A Death at Fountains Abbey (40 page)

As I gazed into the fire, I realised that this shadow had now dissolved away. I had offered up my life freely, and Death had not taken it.

The debt was paid. I was free.

‘She saved my life,’ Sam murmured from the bed, so softly I thought he was dreaming.

He meant Kitty, presumably.

‘Sheet.’

This was elliptical, even for him. Later, Kitty told me she had thrown the sheet over him when Forster burst through the door. Sam had lain still, pretending to be dead, while Forster and Kitty fought. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t even cry out for help.

‘Forster’s dead,’ I told him. ‘He fell from the abbey tower.’

He grunted, pleased. ‘Wattson?’

‘He wasn’t there. But I know where to find him.’ I had puzzled it out on my walk from Fountains Hall, who Thomas Wattson really was, and where I would find him. ‘I’ll deal with him.’

‘Wait for me.’

I thought about this. Wattson didn’t know I had unmasked him, and if I spoke with Metcalfe no one else would, either. ‘As you wish. We’ll ride out together when you’re strong enough.’

He soon fell asleep again. I sat with him as the sun rose, listening to the crackle of the fire, and marvelling that we were all safe. A blackbird began to sing, sweet and clear in the morning air.

I rose, and stretched, and went to tell Mrs Fairwood that her brother was dead.

The next morning I found Lady Judith sitting alone at breakfast, wearing her distracting breeches. She had already taken a long ride through the estate and said she felt much the better for it.

‘How does your wife fare?’

‘Well, I think. She is dressing her hair. Your husband?’

She sighed. ‘He is in his study, dealing with correspondence. It is best he remains busy. He’ll recover, in time. We all will, I suppose.’ She glanced at Sneaton’s empty chair. ‘It will help when that wretched woman has left the county.’

I lowered my fork. ‘She’s still here?’

‘Not at Studley, by God! She stays at the Oak – won’t leave until her brother is buried. Can you believe that devil will lie buried in consecrated ground? I should not be surprised if the earth boils around his coffin in protest.’ She buttered a piece of toast. ‘Speaking of such
grave
matters . . . I spied a great mound of earth by the lake this morning.’

I coughed, and pretended to search for my pipe. ‘Indeed?’

‘
Indeed.
It looked as though someone had dug a hole, and then filled it in again.’

I fumbled for my pouch of tobacco. ‘How curious. By the lake, you say?’

‘Yes. Next to the sphinx. Next to the
queen’s claws
. Oh, do stop fiddling with your pipe, Mr Hawkins.’ She acted displeased, but there was a glint of humour in those wide blue eyes of hers. ‘I hear that you and my nephew set out for the gardens last night with a couple of shovels. Tell me, sir – if I searched your rooms, might I find a certain green ledger?’

‘Absolutely not!’ I cried. Not unless she reached up Kitty’s petticoat and found her underpocket.

Lady Judith gave me a sidelong look. ‘I don’t suppose my husband will ever return to office.’

‘He did blackmail the queen.’

‘In which case,’ she said, her eyes still fixed upon mine, ‘I suppose the ledger is of little value to him. And it would present no danger, either, as long as the contents remain secret.’

I inclined my head. I had already decided not to reveal the details of the ledger. Not to save Mr Aislabie’s reputation, not for all the world. But to stop a war – for this I would stay silent. While it was tempting to publish and see the government and the royal family destroyed by scandal, the attendant chaos would almost certainly tear the country apart. At the very least it would give France and the Stuarts the spur to attempt another invasion.

If Kitty had died at the abbey, I think I might have done it. In my grief, I would have let England bleed with me. Hundreds would have died, maybe thousands. We might have King James III upon the throne, instead of George II. And Forster – somewhere in the deepest furnace of hell – would have had the most spectacular revenge.

But Kitty lived, and kept the ledger safe. Strange to think that, for a few brief moments, I held the nation’s destiny in my hands. I still wonder, sometimes, whether I made the right decision.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Three days later, Francis Forster was buried in the graveyard at Kirkby Malzeard. The parson gave a short sermon, speaking of a young gentleman with a generous heart and prodigious talent, who would now fulfil his promise building palaces in Heaven. I closed my eyes and prayed instead for Jack Sneaton and Martin Bagby.

At the graveside, Mrs Fairwood sobbed with a desperate grief, drawing sympathetic glances from those who stood with her. There were rumours spreading about the neighbourhood that she and Mr Forster had been engaged to marry. Those who knew the truth gritted their teeth and said nothing. The world must think Forster had died through accident, and so his crimes were buried along with his body.

Lady Judith attended the funeral on behalf of the Aislabie family. She wore a gown of orange silk with a black quilted petticoat, and a straw hat trimmed with an orange ribbon. ‘Poor Mr Forster did so love his bright clothes,’ she said, when people commented upon her gay attire. ‘I thought I should honour him.
Do not tell a soul
,’ she murmured in my ear as we walked from the grave. ‘But I am dressed as the flames of Hell.’

I was helping her into the carriage when Mrs Fairwood rushed forward, holding a note in her grey-gloved hand. ‘Lady Judith,’ she cried, loud enough that others would hear. ‘I beg you would give this to your husband.
Only to him.
Please, madam.’

Lady Judith had already settled herself into the furthest corner of the carriage, but Mrs Fairwood had placed a foot upon the step, and half the neighbourhood was watching. With a great sigh, she leaned forward and took the note. Then she sat back, staring straight ahead.

I joined her in the carriage and we rode back towards Studley. The note lay upon her knee. ‘I should burn it,’ she said.

We rode for another mile.

‘Damn the woman,’ she muttered, and broke the seal.

We passed beneath a tunnel of trees, the air turning cold in the shade. As we burst back out into the glorious sunshine, she handed me the note.

Sir—

Your daughter lives. I shall wait for you at Midnight, at the banqueting house. Come alone and you may learn the Truth.

E.F.

Lady Judith had turned her back to me, her hand gripping the side of the carriage. I could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was crying silently. If she gave her husband the note he would have to meet with Mrs Fairwood, who would doubtless spin more of her insidious lies. But if Lady Judith said nothing, and it were true . . .

We returned to the house in silence. ‘Not a word, please sir,’ she said, as she stepped from the carriage. ‘I beg you. Not even to your wife.’

We spoke no more of it until that evening. We sat together at supper, Mr Aislabie at the other end of the table, trying his best to charm Kitty. There were grey shadows under his eyes, and he had the look of a man recovering from a fever. There were moments when his gaze would flicker to Kitty, and I knew he was thinking of Mrs Fairwood and the dream of his lost daughter. Moments too when the conversation turned to the estate, and although no one dared mention Sneaton, his spirit seemed to weigh upon the room. The meal was not finished when Aislabie made his apologies and left the table, complaining of a headache.

Lady Judith put a hand upon my arm as we left the dining room. She guided me to the snug withdrawing room next door. There were no candles lit, and I could only just glimpse her outline in the gloom. ‘I cannot tell him,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot let her torture him any more.’

I waited in silence, knowing what she would ask, and knowing that I would say yes.

The gardens were spectral and strange in the dark – a thousand shades of black. I could hear the roar of the cascade somewhere to my left, and the rustle of night animals in the bushes. The wind tore through the upper branches of the highest trees, and dense clouds covered the moon. I lifted my lantern and took the high path to the banqueting house.

She stood alone in the middle of the coffin lawn, the grey hood of her riding gown shielding her face, the cape rippling against the wind. Six flaming torches lit the scene, one placed at each corner of the coffin.

It was just as her brother had imagined it, except that she was alive and he was dead.

I stepped forward, holding the lantern high.

Her face fell as she saw me. ‘Where’s Aislabie?’

‘I have come on his behalf.’

She gave a hollow laugh. ‘And does he know this? No matter. I will not speak with you.’

‘Very well.’ I turned and began to walk away.

‘Murderer!’ she screamed at my back.

I swung the lantern about.

She flung back her hood, her dark hair loose about her face. ‘You killed my brother!’

I laughed, incredulous. ‘Your brother tried to kill my wife—’

‘Liar! You threw him from the tower. And now he is dead, he cannot defend himself against your foul slander. But I know. I
know.’
She tore at her chest, as if she would rip out her heart.

I almost pitied her in that moment – the last surviving member of her family, alone and raging at the world. Defending, in death, the brother she had feared so much in life, and who caused her years of torment. But she had brought this final torture upon herself. ‘Two men are dead because you came to Studley. Will you not redeem yourself, madam? Will you not tell the truth at last?’

She threw me a mock-innocent look. ‘But Mr Sneaton
fell
. Everyone says so. And poor Mr Bagby killed himself.’

It began to rain, softly.

‘Elizabeth Aislabie. Is she alive?’ I snapped.

She laughed again, then glanced at the nearest torch, the flame pulling and dancing in the wind. She took a piece of paper from her pocket and touched it to the flame. It caught light at once, turning her face orange in the glow. ‘That was Molly Gaining’s true confession. She gave it to Francis the night before she died. I would have given it to Aislabie, if he’d come as I asked.’

I watched the last fragments burn, orange embers turning to grey ash. Some floated to the ground, while others spun high into the air, caught in the wind. Was it real? Or another counterfeit?

She brushed the soot from her fingers. ‘It was such a
tender
note. Elizabeth has grown into a fine young woman, with two children of her own. Was it a boy and a girl? Two boys?’ She gave a little shrug. ‘I can’t quite recall.’

The rain fell harder, heavy drops hitting the dry grass between us. ‘So she lives in one of the colonies. You must remember where.’

‘I’m afraid those details weren’t in the letter. Francis knew them. Where she lived, her new name. Now, he did mention that to me, once . . . Clara, Catherine?’ She gave a sly smile.

‘She will come forward herself, no doubt.’

‘Oh, the girl knows nothing of her true heritage. And even if she did . . .’ Her laugh sent a shiver through me. ‘Do you think Mr Aislabie would believe her, without proof? After he believed in
me
? Imagine what a cruel fate that would be – if he rejected his real daughter.’

‘I think you know a good deal about cruelty, madam. If any of this is true, you have separated a father and daughter for ever. May God judge you upon it.’ I turned to leave.

‘I shall write to him!’ she called after me. ‘You think to protect him, but I shall write to him again. I shall keep writing, and one day, one of my letters will reach him. And he will always wonder, for the rest of his life. It will torment him. It will
kill
him.’

I turned back to face her. The torches were blowing out in the wind and the rain, flames sizzling as they spluttered and died. Her wet hair clung to her face, but she kept her hood down. ‘You will not write to him,’ I said.

She drew back a pace. ‘I have a dagger,’ she warned.

I smiled at her. ‘I am not Sam’s guardian. He has a father: the captain of a gang of thieves.’ I folded my arms. ‘Someone hurt his wife, once. Many years ago. A gentleman, and a brothel keeper. He bound them together, back to back. And then he set them on fire.’ I paused. ‘Imagine if he found out that his only son nearly died – because of you.’

Her eyelids fluttered. ‘You . . . you would not.’

I stared at her through the rain.

She shivered, pulling her drenched cloak about her shoulders. The last of the torches fizzled out, leaving only my lantern alight.

‘Go home, Mrs Fairwood,’ I said.