A Death at Fountains Abbey (41 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

It was another week before Sam was well enough to ride out to Kirkby moors. In all this time, Thomas Wattson had not once come to work on the stables. Simpson said he’d given him up as a lost cause. ‘Shame. Worked hard, that one. And he had a talent with a chisel. Worth ten of these bloody wastrels.’ His men exchanged amused, unspoken thoughts about this, over his head. Simpson was the sort of master who never praised a man until he was out of hearing, or dead.

As Sam recovered, Kitty and I watched for signs of any permanent damage to his mind or his body. At the very least, I expected him to be more cautious, and less given to jumping out of windows. Whether this was the case was hard to tell, as he was not yet strong enough to leap about in his usual way. A direct enquiry about his health was rewarded with a shrug, or – if he were feeling voluble – an irritable grunt.

Kitty would have joined us on our visit to the moors, but she had already promised to take a ride about the estate with Lady Judith. It transpired that Mrs Aislabie had several pairs of
riding breeches for ladies
,
as she termed them. An etiquette had formed around these garments, in consultation with Mr Aislabie: they were not to be worn about the house, and were designed solely for the benefit of touring the estate to some specific purpose. Lady Judith had become expert at finding a new
specific purpose
each morning just after breakfast, and had given Kitty two pairs of breeches as a gift, not that she could ever wear them in public without being arrested as some sort of
hermaphroditic invert
.

So I rode out with Sam. I need not trouble you with our conversation, as there was none. I was content to let Athena set the pace, and as we did not encounter any burst deer guts, or murderous architects, we muddled along very well. I patted her flank. ‘I shall miss you, when I go home.’

Athena pricked up her ears, and gave a soft snort.

‘D’you see that, Sam?’ I said. ‘
Conversation
.’

Sam curved his lips. We continued on in silence, until we reached the Gills’ cottage.

‘
Remember who you are
.’ That had been Sneaton’s warning to Wattson, when he had dared to ask about Simpson’s bill. I’d assumed Sneaton was reminding Wattson of his lowly position as a journeyman, but the warning had been more precise than that.
Remember who you are, Thomas Gill. Annie Gill’s boy.

Sneaton had told me the Gills had nine children. I’d counted eight when I’d visited the cottage. Of course the ninth might have been anywhere, and there had been no reason to think he had been sitting at the table, dangling his baby sister on his knee. Should I have noticed how easy she seemed with him? She’d giggled with joy when he bounced her up and down, and screamed when he set her on the floor.

I suppose I should at least have been suspicious when he turned his horse about and rode back to the cottage, presumably to give a warmer farewell to his family. He’d claimed that little Janey had stolen the coins from his pocket, but he had not been paid a farthing since Christmas. And even if there had been a single coin left to steal, would he have been so easy about its theft?

Once I had begun to consider the idea, other thoughts struck me. How he had volunteered to ride out with us, and had seemed so pleased by the journey. How he shared Annie Gill’s high cheekbones, and her tall frame. How he’d known about the poachers’ track beneath Gillet Hill, where we had found Sam. Not that the Gills were poachers,
no indeed.

The dogs began barking before we saw the cottage. ‘It’s hidden in that copse,’ I said, pointing towards a cluster of oaks and elms ahead. ‘Won’t see it until we’re hard upon it.’

Sam snuffed in approval. His father’s den was buried deep in a maze of streets, surrounded by a square of taller houses. No one reached it without being seen by at least a half-dozen of Fleet’s men.

By the time we entered the copse, three of the younger Gills had climbed into the branches. They whispered over our heads as we passed beneath them. The oldest one – a boy of about nine or ten – made a hissing sound between his teeth. Sam twisted in his saddle, and with impressive aim threw a stone through the branches, hitting the boy squarely on his forehead. He gave a yelp, then began to cry.

‘
Sam!??
’

‘Lesson.’ He lifted his voice, so the boy could hear. ‘You going to hiss, keep out of range.’

‘They’re only children, Sam.’

He gave me his
How have you survived this long?
look, and slid from his saddle.

Annie Gill stood in the doorway, pinning up her grey hair in honour of our arrival. Little Janey clung to her skirts, sucking her thumb. ‘Gentlemen,’ Annie said, warily, as we approached.

‘Mistress Gill. I’m here to speak with your son Thomas.’

She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. ‘He’s not here.’

‘Then fetch him, please. We’ll wait.’ I put my hand lightly upon the hilt of my sword.

She drew herself up tall. ‘I’m not afraid of you, sir.’

‘Then you’ll see no harm in sending for him, will you?’

The cottage was quieter today: the baby was fast asleep, and the rest of the Gills were outside somewhere, including Jeb. We sat at the rough table to wait. Janey toddled up to Sam and gazed at him with the unconditional adoration tiny children give to older ones. She raised up her arms. ‘Lift.’

Sam pulled her on to his lap, so that she was facing him. ‘My name’s Sam,’ he said, bumping her on his knees with each word. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Janey.’

‘How many sisters you got, Janey? Can you count them?’

‘Three.’

‘Only three?’ Sam held out his hand, stretched his fingers wide. ‘I got five. One, two, three, four five.’ He counted off each finger in turn, and tapped his thumb to her nose for the fifth.

Janey giggled.

‘I’ve a sister your age. She’s called Bea.’

‘Bea!’ Janey yelled at the top of her lungs, then started buzzing.

The two of them chattered away happily, while I watched in astonishment. By the time Wattson had arrived (for that is how I still thought of him), Sam was tilting his head forward so that Janey could poke her finger into his curls. Wattson frowned, and plucked her from Sam’s lap. After much wailing, she was persuaded to toddle outside and find her siblings.

Wattson joined us at the table while his mother sewed by the fire, listening to every word.

‘Glad to see you well, Master Fleet,’ Wattson said, gruffly.

‘No thanks to you,’ I said.

He rubbed his thumb across his palm. At least he had the decency to look ashamed.

‘Do you think he had a choice?’ Annie said, without looking up from her stitching. ‘It’s not
his
fault.’

‘Yes it is, Mother,’ Wattson muttered.

Annie didn’t hear him. ‘If you’re looking to blame someone, start with John Aislabie. Painting us all as thieves and ruining our name.
Never trust a Gill.
How was Thom supposed to find honest work?’

‘So you changed your name.’

‘Didn’t want to,’ Wattson said. ‘But all the best work’s up at Studley. Mr Sneaton said I could work on the stables if I took a different name. Said a man should be judged by what he does, not who he is.’ He looked away.

‘How did Forster find out?’

‘That devil!’ Annie stabbed her needle into the cloth. ‘May he burn in hell for ever.’

‘There’s a few fellows that know I’m a Gill,’ Wattson said. ‘Them that grew up hereabouts. And there’s a girl, works up at Fountains Hall. We were close, for a time.’

Annie snorted something under her breath.

‘Forster threatened to reveal who you were.’

Wattson nodded. ‘I would have been thrown off the estate on the spot. But it weren’t just that—’

‘And he’s still owed his last quarter pay,’ Annie said loudly, trying to cover his words. ‘Wouldn’t have seen a farthing.’

‘Mother—’

‘No more, love,’ she warned. ‘It’s not your fault—’

‘Will you rest?’ His voice boomed through the cramped cottage. ‘It’s
my
story and I shall tell it true – here if nowhere else.’ He glanced at Sam. ‘I owe him that.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I wrote the letters.’

Even Sam was surprised by this. ‘First two?’

‘I was angry. Kirkby moor has been common land since . . .’ he gestured helplessly.

‘Since God created it,’ Annie finished.

‘All Mr Aislabie does is ride about, pretending he’s king of the bloody place. It’s not right. He’s made poachers of us folk for doing what our families have done for hundreds of years. I shouldn’t have made all them threats, but I wanted him to take us seriously . . .’

‘Well.’ I pulled out my pipe and tobacco. ‘He certainly did that.’

‘They was good threats,’ Sam nodded approvingly.

I lit my pipe. ‘And Forster found out? How? The girl at Fountains, again?’ Heaven save us from vengeful lovers.

He stared at his scarred stonemason’s hands. ‘We were set to marry. But when I told her I was a Gill she said she weren’t marrying into a den of thieves.’

‘I shall have words with Jenny Flynn, the next time we meet,’ Annie promised. ‘
More than words
.’

That sounded fair to me, though Wattson looked pained about it. Still in love with her, poor devil. ‘Forster came up to me one morning, out by Mr Sneaton’s cottage, said his horse were lame and would I help him. I’d seen him about the estate so I thought nothing of it. We went into the woods and he drew his pistol, aimed it square at my chest. He said he knew I were a Gill, and that I wrote the letters. And if I didn’t do what he asked, he’d see me punished for it.’

‘Worse than that,’ Annie said. She rose and joined us at the table. ‘Tell them the rest, love.’

He curled his fists at the memory. ‘He thought I was like him, that I was after revenge. But all I wanted was for Mr Aislabie to
listen
. I said I wouldn’t help him. And he says,
That’s your choice, Gill.
Then he says:
Your parents must have known – I’ll see them thrown in gaol for it. And how will your brothers and sisters survive then? They’ll starve to death if they don’t sell themselves, won’t they?
He said he’d make sure Jenny was punished too, for not coming forward about the letters. She could be transported for it, he said. Then he told me what they did to young maids on the boats. Boys too . . .’ He shuddered. ‘If it were just me, I would have stood my ground. But he would have ripped this family apart, without a thought.’

Worse than that, I thought. He would have enjoyed it.

‘It don’t make it right, what I did. I know that. But he didn’t ask for much, not at first. Just to keep an eye on Mrs Fairwood and let him know when she left the house. He liked her to know he was watching her. And I left the sheep’s heart, with the note. I never thought . . .’

‘And the deer, with its fawn?’

He sank his head into his hands. ‘I don’t want to think of it. Makes me sick.’

‘Forster killed them, I suppose? And the stags?’

Wattson groaned, without dropping his hands. ‘He gave them names, as he slit their throats. He said:
This one’s Aislabie. This one’s Metcalfe. This one’s Mrs Fairwood.
He hated them all.’

‘Did you know Mrs Fairwood was his sister?’

He looked up, stupefied with horror. His mother poured him a mug of beer without a word. He wrapped his hands about it, but didn’t drink.

I took a long draw from my pipe. There seemed no point in asking him if he had helped carry the stags – no doubt he did. Three stags laid out to match the Robinson coat of arms, to sow confusion and to frighten Metcalfe. ‘And this was what you saw, Sam? Up at the banqueting house?’

‘I never saw you, Master Fleet,’ Wattson said. ‘And I’m very sorry. I should never have let him hurt you.’

‘No,’ I said, because here was the crux of the matter. ‘You should not. You let him lie there for hours.’

‘I thought he were dead. God help me. I didn’t know what to do. I had to go back to my post, guarding the house. I stood there in the dark . . . Dear Lord in Heaven, may I never know another night like it. Standing there with the rest of the men, all of ’em laughing because they thought it were some great joke, and they would be paid for it. And all the time I knew Forster had killed a boy, and I’d stood by and let him do it. God forgive me . . .’

‘Worse,’ Sam corrected. ‘You held me.’

Wattson hung his head. ‘I decided I would go to Mr Sneaton at dawn, and tell him everything. I was so ashamed. He’d taken a chance with me, and this was how I repaid him. But then I came to the cottage and you were there, sir, and there was blood . . . When I saw Forster, I knew he’d killed Mr Sneaton. And he just stood there on the steps, smirking.
Bastard
. I thought the least I could do was lead you to Gillet hill – and let God decide the rest.’