The Sudbury School Murders clrm-4

by Ashley Gardner

  I raised my brows. "You found him employment? That might explain why Rutledge grew nervous when I revealed I knew you. Did Rutledge owe you a favor?"

  Denis gave me a wintry smile. "Let us focus on the problem at hand, Captain."

  I had not really thought he'd give me an answer. I told him then of the canal maps that Grenville and I had found in Middleton's room. Denis' brow knit. "Middleton never mentioned canals to me. At Hungerford, you say? I have heard nothing of any such scheme."

  Though his expression remained unchanged, I sensed his annoyance. Denis did not like to be uninformed of or surprised by anything.

  I also sensed that one of his tame pugilists was watching us. The man's hands were twitching, and he kept taking a step forward, then a step back, as though unable to decide whether to cross to the desk. I caught his eye. Denis, noticing my interest, looked that way as well.

  The man cleared his throat. "Begging your pardon, sir."

  Unlike Rutledge, who hated when his servants interrupted, Denis merely focused a calm gaze on his lackey, waited for him to speak.

  The man's voice was gravelly, his working-class accent thick. "I saw Ollie Middleton, sir, in London a month or so back. We had a pint. He said how he remembered why he hated the country, all mud and sheep shit up to his knees, but he would be all right soon. He was going to make his fortune, he said, and eat off gold plates."

  "Did he?" Denis asked, arching one thin brow.

  "That he did, sir. He did say something about canals. It sounded daft. I thought it was just him going on."

  Denis gave him a severe look. "I could wish you had told me this before."

  The man, as hard-bitten as he was, looked slightly apprehensive. "Sorry, sir. I didn't think it meant nothing."

  "No matter." He kept his unwavering gaze on his lackey for a moment before finally turning away. The man moved back to his position, nervously fingering his collar.

  "Perhaps he'd invested in these false canals, then," Denis said to me, "believing he'd grow rich. Though I would be surprised to learn he was that gullible. It would be likely that he was fooling others into investing with him."

  I did not answer. I was thinking rapidly, remembering one other man who had rambled on over a pint that he would soon make his fortune and leave the drudgery of the Sudbury School behind. Bloody hell.

  "Is something amiss, Captain?" Denis asked, his sharp gaze on me.

  I met his appraising glance but did not answer. I was not certain of my speculation, and the last thing I wanted was for Denis to send his minions to fetch Simon Fletcher. Fletcher's pondering might mean nothing and might not be connected to Middleton's at all. I would prefer to question him myself, rather than let Denis get his clutches on the poor man.

  "I'd rather you shared your information, Captain," Denis said, a warning note in his voice.

  "I have no information. Not yet. Only ideas."

  "I want this murderer found and punished, Captain-quickly. I do not have time for your scruples."

  "And I am not looking for the murderer in order to please you," I returned. "I wish to clear a young man who I believe is not responsible. Whether you are pleased by it does not concern me."

  Denis looked annoyed, but he was used to my temper by now. "Very well, Captain, I know you enjoy pursuing things in your own fashion. But I want the identity of this murderer. Surely we both want that."

  "Yes," I admitted. "I will give it to you when I know it for certain."

  He gave me a cool look but nodded. He did not trust me entirely, but he did trust my thoroughness.

  He folded his hands on his desk, the interview apparently over. With Denis, one did not make pleasant small talk to end one's visit. The visit simply ended.

  But I had one more question, one more reason I had decided to visit James Denis today. It was a question I was reluctant to ask, because the knowledge would pain me, but I had finally screwed up my courage to ask it.

  "Last year," I began slowly, "you told me you knew the whereabouts of a lady who once called herself Carlotta Lacey."

  A flicker of surprise darted through his blue eyes. He must have been wondering when I'd return to that. "Yes. If you want her direction, you know that you have but to ask."

  I sat in silence a moment. The room was quiet, ironically, almost pleasantly so. The fire warmed the air despite the rain that beat at the windows. The other men watched me carefully, the only sound the faint whisper of clothing as they shifted their stances.

  I wanted to ask, but I knew what would happen if I did. During the affair of Hanover Square and again during the affair of the regimental colonel, Denis had helped me solve the crimes by handing me facts I had lacked. He had let it be known that by doing me those favors, he expected me to be ready when he called in favors of his own. In addition, not a month ago, he had paid a note of hand I had owed, ensuring that I would be still more obligated to him. In this way, he had warned me, he planned to prevent me from crusading against him, since having had me beaten had not had much effect.

  He had offered the information about my wife last summer with the same understanding-his knowledge for my obligation. And obligation to James Denis was not to be taken lightly. He used people from all walks of life and all over Europe to help him in his crimes, to procure things, to find things out for him, to let him wield quiet power. The men he hired stole for him, murdered for him, spied for him. I wondered very much what he would expect me to do, and exactly what he would do when I refused.

  When I could trust myself to speak again, I asked, "Is she well?"

  "Yes," he answered, studying me.

  I believed him. Denis' networks could discover details about any person or any thing. He would doubtless know not only where my estranged wife lived, but with whom and where she walked and what she ate for breakfast.

  He went on. "My sources tell me that your wife and daughter are well cared for."

  I started to nod, then I went still as my mind registered his entire answer. "My daughter," I said.

  Denis had told me of Carlotta last summer, but he had omitted, whether deliberately or because he did not think it important, that he also had knowledge of my daughter, Gabriella.

  "Yes," Denis said. "She is a very pretty young woman, from what is reported to me."

  I closed my eyes. I remembered Gabriella as a tiny mite with hair as golden as the Spanish sunshine. Carlotta had taken her away from me. I'd tried to go after them both, tried to find them, ready to drag my wife home so that I would not lose my daughter.

  But I had not been able to find them. I'd heard no trace of them, though I'd tried, until Denis had presented me with his information last summer.

  Now I learned that Denis knew where to find them both.

  Gabriella would be seventeen now, a young lady, and she would not remember me.

  Denis said something to one of the lackeys in the room. I could not hear the words. I opened my eyes to find the pugilist who'd told us about Middleton lifting me to my feet.

  The man helped me down the stairs, more or less pressed me out of the front door, and closed it behind me. The interview was finished.

  I found myself in greatcoat and hat with my walking stick in my hand, standing in the dark pouring rain in Curzon Street.

  How long I stood there, I do not know, but at last, I blindly crossed the road and began trudging up South Audley Street in the direction of Grosvenor Square.

  My hands were cold as ice, but my heart pounded. I could think nothing, feel nothing. I could only walk, and shiver, and be stone cold inside.

  Gabriella was alive. She lived with her mother in France. I could barely register the fact.

  Grenville's house lay on Grosvenor Street, beyond Grosvenor Square with its elegant garden in the center. I should have turned onto Grosvenor Street on the east side of the square, but I somehow walked past it and found myself on Brook Street. I continued straight to the doorstep of Colonel and Mrs. Brandon before I stopped.

  I had c
ome here instinctively, seeking comfort, but now I hesitated. I eyed the polished door knocker, which gave me a distorted view of my nose, but made no move to knock.

  I knew that Louisa would readily lend me comfort, but I'd get none from her husband, were he in the house. In fact, Brandon would likely say something acerbic, and in my mood, I would strike him. Louisa was angry enough with me as it was; I could imagine what she'd say if I bloodied her husband's nose.

  While I pondered what to do, the door opened, and the Brandons' footman peered out at me.

  "Good evening, sir," he said. "Mrs. Brandon has requested that I admit you."

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was shown into the upstairs sitting room, which was homey, low-ceilinged, and warm, unlike the grand rooms in Grenville's house or the cold rooms in Denis'.

  Louisa was there. She rose and came to greet me, her lemon-scented perfume soothing me as she kissed my cheek.

  "Gabriel, how delightful to see you. I looked out of the window and spied you gazing at the door as though you'd bore a hole in it with your eyes. Why did you not knock?"

  "I thought — " I had to stop. I had been clenching my jaw so tightly that I could barely speak.

  She quickly gestured me to an armchair set an ottoman before it. I sat senselessly, letting my arms go limp.

  "What is it, Gabriel? Let me send for some coffee, or would you prefer port?"

  Coffee. Coffee at least was warm, and I was so cold inside.

  I must have indicated such, because she rang for the footman and sent him off for some.

  "You are very white," she said. "Please tell me what has happened."

  I just looked at her. Emotions spun inside me so quickly that I could not put them into words.

  Gabriella had been two years old when her mother had taken her away. She had been walking sturdily for some months, and she had learned to say my name. Her favorite game was to stand on my boot and hold fast to my leg while I strode about the camp. She would laugh and squeal while Carlotta fussed and worried. I had been a fond, proud papa, taking the teasing of my men with a smile and a shrug.

  When I learned that Carlotta had left me, I had at some level not been very surprised. But when I discovered she had taken Gabriella with her, I had gone nearly mad with rage. Gabriella was my child. By law, she belonged to me, not her mother. I could have gone after Carlotta, wrested the little girl away and taken her back, and Carlotta could have done nothing to stop me.

  I had tried to find them, but I believed in my heart that they were better off without me. I followed the drum, and life was harsh.

  But I had not known, from that day to this, whether my daughter had lived or died.

  The footman carried in the coffee, set it down, and quietly withdrew. Louisa made no move to serve it.

  I managed to say, "Gabriella." My eyes burned and my throat ached.

  Louisa's eyes widened. "Gabriella? What about Gabriella?"

  I said nothing. Tears spilled silently to my cheeks.

  Louisa sat on the ottoman in a rustle of silk. She took my hands. "Gabriel, please tell me."

  I swallowed, wet my lips. "She is in France."

  Then I broke down completely. I must have been a horrible sight, a large man, hunched into the chair, weeping. Louisa gathered me to her, stroked my hair, let me cry.

  When my sobs wound down, she bade me tell her everything. I explained as coherently as I could what Denis had said.

  "He knows where they are," I said, trying to clear my throat. "I could ask him. I could find them again." If I paid Denis' price for the information, he could send for them or send me to them. I could have it all back.

  As though she knew my thoughts, Louisa took my hands again. "What will you do, Gabriel?" she asked.

  "I do not know. How can I know what to do?"

  She did not want me to sell myself to Denis. I saw that in her eyes, felt it in the pressure of her hands.

  "What would you do, Louisa?" I countered. "Suppose it were your husband, what would you do?"

  A grim light entered her eyes. "Mr. Denis has no right to do this to you. I will speak to him, tell him what I think of him."

  I grew alarmed. "No, Louisa. He already knows how dear you are to me. I do not want him threatening you."

  "I do not fear his threats."

  "But you ought to. You-all of my friends-are right. I do not take him seriously enough. I have been a bloody fool concerning him."

  She went silent. We watched each other; she troubled, me quiet, my face still wet. The coffee was growing cold, and neither of us moved to drink it.

  Our vigil was broken by the noisy arrival of Colonel Brandon.

  Louisa released my hands and rose as her husband entered the room. I got to my feet as well, mopping my face with my handkerchief.

  Brandon had once been my greatest friend and my mentor. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a handsome face and chill blue eyes. He'd once had fire and drive, and I'd admired him more than any other man I'd ever met.

  That admiration had soured along the way, and now we regarded one another with tight suspicion. As usual, Louisa tried to diffuse the tension.

  "Gabriel has come to visit," she said.

  Brandon gave me a cold once-over. "That is obvious. Did you lose your employment already, Gabriel?"

  I held onto my temper. "I had business in London. It is nearly concluded."

  He gave me a bellicose stare. "Good."

  I briefly reflected that Brandon and Rutledge would get along famously. No, I thought the next moment. Brandon is a man of feeling who hides behind sharp words. Rutledge has no feeling at all.

  "You will stay for supper of course, Gabriel." Louisa gave me one of her stern looks, willing me to obey.

  The last thing I wanted was to sit through a supper with Colonel Brandon, listening to his barely veiled insults and questions that were intended to put my back up. He was annoyed to have found me in his private sitting room alone with his wife, and he did not bother to hide it.

  "Forgive me, Louisa," I said, never taking my eyes from Brandon. "I would like to rest in order to start early tomorrow for Berkshire. If you need me, I will be staying the night at Grenville's house."

  Brandon gave me a look that told me he did not think much of a man who took advantage of his friends. I resisted telling him to kiss the devil's hindquarters and politely took my leave of Louisa.

  I walked home. No, not strictly home, Grenville's home. I did not have one.

  For an Englishman to not have a home was a terrible thing. Everyone needed connection to a place, however loathsome it might be. I was adrift, rather like Sebastian's family who roamed up and down the canals with no clear goal in sight.

  I reached Grenville's house to learn that Anton had prepared supper for me. I distressed him by merely pushing it about the plate and dragging myself to bed.

  I woke in the night with a raging fever.

  I do not know whether the fever was brought on by my distress over my daughter, my walking about in the pouring rain, or my exhaustion from the business at Sudbury and my journey to London. Probably all combined to make my throat raw, my skin burning, and my limbs weak.

  Bartholomew the dutiful arrived with a tonic and cool water, then he pulled the covers over me and made to douse the light.

  Fevered sleep claimed me quickly. I thought that I managed to tell Bartholomew to send a message to Grenville-"Tell him to ask Fletcher about canals," I said, or thought I said.

  I drifted in and out of sleep, my dreams strange and horrible. Sometimes I lay staring at the canopy above me, my body wracked with fever, skin wet with sweat. From time to time I'd hear Grenville's servants enter the room, clean the grate and stoke the fire, hear whispered conversations at the door.

  Bartholomew would loom over me every once in a while with a worried expression, but I could not break myself out of my stupor to reassure him.

  When I finally awoke, the fever was broken and I lay weak and limp and watched
the sunshine at the window.

  Bartholomew came to look in on me. I asked him the time.

  "Four o'clock in the afternoon, sir."

  I rubbed my face, a stiff growth of stubble on my skin. "Too late to start for Sudbury, then. I do not mind a night's journey, but Grenville's coachman might object."

  He gave me an odd look. "You all right, sir?"

  "Just tired. And powerfully hungry. Did Anton not say he would make something for my supper?"

  Bartholomew's brow wrinkled. "That was two days ago, sir."

  "What?" I tried to sit up. My head spun, and I held it.

  "Two days you've been in bed, sir. Sick as a blind cow, sir."

  I fingered the linen nightshirt I did not remember putting on. "Hell," I said feelingly. "I need a bath. And a shave." My stomach growled. "Food first, I think."

  "I'll bring you a tray, sir, and hot water. And, oh- " He dipped his fingers inside his waistcoat. "A letter, sir."

  "From Grenville?" I reached for it.

  "No, sir. I wrote him your note, about the canals and Mr. Fletcher, like you said, and I added that you were sick and wouldn't return until you felt better. He answered saying he'd look into the matter and to give you a tonic, but nothing since yesterday."

  I had half-expected Grenville to come rushing back to London to find out what was wrong with me, or ask me what the devil I meant about canals and Fletcher, but perhaps he'd realized it was best to stay and wait for my return.

  I rubbed my face again. "Then who sent the letter?"

  "A lady, sir."

  "Mrs. Brandon?" I asked.

  He read from the direction on the folded page. "Viscountess Breckenridge." He tossed it into my lap, then went into the hall and shouted for someone to fetch me hot water and coffee.

  I opened the letter. It was a formal invitation, addressed to me, informing me that Lady Breckenridge was hosting a musicale at eleven o'clock on the evening of March 16th, and would I attend?

  "What day is it, Bartholomew?" I asked as he began to fill the shaving basin with steaming water from a kettle.