A Death at Fountains Abbey

by Antonia Hodgson

  If Kitty had died at the abbey, I think I might have done it. In my grief, I would have let England bleed with me. Hundreds would have died, maybe thousands. We might have King James III upon the throne, instead of George II. And Forster – somewhere in the deepest furnace of hell – would have had the most spectacular revenge.

  But Kitty lived, and kept the ledger safe. Strange to think that, for a few brief moments, I held the nation’s destiny in my hands. I still wonder, sometimes, whether I made the right decision.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Three days later, Francis Forster was buried in the graveyard at Kirkby Malzeard. The parson gave a short sermon, speaking of a young gentleman with a generous heart and prodigious talent, who would now fulfil his promise building palaces in Heaven. I closed my eyes and prayed instead for Jack Sneaton and Martin Bagby.

  At the graveside, Mrs Fairwood sobbed with a desperate grief, drawing sympathetic glances from those who stood with her. There were rumours spreading about the neighbourhood that she and Mr Forster had been engaged to marry. Those who knew the truth gritted their teeth and said nothing. The world must think Forster had died through accident, and so his crimes were buried along with his body.

  Lady Judith attended the funeral on behalf of the Aislabie family. She wore a gown of orange silk with a black quilted petticoat, and a straw hat trimmed with an orange ribbon. ‘Poor Mr Forster did so love his bright clothes,’ she said, when people commented upon her gay attire. ‘I thought I should honour him. Do not tell a soul,’ she murmured in my ear as we walked from the grave. ‘But I am dressed as the flames of Hell.’

  I was helping her into the carriage when Mrs Fairwood rushed forward, holding a note in her grey-gloved hand. ‘Lady Judith,’ she cried, loud enough that others would hear. ‘I beg you would give this to your husband. Only to him. Please, madam.’

  Lady Judith had already settled herself into the furthest corner of the carriage, but Mrs Fairwood had placed a foot upon the step, and half the neighbourhood was watching. With a great sigh, she leaned forward and took the note. Then she sat back, staring straight ahead.

  I joined her in the carriage and we rode back towards Studley. The note lay upon her knee. ‘I should burn it,’ she said.

  We rode for another mile.

  ‘Damn the woman,’ she muttered, and broke the seal.

  We passed beneath a tunnel of trees, the air turning cold in the shade. As we burst back out into the glorious sunshine, she handed me the note.

  Sir—

  Your daughter lives. I shall wait for you at Midnight, at the banqueting house. Come alone and you may learn the Truth.

  E.F.

  Lady Judith had turned her back to me, her hand gripping the side of the carriage. I could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was crying silently. If she gave her husband the note he would have to meet with Mrs Fairwood, who would doubtless spin more of her insidious lies. But if Lady Judith said nothing, and it were true . . .

  We returned to the house in silence. ‘Not a word, please sir,’ she said, as she stepped from the carriage. ‘I beg you. Not even to your wife.’

  We spoke no more of it until that evening. We sat together at supper, Mr Aislabie at the other end of the table, trying his best to charm Kitty. There were grey shadows under his eyes, and he had the look of a man recovering from a fever. There were moments when his gaze would flicker to Kitty, and I knew he was thinking of Mrs Fairwood and the dream of his lost daughter. Moments too when the conversation turned to the estate, and although no one dared mention Sneaton, his spirit seemed to weigh upon the room. The meal was not finished when Aislabie made his apologies and left the table, complaining of a headache.

  Lady Judith put a hand upon my arm as we left the dining room. She guided me to the snug withdrawing room next door. There were no candles lit, and I could only just glimpse her outline in the gloom. ‘I cannot tell him,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot let her torture him any more.’

  I waited in silence, knowing what she would ask, and knowing that I would say yes.

  The gardens were spectral and strange in the dark – a thousand shades of black. I could hear the roar of the cascade somewhere to my left, and the rustle of night animals in the bushes. The wind tore through the upper branches of the highest trees, and dense clouds covered the moon. I lifted my lantern and took the high path to the banqueting house.

  She stood alone in the middle of the coffin lawn, the grey hood of her riding gown shielding her face, the cape rippling against the wind. Six flaming torches lit the scene, one placed at each corner of the coffin.

  It was just as her brother had imagined it, except that she was alive and he was dead.

  I stepped forward, holding the lantern high.

  Her face fell as she saw me. ‘Where’s Aislabie?’

  ‘I have come on his behalf.’

  She gave a hollow laugh. ‘And does he know this? No matter. I will not speak with you.’

  ‘Very well.’ I turned and began to walk away.

  ‘Murderer!’ she screamed at my back.

  I swung the lantern about.

  She flung back her hood, her dark hair loose about her face. ‘You killed my brother!’

  I laughed, incredulous. ‘Your brother tried to kill my wife—’

  ‘Liar! You threw him from the tower. And now he is dead, he cannot defend himself against your foul slander. But I know. I know.’ She tore at her chest, as if she would rip out her heart.

  I almost pitied her in that moment – the last surviving member of her family, alone and raging at the world. Defending, in death, the brother she had feared so much in life, and who caused her years of torment. But she had brought this final torture upon herself. ‘Two men are dead because you came to Studley. Will you not redeem yourself, madam? Will you not tell the truth at last?’

  She threw me a mock-innocent look. ‘But Mr Sneaton fell. Everyone says so. And poor Mr Bagby killed himself.’

  It began to rain, softly.

  ‘Elizabeth Aislabie. Is she alive?’ I snapped.

  She laughed again, then glanced at the nearest torch, the flame pulling and dancing in the wind. She took a piece of paper from her pocket and touched it to the flame. It caught light at once, turning her face orange in the glow. ‘That was Molly Gaining’s true confession. She gave it to Francis the night before she died. I would have given it to Aislabie, if he’d come as I asked.’

  I watched the last fragments burn, orange embers turning to grey ash. Some floated to the ground, while others spun high into the air, caught in the wind. Was it real? Or another counterfeit?

  She brushed the soot from her fingers. ‘It was such a tender note. Elizabeth has grown into a fine young woman, with two children of her own. Was it a boy and a girl? Two boys?’ She gave a little shrug. ‘I can’t quite recall.’

  The rain fell harder, heavy drops hitting the dry grass between us. ‘So she lives in one of the colonies. You must remember where.’

  ‘I’m afraid those details weren’t in the letter. Francis knew them. Where she lived, her new name. Now, he did mention that to me, once . . . Clara, Catherine?’ She gave a sly smile.

  ‘She will come forward herself, no doubt.’

  ‘Oh, the girl knows nothing of her true heritage. And even if she did . . .’ Her laugh sent a shiver through me. ‘Do you think Mr Aislabie would believe her, without proof? After he believed in me? Imagine what a cruel fate that would be – if he rejected his real daughter.’

  ‘I think you know a good deal about cruelty, madam. If any of this is true, you have separated a father and daughter for ever. May God judge you upon it.’ I turned to leave.

  ‘I shall write to him!’ she called after me. ‘You think to protect him, but I shall write to him again. I shall keep writing, and one day, one of my letters will reach him. And he will always wonder, for the rest of his life. It will torment him. It will kill him.’

  I turned back to face her. The torches were blow
ing out in the wind and the rain, flames sizzling as they spluttered and died. Her wet hair clung to her face, but she kept her hood down. ‘You will not write to him,’ I said.

  She drew back a pace. ‘I have a dagger,’ she warned.

  I smiled at her. ‘I am not Sam’s guardian. He has a father: the captain of a gang of thieves.’ I folded my arms. ‘Someone hurt his wife, once. Many years ago. A gentleman, and a brothel keeper. He bound them together, back to back. And then he set them on fire.’ I paused. ‘Imagine if he found out that his only son nearly died – because of you.’

  Her eyelids fluttered. ‘You . . . you would not.’

  I stared at her through the rain.

  She shivered, pulling her drenched cloak about her shoulders. The last of the torches fizzled out, leaving only my lantern alight.

  ‘Go home, Mrs Fairwood,’ I said.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It was another week before Sam was well enough to ride out to Kirkby moors. In all this time, Thomas Wattson had not once come to work on the stables. Simpson said he’d given him up as a lost cause. ‘Shame. Worked hard, that one. And he had a talent with a chisel. Worth ten of these bloody wastrels.’ His men exchanged amused, unspoken thoughts about this, over his head. Simpson was the sort of master who never praised a man until he was out of hearing, or dead.

  As Sam recovered, Kitty and I watched for signs of any permanent damage to his mind or his body. At the very least, I expected him to be more cautious, and less given to jumping out of windows. Whether this was the case was hard to tell, as he was not yet strong enough to leap about in his usual way. A direct enquiry about his health was rewarded with a shrug, or – if he were feeling voluble – an irritable grunt.

  Kitty would have joined us on our visit to the moors, but she had already promised to take a ride about the estate with Lady Judith. It transpired that Mrs Aislabie had several pairs of riding breeches for ladies, as she termed them. An etiquette had formed around these garments, in consultation with Mr Aislabie: they were not to be worn about the house, and were designed solely for the benefit of touring the estate to some specific purpose. Lady Judith had become expert at finding a new specific purpose each morning just after breakfast, and had given Kitty two pairs of breeches as a gift, not that she could ever wear them in public without being arrested as some sort of hermaphroditic invert.

  So I rode out with Sam. I need not trouble you with our conversation, as there was none. I was content to let Athena set the pace, and as we did not encounter any burst deer guts, or murderous architects, we muddled along very well. I patted her flank. ‘I shall miss you, when I go home.’

  Athena pricked up her ears, and gave a soft snort.

  ‘D’you see that, Sam?’ I said. ‘Conversation.’

  Sam curved his lips. We continued on in silence, until we reached the Gills’ cottage.

  ‘Remember who you are.’ That had been Sneaton’s warning to Wattson, when he had dared to ask about Simpson’s bill. I’d assumed Sneaton was reminding Wattson of his lowly position as a journeyman, but the warning had been more precise than that. Remember who you are, Thomas Gill. Annie Gill’s boy.

  Sneaton had told me the Gills had nine children. I’d counted eight when I’d visited the cottage. Of course the ninth might have been anywhere, and there had been no reason to think he had been sitting at the table, dangling his baby sister on his knee. Should I have noticed how easy she seemed with him? She’d giggled with joy when he bounced her up and down, and screamed when he set her on the floor.

  I suppose I should at least have been suspicious when he turned his horse about and rode back to the cottage, presumably to give a warmer farewell to his family. He’d claimed that little Janey had stolen the coins from his pocket, but he had not been paid a farthing since Christmas. And even if there had been a single coin left to steal, would he have been so easy about its theft?

  Once I had begun to consider the idea, other thoughts struck me. How he had volunteered to ride out with us, and had seemed so pleased by the journey. How he shared Annie Gill’s high cheekbones, and her tall frame. How he’d known about the poachers’ track beneath Gillet Hill, where we had found Sam. Not that the Gills were poachers, no indeed.

  The dogs began barking before we saw the cottage. ‘It’s hidden in that copse,’ I said, pointing towards a cluster of oaks and elms ahead. ‘Won’t see it until we’re hard upon it.’

  Sam snuffed in approval. His father’s den was buried deep in a maze of streets, surrounded by a square of taller houses. No one reached it without being seen by at least a half-dozen of Fleet’s men.

  By the time we entered the copse, three of the younger Gills had climbed into the branches. They whispered over our heads as we passed beneath them. The oldest one – a boy of about nine or ten – made a hissing sound between his teeth. Sam twisted in his saddle, and with impressive aim threw a stone through the branches, hitting the boy squarely on his forehead. He gave a yelp, then began to cry.

  ‘Sam!??’

  ‘Lesson.’ He lifted his voice, so the boy could hear. ‘You going to hiss, keep out of range.’

  ‘They’re only children, Sam.’

  He gave me his How have you survived this long? look, and slid from his saddle.

  Annie Gill stood in the doorway, pinning up her grey hair in honour of our arrival. Little Janey clung to her skirts, sucking her thumb. ‘Gentlemen,’ Annie said, warily, as we approached.

  ‘Mistress Gill. I’m here to speak with your son Thomas.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Then fetch him, please. We’ll wait.’ I put my hand lightly upon the hilt of my sword.

  She drew herself up tall. ‘I’m not afraid of you, sir.’

  ‘Then you’ll see no harm in sending for him, will you?’

  The cottage was quieter today: the baby was fast asleep, and the rest of the Gills were outside somewhere, including Jeb. We sat at the rough table to wait. Janey toddled up to Sam and gazed at him with the unconditional adoration tiny children give to older ones. She raised up her arms. ‘Lift.’

  Sam pulled her on to his lap, so that she was facing him. ‘My name’s Sam,’ he said, bumping her on his knees with each word. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Janey.’

  ‘How many sisters you got, Janey? Can you count them?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Only three?’ Sam held out his hand, stretched his fingers wide. ‘I got five. One, two, three, four five.’ He counted off each finger in turn, and tapped his thumb to her nose for the fifth.

  Janey giggled.

  ‘I’ve a sister your age. She’s called Bea.’

  ‘Bea!’ Janey yelled at the top of her lungs, then started buzzing.

  The two of them chattered away happily, while I watched in astonishment. By the time Wattson had arrived (for that is how I still thought of him), Sam was tilting his head forward so that Janey could poke her finger into his curls. Wattson frowned, and plucked her from Sam’s lap. After much wailing, she was persuaded to toddle outside and find her siblings.

  Wattson joined us at the table while his mother sewed by the fire, listening to every word.

  ‘Glad to see you well, Master Fleet,’ Wattson said, gruffly.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ I said.

  He rubbed his thumb across his palm. At least he had the decency to look ashamed.

  ‘Do you think he had a choice?’ Annie said, without looking up from her stitching. ‘It’s not his fault.’

  ‘Yes it is, Mother,’ Wattson muttered.

  Annie didn’t hear him. ‘If you’re looking to blame someone, start with John Aislabie. Painting us all as thieves and ruining our name. Never trust a Gill. How was Thom supposed to find honest work?’

  ‘So you changed your name.’

  ‘Didn’t want to,’ Wattson said. ‘But all the best work’s up at Studley. Mr Sneaton said I could work on the stables if I took
a different name. Said a man should be judged by what he does, not who he is.’ He looked away.

  ‘How did Forster find out?’

  ‘That devil!’ Annie stabbed her needle into the cloth. ‘May he burn in hell for ever.’

  ‘There’s a few fellows that know I’m a Gill,’ Wattson said. ‘Them that grew up hereabouts. And there’s a girl, works up at Fountains Hall. We were close, for a time.’

  Annie snorted something under her breath.

  ‘Forster threatened to reveal who you were.’

  Wattson nodded. ‘I would have been thrown off the estate on the spot. But it weren’t just that—’

  ‘And he’s still owed his last quarter pay,’ Annie said loudly, trying to cover his words. ‘Wouldn’t have seen a farthing.’

  ‘Mother—’

  ‘No more, love,’ she warned. ‘It’s not your fault—’

  ‘Will you rest?’ His voice boomed through the cramped cottage. ‘It’s my story and I shall tell it true – here if nowhere else.’ He glanced at Sam. ‘I owe him that.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I wrote the letters.’

  Even Sam was surprised by this. ‘First two?’

  ‘I was angry. Kirkby moor has been common land since . . .’ he gestured helplessly.

  ‘Since God created it,’ Annie finished.

  ‘All Mr Aislabie does is ride about, pretending he’s king of the bloody place. It’s not right. He’s made poachers of us folk for doing what our families have done for hundreds of years. I shouldn’t have made all them threats, but I wanted him to take us seriously . . .’

  ‘Well.’ I pulled out my pipe and tobacco. ‘He certainly did that.’

  ‘They was good threats,’ Sam nodded approvingly.

  I lit my pipe. ‘And Forster found out? How? The girl at Fountains, again?’ Heaven save us from vengeful lovers.

  He stared at his scarred stonemason’s hands. ‘We were set to marry. But when I told her I was a Gill she said she weren’t marrying into a den of thieves.’