A Death at Fountains Abbey (42 page)

I sat back, drawing deep on my pipe. Annie was watching me closely, picking at her long fingers. If her son had told the truth, Forster would have been arrested. Kitty and I would have been spared that terrible night at the abbey, and Bagby would be alive. But as far as the world was concerned, Forster and Sneaton had died through accident, and Bagby was a suicide. Wattson couldn’t stand trial unless we unravelled an entire web of lies, and in the end, what good would it serve? He would be transported, if he were lucky. More likely hanged. The Gills would be driven from their home.

In any case, this was not for me to decide.

‘I could kill you,’ Sam said, softly.

Wattson raised his head. His mother snatched up a knife, holding it ready.

‘Not now,’ Sam expanded. ‘Somewhere quiet. When you wasn’t expecting it.’ He skewered Wattson with a black-eyed stare. One heartbeat. Two. ‘But you was protecting your family.’

He rose swiftly, taking us all by surprise. ‘I ever need you, you’re mine. You ever cross me, you’re dead.’

He held out his hand.

Wattson – after a moment’s hesitation – reached out and took it. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Sam nodded, satisfied. He looked just like his father.

Chapter Thirty

I wanted to see the moors one last time before we left: I doubted I would ever return to Studley again. I guided Athena up the cottage path and out towards the open wild.

‘Hall’s that way,’ Sam said, hoicking his thumb down the hill.

‘I want to show you something. Thank you for not killing Wattson.’

‘No profit in it. You’re welcome,’ he added.

The weather had turned warm. It was almost May, and there was a feel of summer to the air. The grouse were less timid this time: I spotted a few heads poking up from the heather. A black and white bird with a long black crest darted across our path. ‘Look.’ I tapped Sam’s arm. ‘A lapwing.’

‘What did you want to show me?’

‘All this.’ I gestured about me. ‘The moors.’

‘Waste of land. No cover. Where’s the houses? Rubbish.’

I gave up. ‘There might be some carrion up here. New bones to add to your collection. Rabbit, grouse. Maybe even a fox or a sheep’s head.’

He dropped from his horse and hurried out into the heather.

We spent a good hour rambling across the moors in search of bones. For once, Sam forgave the country for being
empty
and
worthless
and became almost a boy again, hunting eagerly through the bracken for dead animals. We collected his finds in a sack and started back to Studley Hall.

‘I’ve spoken with Kitty,’ I said, bowing across Athena’s neck to avoid a low branch reaching across the road. ‘You’re welcome to return home with us to the Cocked Pistol.’ We had decided to delay our trip to the Continent, now that it was not needed. Home shone like a beacon in both our minds: the shop, Moll’s coffeehouse, our own bed. ‘Kitty will put some money aside for your studies. Do you still wish to become a surgeon?’

Sam was silent for a long time, even for him. He wouldn’t look at me, staring off down the valley instead. ‘I’m a Fleet,’ he said, at last.

I was surprised. I’d been sure this would please him, that it was what he wanted more than anything. ‘Why not think about it on the ride home? That’s five days to consider the matter.’

And so we left it at that.

We spent one last night at Studley House. Metcalfe had already returned home to Baldersby to spend time with his father, but with a promise to visit the shop the first moment he arrived in London. ‘Late September,’ he said, ‘if I’m well.’ And then he put in an order for a couple of whores’ dialogues from the shop, which Kitty promised to send up in some discreet fashion.

Mr Gatteker cared nothing for discretion, and spent a good half hour asking about our
curious
titles over supper. ‘Mrs Gatteker is excessively voracious.’ A pause. ‘
For books
.’

Mr Aislabie was less appalled by this conversation than one might expect, and I’m convinced he ordered a few items for himself, under Gatteker’s name. He was glad to see us go though: we were too much of a reminder of Mrs Fairwood, long returned to Lincoln but still haunting his thoughts. In truth we would have left days before if Sam had been strong enough to travel.

We played cards, and I lifted a further thirty pounds from the Aislabies. I’d earned it, and they could afford it. I distributed some of it about the servants and in particular Sally Shutt, Francis Pugh, William Hallow, and Mrs Mason. Hallow said I would dance with the angels in heaven, which sounded agreeable. Mrs Mason packed some extra
bottles of claret in with our baggage.

Sam slunk off on his own to say goodbye to Sally. He’d bought her a ribbon, or to be more precise, he had stolen one of Kitty’s. Sally must have liked it, as he came back an hour later with a certain swagger in his step.

There was a quiet moment that final evening when I stepped out into the park to smoke a pipe and watch the deer grazing beneath the beech tree. The sun was setting, the sky a glorious red. The air was fresh and warm, and, as I stood upon the steps, I felt a promise of better days ahead. The water trough stood on its hillock, looking for ever like a tomb. But it felt as though Jack Sneaton’s spirit had moved on: God willing to a happier place.

A rustle of skirts behind me. Lady Judith, in a cornflower blue gown that matched her clever eyes. ‘What a splendid evening.’ She put a gloved hand upon my arm. ‘My husband is too proud to thank you. I wish I could tell him
all
you have done on his behalf.’ We had said nothing to him of my midnight rendezvous with Mrs Fairwood.

‘Does he still hunt for the ledger?’

A half smile.

I lowered my voice. ‘Did you speak with Metcalfe?’ I’d suggested that he might be able to make a few discreet enquiries about Elizabeth Aislabie. Most likely Mrs Fairwood had been lying, but there were one or two paths he might explore.

‘He has promised to investigate, quietly. He blames himself for all of this, you know.’

‘Metcalfe?’

‘It’s his nature.’

Three words, and a depth of sadness beneath them.

‘We are lucky, are we not?’ I said. ‘To be blessed with sanguine temperaments.’

‘We are, Thomas.’ She leaned closer, brought her lips to my ear. ‘We
are
.’

We left just before dawn, Kitty at my side, Sam upon the opposite bench with his back to the horses. Pugh took us as far as Ripon, where we’d hired a coach, paid for by the queen, who was – at present – feeling generous. I’d written to let her know that the ledger was in my possession and that Aislabie would trouble her no longer. I had not added that I intended to keep the ledger to ensure she did not force me on another mission, or threaten to hang Kitty for murder. So for now she was grateful, and I intended to make the most of her largesse.

The roads were improved with the good weather, and we travelled with open windows, the scent of fresh grass and cow dung wafting through the carriage.

‘Stinks,’ Sam muttered, the boy from St Giles, where weaker men fainted from the noisome air. A magnificent pair of antlers rested on the seat next to him – an eccentric memento from his trip. I was certain I’d seen them last hanging in the great hall at Studley. I whiled away a good half hour wondering how he’d smuggled them out.

Kitty and I drank a bottle of wine and made each other laugh all the way to Blyth, where we planned to rest for the night.

‘You are yourself again,’ she said, as I helped her from the carriage.

I kissed her, not sure if this were true, or even what it meant.

The innkeeper sent boys out to collect our baggage. Sam watched them with the suspicious eyes of a thief. ‘I know everything in them bags,’ he called after them. He snatched his sack of carrion treasures from the hands of a younger boy, eyes burning like a demon. He had boiled down the bones and planned to display them when he returned home – wherever that might be – a grouse, two rabbits, a badger’s skull, and the antlers. I could pretend this was simply his inquisitive mind at play; the questing, questioning spirit that made him want to become a surgeon. But there was more to Sam Fleet than that. Dark and light, with no promise of which would triumph, in the end.

The innkeeper was offended. ‘My boys are honest, sir. Please tell your valet not to worry.’

‘He’s not my valet,’ I said, following Sam inside. ‘He’s my brother.’

Epilogue

June, 1728
Charles Towne, in the Province of Carolina

Charlotte d’Arfay walks down the cobbled path to the harbour, holding her son James by the hand. They have come to see the great ship arrived from England. She walks slowly in the heat, sweat glistening on her brow, skirts clinging to her long legs. There will be a thunderstorm later, she can feel it in the air. She puts a hand to her stomach and wonders about her baby. She would like a daughter this time, after two boys, but will not tempt fate with wishes.

If she could wish for anything, she would ask for her mother to return home safely from England. She knows in her heart this won’t happen. She has received no word in over six months. The trip remains a mystery. Charlotte’s mother has always been a private woman, not given to dramatic gestures or impulsive acts. What could be so important that she must leave her home and head for England, abandoning her family and her friends? Why would she travel so far, in such poor health?

Charlotte suspects she will never see her mother again, not in this life. But still she comes down to the harbour whenever a ship arrives, and watches the passengers as they clamber on to dry land.

It is too hot for holding hands. James runs ahead along the path, so like his father it makes her smile. She’s glad Christopher has decided to sell his commission and leave the army. Now the family can settle permanently in Charles Towne. She has designs upon a plot of land on Chalmers Street. Christopher will need persuading: he lost the d’Arfay fortune to the South Sea Scheme, and it has made him cautious with money. Charlotte teases her husband, but in truth she loves his steadiness and his good sense. Better a careful man than some feckless gambler, over fond of liquor and low company. Thank God she did not marry one of those devils.

The passengers are being rowed to shore in small boats. She is close enough now to see the relief on their faces. Dry land at last. James waves to them as they stagger up the harbour steps, bodies used to the sway of the sea. Her heart lifts when she spies a woman of middling age wearing a green hood. But it’s not her mother.

‘Can we go there, Mama?’ James is pointing at the ship – an English galley with a red ensign drooping in the humid air.

She smiles, indulging him. ‘You wish to go aboard?’

‘Aye, and sail to England!’

She laughs, and ruffles his hair. They have no reason to go to England. Christopher’s family disowned him when he lost his estate. And she has no relations there.

Charlotte’s gaze skims over the ship. For a moment she feels the world tilt about her, as if she were on the ocean. She is very small, younger even than James. A white sail soars like a cliff above her head. The boards creak beneath her feet, and the wind tugs at her hair. Her clothes are damp and smell of salt water. She sees her own tiny fist stretched out in front of her, clutching on to a rope. Her mother is there, guiding her steps.

She shakes her head, and the vision is gone. Charlotte has never sailed on a galley. She has never crossed the ocean. She was born here in Carolina.

But sometimes she dreams of water, and sometimes she dreams of fire.

The baby stirs and kicks. She draws James’s head to her belly so he can feel it. He giggles, then pulls away and races back up the path, away from the harbour. Charlotte follows him, fanning herself in the heat.

Historical Note

I’m happy to report that there were no murders at Fountains Abbey or Studley Hall in 1728 – at least, not to my knowledge. However, the story is based in part on real characters, incidents, and situations. Most of this information came from fascinating estate records held in the West Yorkshire Archives. It was here that I discovered the wonderful and tragic Metcalfe Robinson, John Simpson’s desperate demands for payment, and Mrs Mason’s kitchen accounts. I also encountered John Aislabie himself through his letters – complaining about John Messenger, voicing suspicions about the Gill family, obsessing over his horses, and arguing over the price of everything. (‘The prices of the yeiws were most extravagante and I do not know what you mean by four pounds for Garden Seeds’.)

So, for those who are curious about the facts and stories behind the novel, here are some notes, followed by a list of the real characters in the book, and a description where possible of what happened to them next.

‘Elizabeth’ Aislabie and the fire on Red Lion Square

In January 1701 a fire tore through John Aislabie’s London home. His wife Anne died in the blaze. Their baby son William was saved when a servant threw him from a high window. Sisters Jane and Mary also survived. A third and youngest daughter died in the fire with her mother. Sadly, I could find no reference to her name. She’s not mentioned in the family tree that now hangs in Fountains Hall, or on the plaque above the family vault in Ripon cathedral. I chose to call her Elizabeth as Aislabie had both an aunt and a sister of that name.