A Death at Fountains Abbey (30 page)

‘No, but I’m afraid I had become somewhat
erratic
by that point. My letters may not have been entirely sensible. Or legible. I am susceptible to dark thoughts, you see. Suspicions. Things become . . . disproportionate.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’ he wondered. ‘I saw Forster with Mrs Fairwood on several occasions, walking around the gardens, deep in conversation. Day and night. Heads bowed close, you know. And instead of thinking, “Aha! Here are two lovers, struck with cupid’s arrows”, I decided they were conspiring to destroy my uncle. Then that terrible note came, wrapped around a sheep’s heart.’ He shuddered. ‘I fell into the abyss, after that. Began to see plots and betrayals everywhere. Couldn’t trust anyone . . .’ He glanced about him, and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve been trying for years to find evidence of my uncle’s South Sea dealings. The depths of his corruption. I thought perhaps he’d learned of my enquiries and invited me here, through my aunt, in order to drive me into madness. Set the entire estate against me.’ His eyes had taken on a haunted look.

‘That would be . . . elaborate.’

He blinked. ‘Yes . . . yes, I suppose you’re right. I walk a narrow path between truth and fancy. I’m afraid I stumbled into the woods and lost myself for a while.’

‘How long?’

‘Oh, who counts the days?’ he said, vaguely. ‘I kept to my room, in the main. Wandered out at night sometimes. I’d sit here by the cascade and try to drown out my thoughts in the roar of the water. Or I’d count the stars. Anything to stop my mind turning about in endless circles. And in the end, I found my path again.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. So why pretend you were still . . .’

‘. . . Mad as a lupin?’ He sighed. ‘It was a useful conceit. I might come and go as I pleased without arousing suspicion. And I knew my uncle would send me away once I was fit enough to travel. It frightens him, you know. His brother suffered from melancholic fits. Hanged himself when he was seventeen.’

‘Mr Gatteker told me.’ I thought of the portrait, banished to Sam’s cupboard room – the young man with the soulful eyes.

‘Then you arrived. And the deer was left on the steps, with its fawn. I feared things were reaching a climax. But I could hardly spring up the next morning as if nothing had happened. I thought if I told you I’d been poisoned, it would explain my somewhat erratic behaviour . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I asked Mr Gatteker to lie about the laudanum. He knew I was pretending to be sick. He was the only one I confided in.’

‘Oh! Then Marigold is alive after all? Mr Gatteker’s cat,’ I prompted.

Metcalfe brightened. ‘I suppose she is! If indeed he
has
a cat. Let’s say that he does. We deserve some happy news this morning.’

‘Marigold is alive. And Mrs Fairwood is in love with Mr Forster.’ I shook my head in wonderment.

‘
Engaged!
Forster confessed all to me just this morning. Begged me not to tell my uncle. He’s determined to secure a position at Studley first, upon his own merit. Poor fellow has no capital to speak of.’

‘What a curious match.’

‘Indeed! But then love is a curious business, is it not?’ He sounded wistful.

I gazed out across the lake. The ducks were gathered close to the bank, dabbing at the water and tipping up to feed with their white tails in the air. The drakes looked proud and handsome, with their glossy green heads and neat white collars. The pheasants pecking at the grass were the same – the hens a dull speckled brown, while the brighter cocks strutted about, trailing their long tails. I thought of Mrs Fairwood in her drab grey gown, and Forster in his bright waistcoat and feather-trimmed hat. I thought of the deep cuffs on his coat, the fashionable pleats and gold wire buttons. And I understood at last.

A curious match, a curious couple, no doubt – but working with a common purpose.

We will seek Revenge.

Chapter Twenty

I leaped up from the riverbank and ran across the footbridge towards the house. Metcalfe caught up with me on the path, panting hard. ‘Mr Hawkins?’

I seized a shoulder, thin and bony beneath his coat. ‘Find William Hallow. Order him to ride at once to Baldersby. I must know who came to fetch the stags. A clear description, mind – age, bearing, clothes. Every detail.’

‘I don’t understand . . .’

‘Forster and Mrs Fairwood. They plotted this together, with an accomplice. We must find him.’

Metcalfe gave a sharp nod. ‘I will ride over to Baldersby myself. Dear God. My poor uncle . . .’

I squeezed his shoulder. Then I turned and raced back towards Studley Hall.

I was almost too late. Aislabie’s carriage waited upon the drive, heavy with luggage. Bagby stood sentinel at the carriage steps, sweating in green velvet. Pugh sat above the horses, reins in hand. The grand front doors swung open and Mrs Fairwood hurried out, tiny and determined in a grey riding hood. She looked like a nun, running home to sanctuary. I left the path and took a short-cut across the deer park, boots sucking into the mud. ‘Wait!’ I cried, as Aislabie and Lady Judith appeared in the doorway.

‘Wait!’ I cried again, waving my hands in the air. I must have seemed quite wild.

It was enough for Aislabie to hurry down the steps towards Mrs Fairwood. ‘What is this?’ he snapped, as I reached them.

‘She cannot leave,’ I said, gathering my breath.

Aislabie bristled. ‘I have made my decision. Elizabeth is not safe here – not until we find the killer.’

Mrs Fairwood dipped her head towards him in gratitude.

‘If you send her away now, you will never see her again,’ I said.

Aislabie ignored me. He led Mrs Fairwood towards the carriage, never once taking his eyes from her face. What a wicked spell she had cast upon him.

I stepped in front of them, blocking the way. ‘Madam – I cannot let you leave.’

She scowled at me.

Lady Judith joined us on the drive. ‘I do think it best if Mrs Fairwood returns to Lincoln,’ she said, and then, more quietly to me, ‘for all our sakes.’

‘I have pressing news about Mr Sneaton’s murder. It concerns Mrs Fairwood directly. Please. We must speak privately.’

The Aislabies exchanged startled glances. ‘Very well,’ Aislabie said, after a pause.

Mrs Fairwood was defiant. ‘I will not be held against my will,’ she declared, mounting the carriage steps. ‘You have no power to keep me here.’

I stretched my arm across the carriage door.

She leaned towards me. Her hood shielded her face from the Aislabies. ‘Please,’ she whispered, her dark eyes searching mine. ‘
Please
let me go.’

I held firm.

Her expression hardened. ‘Damn you,’ she hissed. She dropped back to the gravel and stalked into the house, shoulders high, cloak billowing in the wind. I followed close behind.

Bagby glared at me as I passed, hands clenched at his side.

The library seemed the most suitable room for an interrogation, the place where Mrs Fairwood felt most at ease. She stepped stiff-backed to the hearth, disdainful and proud, and rested a slim hand upon the mantelpiece.

No one had entered the room this morning. The curtains were drawn, the hearth cold, the candles unlit. Sally was responsible for keeping the rooms in good order, and she was still locked up in the cellar.

Lady Judith drew back the curtains. The library faced north, but at least this allowed some light in from the yard. She stood by the terrace windows, watching Pugh free the carriage horses from their harness and lead them back to the stables. Mrs Fairwood had her books, Lady Judith her horses.

‘Well, Hawkins?’ Aislabie folded his arms. ‘What is this news of yours?’

‘Francis Forster.’

‘What of him? Has he discovered something?’

‘He murdered Jack Sneaton.’

He laughed, incredulous. ‘
Francis Forster
? He can barely lift his own cutlery.’

But I had kept my eye upon Mrs Fairwood at the fireplace. She had flinched at Forster’s name. Now she groped for the nearest chair.

Lady Judith tore her gaze from the horses. ‘Why do you suspect Mr Forster?’

‘Oh, several reasons. His coat sleeves, for example.’

‘What piffle,’ Aislabie muttered, pouring himself a glass of brandy.

I held out my arm, tugging at the cuff of my coat. ‘I’m fond of this coat, but the beaux of London would consider it a travesty. They have begun to wear deeper cuffs, ending above the elbow. Mr Forster owns at least two coats in the new style. He wore one last night at supper, do you recall? Sky-blue with gold wire buttons.’

‘And this makes him a killer, in your eye? Because his coat sleeves are more fashionable than yours?’

‘How can he afford to dress in such a modish way? He makes an inordinate fuss of being poor. That suit must have cost him fifteen pounds at least. More than that – he claims he has been touring Italy these past three years, where the fashions are quite different. He must have been in England for several months at least – and with money in his pocket.’

Aislabie frowned, and sipped his brandy. ‘Ridiculous. The fellow’s burned brown as a conker. Do you think a winter in England could scorch him to that shade?’

‘His complexion is not the work of one season. I believe Mr Forster has been away from England for much longer than that.’ I had continued to study Mrs Fairwood closely as we spoke. She was struggling to keep her composure, her eyes set upon her shoes. But she had lifted them once, when I mentioned Italy, her gaze drawn to the globe standing in the corner of the library. I remembered how she had toyed with it two days before, pretending very hard not to listen to my conversation with Sally.

People give themselves away at such moments. I have seen men at the gaming table concentrate so closely upon their opponents’ game that they let their own wrists drop, revealing their hand. Mrs Fairwood had been turning the globe upon its stand, her fingers spanning the Atlantic. Back and forth between England and the colonies.

Had Forster truly spent three years on a Grand Tour? Or had it been seven years on a plantation somewhere, labouring under the burning sun? That would give any man a dark complexion. It would make even a short, small-boned gentleman strong enough to carry a stag upon his shoulders for two miles – if it did not kill him first.

‘You are speaking in riddles, sir,’ Aislabie complained, but he sounded less confident.

‘Forster knows the pathways between Studley and Fountains Hall. He has explored and sketched the water gardens. He knows the workings of the house and the estate and may come and go as he wishes. He knows when the servants retire, and when Mr Hallow is ordered up on the moors to hunt for poachers, away from the deer park. And last night, when we retired to our chambers, he rode out into the estate, untroubled by your patrols. What time did he leave, would you say? Past eleven, was it not?’

Aislabie nodded, thinking hard now.

‘The ride to Fountains Hall would take no more than a quarter hour, even in the dark. I’ll wager my life he didn’t return to Fountains until much later. My guess is that he attacked Sam first and left him to die by the river. Then he went to Mr Sneaton’s cottage and forced him to give up the ledger.’

‘But why would he do such a monstrous thing? I offered him patronage not two days ago. He will be working with Mr Doe on the follies this summer.’

Mrs Fairwood twisted in her seat, her face flooded with dismay. ‘Is that true?’ she breathed.

‘Of course. He’s a talented young man.’

Tears sprang in her eyes. She looked away, hurriedly, to the empty grate.

‘No, you have it all wrong, Hawkins,’ Aislabie said, emphatically. ‘Forster’s entire future rests upon my goodwill.’

‘I don’t believe he is thinking very much of the future,’ I replied. ‘More of the past. He does not want or need your money or your patronage. All he wants, sir, is revenge.’

Aislabie sighed heavily. Even now, he did not want to believe it. ‘Then why kill poor Jack?’

‘Because last night he learned that the South Sea ledger was in Mr Sneaton’s possession. He also knew that Sam could betray his identity at any moment. He forced Sneaton to give him the ledger, and then he killed him. It was the book he wanted, not the man. By destroying the ledger, he destroyed your great dream of returning to power. You are the focus of a burning hatred, Mr Aislabie. He wants to see you suffer. He wants you to lose
everything
that is precious to you.’ I glanced at Mrs Fairwood.

Aislabie shook his head, mystified. ‘But he is such a gentle soul.’

‘An act, I am sure. I believe something terrible happened to him – something connected to the South Sea Scheme. Perhaps his family was ruined.’

‘This is not just!’ Mrs Fairwood cried. ‘You accuse an honest gentleman of murder, without giving him the chance to defend himself. Where is your proof, Mr Hawkins? Burned skin and gold buttons? Fie.’

‘Quite so,’ Aislabie agreed. ‘There are too many “perhapses” and “I’ll wagers” to this story for my liking. And how could Forster carry those stags through the park? His arm’s broken, for heaven’s sake.’