Sally’s brows furrowed. ‘The crows . . .’ she said, then looked at me in alarm.
‘No!’ Metcalfe shouted. He was standing in the doorway, sunlight streaming all around him. We rushed over to him, just as he collapsed backwards. Sally grabbed him beneath his arms, staggering back herself as he landed upon her. I took a few steps down and stopped dead.
Three young stags had been laid out in a triangle upon the carriage drive. Their heads had been hacked from their necks, their stomachs slit wide open. Jackdaws strutted along the corpses, cawing loudly and pulling at the meat. They had already plucked out the eyes.
I scared the birds away and circled the stags, my stomach turning. One had a note stuffed in its mouth. I reached between its teeth to pull it out. The tongue was dry and rough against my fingers. There were bloody fingerprints on the paper, red swirls surrounding three words, written in blood.
YOU WILL BURN
I stood up slowly.
Metcalfe was sitting on the top step, his head in his hands. He was trembling hard. ‘This is for me,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘This is meant for me.’
‘I doubt that, sir.’
He dropped his hands. ‘Of course it is. It’s my coat of arms, for God’s sake – the Robinson coat of arms. Three stags, in a triangle. Don’t you see? It’s a warning. Someone plans to murder me.’
Chapter Ten
Sally guided Metcalfe back to his rooms, leaving me alone with the deer. I lit a pipe to calm my nerves. I’d seen animals butchered – but there was a disturbing, sacrificial quality to this display. I was afraid Metcalfe must be right: this was a warning of worse to come.
Standing about feeling anxious would achieve nothing. I crouched down to study the deer more closely. There were a few patches of blood upon the gravel, but not soaked deep. The stags must have been field dressed somewhere else. The heads had been cut clean, not sawn – with a cleaver, I thought. After death: a small mercy. I reached down to the closest stag, resting my hand upon its stomach. The early morning sun was beginning to warm its hide. The meat would soon be spoiled.
I pushed myself on to my feet. The jackdaws had hopped a short distance into the grass, and were watching me now with their clever, pale grey eyes. I addressed the boldest, waiting a few feet away. ‘You saw who did this, didn’t you?’
The jackdaw gave a sharp cry. It was standing by a muddy bootprint. I followed it with my eyes to another, and another: a jumbled trail leading from where I stood out into the park, towards the main avenue.
‘Talking to crows, Mr Hawkins?’ Mr Aislabie had emerged from the house, accompanied by Mr Gatteker. Sneaton shadowed them.
I stepped away, so he might see the stags more clearly, laid out upon his carriage drive.
He grimaced. ‘Monstrous. What do you make of this, Gatteker?’
Mr Gatteker pushed his spectacles up his nose, considering the question. ‘Venison pasties?’
Aislabie frowned at him.
‘They must have been left here within the last four hours,’ I said. ‘My wife arrived at two o’clock this morning and the drive was clear.’
‘Mrs Hawkins has come?’ Mr Gatteker exclaimed excitedly. ‘Then why are you not abed, sir? Do you not appreciate the priorities of youth?’
I ignored him. ‘The kills are recent, but they weren’t slaughtered here. Not enough blood. And the noise could have woken the house. They must have been killed out in the woods somewhere, then carried here.’
‘A long way to carry one stag, never mind three,’ Aislabie said.
‘A handcart?’ Gatteker suggested, taking a pinch of snuff.
‘No wheel tracks.’ I pointed to the trail of footprints heading through the grass. ‘What lies south of here?’
‘The water gardens,’ Aislabie replied. ‘Then Messenger’s land.’
‘Could he have done this?’
‘If I might answer, as his physician?’ Gatteker interrupted, rubbing his nostrils. ‘No. Determinedly no. Poor devil is plagued by gout. If he were a horse, I’d shoot him. He’s not a horse,’ he clarified.
‘We are on ill terms,’ Aislabie said, after some thought. ‘But we argue through our lawyers. This is too foul an act even for him. No – for all his faults, Messenger is a gentleman.’ He gestured at one of the stags: its severed head and ripped stomach. ‘What do you say, Jack?’
Sneaton limped forward. He was tired and red-eyed, with a film of sweat upon his brow. He’d left for his cottage shortly after supper last night, expecting a visit from John Simpson. Clearly his attempts to help settle the stonemason’s bill had descended into a minor debauch, and now he was suffering for it. ‘I’d say this was two men, sir. Strong and fit. Poachers, would be my guess.’
‘I agree,’ Aislabie said. ‘It’s the Gills. I have been too temperate with them. Too forgiving. Very well – take Hawkins up to Kirkby moors with a half-dozen of Simpson’s men. I will have this business fixed upon that damned family today. Beat a confession from them if you must.’
I held up my hands in protest. ‘This is not the work of poachers, sir. The notes are the work of two separate parties, I’m sure of it.’
Aislabie’s brow furrowed. ‘No, I cannot believe that. I am not so misliked.’
There followed an embarrassed silence. I dared a glance at Mr Gatteker. He tweaked an eyebrow, then looked down, prodding the gravel with his boot.
Truly, did Aislabie not understand how much the world hated him? I could mention his name in any tavern or coaching inn from here to Dover and half the room would rain down curses upon his head. Everyone knew someone who’d been ruined by his actions as chancellor – myself included. It was a wonder his house wasn’t filled to the rooftops with letters promising fire and death.
It is not easy to persuade a man that he is universally loathed, particularly one so convinced of his innocence. More than that, Aislabie believed that he was the injured party. No matter that he had kept most of his money and all of his estate – his disgrace and the loss of his power still weighed upon him as a gross injustice. He believed himself mistreated, so why should anyone blame him for their own troubles? Why should the idea even flit through his mind? No – it must be the infamous Gills – a low sort of people, mistrusted by the neighbourhood.
‘This is not about snaring rabbits and grazing sheep,’ I said. ‘This man is after revenge. He calls you a traitor, who ruined good and honest families.’ I paused, hoping that this would be enough, but Aislabie looked blank. Dear God, his self-delusion was extraordinary. ‘The South Sea disaster, sir.’
Mr Aislabie flinched. ‘We do not speak of that business.’
‘Mr Aislabie, you must see—’
‘We do not speak of it, damn you!’
I’d had enough – his stubbornness would see him dead, along with the rest of us if the house were put to the torch. I pulled the fresh note from my pocket and held it out to him. ‘I found this with the stags. I’d hoped to spare you.’
He snatched the paper from me and read the three words, written in blood. YOU WILL BURN.
‘Devil take it,’ Sneaton breathed.
Aislabie stared at the note, mute with horror. It was clear that he was thinking of the fire at his London home, all those years ago. His young wife. His lost daughter.
‘Would poachers do all this?’ I pressed. ‘It is too elaborate, surely? Mr Sneaton – would the Gills waste so much good meat? Would they even know the Robinson coat of arms?’ I gestured at the stags, laid out in a triangle.
‘A coincidence,’ Aislabie said. ‘Metcalfe is forever seeing patterns where none exist. Conspiracies and dramas . . .’
‘But Mr Hawkins speaks fair about the meat, your honour,’ Sneaton said, reluctantly. ‘Might it be possible . . .’ He paused, considering the best way to proceed. ‘Might there be some wrong-headed fool who blames you for his ruin? Unjustly, of course,’ he added, hastily.
Aislabie shook his head, unable to accept the truth.
‘You must see that th
e first letters were different,’ I said. ‘For all the threats and rough language, the writer sought a peaceful, reasonable resolution. There is no reason to this.’ I gestured to the stags.
‘Perhaps they grew angry,’ Sneaton argued. ‘When we ignored their demands.’
‘Precisely,’ Aislabie leaped upon this eagerly. This could not be about his part in the South Sea Scheme. It would not be. ‘I want the Gills locked up – today. Ride over to the moors, Hawkins. That is an order.’
‘This is not the army, sir.’ I squinted at the butchered stags, and the grass beyond. In the distance, the rest of the herd grazed under a great beech tree. A doe dropped her head to a water trough and drank.
The sun was rising above the trees. The sky was a pale blue, with no clouds in view. A light breeze riffled through the grass. A day for lifted spirits and gentle strolls. It was hard to believe that we were in danger here. Harder yet to recognise an enemy in such polite company. But someone was plotting revenge upon Aislabie. And, like Metcalfe, I was afraid that this bright, spring day would end in death if we did not discover the truth.
Mr Aislabie had been speaking for some time as I stared out across his estate. Sermonising. I was a clergyman’s son; I’d developed a talent for letting them waft over my head. There would be something about duty in there, no doubt, and respect, and obedience. Every sermon is the same, and it is a confounded waste of time to listen to a single word. The trick is to keep one ear half open, so one can be sure when it is over.
‘I will ride out and speak with the Gills this afternoon,’ I said, when he had spluttered to a close. There would be no peace until I’d agreed to it, and I could at least discount the family from my enquiries. ‘Mr Sneaton – would you speak with the servants? Ask them if they saw anything, or suspect anyone?’
Sneaton glanced at his master, expecting refusal, but Aislabie nodded absently. He had been looking up at the house, to a window on the second floor. I followed his gaze and saw Mrs Fairwood looking down at us – precisely where Sally had seen her the day before. She drew back, out of view.
‘I must go to my daughter,’ Aislabie said, and left us.
Sneaton sighed, a great weary sound. ‘Look at these poor creatures.’
The stags smelled of blood and meat. Flies buzzed about the gaping wounds. ‘When you speak with the servants, see if any of them know the Robinson coat of arms.’
He nodded, then moaned in pain. ‘My head aches consumedly,’ he muttered.
‘Pot of chocolate,’ I offered. ‘Helps me when I’ve drunk too much liquor.’
‘A hearty breakfast!’ Gatteker piped up. ‘Tripe and onions, if you can persuade Mrs Mason.’
‘And a fresh bowl of punch,’ I added. ‘That really is the best remedy.’ For anything.
‘Gentlemen, please.’ Sneaton swayed on his stick. ‘Gah . . . It’s my own fault. I should never take a drink with John Simpson, the old sot.’
‘Could he have done this? He was angry yesterday – and he’s owed a lot of money.’
Sneaton considered this for a moment then dismissed it. ‘He shouts and stamps his foot, but . . . this is too sneaking for him. And too elaborate, as you say.’
‘Did you tally his bill?’
Sneaton shut his eyes. ‘In truth? I can’t remember.’
I chuckled. ‘Sam can help you question the servants. He’s a sharp lad.’
Sneaton did not look pleased about that, but he didn’t have the strength to argue.
‘And what will you do, sir?’ Mr Gatteker asked.
I gazed at the trail of bootprints leading across the deer park. ‘I think I’ll follow those. Once I’ve had my breakfast.’
There was a note waiting for Mr Gatteker back in the house. Bagby brought it over. I planned to ask him why he had been so pleased by Kitty’s arrival, but he had turned upon his heel and left before I could open my mouth. What a queer fellow he was. If he disliked me so much – and I certainly wasn’t imagining his seething hostility – why should he be happy to see me reunited with my wife?
‘Oh dear,’ Mr Gatteker said, reading the note. ‘What ill news. Mrs Slingsby has died.’
‘A patient?’
‘A rich one. I thought she had another ten pounds’ worth of bills in her, at least. What a tragedy.’
‘Perhaps she remembered you in her will.’
‘That is a kind thought, sir,’ Mr Gatteker said, rallying. ‘I’m obliged to you. Let us console ourselves with a large breakfast.’
‘Good morrow,’ Kitty called down from the minstrels’ gallery. She was wearing her emerald silk gown, with matching ribbons in her cap. She skipped lightly down the stairs and allowed Mr Gatteker to take her hand.
He bowed low over it. ‘Mrs Hawkins.’
She smirked at the title. ‘Well, then – the stags! What a dreadful mess. I saw them from the window. You were very brave, Tom – examining them so closely. My husband is incurably soft-hearted when it comes to animals, Mr Gatteker, you have never met a more squeamish fellow. Mrs Mason says the stags were laid out to match the Robinson coat of arms. Tom, did you notice the bootprints leading off towards the gardens?’ She allowed room for me to nod that I had. ‘So I visited Metcalfe’s quarters to introduce myself, but he has locked himself in. Can you imagine? He spoke with me through the keyhole. He says he is afraid for his life, and that we should leave at once or else we will be burned in our beds. Or wherever we might happen to be at the time, I suppose. You may let go of my hand now, Mr Gatteker. That is, if you wish to.’
Mr Gatteker, enchanted, bowed again and – with clear reluctance – stepped back.
Kitty smiled at him. ‘And you, sir. As an expert on the human form. Would you say it’s possible for one man to carry a stag of that size on his own? How strong would he have to be? How broad his shoulders? Would he need to be of a particular height, would you say?’
He thought about this for a moment. ‘Haven’t a clue.’
I liked Mr Gatteker, but he really was quite useless.
‘I believe I could carry one,’ Kitty decided. ‘A small one, wrapped about my shoulders like a scarf.’ She demonstrated with an imaginary stag, hefting it around her neck and holding it by its imaginary hooves. ‘But for how long? That is the question.’
We took breakfast, the three of us, alone in the dining room. Mr Aislabie had returned to his study, where he was presumably buying up the rest of Yorkshire. Mrs Fairwood had escaped to the library, her sanctuary. Lady Judith had left for her morning ride.
I told Kitty about Lady Judith’s breeches. She listened intently. ‘Would she lend me a pair do you think?’
‘As a physician, I am heartily in favour of them,’ Gatteker declared. ‘I am persuaded they offer diverse benefits to a lady’s health. We must secure them for you, Mrs Hawkins.’
I frowned at him and changed the subject. ‘I’m worried about Metcalfe. This business with the stags seems to have thrown him into a fit of despair. You’re his physician, I believe?’
‘When he’s in Yorkshire,’ Gatteker said, buttering a roll. ‘Excellent man, but a profound melancholic. Prone to fits of paralytic gloom.’
Kitty blinked. ‘Is that a medical term?’
Gatteker giggled at the very notion. ‘Of course, I tend to see him at his worst. He comes home to Baldersby to rest. Lies there in his bed at odds with the world. Barely eats, barely sleeps. Days go by. Weeks, sometimes. Convinced he’s the worst devil ever to have walked the earth. He’s threatened to injure himself, you know, on many occasions.’
Kitty shook her head slowly. ‘It is a terrible affliction.’
‘Yes, poor fellow. He’ll rally for a while, but it always comes back. Runs in the blood, I think. Aislabie’s brother hanged himself at Oxford, did you know? Seventeen years old. Same age Metcalfe suffered his first attack.’
I thought of the portrait of Mallory Aislabie up in Sam’s room, hidden away in the neglected east wing like a shameful secret. Those soulful eyes – very much like
Metcalfe’s, now I thought of it. ‘Would you prescribe laudanum for such an illness?’
‘Heavens, no!’ Gatteker exclaimed, waving his butter knife at me. ‘Fresh air, long walks, and good company. And regular bleedings, naturally.’
I pulled the bottle of laudanum from my coat. ‘He’s been taking this for a while. He thinks someone’s trying to poison him.’ I unstoppered the bottle and held it out to him across the table.
Gatteker took a deep sniff. ‘Smells regular to me. He does succumb to these fancies . . .’
‘He seems most confused and unpredictable. Not sure what’s real and what isn’t. Is that common for him?’
‘Not particularly. Excessive melancholy and self-hatred . . . Disproportionate sense of futility. What’s it all, for? Why is the world so dreadful? But he knows a hawk from a handsaw.’ He sniffed the bottle again. ‘Could be a mistake with the dose, I suppose.’
‘He said it has kept him asleep these past three days. Could you examine the contents for me, sir?’
‘Delighted. I’ll try it on one of the little Gattekers. Pray don’t be alarmed, Mrs Hawkins!’ he grinned. ‘I’ve eight or ten of ’em at home. We won’t run out.’
‘What a curious fellow,’ Kitty called out to me, later. ‘He was joking, wasn’t he?’
We were on horseback, riding through Mr Aislabie’s deer park towards the fabled water gardens. Lady Judith had promised me a tour. Instead I was riding with Kitty, following a set of bootprints that led both to and from the butchered stags. The tracks had disappeared for a time in drier grass, but now we had found them again, heavy prints pushed deep into the mud. Boots sinking under the weight of a deer. The prints were tangled together; it was hard to tell if one man had carried one stag upon three separate occasions, or whether there had been two or even three men working together. Whoever they were, they were strong. I’m not sure I could have carried such a weight upon my shoulders such a great distance.
A Death at Fountains Abbey Page 11
