A Death at Fountains Abbey (8 page)

‘You know why, madam. Mr Aislabie asked the queen for help.’

Her brow crinkled. There were faint, permanent lines forming upon her forehead, I saw – and deeper ones about her mouth. She frowned a lot, furrowed her brow a lot. She would mar her good looks with her ill-temper. ‘Strange,’ she observed, ‘that he should still have such influence at court.’

It wasn’t influence; it was blackmail. A slim green ledger, filled with dangerous secrets.

‘Would the queen mind so very much if you failed in your task?’

‘She would – most certainly.’

‘You should leave, even so. Return to London. There is something evil about this place: I felt it the moment I arrived. Something in the atmosphere, an invisible mist that taints the air. One cannot help but breathe it in, like a poison. Can you not sense it?’ She lifted her hand, bending her wrist to show her veins, dark lines vivid against her pale skin. ‘If I cut myself now, I think my blood would run black with it.’

I could think of nothing to say.

And then she whispered, so quietly I could scarce hear the words. ‘It is not safe here. And I am so afraid, sir. So afraid of him.’

I stared at her in alarm. ‘You’re afraid of Mr Aislabie?’

‘No. No.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I do not feel well. The wine.’

She had barely touched her glass. ‘Mrs Fairwood—’

‘Please. I’m not myself. I must retire.’ She rose suddenly, and hurried to the door.

‘Perhaps
you
should leave, madam,’ I called after her. ‘Why not go home to Lincoln?’

She paused at the door, a gleam of longing in her eyes. She blinked, and it was gone. ‘I can’t leave. Not until I know for certain who I am.’

‘You doubt it?’

‘My head tells me that I am Elizabeth Aislabie. But my heart, Mr Hawkins . . . my heart still dares to hope that I am not.’

Chapter Five

It was past two o’clock when we sat down for dinner. Mrs Fairwood did not join us. Nor did the mysterious Metcalfe. I discovered this much about him – that he was Mr Aislabie’s nephew, that he was heir to a baronetcy, and that he kept the most peculiar hours. He had scarce left his room for the last three days.

‘Is he unwell?’

‘Yes,’ Lady Judith replied, at the exact moment her husband said, ‘No.’

‘I think the weather will hold,’ Lady Judith said, after an awkward pause. ‘We shall have our ride this afternoon, Mr Hawkins.’

Mr Aislabie frowned, and helped himself to some boiled goose.

There was no servant to attend us, which I preferred. I find the hovering uncomfortable, having not grown up with it. The dining room was in the west wing, behind Mr Aislabie’s study. It was long and narrow, and there was a cold draught about my ankles, but the food was very welcome. I was used to frequenting unpredictable chophouses, and had just spent six long weeks in a freezing Newgate cell. Luxury remained a pleasing novelty.

Sneaton was dining with us: another sign of his trusted position within the family. He was drinking soup from a silver porringer, his claw-like right hand struggling with the dainty handle. I had never seen so much silver tableware. I was quite tempted to steal a fork.

‘Your boy has been causing trouble,’ he said.

‘You’ve brought a servant with you?’ Lady Judith called down the table. A strong wind had chased off the clouds and the sun was pouring through the windows to her right. A beam of burning white light caught the lid of the soup tureen.

I blinked, dazzled. ‘Master Fleet is a gentleman’s son.’ Now there was a lie of extraordinary depth. I could almost hear James Fleet pissing himself with laughter from here. ‘I’m his guardian.’

‘He’s moved you to the east wing,’ Sneaton said, slurping his soup. ‘Insisted.’

‘The east wing?’ Lady Judith looked irritated. ‘It’s half-abandoned! Metcalfe has taken the only decent apartments on that side of the house.’

Sneaton shrugged, acknowledging the truth of it.

I took a piece of gammon and a spoonful of pickles. I should probably add a scattering of salad. Kitty was convinced it was an aid to the stomach. She was full of such questionable fancies. She served up so many leaves at our table it was a wonder I hadn’t transmogrified into a rabbit. Which reminded me of the fricasseed rabbit by Mr Sneaton’s elbow. He pushed it over, at my request.

‘I’ve spoken with Mrs Fairwood,’ I said to Aislabie, tucking my napkin into my cravat. ‘An extraordinary story.’

Aislabie sawed at his goose. ‘It is no story.’

‘A figure of speech. Is it true that she has refused any gifts or settlement?’

‘Hardly a suitable topic for the table,’ he admonished. ‘But yes – Mrs Fairwood asked Mr Sneaton to draw up a contract. She sought to prove that she has no designs upon that score. She will not take a single farthing from me, no matter how I press her.’

‘Your son will inherit Studley, I presume?’

‘Of course he will. Why, do you think because
you
are disinherited, that this is the common way of things? Yes, Mr Hawkins – I know your history! And were you not the queen’s man, I should not allow you through the door.’ He jabbed his knife at me. ‘I must say that it is vexing to me that you were left alone in my daughter’s company for so long. Pray do not impose upon her again in such an unseemly fashion.’

‘
John
,’ Lady Judith admonished. ‘I’m sure Mrs Fairwood was quite safe.’

‘Damn it, Judith – why must you call her that?’ Aislabie snapped. ‘Why not call her Elizabeth? Why not call her Lizzie?’ He looked at his secretary, and then his wife. ‘Why do you not believe me? Do you think I am such a fool that I cannot recognise my
own daughter
?’

Lady Judith sighed. Sneaton lowered his soup.

‘Can you not see?’ Aislabie pressed them. ‘This is God’s work! She is my gift, for all those years of suffering. All the injustice and cruelty I have faced.
My daughter has come home
! This house should be filled with
joy
. Why would you deny me this? Do I not deserve to be happy?’

‘Were we not happy before, John?’ Lady Judith asked, softly.

Aislabie did not hear her. He leaned across the table, pointing his knife at Sneaton. ‘Jack, you examined Elizabeth’s accounts – at her request. Fairwood left her three thousand pounds a year. There are no debts attached to the house in Lincoln. She has no need of my wealth, and no interest in it. You know she has offered many times to leave, rather than cause further discord.’

‘Yet here she remains,’ Lady Judith muttered into her glass.

‘My wife, and my most trusted friend,’ Aislabie marvelled, flinging his hands into the air. ‘What faith. What loyalty. And you, Hawkins – you have heard her story, you have gazed upon her countenance. Can you not see that she is an Aislabie?’

It was true that Mrs Fairwood’s eyes were dark brown, and her complexion a pale cream. But this would describe a goodly portion of the country. ‘She is a handsome woman,’ I said.

Aislabie grunted, as if that settled the matter.

‘I believe you have just recently come into a fortune yourself, Mr Hawkins,’ Sneaton said gruffly, with such an obvious urge to change the subject, it was almost comical. I must have looked perplexed, because he added, ‘from your wife?’

Ah, yes. The imaginary Mrs Hawkins. Kitty had inherited a large sum from Samuel Fleet, Sam’s uncle, and my old cellmate from the Marshalsea, along with his print shop, and an extravagantly broad collection of obscene literature. This fortune was in part the reason we had not yet married. Kitty feared I would gamble it all away which, to be fair, was a distinct possibility. She also feared I would grow bored and abandon her, or – God help us both – turn dull and respectable and never leave. In short, she had very little confidence in my better qualities, and far too much knowledge of my worst.

‘John inherited a fortune from me when we married,’ Lady Judith said, pouring another glass of wine. ‘Fifteen years in April.’ She raised her glass, prompting her husband to return the toast.

‘True.’ He winked at her. ‘Fifteen years of quiet, dutiful obedience. On my part.’

Lady Judith snorted with laughter.

I thought of Mrs Fairwood’s admission, that she had expected to loathe John Aislabie, but found she could not. He may have abused his power and robbed the nation, and yet . . . it was clear that he loved his wife. I worked out the years in my head. Anne had died twenty-seven years ago, leaving him with three young children. It would have been advisable to marry again, and swiftly. Instead he had waited thirteen years, until he met Judith. Which suggested that he had loved his first wife too – very much.

Sneaton had turned the conversation to the building project next to the house. John Simpson, their master stonemason, had submitted a fresh letter of complaint concerning his bill.

Aislabie rolled his eyes. ‘I would have you speak with him again, Sneaton. I will not pay a bill that does not tally. Tell him if he cannot supply us with the proper details, we shall hire Robert Doe to complete the job.’ He snatched at his glass and took a long draught. ‘I’m mightily tired of the whole wretched business. I’m quite tempted to abandon it.’

‘Oh, John – patience!’ Lady Judith scolded. ‘You know you will love the stables when they are done.’

Stables? The conversation continued about me as I puzzled over her meaning. The foundations for the new building suggested it would be twice the size of Studley Hall. But as Sneaton spoke of the stalls, and the grooms’ quarters, I began to realise my mistake. The men labouring outside were not constructing a grand new home for the Aislabies. They were building a grand new home for the Aislabies’
horses
.

‘How many do you keep?’ I asked, astonished.

‘Twenty,’ Aislabie replied. ‘Have Simpson send in his bill again, Sneaton. The books must tally before the next quarter—’

‘
Twenty horses
?’

‘Racehorses,’ Aislabie corrected. ‘The rest will remain in the old stables.’

Twenty racehorses. My God, the cost! ‘I thought it was your new home, sir.’

Aislabie was amused. ‘No, indeed. I shall build a grand palace down by the lake when the gardens are complete. Or else I shall buy Fountains Hall and the abbey, if I can persuade Mr Messenger to part with it.’

‘Mr Messenger is our closest neighbour,’ Lady Judith explained. ‘Ill-tempered, fat little thing. We are not on friendly terms.’

Aislabie muttered something under his breath. I caught the word
papist.

The servants were bringing in a fresh course when we heard a commotion at the front of the house, and then a scream – the deep howl of a man in agonising pain. Sneaton rose in alarm, holding on to the table for balance. A moment later Bagby entered the room. There was a distinct lack of concern on his face. ‘An accident, your honour,’ he drawled. ‘One of Simpson’s men.’

‘Another one,’ Aislabie tutted.

‘How bad?’ Sneaton asked.

‘His leg’s broken,’ Bagby replied, flatly.

Sneaton cursed under his breath. ‘Did you see a wound? Was the bone sticking out?’

Bagby looked disgusted. ‘I did not enquire, sir.’

Aislabie waved at the servants to set down the dishes. ‘Send for Mr Gatteker,’ he told Sneaton. ‘I’ll pay the fee.’

Bagby bowed to me. His features were bland, but counterweighted by a startlingly expressive face. At rest, it settled upon purse-lipped disapproval. Now he had ratcheted it to bulge-eyed indignation. ‘Your boy’s put himself in charge,
sir
. Ordering us all about.’

He led me through the house to the great hall, where a small crowd had gathered around the injured man. He had been carried inside on a stretch of oilcloth. His face was grey with shock, but he was sitting upright, which I took to be a good sign.

Sam had fixed a splint around the broken leg from the ankle to just above the knee, and was binding it with strips of linen. One of Simpson’s men held the splint in place. The linen was blotched with dried bloodstains, and I realised this was the sheeting used to cover the butchered deer. Better to use ruined sheets than waste fresh ones, I supposed, though it looked somewhat ghoulish.

I knelt down by the injured man’s feet and watched Sam work. He must have moved the bone back into alignment before setting the splint. My stomach clenched at the thought. No wonder we’d heard screaming.

Sam had confessed to me once that he should like to be a surgeon one day – not through any particular desire to help the sick, but because of his fascination with the mechanical properties of the body. He would spend hours poring over books of human anatomy, or sketching the connection of bone and muscle, or dissecting rats with a precise flick of his knife. Why Kitty refused to travel with him was a mystery.

‘Excellent work, Sam. Very neat.’

‘Connie.’

It took me a moment to remember Consuela, the old woman with the cloud of white hair who lived with Sam’s family on Phoenix Street. She had brought me back from the brink of death a few weeks ago, after I’d been forced to jump into the freezing Thames. I took from Sam’s reply – two syllables! inarguable progress! – that he had watched Connie make a splint, doubtless on more than one occasion. Sam’s father was a gang captain and perhaps the most dangerous villain in London. How many times had one of his men stumbled into the den with a black eye, or a broken jaw, or a knife wound? Quite an education for a young boy.