at the same time the next gentleman would offer her carte blanche. I wondered what kind of man would suggest his mistress take up with a schoolboy, even if the schoolboy, at nineteen, was a little older than his fellows.

  "Mr. Sutcliff will become quite a wealthy man, I understand," I said.

  "Oh, indeed." She radiated pride. "He will be able to purchase the City of London twice over, I think."

  "But not until the sad day that his father passes away."

  She nodded. "He will come into more money when he reaches his majority. But his father is rather horrible. He does not allow Frederick to have all that he could, does not trust him, he says. Frederick is quite annoyed. His father has even kept him in the school longer than most of the young men. He says that Frederick must learn to be a man before he can come into the business with his father. But I ask you, Captain, can a boy learn to be a man in the company of boys?"

  I had wondered why Sutcliff was a bit older than his schoolmates. A boy could leave school when he or his father felt him ready for university, at seventeen or eighteen. But Sudbury was not a preparatory school. Most of the young men at Sudbury would never attend university; they would slip right into the family business and not seek the esoteric studies of theology and law at Oxford or Cambridge. Perhaps Mr. Sutcliff wanted Frederick to learn all he could learn before he took part in the making of the family fortune. Sutcliff's disdain might extend from anger at his father's lack of belief in him.

  "Frederick will be quite wealthy one day, however," Jeanne went on. "He is amazed at the vastness of his father's wealth."

  "When my father died, I was truly amazed at the vastness of his debt," I said with a smile. "Mr. Sutcliff is a fortunate young man."

  "Indeed, he is."

  I did not add that she was a fortunate young woman to have found Sutcliff while he was still hungering for his wealth. Later, when he realized just how much power his money gave him, he might seek out a lady more expensive, more sophisticated, one who hadn't known him as a callow youth.

  But Jeanne Lanier did not look troubled. She was shrewd and no doubt knew exactly how to obtain as much as she could from Sutcliff before her carte blanche ran out.

  She began to converse with me then, as though I'd come to pay a social call. She asked me about the army and mentioned gentlemen of various regiments until we discovered one or two with whom we were both slightly acquainted. She asked more and more questions, prompted more and more stories, until I suddenly found myself speaking to her freely and at length.

  She listened to me with avid attention, smiled at my attempts at wit, laughed at my anecdotes. I found myself speaking to her quite frankly of things that I had never discussed with anyone but Louisa.

  She knew how to put me at my ease, how to entertain, how to make me feel as though she would like nothing better than to s
it in this dreary parlor and converse with me all afternoon. I could well understand why Sutcliff was taken with her.

  Though I knew Jeanne was practiced at chatting with gentlemen, I had not so enjoyed a conversation in a long while. Because we did not know one another, she was easy to speak to; no tension existed between us. Louisa and I had used to converse as freely, but now I felt strain when I spoke to her, much of which was my own stupid fault. My conversations with Lady Breckenridge were always a bit odd. Lady Breckenridge was clever and knew it and had never learned the art of pleasing. I admired her frankness, but her frankness could cut.

  So, as the hour drew to a close, I found myself wanting to stay. I nearly asked to see her again. Just to talk, I wanted to say. To talk to someone who enjoys listening.

  Without doing anything so foolish, I rose and took my leave. She had charmed me today because it suited her, nothing more.

  She said good-bye to me very prettily, letting me bow over her hand. I thanked her for passing the time with me and made myself depart.

  *** *** ***

  When I reached the school again, it was in commotion. Rutledge was in an uproar, although most of the students were swarming about snickering behind their hands.

  Grenville informed me that, apparently, the good-natured Simon Fletcher had lost his temper during a lecture and given Frederick Sutcliff a sound thrashing.

  "Fletcher did?" I asked Grenville in amazement. Grenville had come to my chambers high in the Head Master's house, looking relieved to escape the lower floors. Bartholomew and Matthias had followed him.

  "Yes." Grenville turned away from the window, through which he'd been studying the canal and the overgrown strips of land that lined it. "He was incoherent as to why. Something about not regarding Virgil with proper respect."

  "An odd reason to lose one's temper." I accepted the cup of coffee that Bartholomew had been trying to press into my hands since we'd entered the room. "I never thought Fletcher much for thrashing. He never struck me as being cowed by the boys. More indifferent to them, I thought."

  "Well, he certainly took a cane to Sutcliff," Grenville said. "Rutledge is furious. I imagine the Sutcliff money funds much of this school. Drink it yourself, Bartholomew. I am not in the mood for coffee." Bartholomew turned away, apologetic.

  "Mr. Fletcher is sulking in his rooms," Matthias offered. "At least, that's what his maid says. Won't come out."

  "What about Sutcliff?"

  "In a towering fury," Grenville put in. "He's going about as usual, in high dudgeon. Implying that Fletcher will be sacked, and so forth."

  Bartholomew grinned around the coffee cup. "The other boys are in transports. They hate Sutcliff. I'll wager every one of them has wanted to thrash 'im themselves. They're likely having their own little celebration." He chuckled.

  "I am not entirely surprised the other boys do not like him, from what I've seen," Grenville said. "Does he have any friends here?"

  Bartholomew shook his head. "He is loathed by one and all, sir. My mam would take a stick to him, that's for certain."

  "His mam will likely be dependent on him one day and knows it," I put in.

  "True, poor woman," Grenville agreed.

  I drank my coffee. It had begun raining again, and I was cold, my muscles stiff. Between sips, I informed them of all Jeanne Lanier had told me.

  Grenville listened, interested. When I asked what he had done, he confessed he'd chatted with some of the boys, but had not yet had the chance to search Middleton's quarters. I suggested that while everyone in the school was up in arms about Fletcher and Sutcliff that we take ourselves there.

  Grenville and I walked through rain to the stables by ourselves, leaving the two footmen to gossip with servants and find out more about Fletcher's outburst. Grenville carried a large black umbrella, held over his costly suit and greatcoat.

  As we walked, Grenville told me what he'd learned from young Mr. Timson. He'd found Timson to be a typical bully with a few hangers-on and a cowed younger student who acted as a veritable slave for him. Bribed with a flask of brandy Timson had admitted to sharing a smoke with Ramsay on Sunday night. Ramsay, he'd said, had turned tail and run after the first cheroot.

  Timson had seen a man pass on the road, on the other side of the brush, but he could not say who. He'd not set eyes on Sutcliff. Neither had Timson's friends.

  I mused, "I wonder why Ramsay, whose father is almost as wealthy as Sutcliff's from what I understand, needs to obtain his cheroots from Timson. Can he not purchase his own?"

  Grenville gave a pained laugh. "I know exactly why. To keep Timson from despising him."

  I raised my brows. Grenville's black umbrella was beaded with water, and beneath its shadow, he wore a rueful grin. I disliked umbrellas and was letting the rain do its worst to my hat. "Why on earth should he care whether Timson despised him?"

  "Twenty-five years ago, I was Ramsay," Grenville said. "Or very like him. I was the son of the man with the most money. I hated that. I just wanted to be one of the chaps."

  "So Ramsay puts up with Timson so that he can be one of the chaps? I suppose that makes a sort of sense."

  Grenville nodded. "Better to grin and take Timson's sneers with the others than to be universally despised, like Sutcliff. Good lord, I would have."

  "I am beginning to wonder how any of us survived to adulthood," I remarked.

  "My father told me that the boys I'd meet at Eton would be my cronies for a lifetime. Quite frightening, I thought. Perhaps it was that which spurred my fondness for travel." He chortled.

  "With your fondness for travel," I said, "I am surprised you've remained in England for this long."

  He looked at me in surprise. "It has been only a year or so, Lacey."

  "I read a newspaper article about you not long ago, in which the writer made the same observation. He implied that you rarely stayed in England above six months at a time."

  Grenville shrugged. "I am getting old, belike. I become ill when I travel, as you know, and comfort is beginning to have greater importance."

  "But you are growing tired of London life," I said. We had reached the stables, and I stopped outside the yard. "You long to be off, exploring distant realms. That is why you hurried down to Sudbury the minute something sordid happened. This murder should not interest you much. There has been an arrest, and all agree Sebastian the Romany is guilty."

  "Except you," Grenville said. "Hence my interest. "But you might be correct. One can only stand in White's and pass judgment on knots in others' cravats for so long. I am fond of Egypt, as you know. Perhaps, when I take the fit to travel there again, you would accompany me?"

  I blinked. I had toyed with the idea of offering to be his paid assistant or secretary when he traveled again, but I'd thought I'd have to persuade him. Now he offered it between one breath and the next. He was offering to pay my expenses, because he knew bloody well I could not.

  "How would we fare as traveling companions?" I asked. "I am not the easiest man to live with."

  "Nor am I. We would arrange something so that we were not in each other's pockets. I would be lying ill in my cabin for most of the voyage, in any case. Do consider it."

  "Unfortunately, at present, I am busy with my duties at the Sudbury School," I said.

  He threw me an accusing glance. "I know. I apologize, Lacey. I had forgotten what an idiot Rutledge could be. I truly thought you could uncover his problem, and he would shower you with gratitude." He sighed. "My benevolence seems to have backfired."

  His contrite look did not quite make me forgive him, but I decided not to be surly. "Rutledge is not your fault, and the problem is much more subtle than it first appeared. Shall we commence with Middleton's chamber?"

  * * * * *

  Chapter Ten

  The stable hand Thomas Adams grudgingly pointed us the way to the room Middleton had occupied during the six months he'd lived here.

  The stable hands slept in a sort of dormitory above the stables, with bunk
s along the walls. It was warm there, the horses in their boxes below lending their heat and fragrance to the air.

  Middleton had had a room to himself, more of a walled off portion of the dormitory. The room was simply furnished. He'd had a low-post bedstead with a straw mattress, a table and a chair, and hooks for his clothes.

  The clothes had gone, but the table still held a pile of papers, weighted down by a large book.

  The one window looked out over the stable yard and the land beyond. The canal was a flat, gray line across the green. I could see the lock and the lockkeeper's house. A low barge was floating toward the lock, slowing as it approached. The lockkeeper emerged from his house, brushing off the front of his coat, and trudged to meet it.

  "This is interesting," Grenville said behind me.

  I turned from the window. Grenville had moved the book and was now leafing through the pile of papers. He unfolded one and spread it across the table.

  I moved to him and looked over his shoulder. "What is it?"

  He had spread out a finely detailed map of the Kennet and Avon Canal. The map depicted the portion of the canal from Kintbury in the east to Devises in the west. Every village was marked, as was every lock and every bridge on the canal. A solid vertical line marked the boundary between Berkshire and Wiltshire.

  "Was Middleton interested in canal navigation?" Grenville wondered aloud. "He was a horseman, was he not?"

  I flipped through more papers. These were also maps, sketches of the canal and the lands beyond, each focusing on a small fragment of canal. On two maps, a line of another canal intersected the main canal, one at Hungerford and another at Newbury.

  "But there are no canals there," Grenville said. "Are there?" He looked at the main map. It showed only the Kennet and Avon Canal, with no offshoots. "I admit I do not know the layout of every waterway in England," he said, "but I am fairly certain there are no branches of the canal there."

  "Perhaps they are old maps with proposed routes that were never finished," I suggested. "This canal was only opened completely end to end seven years ago."