He feels nothing.
There is a body lying on the riverbank. It is perfectly still.
The Third Day
Chapter Sixteen
I woke to shouts of alarm and the sound of people running.
Kitty swung her legs from the bed and hopped to the floor. She always woke faster than I did. I struggled out of the sheets, half asleep, and groped my way through a gap in the bed curtains. The shutters lay open still, and the room was grey in the thin light before dawn.
‘Fire!’ someone called, far away on another floor.
Kitty twisted and tugged at the door handle. ‘Mr Bagby!’ There was no reply. She turned to me, fear in her voice. ‘He left us!’
‘Wake Sam.’ He could pick a lock in moments. I took her place at the door, throwing my shoulder at it. When that didn’t work I thrust on my shoe and kicked hard, the wood splintering and cracking under my heel. Even amidst the danger, this was deeply satisfying. I had been wanting to kick something this hard ever since I’d arrived at this bloody place.
‘He’s not there,’ Kitty said, hurrying back into the room.
There was no time to consider the weight of this discovery. I glanced at the window. It was open as we’d left it.
Kitty followed my gaze. ‘We can’t.’
That wasn’t quite true – she could jump to the branch and wait for rescue. It would not, however, take our combined weight.
Kitty shoved on one of my boots and began to kick the door. We worked together, matching our attack, and at last the wood splintered around the lock. Kitty snatched up my spare coat to throw around her wrapping gown and we hurried down the labyrinth of sloping corridors and creaking steps, abandoning one boot and one shoe along the way.
On the landing above the great hall, we watched as servants spilled up from the lower ground, clutching buckets of water. A footman rushed up the stairs towards us – one of the men who’d guarded Sam the day before. ‘Where’s the fire?’ I called.
‘West wing, sir.’
‘Wait.’ I snatched at his arm. ‘Have you seen Sam – Master Fleet?’
He shook his head and pressed on.
We followed in his wake, passing servants heading the other way with empty buckets. I could smell smoke, growing stronger as we moved up the stairs towards the back of the house.
Two chambermaids squeezed past me in the narrow corridor. They didn’t seem concerned by the fire, and took a singular interest in my shirt, untied and loose across my chest. The bolder of the two smiled at me. ‘No need for panic, sir – it’s out.’
‘Where did it start?’
‘Mrs Fairwood’s rooms, sir.’
Bagby appeared at the bottom of the corridor. Seeing him, the maids hurried to leave. ‘Mistress,’ they said, bobbing a swift curtsey to Kitty as they passed. We heard them giggling to each other on the stairs.
Kitty glanced at my chest, and rolled her eyes.
Bagby approached us, stretching out his arms to block our path. ‘Go back to your chamber, please.’
‘You left us,’ Kitty glared at him. ‘We might have burned to death.’
He had the decency to look ashamed. ‘It was a small fire, madam – you were in no danger.’
Kitty slapped him, hard. ‘We didn’t know that.’
Bagby clutched his cheek, more in shock than pain. ‘I’m very sorry, madam,’ he stammered.
‘No matter,’ Kitty said, her temper violent but brief. ‘We kicked the door down.’
We shoved past him.
Alone for a moment, Kitty stopped me, fingers spread against my chest. ‘Did Sam do this?’
I shook my head.
‘Can you be sure, Tom?’
‘Why would he hurt Mrs Fairwood?’
‘To hurt Aislabie. To force Sneaton to give up the book.’
‘It’s possible,’ I admitted.
This was the same argument that had driven Kitty to abandon me on the London road. Perhaps Sam had started the fire, or perhaps not. He did what he must – with reason, but without scruple.
A small crowd had gathered in the doorway of Mrs Fairwood’s quarters: two footmen acting as guards; Mrs Mason, grey hair hanging loose beneath her cap, peering over their shoulders at the devastation within; Lady Judith just inside the door, dressed in her night robe.
‘The drama is over,’ she said. ‘The wallpaper is ruined.’
‘Mrs Fairwood?’
‘Unharmed.’
Clearly she wished it had been the other way about.
We squeezed past them all. It was one of the finest rooms in the house, or at least it had been – only the best for Mr Aislabie’s maybe-daughter. A grand canopy bed took up much of the space and this was where the fire had started. The silk drapes were burned to blackened rags, pulled to the floor and sodden with water. The bedlinen was also ruined, and the wallpaper behind the bed was scorched. The rest of the room had survived almost intact – Mrs Fairwood’s books stacked upon her desk next to a vase of orange wallflowers.
Mrs Fairwood stood in the far corner, weeping in Mr Aislabie’s arms. He looked up as we entered, his face grim.
It was only then that I saw Sally, collapsed on the floor between the bed and the window, her palms upturned. They were bright red, the top skin burned away and starting to blister.
Kitty gave a cry of dismay and rushed to her aid.
‘What’s this?’ Mrs Mason pushed her way into the room. ‘Bless us, Sally – I never saw you down there. Oh, love – whatever have you done?’
‘She saved my life,’ Mrs Fairwood said, breaking free from Aislabie. ‘I woke and the bed was on fire all around me. She tore down the drapes with her bare hands.’
Sally swayed and leaned heavily against Kitty. Her face was grey, hair stuck to her skin with sweat. ‘It hurts,’ she whispered. ‘It hurts so much.’
Kitty and Mrs Mason helped her to her feet. ‘We must take her to the courtyard pump,’ Kitty said. ‘The cold water will help with the pain.’
‘Wait!’ Aislabie ordered, stepping in front of the three women. ‘Why were you so close to Mrs Fairwood’s room in the middle of the night?’
Sally was breathing so hard with the pain, she could scarce answer. ‘Weren’t middle o’ night for me, your honour. I were up lighting fires.’
Aislabie snatched at her chin. ‘Did you start this one?’
‘No sir!’ Sally cried. ‘I’d never do such a thing!’
‘John!’ Lady Judith gasped.
Kitty, without a word, knocked Aislabie’s wrist away.
‘Did you start the fire, girl?’ he pressed. ‘Answer me!’
‘No, sir,’ Sally sobbed, sagging between Kitty and Mrs Mason. ‘I came to help, I swear it! Oh please sir, my hands.’
‘Father,’ Mrs Fairwood said, softly.
Aislabie turned to her at once.
‘She’s hurt. Please – let her go. For me.’
Aislabie glared at Sally for a moment, trying to read the truth in her face. Then he sighed. ‘Very well. For you, Lizzie. But she must be locked in the cellar once you are done with her, Mrs Mason. I would speak with her again.’
Kitty and Mrs Mason guided Sally from the room. We could hear her sobs all the way down the corridor.
Lady Judith ordered the footmen from the room. ‘For heaven’s sake, John,’ she said, when they were beyond hearing. ‘Sally Shutt has served our family since she was eleven years old. If it weren’t for her, the whole house would be ablaze. What is the matter with you, husband?’
Aislabie rubbed his scalp. He looked older without his wig, and very tired. ‘You suspected the servants from the start, Hawkins. I should have listened to you. I have put too much faith in them. Again.’
‘I don’t think that Sally—’
‘Who else could have started the fire?’
Sam. Sam could have started it. But I could hardly confess that. I looked at Mrs Fairwood with a fresh eye. She was uninjured, and her shock seemed counterfeit to my eyes. Could she h
ave started the fire herself? Was it a coincidence that the wallpaper and bed were burned, but her beloved books lay safe a few feet away? I had no proof, and if I did Aislabie would never believe it. So I held my tongue.
‘Don’t you see, Judith?’ Aislabie said. ‘There is no other answer. Hawkins was locked in his room. Damn it! All those men standing guard outside, and the trouble is here – inside my house. It is all happening again – at the very moment Lizzie is returned to me.’ He covered his face for a moment, then rallied. ‘I want that girl guarded at all times until she’s recovered enough to stand before a magistrate.’
‘John—’
‘Fetch your ward, Hawkins. I will send for Sneaton. We will shake answers from them both.’
I hesitated, and in that moment, Bagby slid into the room.
‘The boy is missing, Mr Aislabie, sir,’ he said.
Aislabie glared at me. ‘Where is he?’
‘He must have followed us out,’ I lied. ‘We thought the house was burning down.’
‘The window was open,’ Bagby said, shoulders back, chin high. ‘He might have escaped at any time last night.’
‘Really, Bagby,’ Lady Judith tsked. ‘They are on the second landing, are they not? In the mezzanino?’
‘There’s an oak tree next to the window, your ladyship,’ Bagby replied, throwing me a triumphant look. ‘Easy enough for a boy to clamber out, as he pleased.’
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘We opened the window when we heard there was a fire.’ I turned to Lady Judith. ‘Your butler left us locked up in our chamber. We had to kick the door down.’
‘So the boy is missing,’ Aislabie said, glaring at me. He gestured about the room. ‘He could have done this!’
‘No, sir.’
He prodded a finger at me. ‘On your orders!’
‘No,’ I said, with more vehemence.
Lady Judith heard the difference and understood it, even if her husband did not. ‘I think we should send out a search party for Master Fleet.’
Aislabie nodded, his eyes on me. ‘Aye. I think we should.’
‘I believe it best I return to Lincoln,’ Mrs Fairwood said, quietly. ‘Would you not agree, sir?’
Here was one good reason to start a fire. If she wanted to leave Studley without anyone questioning such a hasty departure . . .
Aislabie reached for her hand, pressing it to his chest. ‘No, my dear. You shall stay here. This will all be resolved within the hour, you shall see. We’ll find this boy and squeeze the truth from him.’
Mrs Fairwood looked stricken. ‘But I must leave. Please, Father—’
He smiled at her fondly, eyes shining with love. ‘You are safest here, with your family.’
‘Please. I must go home.’
His smile faded. ‘This is your home. And I will not part with you again. No – I am decided. You will wait in my wife’s apartment until this matter is settled. I’ll send men to guard the door. Do not look so frightened, Lizzie! You are quite safe, my dear.’
‘Well, Mrs Fairwood.’ Lady Judith arched an eyebrow. ‘We shall be prisoners together.’ She put a hand on Mrs Fairwood’s narrow shoulder and led her away.
‘My books . . .’
‘I have a fascinating volume on horse breeding somewhere,’ Lady Judith said, pushing her out of the room. ‘You will be most diverted, I promise you.’
I stifled a smile.
‘Let’s find this boy of yours, Hawkins,’ Aislabie said.
Simpson was in the kitchen with a handful of his men, drinking beer and breakfasting after their night’s vigil watching the house. A wasted night as it transpired. They had seen nothing, heard nothing.
‘Save for Mr Robinson,’ Simpson shrugged, as if Metcalfe’s comings and goings were of no consequence.
‘What time did he return?’ I asked.
‘He took a walk after supper and another in the dead of night. Four o’clock, I’d say.’ He glanced around the table at his men, who nodded in agreement. ‘Came back half an hour ago.’
‘Did you ask what he was about?’
Simpson slurped his ale. ‘Not my place to question a gentleman.’
‘Quite right,’ Aislabie murmured. ‘Thank you, Simpson, for your help tonight. I fear I am in need of your assistance once more. Mr Hawkins’ ward has run off somewhere. He’s a troublesome boy but we must bring him back safely. I would have you send a few of your men out on to the estate to search for him. Mr Pugh and Mr Hallow will help them. Where would he be hiding, Hawkins, most likely?’
‘Somewhere warm and dry,’ I said, feeling traitorous. But I was beginning to worry about Sam – and I agreed with Aislabie that it was time to put an end to this business. In this, I shared some sympathy with Mrs Fairwood: I wished to go home.
I returned to my apartment and dressed quickly, pulling on an old pair of boots. I’d hoped to find Sam there, having used the fire as a distraction, but his chamber was empty, the bed untouched. My instincts whispered that something was wrong, but I pushed such thoughts from my mind. Sam’s great trick was to vanish when he was in trouble. No doubt he would emerge when he wished to be found, and not before. Either that or one of Aislabie’s men would winkle him out. Meanwhile, I would pay a visit on Mr Sneaton.
I reached under the bed, and pulled out my pistols.
Sneaton’s cottage lay on the edge of the deer park, a short walk from Studley Hall. It was very neat, with a vegetable patch and a few chickens still locked in their coop. It was also deserted. There was one room upstairs, and two down. The room upstairs was bare, save for stacks of old accounts books for the estate. That puzzled me, until I recalled Sneaton’s wooden leg. Stairs would be troublesome, and dangerous for a man with his injuries, living alone.
I took a moment to search through the books in the hope of finding the green ledger, but I soon realised that they were stored by order of date, the earliest beginning with the quarterly accounts for Michaelmas, 1723 – a good three years after the South Sea crisis.
I came back down the stairs, bowing my head to avoid smacking it upon a low beam. A sudden melancholia seized me as I explored the ground floor. The furniture was of a good quality, the floorboards swept clean, and the windows polished. But I sensed a solitary life, where surely Sneaton must have once hoped for more. I wondered why he had never married. Even with his disfigurements, his position as Aislabie’s trusted secretary would have made him a respectable proposition.
I searched the rooms, the chimney, even the chicken coop, but found nothing. Frustrated, I sat down in his chair by the empty hearth and lit a pipe, wondering to myself. Where the devil was he? Had he taken Aislabie at his word, and left before dawn? If so, he’d abandoned all his belongings. And he would have let the chickens out first, I was sure. He was that sort of a man.
‘Sam,’ I murmured, as if invoking his spirit. A shiver of dread passed through me. Sam had crept out last night, and now both he and Sneaton were missing. I knew that he was capable of murder – more than capable. I put my head in my hands, praying that I was mistaken. If Sam had killed Sneaton, the murder would be upon my head. I had brought Sam with me, refusing to hear Kitty’s warning. If a man is shot, one does not blame the pistol. One blames the fellow who carried it.
A tap at the window made me jump, but it was only Wattson. He peered through the glass, hand cupping his eyes. ‘Mr Hawkins?’ he called, his voice muffled.
The chair I had settled in sat low to the floor. I had to use one hand to push myself up, which had me wondering how Sneaton ever struggled to his feet. Then I spied his walking stick lying between the chair and the hearth. He must lever himself up with it.
I’d never seen Sneaton without his stick.
I picked it up just as Wattson entered the room. He paused at the threshold, alarmed. I must have looked quite the devil, with a brace of pistols at my belt, and a heavy stick in my hand.
I bid him a good morning, and asked why he had come to the cottage.
Wattson looked about the
room. The first of the sun’s rays gleamed on the polished furniture. ‘I’ve a message for Mr Sneaton, sir.’
That struck me as odd. Wattson was Simpson’s man. He worked on the estate, not at the hall. ‘He’s not here.’
Wattson ducked his head as he inspected the other room. ‘You’ve looked upstairs?’
‘Naturally.’
He stood in the centre of the room, his head almost touching the beams. ‘But he must be here. The chickens are free.’
‘I let them out.’
‘Then he’s in trouble.’ He nodded at the stick in my hands. ‘He’d never leave the cottage without his cane.’ He pushed past me, heading for the door.
I grabbed his arm. ‘Wattson, speak truly – why are you here?’
He hesitated before replying. ‘I come at dawn every morning. I help Mr Sneaton over to the house, and then back again at night.’
I thought of the walk I had taken so easily, then imagined Sneaton, struggling to drag his ruined body over the fields. ‘You carry him?’
Another pause. ‘If the ground’s bad. He’s not as strong as he pretends. Please sir – you won’t tell the family? Mr Sneaton wouldn’t want his honour to know.’
‘You’re fond of him.’
‘He’s been kind to me. Helped me with my letters. He says I can tally better than Mr Simpson.’
‘You brought him home last night?’
Wattson shook his head, miserable. ‘Mr Aislabie dismissed him before I’d finished for the day. Must have been hard for him, walking back on his own.’
Hard on his body and his spirit, I thought, resting Sneaton’s walking stick against the hearth. The sun was streaming through the windows now: the start of a glorious spring morning. And what had been hidden in the shadows was now picked out in golden light.
There was a dark stain on the rough mat by the fireside, no more than a step away from the chair where I had been sitting. In fact I had walked through it, my boot smearing marks across the floor. I kneeled down for a closer study.
‘What is it?’ Wattson asked, in a strained voice. But he knew. We both knew.
Blood.
A Death at Fountains Abbey Page 18
