The Sudbury School Murders clrm-4

by Ashley Gardner

  "What witness?" Bartholomew asked while he gave me a leg up to my horse.

  "A very young one," I said.

  Didius Ramsay was eating his dinner in the hall along with his fellow students when I returned. Rutledge was also prominently in his place at the head table, glaring fiercely at the boys eating below him. The atmosphere was subdued. The students focused on their plates, and the tutors pushed their food about in silence. None wanted Rutledge's growls directed at him.

  I waited in the quad for dinner to finish, not in the mood to eat with Rutledge. Bartholomew brought me a bit of mutton, which I ate readily. My last meal seemed long ago and far away.

  The boys filed out of the hall and toward their houses. The tutors followed, then Rutledge, who first glared at me then pretended to ignore me.

  Of Ramsay, there was no sign.

  "The little bugger, where is he?" I asked.

  "There's a servants' door in the back of the hall. He might have ducked out there," Bartholomew volunteered. "Won't be a tick."

  He jogged away, leaving me shivering. I wanted to go up to Grenville's chamber and look in on him, but I did not wish to lose Ramsay.

  The porter sat on his bench by the gate, his chin on his chest. He came awake with a gasp as Bartholomew suddenly appeared on the other side of the gate and rattled the bars. Bartholomew's livery was soaked with rain and mud.

  "He's scarpered, sir," Bartholomew called to me. "Cook says he ran through the kitchens and out the scullery."

  I started for the gate. "Get after him. I will catch you up."

  Bartholomew nodded and ran off. I had every faith that if anyone could catch one small boy, it would be Bartholomew.

  Ignoring the gaping porter, I let myself out of the gate and walked as fast as I could after Bartholomew's retreating back. He was running, bounding over brush and clumps of grass in his path. I came along more slowly, my walking stick sinking into the mud.

  Not surprisingly, Ramsay ran to the canal. Bartholomew sprinted after him. I saw Ramsay's small form dart off the towpath, and for a moment, I thought he would plunge into the canal. But he leapt to the top of the stone lock, balanced on the narrow parapet across the canal toward the pond and the lockkeeper's house.

  Bartholomew climbed after him. I stifled a shout. Bartholomew was sure-footed, and I didn't want to startle him and have him topple into the lock. I would never traverse that path, so I waited on the near side, watching.

  Ramsay ran for the lockkeeper's house. The lockkeeper came out, stared at him and Bartholomew and said, "What the devil?"

  Ramsay ran past him into his house, slammed the door. Bartholomew skidded to a halt before it. He rattled the door handle, then banged on the door.

  I walked on down the towpath. The next bridge was about a hundred yards along. My leg hurting, I made the bridge, climbed it and crossed to the other side. The stretch of canal and the greenery around it was shrouded in mist, a lovely scene. I ignored the beauty and climbed down the other side of the bridge, making my way to the lockkeeper's house as quickly as I could.

  By the time I arrived, Bartholomew and the lockkeeper had succeeded in breaking open the door. Didius Ramsay tried to run out past them. Bartholomew snatched him.

  Ramsay wriggled and kicked, and Bartholomew lost his hold. Ramsay ran out of the house and straight at me. I spread my arms, trying to stop him. Ramsay dodged to the right. I sprang after him and grabbed. I came down on my bad leg and sent myself and Ramsay slithering down the wet grass to the canal.

  A pair of powerful hands grabbed my legs just before I would have slid into the water. I seized Ramsay under the arms and hauled him back from the muddy bank.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a muddy, dripping, red-faced Didius Ramsay that I faced in the lockkeeper's house not long later.

  The lockkeeper lived simply, in a flagstone kitchen with a stair leading to a loft. Ramsay sat on the settle near the fire, holding onto the seat, knuckles white. I took a stool opposite him. My clothes dripped water onto the stone floor, and a light steam began to rise from both of us.

  "Ramsay," I began.

  The word galvanized him into speech. "I did not kill him, sir, I swear I did not."

  "I know," I said.

  He stared at me, mouth open. The fire sparked and sent a tendril of smoke into the room.

  "Freddy Sutcliff said… he said you'd blame me," Ramsay stammered. "He said I'd pay for it, that no one would believe me."

  I said calmly, "You could not have killed Middleton. You are not tall enough."

  Ramsay gaped anew. The lockkeeper, who had fetched a kettle from the fire, now returned with mugs of coffee. He handed them to us, looking interested.

  I sipped the coffee. It was bitter and thick and hot, and I was cold and exhausted. "Middleton was a big man, used to fighting," I said. "He could have agreed to meet you by the canal, but if you'd tried to hurt him, he would have tossed you into the water and had done. The only way you could have cut his throat was if he were kneeling. And he was not." I indicated the muddy patches on my own trousers. "When I saw him in the lock, he had no mud on his knees. Depend upon it, he was standing, and a man cut him from behind."

  Ramsay's teeth chattered. "Sutcliff said you'd blame me for Mr. Grenville. And that you'd kill me."

  "I know you did not hurt Grenville," I said, keeping my voice steady. "For the same reason. He was stabbed with a downward thrust. If you had stabbed with a downward thrust, the knife would have gone in much lower than it did." I leaned forward, looked him in the eye. "So you should rejoice, Mr. Ramsay, that you have not grown as much this year as you could have wished."

  He stared at me, as though still believing I'd snatch him up and drag him to the magistrate. He swallowed, and his face regained some color.

  "How much have you been paying Sutcliff, Ramsay?" I asked.

  Ramsay took a gulp of coffee, wiped his mouth. "Oh, a good bit, sir. My allowance is high, and he knows it. He gouges me more than he does the other boys."

  I sat back, cradled the cup in my hands. "So he has a nice blackmailing scheme here to supplement the tiny allowance his father gives him. I wondered how he managed to pay for his mistress; she did not seem to be a woman who came cheap. I imagine Sutcliff receives money from Timson about his cheroots, from some of the other boys about their various little vices."

  "The tutors, too, sir," Ramsay said in a small, shamed voice.

  "I do not doubt that. In a small place like this, I imagine that both pupils and tutors have secrets, great and small, that they wish to stay secret. Everyone knows that Rutledge is not a man to look the other way at vices, no matter how trivial."

  Ramsay looked relieved that I understood. "Just as you say, sir."

  My anger rose to new heights. Doubtless a student who filched an extra slice of bread at dinner lived in as much fear of the sneering Sutcliff as did Tunbridge, the mathematics tutor, whom I suspected was having it off with his star pupil. If Sutcliff told Rutledge, both pupil or tutor would be banished, which meant that Tunbridge would never get another place and the student would be sent home in disgrace.

  Poor Ramsay had paid over as well, I thought, though I could have told him that Rutledge would never banish him. His family was too wealthy. Likewise, Sutcliff was safe because of the vast amount of money his father donated to the Sudbury School.

  I found it mildly ironic that the only straightforward person in the entire school, the only one immune to blackmail, was Rutledge himself. He was a tyrant, but he had no hidden vices. He was a man who lived his life in the open and be damned to anyone who did not like it.

  "You all ought to have formed a league against Sutcliff," I remarked. "He was going over the wall to see a lover. I am certain Rutledge would have disapproved of that."

  Ramsay nodded. "I thought of that. But there's no way around him, sir."

  "Especially as Sutcliff knew that you played all the pranks."

  Silence fell. Bartholomew stared in surprise, h
is coffee halfway to his lips. Ramsay sank further into the bench. "How did you know, sir?"

  "Because no one peached on you," I said. "If Sutcliff, or even Timson, had played the pranks, someone would have spoken up by now. But the boys like you, don't they? So they kept silent so you would not be punished."

  Ramsay stared at me. Bartholomew was still not happy. "Are you saying, sir, that this lad here poisoned those other lads and set the fires? He needs a good strapping."

  "I agree with you," I said, giving Ramsay a severe look.

  "I would not have hurt anyone, not really," Ramsay protested. "I added purge to the port, only to make them sick. They'd never have died from it."

  "Bloody hell, Ramsay," I said.

  "I made sure the maids' chamber was empty before I set the rubbish alight. It only smoldered."

  I eyed him evenly. He looked ashamed, but I saw in his eyes a tiny bit of pride at his cleverness.

  "My man is right," I said, "someone should take a strap to you. You seem a sound lad in other respects, Ramsay. Why on earth should you set rooms alight and write letters in blood? It is bizarre."

  "So the others wouldn't think I was like Sutcliff, sir."

  "Ah, I thought so. You told me before. You and Sutcliff come from the richest families of the school. You did not want anyone to think you and he were cut from the same cloth."

  He shook his head fervently. "No, sir."

  "A perfectly understandable wish. Sutcliff is a nasty bit of goods. He puts himself above the other lads. You wanted to show that you did not. I comprehend your motives, but it was a rather dangerous way to go about it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "It stops, Ramsay," I said, giving him a stern look. "Reptiles in beds are one thing. Settings fires is dangerous. Not meaning to hurt someone and not hurting them are two different things. Never forget it."

  "Yes, sir."

  I could not know whether my words had impact, or whether he thought me just another adult giving a lecture. I had not come here to reform him, in any case. I'd come to wring information from him.

  "Let us speak of the night of Middleton's murder, Ramsay. Or, rather, the morning when he was discovered. I believe you rose very early that day."

  Ramsay probably thought I knew everything there was to know about him. He nodded without denial.

  I went on, "At daybreak, it was quite misty and gray. You were near the lockkeeper's house. You saw a barge come up the lock, and you hid. Am I close?"

  Ramsay nodded, eyes round.

  "I must ask you, Ramsay, what were you doing out here? Going to start another fire?"

  Again, Ramsay nodded. He swallowed, his face paling. "I was going to light some rubbish near the lock. Make lots of smoke."

  "So people would come panicking to put out the fire. I will tell you, Ramsay, that if I catch you doing such a thing, or even believe you have done such a thing, again, I will certainly thrash you. It will be worse than anything Rutledge can give you. I know quite well how to do it so that you will never forget." I'd learned from my father, who'd been a master at beating his son.

  Ramsay's gaze fell on my sword stick with a flicker of fear. "Yes, sir."

  "I will take you at your word," I said. "While you were skulking by the lockkeeper's house, you saw the boat. Tell me about it."

  "It was the Roma, sir. No mistaking it. There were three men on the deck, all smoking pipes. And two dogs and a goat."

  "Where did they stop?" I asked him.

  "Right in front of the lock. I thought they'd come and rouse the lockkeeper, but they just stopped the horse and backed up the boat until they could turn it around."

  I watched him intently. "Anything else?"

  Ramsay nodded. "Sebastian got off. He came out on deck with a woman and kissed her. One of the men said something to him I couldn't understand. Sebastian ignored him. Just walked away without a word."

  "Where did he go?"

  Ramsay shrugged. "Down the path, toward the stables. The woman went back inside, and the barge floated back the way it had come."

  "Did Sebastian stop at the lock, look in it, or anything?"

  "No. Just walked toward the stables. He walked fast, like he wanted to get as far from the canal as quick as he could."

  I exhaled slowly. Megan was an observant woman. Only she had seen the shadow skulking about the lockkeeper's house. And with that slender thread, I'd concluded that she'd seen the prankster, not the murderer. The murderer had no reason to stay near the lock; indeed, he'd want to be elsewhere as quickly as possible. That left the prankster, up to no good, fearing to be caught. Timson I'd dismissed as being too cocky. Ramsay, on the other hand, as Fletcher had once told me, walked about with an air of innocence. Ramsay, who had friends in both houses. Ramsay, who'd easily climbed a tree, snake in hand, unseen and unnoticed.

  "You might have told the magistrate all this," I said. "And saved Sebastian much trouble."

  Ramsay frowned. "Didn't Sebastian tell him?"

  "No. Sebastian was foolishly trying to save another from scandal. Besides, a magistrate is not quick to believe a Romany, no matter what he says."

  Ramsay conceded this. "But could Sebastian not have killed the groom, anyway? Earlier?"

  "Perhaps. Indeed, several people could have killed the groom that night-Sutcliff, Sebastian, the stable man, Thomas Adams, who probably invented that argument, and you." I turned to the lockkeeper.

  The big man blinked in astonishment. "Me, sir?"

  "You are the correct height and build. You could have overpowered Middleton and cut his throat. We have only your word that you heard no one come to the lock that night. And who would be better placed to dispose of a body in the canal?"

  The lockkeeper's rather florid face slowly drained of color. "Why should I kill 'im? Never knew 'im."

  I made a placating gesture. "Do not worry, I do not believe that you did. I said only that you could have." I turned back to Ramsay. "Would you be willing to tell a magistrate what you just told me?"

  "The magistrate would not listen to me. Not in Sudbury. He pays Sutcliff, too."

  I closed my eyes briefly. Damn Sutcliff. "Another magistrate has arrived, a friend of mine, from London. He would be most interested in what you have to say."

  Ramsay eyed me doubtfully but nodded.

  Bartholomew regarded Ramsay in curiosity. "What does the magistrate pay Sutcliff for?"

  "He has two wives," Ramsay said promptly. "One here and one in London."

  "Good Lord," I said. "Well, Sutcliff did not exactly keep that secret, did he? The magistrate should demand his money back."

  Ramsay shrugged. "Sutcliff didn't tell me. I found out the same as he did. I was with Sutcliff in London when we met the magistrate's London wife."

  Much later that afternoon, Bartholomew and I walked home from Sudbury on the towpath. The rain had ceased and a bit of blue sky shone between the clouds. Spring flowers poked yellow heads from the clumps of grass beside the path.

  Ramsay had told his tale to Sir Montague. The Sudbury magistrate, the one calmly practicing bigamy, had remained doubtful. I let Ramsay go after that and left it to Sir Montague to argue with the other man. I even whispered the magistrate's secret into Sir Montague's ear. Sadly, I was not above a little blackmail myself.

  "Little bleeders," Bartholomew muttered. "Poisoning each other, blackmailing each other. Goes to show what happens when you try to get above yourself, doesn't it?"

  "Greed, fear, and ambition can be a terrible combination," I remarked.

  Bartholomew scowled. "They think people will regard them as gentlemen because they've got buckets of money."

  "And many will, Bartholomew."

  "That ain't right, sir. Mr. Grenville, now, he's a gentleman through and through and always will be, even were all his money to go away. You too, sir."

  "You flatter me."

  He shook his head, his blue eyes sincere. "No, sir, it's the truth. You're more a gentleman living in your two rooms above a bake shop
than Mr. Sutcliff ever will be in a gilded palace. Don't matter how many gold plates he has, he'll never have what you have. He'll always be the son of a banker's clerk."

  Marianne had said much the same thing. The Rothschilds had copious amounts of money and power, but they would never be received in many houses of the ton. And yet, banker's clerks were beginning to rule the world.

  "Me mam has the right of it," Bartholomew continued. "If you keep to your place and be your very best in it, you'll know happiness. You try to move outside, you'll never fit in, no matter how much money you have. You try, you'll just get misery."

  The philosophy of a nineteen-year-old, I thought cynically. Bartholomew's place at present was footman to one of the wealthiest and most generous men in England. He might not be talking about keeping to one's place so complacently if he worked for a miserly gentleman who enjoyed beating his servants.

  I understood Sutcliff's need to blackmail, however. I thought of his rather shabby suits and his willingness to take handouts. His father, as wealthy as he was, kept Sutcliff in straits, for whatever his reasons. Sutcliff, the scheming little devil, had to find some way to supply himself with the missed money.

  Sutcliff had gone so far as to convince Ramsay that he would be accused of the murder and forced him to pay for silence. It was Sutcliff who needed the strapping.

  We reached Grenville's chamber, and Matthias let us in, looking tense and drawn. Grenville was unchanged. Marianne sat by the bed, watching him.

  I suggested both brothers take a nap, but they refused. "One of us stays," Bartholomew said. "In case they try again, like you said."

  I could not argue. Having one of the footmen close by in a fight would be a good idea. Bartholomew suggested I be the one for the nap, but I could not bring myself to leave the chamber again. Bartholomew brought me soup and ale from the kitchen, and I settled myself in a wing chair with a blanket over my legs. I ate without much tasting the food, then made myself lie back and close my eyes.

  Exhaustion coupled with overtiring my leg sent me to sleep. I barely heard Bartholomew take away the tray.

  I slept hard, drifting in and out of dreams. I dreamed of Jonathan Lewis standing in Lady Breckenridge's parlor, drawling about his novels. I dreamed that Grenville stood by my side, his satirical smile on his face, listening to him. The dream changed, and I thought Louisa stroked my hair, her lemon perfume touching me as she soothed me in her sitting room.