A Death at Fountains Abbey (23 page)

‘You have been perfectly decent, sir.’

‘Have I?’ Metcalfe looked doubtful. ‘I thought you were his creature, you see. Part of his great scheme to return to power.’ He held up a finger. ‘It must never happen. Uncle Aislabie is a . . .’ he glanced at Kitty and trailed away.

‘An arsehole?’ she offered.

Metcalfe giggled. ‘A thief. A veritable Mackheath. Robbed the country till it bled and pretended he bled the most of all.
Oh, sirs – how can you command me to pay reparation, when I have nothing left? How will my poor family eat?
’

‘You want to see your uncle ruined?’ Kitty asked.

‘Yes. No!’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘Not ruined. Diminished. Chastened. Humbled. I would have him peer into the mirror of his soul
and count every dark, festering stain upon it. Let us have some sherry.’ He poured three glasses, handed them around.

We drank together in silence, the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Almost eight. I could see why Mrs Fairwood, with her love of quiet study, preferred not to share this room with Metcalfe. He was a distracting and fidgety presence in a library, if a likeable one.

‘How pleasant this is,’ Metcalfe said, in a sombrous voice. I found it difficult to follow his moods. He collapsed into a chair by the fire. ‘Sneaton will never give up the ledger, you know. He’s a man of honour. A man of honour, shielding a scoundrel.’ He yawned very hard behind his hand, and wiped his eyes. ‘Apologies, my friends. It’s the laudanum, at least the lack of it. A plague upon the wretched stuff. Probably shouldn’t drink this.’ He knocked back his sherry in one.

‘I gave the laudanum to Mr Gatteker.’

‘Did you?’ Metcalfe looked surprised. ‘Was he in need of it?’

‘I asked him to examine it. You believed you were being poisoned.’

‘Oh. So I did.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I am but a shadow of a shadow. You must think me a ridiculous figure, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘Not at all, sir.’ She sat down opposite him, and sipped her sherry.

He fixed his gaze upon her for a long time, steadying himself again. It was as if his essence was all in flux, no fixed state where he might rest. Kitty did not seem to mind. I sensed this was not the first time she had seen this affliction – a wavering on the fragile border between madness and sanity.

‘I like you both very much,’ Metcalfe decided. ‘I shall help you, if I can.’

And I thought:
Mr Robinson, you poor devil. You can barely help yourself.

He fixed himself another pipe. ‘I hear you have discovered who threatens the house. Would you whisper his name to me, in confidence? I would consider it a favour, as the wretched fellow plans to murder me.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir. Master Fleet will not give up his secret.’

He coughed out a laugh. ‘And nor will Sneaton. But come – you must have some inkling.’

‘It’s a large estate, and your uncle is not loved. I can think of a dozen suspects within the household alone.’

‘Including me?’ He laughed at my discomfort. ‘Come – I should be offended if I were not suspected, sir.’

It was true, I had considered Metcalfe – and then dismissed him. It was something I had realised from my conversation with Mr Forster: it would do no good rounding up all of Mr Aislabie’s enemies and discounting them one by one. Men who had never once met my host might bear him a grudge for his wealth, or his infamous part in the South Sea disaster. To discover the truth, one should not seek out those with cause to hate John Aislabie. One should ask this, instead: what sort of a man would conduct such a violent and carefully executed campaign against him? Not Metcalfe, I was sure of it. He was too chaotic and confused.

We were hunting for a most singular person, that much seemed clear. But, in any case, we would learn the truth from Sam soon enough. Unless he had been conning us all, of course. That was a distinct possibility, and one I chose not to think about too closely.

‘I fancy Mr Forster for it, myself,’ Metcalfe said. ‘No one can be that dull, surely? It is an act – it must be. And the stags were from Messenger’s park, I believe?’

‘That is not certain.’ I had not yet heard from William Hallow. ‘I’ve already questioned Forster. He confessed that he’s spying on Messenger for your uncle in exchange for his patronage. His entire future rests upon Mr Aislabie’s goodwill.’

‘Oh, that is a pity.’ Metcalfe lamented. ‘I had placed all my hopes on Forster. But do you see how I am proved right about the spies? My uncle is the most shameless devil, truly.’

We all agreed upon that. Kitty and Metcalfe fell into a discussion about London, and the theatre. They had both seen
The Beggar’s Opera
, so they sang one of the ballads together, and Metcalfe declared that Kitty could play Polly Peachum upon the stage, which proved he must be deaf, as well as a little mad.

I crossed the room to study the globe standing in one corner, thinking of Kitty’s dream of visiting Italy. It rested where Mrs Fairwood had left it, upon the eastern coast of the Americas, and the wide stretch of the Atlantic.

The door opened and Mr Forster entered the room. I introduced Kitty, who rose and curtsied.

‘Does she not remind you of Bacchiacca’s
Sybil
?’ Metcalfe prompted Forster from his chair without preamble.

‘I regret I have not seen, sir.’

‘No? Did you not visit it on your travels? Come then Forster, a game – what great work of art most reflects Mrs Hawkins’ timeless beauty?’

Kitty snorted into her sherry.

Forster tugged at the deep cuffs of his coat, flustered. ‘I am not sure that I recall . . . I do not have a clear memory of such things. I am more interested in architecture than paintings . . .’

‘Please do not trouble yourself, Mr Forster,’ Kitty laughed.

‘See! My point is made!’ Metcalfe thrust an arm towards Forster. ‘All those months upon his grand tour, and he cannot remember a single painting.’

‘I did not say—’ Forster stammered.

‘Clearly you are not who you seem,’ Metcalfe decided. He seemed to speak in jest, but his behaviour was so unpredictable, it was hard to be sure. ‘Tell us sir – are you an impostor? Were you out upon the estate last night, murdering stags? Did you chop off their heads and drag them to the front steps for me to discover?’

Mr Forster was stunned by the accusation – naturally enough. But before we could explain, or he could reply, we were called to the dining room.

As Kitty had predicted, the atmosphere at supper was strained. I had hoped to eat and retire as swiftly as possible – smuggling out a bottle of claret or two – but Mr Aislabie had other plans. He was convinced I knew the identities of the conspirators, and spent the meal attempting to coax the truth from me. He appealed to my compassion, my sense of decency. He pointed out that if I stayed at Studley Hall – ‘and damn it Hawkins, you
will
stay until I’m satisfied’ – that my own life was at risk. ‘Do you not care for your wife’s safety?’ he asked, glowering at me down the table.

‘
John.
’ Lady Judith put a hand on Kitty’s arm. ‘You are perfectly safe, my dear, I assure you. There will be twenty men guarding the house and grounds tonight. All the male servants will stay up, and Mr Simpson’s men will take turns at watch.’

Kitty smiled. She was, I’m sure, thinking of the dagger nestled inside her gown, the handle disguised as a brooch at her breast. And of the brace of pistols under the bed, and the dagger beneath our pillow.

‘I will visit Mr Sneaton in the morning and reason with him,’ Lady Judith said. ‘He will hand over the ledger, and Master Fleet will give up his information. Good will prevail. Now please, let us speak no more on the matter. I think Mrs Fairwood might faint.’

We all turned to look at Elizabeth Fairwood, who had not spoken once since we had sat down. She was indeed very pale, her face frozen in its customary mask. She was wearing the same grey fustian gown she had worn at dinner, a dress more suited to a governess than a gentlewoman. Only the jewel at her throat gave a hint of her wealth and status: the glittering diamond flower with the ruby at its heart. Her true mother’s brooch, if she was who she claimed to be. ‘It is a terrible business,’ she said, in a flat voice. ‘Those poor animals.’

Kitty narrowed her eyes at this. Mrs Fairwood’s compassion rang hollow, to be sure. I had seen her gazing at the stags from the window this morning. I’d seen no pity in her gaze. If anything, she had looked rather peevish.

Mr Forster, seated to her left, did his best to rouse the table to more cheerful matters. Even his clothes brightened the room, the gold buttons on his scarlet waistcoat gleaming in the candlelight. For once he did not speak of architecture, but entertained us with stories of his two friends, who had now reached Rome and had both sent letters. Each was in love with the same woman, he explained, without the other’s knowledge. The lady, meanwhile, was being showered with gifts from both suitors and presumably laughing behind her hand at the ridiculous Englishmen.

‘Tom and I have plans to visit Rome,’ Kitty said. ‘I should like to travel all across the world, to the very ends of the earth.’ She laughed at her own eagerness, and the rest of the table joined her, save for Mrs Fairwood. ‘Tom has a friend who lives in the colonies.’

‘New York. He’s set up a trading company.’

Forster leaned forward. ‘There are vast fortunes to be made out there, no doubt – in the south most of all. A whole great continent to exploit – and the cheapest of labour. Slaves and criminals – they must be the hardest working souls in the world. D’you know, I have always wondered – why do we waste so much abundant, free labour on the colonies? Just think, Mr Aislabie, if you could whip your men when required? Your stables would be built in a matter of weeks. You’d need a good slave master, some pitiless brute—’

‘No!’ Mrs Fairwood cried, and dropped her fork to her plate. She drew a steadying breath. ‘Please, sir. I beg you. Do not speak of such dreadful things.’

‘Dreadful?’ Forster seemed puzzled. ‘But I’m afraid it’s how the world turns, madam.’ He tried to catch her eyes, but she kept her gaze upon her plate. Her shoulders were trembling with suppressed emotion, her slim hands gripping the table. Forster appealed to Aislabie. ‘Sir, I’m sure you would agree—’

Mrs Fairwood scraped back her chair with a violent movement. ‘I pray you would excuse me,’ she said, and hurried from the room.

Mr Aislabie rose to follow her, then thought better of it. He sat back down, and gave Forster a critical look. ‘England is not a country of slaves, sir.’

‘No indeed, sir,’ Forster agreed hastily with his would-be patron, smiling about the table. ‘We are all free men here, thank God.’

Lady Judith signalled to Bagby to refill her glass.

Metcalfe roused himself. ‘Think I’ll take a walk about the gardens.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Metcalfe, it’s long past nine o’clock. It’ll be pitch black out there,’ Aislabie grumbled.

‘We carry our darkness with us, Uncle,’ Metcalfe said, then bowed and excused himself.

‘Does anyone in this house,’ Lady Judith asked, ‘know how to conduct an
agreeable
conversation?’

We retired to the drawing room and did our best to pretend this was a perfectly regular evening. To my surprise Mrs Fairwood joined us there, though she crossed at once to the harpsichord and began to play. Aislabie watched her for a while, with a quiet pride, before suggesting a game or two of cards. Fortune favoured me at last.

I am excessively good at cards. I played every day at school, and every night at Oxford. I survived for three years in London almost entirely upon my winnings. I have an exceptional talent for remembering what has been played, and for judging the meaning of each decision, based upon my opponent’s character and behaviour. There is an alchemy to it that I cannot put down in words – a hundred subtle ingredients I must draw upon in the few moments before I make my own play. One must understand the risks each player is prepared to take, and read the expression in every eye, no matter how fleeting. From these reactions, and the cards left to play, I am able to make swift calculations on the best use of my own hand. Not only that, I can do it tired, or sick, or drunk.

I wish this much-honed skill extended beyond the gaming tables, that this were all some great metaphor for how I conduct my life. True, cards have taught me how to read minute expressions of the face very well, if I bother to concentrate. But away from the table there are too many distinctions and distractions to make precise predictions. Life is not like a game of cards; life is like nothing but itself. That is why it is so precious.

Kitty preferred cockpits and wrestling to playing cards, and tended to grow restless sitting too long at the gaming table. But she made an exception that strange, unsettled night at Studley Hall. It was as if we had all decided to ignore the encroaching danger – as there was so little we might do about it. Aislabie and Lady Judith were both experienced players, but they were too confident and too focused upon each other’s game. I had plucked almost twenty pounds from Aislabie before the end of the night.