A Death at Fountains Abbey (27 page)

Some time later Sam’s eyes opened a fraction. I took his hand, and told him he was safe, that he must rest. He couldn’t seem to focus, and his hand was a dead weight in mine. His eyes closed again.

Kitty looked at me with tears in her eyes. ‘Tom—’

‘Don’t say it, Kitty. Please.’

I put my head in my hands and I prayed with a force and a fear I had not felt in a long time. I’d prayed for myself that terrible night in the Marshalsea, chained in the corpse room. I’d prayed on the eve of my trial for murder, and on the cart to my hanging. But I had prayed knowing all my sins, knowing in my heart and soul what I had done right and wrong.

Now I prayed for a boy whose soul lay within the Devil’s grasp. Fourteen years old and already he had killed someone, without once expressing pity or remorse. I couldn’t let him die in such a perilous state. Death for Sam would lead only to damnation. So I begged God:
Let him live. Give him time.

There was a tap at the door and Mrs Fairwood entered, escorted by one of the footmen. She’d brought the vase of orange wallflowers from her chamber. She stood at the end of the bed, remote and unreadable. ‘How does he fare? Has he spoken?’

I didn’t have the strength to answer.

‘Will he live?’ she pressed.

Kitty rose, and ushered her from the room. She was gone for a while. When she returned she stood behind me, wrapping her arms about my chest. ‘Sneaton is still missing.’ She kissed the back of my neck, and fell silent.

It was not like Kitty to be so quiet. I turned and saw that there were tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. ‘Sweetheart.’

‘This is my fault.’

‘No – by God! What makes you say such a thing?’

She brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘You only came here to protect me. Because of what I did . . . He’s just a boy, Tom. For all he’s done, he’s only a boy. I will never forgive myself.’

I rose, and held her close. Sam slept on, never stirring, his secrets trapped inside his broken body.

I grow restless in confined spaces. Eventually, when I had paced the room a thousand times, Kitty ordered me outside. Sam was no better and no worse, and there was no sense in us both staying with him – not when his attacker remained uncaught. I walked down to the great hall and out on to the steps, building myself a pipe. The sound of hammer and chisel on stone echoed from the stable works. I counted a half-dozen carts rolling up to the foundations, filled with rocks and pulled by great workhorses. The day was mild for mid-April, the heat closer to summer than spring. Looking out across the deer park, I had to shield my eyes to protect them from the sun. The deer were still far down in the south-west corner of the park, a long way from the house. I frowned, and took a long draw from my pipe.

I heard the crunch of gravel from my left. Mr Hallow, Aislabie’s gamekeeper, was walking up the avenue. He hurried to join me, snatching off his hat and performing a low bow. His thin red hair was tied at the nape of his neck, the top of his head near bald and freckled by the sun. ‘Beg leave to ask after your young friend, sir? I’m told he was attacked.’

‘Yes, some time in the night.’

‘Found by Gillet’s hill? There’s an old poacher’s track down there, sir. Steep path, hidden from view . . .’

‘It wasn’t the Gills,’ I said, before he could suggest it.

I waited for the inevitable ‘never trust a Gill’, but to my surprise, Hallow nodded his agreement. ‘Yes, sir. I have news.’ He ventured closer, lowering his voice though there was no one else about to hear. ‘Spoke with Mr Messenger’s keeper last night, sir. He says he’s not made a full count of his deer these past few days. Some of the does head into the upper woods to foal. Bugger to find them, pardon my language, your honour. But the stags – he says they’re all accounted for. Sir, I showed him one o’ the heads. He swears blind it weren’t a Fountains stag.’

I frowned. The stags had been butchered on the boundary between Fountains Hall and Studley Royal. If they did not belong to either estate, where the devil had they come from?

But Hallow grinned. ‘So I rode further afield this morning, sir. Only a handful of deer parks close to Studley, and I had a notion . . . The stags came from Baldersby. The Robinson’s estate.’

I pulled the pipe from my lips.
Metcalfe.

‘I spoke with the keeper, sir. He said Mr Robinson sent an order for three young stags – a gift for his uncle. Not for meat – to join the herd.’

‘A strange request.’

‘Oh aye, sir. But – begging your pardon – it’s not the keeper’s place to question a gentleman’s order. And Mr Robinson’s known to be a little
odd
, sir.’

‘So the keeper sent three stags over to Studley?’

‘No, sir. The fellow what brought the message came with a cart. Rode them back the same day, bound and tethered.’

‘And this
fellow
– what did he look like?’

Hallow, who had until this point been mightily pleased with himself, faltered. ‘I— I didn’t think to ask, sir.’ He slapped a pale hand to his head. ‘Oh William Hallow, you almighty fool. I shall ride back and ask, sir.’

‘Could you go at once?’

Hallow grimaced. ‘Wish I could, sir – but I can’t find leave until this evening. I’ve spent too long abroad today already. Might someone go in my place, Mr Hawkins? It’s no more than an hour’s ride . . .’

I held out my hand. ‘Not to worry.’ I could ride there myself, if needed.

‘I’m very sorry, sir.’

‘Not at all. I’m obliged to you, Mr Hallow.’ I put my hand upon his shoulder. ‘I would ask that you keep this to yourself – at least for now.’

‘Of course, your honour.’

‘I’m really not an
honour
, you know.’ Barely a sir, given my reputation.

‘You are God’s anointed, my lord,’ Hallow declared, elevating me to the peerage and potential sainthood in one breath. ‘Restored from the dead to reveal the mercy of the resurrected Christ our redeemer praise Him.’ This said in a second breath, without pause.

I honestly could not think how to address that grave misapprehension. So I thanked him, and took the last draw on my pipe.

‘Now, what are those deer about?’ Hallow muttered, squinting at the herd grazing way off in the distance.

‘I wondered the same. Do they not spend most of the day nearer the house, by the beech tree?’

‘Well they wander about as they please. But it’s a warm day, sir – best of the season. I’d expect them to stay close to the water trough in this heat.’

A dry day, and yet the deer were grazing a good quarter mile from the water trough. ‘Mr Hallow.’ I paused, as a thought sent a shiver down my spine. ‘Would you walk with me, for a moment?’

I walked through the park towards the beech tree, the sun warm upon my neck. My legs felt heavy. I seemed to see myself as if from above, with Mr Hallow at my side. As if I were watching myself from a high window in the house.
Let me be wrong.

We had reached the beech tree, its branches spread out as if in welcome.
Come and see. Come and see what lies here.
The stone water trough stood on a higher patch of ground, raised enough that I could not look inside without approaching the rim. It was a heavy, roughly hewn thing, made to sustain the bitter Yorkshire winters. Lichen clung to the sides.

It looked like a stone coffin.

Hallow had caught my darkening mood. He stopped at my side, and waited.

I took a deep breath. In this final moment, there was still a chance I was mistaken – that I would peer over the edge and see nothing but water. I’d been seeing death everywhere these past few days.

But the deer had crossed to the other side of the park in the heat of the day. I saw the great stag in the distance, its head raised, watching.

I stepped up to the trough and looked down. Put a hand to my mouth.

Jack Sneaton’s body lay at the bottom of the trough. His mottled face was grey white, both eyes now staring blind through the water. There was a deep gash running across his temple, and the water was dark and clogged with blood. Floating all around him were the ruined pages of an accounts book.

‘Oh no,’ Hallow whispered. ‘Oh no.’

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.