A Death at Fountains Abbey

by Antonia Hodgson

  I turned and walked away, back towards the house. I watched my feet taking one step and then another. I moved but felt nothing, not until I reached the front door and leaned my head against the wood. Here was the death I had brought with me from London. Here it was, spreading its cloak across the estate. And I knew, as I pushed open the door, that it was not done with me yet.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I had not cared much for Jack Sneaton in life. In death, I discovered him anew through the grief of others. He had been loved at Studley Hall, by the family and by the servants. I’ve heard it said that the spirits of the dead linger for a time before passing on to heaven or hell – especially when a life is taken in violence. If Sneaton’s ghost drifted through the estate, it might have drawn comfort from the affection and sorrow it witnessed.

  Here was Mrs Mason, inconsolable in the kitchen, weeping in Mr Hallow’s arms. Sally Shutt, silent in her shock, sliding down the dank wall of her storeroom prison, legs collapsed beneath her. Up the backstairs to the great hall, where a footman bowed his head in prayer for the man who had granted him his first position. Through the empty drawing room to Mr Aislabie’s study, the door closed. I had brought him the news first. He had covered his face and asked if I would leave the room. Now he sat alone, thinking about the man who had saved his son’s life.

  Up in her apartment, Lady Judith took my message with equal dignity. There had been one deep gasp of shock, breathed out slowly; a shiver as she crossed to the window, arms wrapped about her chest. She put her hands to the window and lowered her head, graceful in her grief. When she turned back she was a queen, cool and determined.

  ‘You will help us find the killer.’

  ‘I’ll find him.’ This was the man who had left Sam to die. I would find him.

  Lady Judith heard the anger in my voice. ‘And we will have justice,’ she said, carefully.

  Let her seek justice. I would have revenge.

  Mrs Fairwood was sitting alone in the adjoining room, a pot of tea at her side. Her dainty feet did not touch the ground she was so tiny – so she rested them upon an ottoman. Her shoes were grey, like her dress, with dark red soles. I remembered Sneaton’s face, grey-white in the water. The jagged red wound on his brow. The floor tilted beneath my feet.

  ‘What is it that you want here, madam?’ I asked.

  She coloured at the abrupt question, but, glancing at Lady Judith, saw that something was amiss. She lowered her feet to the floor, watching me carefully. ‘Nothing. All I want, sir, is to go home.’

  ‘You are most anxious to leave Studley.’

  She stood up. She held herself rigid, her dark eyes heavy with resentment. ‘Of course I am anxious to leave. Someone set fire to my chamber this morning.’

  ‘And yet you are still here.’

  She gestured towards the adjacent room, where two footmen stood guard at the door. ‘I have no choice in the matter.’

  ‘Mrs Fairwood: you are not a mouse. If you truly wished to leave, you would be gone.’

  ‘Do not presume to tell me what I would or would not do, sir. You know nothing of me.’

  ‘None of us do,’ Lady Judith murmured.

  Mrs Fairwood, sensing she was outnumbered, softened her voice. ‘I shall forgive your rough manner, sir. You must be concerned about Master Fleet. Does he rally? Has he named his attackers?’

  ‘No. He is grievously ill.’

  I thought I detected a flicker of relief in her eye. ‘I am sorry to hear that.’

  ‘What makes you certain there was more than one man?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said: attackers.’

  Her cheeks coloured. ‘I have no idea,’ she said, taking a moment to recover. ‘What – is my every word to be questioned? This is insufferable! I shall not be treated in this fashion.’

  I let her fluster.

  ‘Where is my father?’ she snapped. ‘He would never permit this interrogation.’

  ‘Enough!’ Lady Judith cried. ‘You are not his daughter, you wicked girl. You may have bewitched him, but I know what you are. You want a slice of his fortune—’

  ‘I want nothing from him! Do you think I would touch a fortune so tainted? What must I do, to prove it to you? Must I sign another waiver? Send for Mr Sneaton – I will sign a thousand of them.’

  ‘Mr Sneaton is dead,’ I said, not bothering to soften my words.

  She stared at me, the blood draining from her face.

  ‘He was murdered.’

  She clutched her chair with a gloved hand. ‘No.’

  Nothing else. Just that one word: no, spoken in a hollow voice. Everyone else had asked questions. Where was he found? How was he killed? Was I sure he was dead? Mrs Fairwood asked nothing. She didn’t speak and she didn’t move, her hand wrapped tightly around her chair.

  ‘Be assured, madam,’ Lady Judith said, cool as an ice house. ‘We shall discover his attackers. Meanwhile, I am sure you understand that we must ask all our guests to remain here at Studley.’

  Mrs Fairwood opened her mouth to protest, then stopped herself. Her shoulders sagged. ‘As you wish,’ she mumbled, defeated.

  Lady Judith followed me from the room, closing the connecting door with a soft click. She motioned for me to join her in the corridor outside her chambers, where we might speak without being overheard. It was a narrow space, and we were forced to stand very close to one another.

  ‘Damn her,’ Lady Judith cursed. She banged her fist against the wall in frustration. ‘I should have stopped this nonsense the moment she arrived. But I was afraid. It is the one chamber of his heart he keeps closed from me, you understand? He spent so many years alone there, lost in his grief for Anne, and for Lizzie.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘That wicked, wicked girl. The damage she inflicts, just by her presence! She is like a climbing plant – like those horrid wallflowers she keeps in her room. She has spread her tendrils over him, she has wrapped them about his heart. What would happen now, if I tore her from him? Now that she has weakened him? I fear he would die,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘Oh, God. I fear it would kill him.’

  I put a hand upon her shoulder. ‘Your husband is a strong man.’

  She shook her head. ‘In all but this. It is so cruel . . .’

  I hesitated, not wishing to cause more distress. ‘You are quite sure she is not his daughter?’

  She laughed in disbelief, brushing the tears from her cheek. ‘You cannot think her story credible?’

  ‘There are some proofs, are there not? The ruby brooch? Molly Gaining’s letter?’

  She waved this away. ‘The day she arrived, Mr Sneaton spoke to me privately. Her story was impossible. Impossible. He wouldn’t explain why. He told me it would break John’s heart. It had broken his.’ She paused, upset. ‘We came to an understanding. He would offer his proof only if John decided to acknowledge Mrs Fairwood in law, or introduce her to the children. We were sure he would come to his senses before then.’ She sighed. ‘I should have known better. How could he resist bringing his daughter back from the dead? In the very face of reason – show me a father who could.’

  ‘What was this evidence, do you think?’

  ‘I have no idea. And now it is lost, along with the ledger.’

  ‘No – that has been destroyed. Whoever murdered Mr Sneaton ripped up the pages and threw them in the water trough with his body.’

  I should have been more delicate. Lady Judith gave a cry of horror, flinging her hands in front of her face as if to defend herself from the image. ‘Oh, God – poor Jack. Oh! You did not see the best of him, Mr Hawkins. I cannot bear to think of him dying alone and afraid. I shall never forget his face, when John dismissed him. So hurt, so proud.’

  She began to weep again. I pulled her against my shoulder and did my best to comfort her. It was an honest grief and deeper than I had realised. Beyond the constraints of position and the niceties of society, lay a simple truth. Jack Sneaton had been her friend.

  She brok
e away, rubbing her cheeks and offering me a rueful half smile. ‘So the ledger is destroyed. John will be furious.’

  And the queen would be delighted. Here was an unexpected consequence of Sneaton’s death – I had accomplished my mission, without lifting a finger. The ledger was destroyed. John Aislabie could never again blackmail the royal family with its scandalous contents. The trouble was, I had planned to use the ledger to strike a bargain with the queen myself. Now my dreams of freedom lay sodden and ruined, floating in an old water trough. Sneaton’s last vow had come to pass. The queen will never get her claws on that book.

  ‘I fear I must go,’ I said. ‘I’ve been too long from Sam.’

  Lady Judith rubbed my arm. ‘You must let me know if you need anything. I confess I have grown rather fond of Master Fleet. Unaccountably so.’

  We smiled at each other – affection born from a shared purpose, and a shared enemy.

  We did not realise that we were being watched. Bagby was an experienced servant, trained to be discreet. We didn’t hear him pause at the far end of the corridor, just as Lady Judith touched my arm. We didn’t know that he saw our shared smile – an innocent moment that became something altogether more sinful in his eye.

  It is from such small, silly misunderstandings that tragedies are born.

  Kitty had already heard the news of Sneaton’s murder from one of the servants. She knew very little of him, save that he had broken Sam’s nose, and prevented us from leaving. She was shocked, then, and sorry to a degree – but she was not about to don a mourning gown.

  Sam lay tucked under layers of blankets, just as I had left him an hour before. Kitty said he had stirred once or twice, and muttered something she couldn’t catch. He was not sleeping, it seemed, nor was he awake, but caught somewhere in between.

  I waited at his bedside, thinking about the stags ordered by Metcalfe from his family estate. I thought of his reaction upon finding them on the front steps, laid out to form the Robinson coat of arms. Had this all been a ruse, to throw suspicion elsewhere? Could he have attacked Sam, and Sneaton? Could he have sent those notes to his uncle, disguising his hand so well? None of it seemed possible. But then again – how well did I know Metcalfe Robinson? I must have met at least three or four versions of him in the last twenty-four hours.

  Sam shifted under the blankets, and moaned quietly.

  I took his hand. ‘Sam. Can you hear me? You’re safe.’

  His lips moved, silently.

  ‘Thirsty,’ Kitty said.

  I reached for the pitcher of small beer standing close by and poured him a cup. He managed a few sips before collapsing against the pillow. His eyes were half open, twin pools of black beneath thick lashes.

  ‘Brother,’ he whispered.

  I squeezed his hand. ‘Who did this to you? Can you remember?’

  He winced, and swallowed. ‘Picture.’

  His eyes fluttered, then closed.

  I glanced at the picture directly in front of him, over the hearth. ‘The abbey?’

  He frowned, and swallowed. ‘Picture. Brother.’

  Kitty had left the bedside, slipping into Sam’s cupboard room. When she came back, she was clutching a piece of paper. It was the portrait Sam had sketched of me on the journey from London, dark charcoal shadows dense about my shoulders. ‘I think he wanted this, Tom,’ she said. She placed it on the table by the bed, then leaned down and brushed her lips to Sam’s forehead. ‘Rest, now,’ she whispered.

  It seemed to me, walking through the east wing’s dank corridors, that one person sat at the heart of all this violence and confusion. I knocked hard upon his door.

  ‘Metcalfe!’

  There was no reply. I tried the handle and the door swung free. A gust of stale air assaulted me: the stink of sweat and dirty sheets. I stood alone in the chamber, observing the chaos of his room. It told me nothing.

  And so I left, brooding, silently and with a wrong turning found myself upon the minstrels’ gallery, looking down upon the great hall. Aislabie had gathered the household together, and the room was packed tight with people. The servants were there, and the family, and the estate workers from the gardens and the stables. John Simpson stood with his arms folded, surrounded by his men. Mrs Mason was leaning on Mr Gatteker. Francis Forster was there in the crowd too, holding his feather-trimmed hat to his chest.

  Mr Aislabie was addressing them all from the landing, standing in front of the faded horse tapestry with Lady Judith at his side. For a moment, I didn’t recognise the gentleman standing with them in his black suit, hands clasped behind his back. And then my lips parted in astonishment. Metcalfe Robinson: looking every inch the baronet’s son and heir, from the black ribbon of his pigtail wig, to the diamond-studded buckle of his shoe. He stood with his chin high, gazing down his nose at the crowd below, his expression grave.

  ‘Jack Sneaton was the best, most Christianlike of men,’ Aislabie said, his voice fractured by grief. ‘We may all take comfort, knowing that he is now at peace. But I promise you, I will not rest until I have found the murderous cowards who took his life. I will see them hanged for what they have done – you may count upon that. And I would ask that if anyone has information, that they come forward in good conscience and speak of it. My nephew has offered to conduct enquiries on behalf of the family. He will speak with many of you, and I would have you give him all the help he needs. May God protect us all.’

  He was about to walk up the stairs when Lady Judith put a hand upon his arm, and whispered in his ear. Aislabie frowned, then addressed the room again. ‘Some of you may have heard that our guest, young Master Fleet, was also attacked last night. I’m sorry to say that he is in a most grievous condition. I would ask you to pray for his recovery.’

  ‘I won’t pray for that devious little shit!’ someone shouted, invisible in the crowd.

  ‘Who said that?’ Aislabie snapped.

  The servants and estate men began to mutter to each other, rumours spreading through the hall.

  Simpson shoved himself forward. ‘That boy’s been creeping about the estate ever since he arrived. Jack caught him and gave him a bloody nose – now he’s dead.’ He gestured towards the east wing. ‘There’s your killer, Mr Aislabie – breathing his last up there if we’re lucky. May the Devil take his soul.’

  ‘Begging permission, your honour,’ Bagby said, growing confident now that Simpson had spoken his mind. His voice rose clear above the room. ‘I believe his guardian should take the blame.’ His eyes flickered towards Lady Judith. ‘He’s not to be trusted.’

  Aislabie frowned at him. ‘Mr Hawkins was locked in his room all night.’

  ‘As you well know, Bagby,’ Lady Judith scolded. ‘You guarded his door. Now let that be an end to rumours—’

  ‘Why was he locked up?’ Simpson bellowed. ‘Is he dangerous?’

  ‘He’s bad luck,’ one of the gardeners called out. ‘He died on the scaffold, then came back to life. It’s not natural.’

  ‘Mr Hawkins was saved by God!’ Mr Hallow shouted.

  ‘Or the Devil,’ Bagby retaliated.

  People began to shout over each other with their opposing theories – on Sneaton’s murder and the state of my soul, and whether I might be a killer after all. My heart began to pound hard against my chest. Lies, rumours and accusations. I had heard all this before, when I was arrested for murder. I knew how swiftly a crowd could turn into a mob.

  I pulled a pistol from my belt, cocking it beneath my hand to stifle the sound.

  ‘Enough!’ A voice cut through the din. Metcalfe raised his hands up over the crowd. ‘Enough. Jack Sneaton was a good man and he will have justice. But spreading gossip and accusing men without evidence will not serve our purpose. Mr Sneaton deserves better from us all. Now please, good people – return to your work.’

  Aislabie nodded his thanks to his nephew, then put a hand upon his wife’s shoulder and guided her up the stairs towards their chambers. Metcalfe remained on the landing, watching the cro
wd drift away. I lowered my pistol, the sweat trickling down my back. If he had not spoken for me, I might have been facing down a riot. The question was, why had he done so?

  He’d known I was watching from the minstrels’ gallery. His eyes had searched for mine as he spoke. I could see no malice in them, but there was no warmth either.

  The hall was empty now save for Francis Forster, who had waited behind. The two men shook hands, caught in a shaft of sunlight spilling through the window: Forster lean and trim in his fashionable suit, Metcalfe gaunt beneath his fresh clothes. Metcalfe glanced up one more time to where I stood before placing a hand on Forster’s shoulder and leading him away towards the drawing room and out of hearing.

  I leaned forward, resting on the rail of the balcony. Metcalfe’s transformation into a serious-minded inquisitor was unsettling. Just as I’d begun to suspect him, he had seized control of the enquiries into Sneaton’s murder. Where was yesterday’s shambling, unpredictable, muddle-headed fellow?

  The men who’d guarded the house last night had seen him walk out into the deer park, returning just before the fire in Mrs Fairwood’s room. He claimed that he despised his uncle – and yet he’d spent the past two or three weeks under his roof. He had ordered three stags from his father’s estate, but had seemed shocked by the display of their mutilated corpses upon the steps of the house. His behaviour had been erratic, even wild – causing concern among the servants long before my arrival at Studley. Now, in the face of a brutal murder, he showed restraint and authority.

  Whoever killed Sneaton wanted to destroy Aislabie’s life – public and private. With the ledger ruined, Aislabie had no bargaining power with Walpole or the queen. He would never return to government. This was something Metcalfe wanted desperately.

  He could have started the fire in Mrs Fairwood’s chamber, but I had no proof.

  He could have killed Sneaton, but I had no proof.

  He could be working with Elizabeth Fairwood, but . . .

  Damn it.

  One thing I did know – if Sneaton’s killer were not discovered soon, the accusations against myself and Sam would only grow stronger. We were strangers from London, and Sneaton had stood between us and the ledger. In the absence of proof, those two facts could be enough to bury us both.