A Death at Fountains Abbey

Chapter Nine

I woke early, Kitty asleep beside me. I dozed for a time, happy she was there, then slid carefully from the bed. At home Kitty always rose before me, often by several hours. She had spent the last few days in a bone-rattling carriage, leaving at first light each morning in her race to reach me. I let the drapes close again around the bed. Let her rest.

I lifted the latch upon the shutters and drew them back as softly as I could. Dawn had arrived: the sky was growing lighter and the birds were singing in the trees outside the window. A party of tiny goldfinches were lined up along a branch, piping sweetly. I thought of my sister Jane: goldfinches were her favourite. I’d taught her all the bird calls when we were young, holding her hand as we walked through the woods near our home. I must return to Suffolk soon to visit her, and my father. When I’d been found guilty of murder, I’d thought the worry and the shame might kill him. I had known too that I had destroyed any chance Jane might have had of a suitable marriage. Would that change, now I was an angel, a miracle?Most likely not. The men of that neighbourhood knew me too well to believe in such a transformation.

I tapped my fingertips upon Sam’s door and counted to ten. Always best to give a boy of fourteen a moment before entering his bedchamber. But he was awake and dressed, sketching by candlelight.

‘Did you find the ledger?’ I whispered.

Sam shook his head, keeping his eyes upon the paper.

‘Did you search the library? The study?’

He lifted his chin.

‘Well, it’s a big house, it must be here somewhere. I’d be obliged if you would keep hunting, when it’s safe. Kitty’s here,’ I added.

Sam lowered his pencil and swung his legs off the bed. He stood up. ‘We should agree terms for my work.’

‘Oh. As you wish.’ I’d not considered the question of a fee, and he had never mentioned it before. But it was work: there was no denying that. I closed the door behind me, so that we might haggle without waking Kitty. We agreed upon the sum of two guineas. ‘And these,’ he added, gesturing to his clothes – a black coat and breeches, matched with a fawn waistcoat with embroidered pockets. I’d told Aislabie that Sam had lost his luggage on the road, and asked if we might borrow a suit. Bagby had brought it up last night – with a bill for six pounds. Borrowing, it seemed, was not in Mr Aislabie’s vocabulary, though extortion had slithered its way in.

The clothes had belonged to Aislabie’s son William as a boy. He would never need them again, grown up and living in London with his fortune and family. They fitted Sam’s slight frame far better than the coat and breeches I’d lent him, which now lay at the bottom of the bed, encrusted with a thick layer of mud.

‘What the devil have you done to my clothes?’ I picked them up, dismayed – and held them out for inspection. A year ago I would have declared this a tragedy. I’d had no idea how lucky I was to care only for such trifles. I scraped a flake of mud from my coat. ‘Where did you go last night? The pigsty?’

‘Sally will clean them.’

‘Yes, but she won’t like you for it.’

A slight blush tinged his cheeks. Not hard to guess the reason. I handed him a shilling. ‘Give her this for her trouble. She might forgive you.’

Kitty was still fast asleep, head buried in the pillow. I resisted the urge to wake her, closing the door behind me with the lightest click.

I walked down the sloping corridor, shoes in hand. The wallpaper was tattered in this part of the house and the whole wing had a neglected air. It could not be through lack of funds. Aislabie’s interests lay elsewhere, it seemed: in his horses and his gardens, and in other people’s land.

I thought I would explore while the house was sleeping. It would be wonderful, would it not, if I opened up an abandoned bedchamber and found a small green ledger lying under a dustsheet. I cracked open a few doors, but most of the rooms were empty even of furniture. I tested floorboards with my toes, searched every cabinet, and found nothing but dust and cobwebs.

I was reaching up into a chimney breast when I felt something cold and pulpy beneath my fingers. As I touched it, it shifted, and with a cloud of dirt a dead pigeon splatted to the hearth. I must have given a cry of surprise because a moment later the door creaked open.

‘Mr Hawkins?’ Metcalfe stood in the doorway, dressed in the same drab fustian jacket I’d seen him in the night before, patches of dried sweat under the arms. The wrinkles in the fabric suggested he had slept in it. But he looked better this morning, beneath the stale clothes. His eyes were not as dull, and he seemed more conscious of himself and his surroundings.

‘Good morrow,’ I said, offering my most innocent expression.

‘Are you lost?’ There was an intensity to his enquiry, a trick of the empty room matched with his deep and resonant voice. It made the question sound somewhat metaphysical.

‘I thought I might acquaint myself with the house. I must begin my investigations somewhere.’

‘Inarguable. Did the pigeon do it?’

I glanced at the mouldering corpse at my feet. ‘He refuses to answer my questions.’

‘Would you oblige me, sir?’ he asked, then left the room. I picked up my shoes and followed his spindly frame down the narrow corridor, avoiding splinters and loose nails in the warped oak floorboards. He hadn’t asked me why I was wandering about in my stockings. To avoid waking the house, I would have lied. I doubt he would have believed me.

He opened the door to his quarters and disappeared inside. I crossed the threshold into what I can only describe as his lair. The shutters were still drawn, the room lit by a single candle burned almost to the nub. I caught the pungent stink of a chamber pot in one corner, recently filled. The bed linens were rumpled and smelled of sweat and other fluids. Venereal spasms, as Mr Gatteker would have it.

Metcalfe was searching for something. The room was filled with books and papers; I recognised his jagged handwriting, the blotched ink. He plucked his bottle of laudanum from the windowsill, wiggling it so that the liquid sloshed against the glass. ‘I have not touched a drop since we spoke last night.’ He handed me the bottle. ‘I fear I am being poisoned.’

I opened the stopper and sniffed the contents. Sherry and the bitter scent of opium. A strong dose, by the smell of it. ‘How much have you been taking, Mr Robinson?’

‘Metcalfe, please.’

‘Is that a family name?’ It seemed unlikely that Metcalfe could be responsible for anything, let alone the threats against the Aislabies, but he clearly disliked his uncle intensely. I might as well learn what I could of him – and he was much less distracted this morning.

‘I was named for my great-uncle. And my dead brother.’

I began to splutter out my sympathies.

‘Never knew him. Died in infancy. First son. So they had another.’ He lifted his hands, presenting himself. ‘Dead child, reborn. Metcalfe redux. We both have a touch of the grave about us, Mr Hawkins.’

I frowned at him, and changed the subject. ‘Your family seat is close by, I believe?’

He tugged at his earlobe. ‘Six miles east, sir. Baldersby. My father has rebuilt it in the style of Palladio. Don’t tell Forster; he’ll ask me about it. My God that man’s dull.’

‘May I ask why you’re staying here, then?’

‘My father’s ill. Gout. I unsettle the air about his knee. I don’t really, that was a joke. I sensed he needed a rest from me. He worries, and… grieves. For what I’m not. What I’m unable to be.’ He sighed. ‘I am the worst son alive.’

‘Please, sir. You are not even the worst son in this room.’

He smiled at that, shyly, and looked away.

‘Why do you think you are being poisoned?’

‘Hmm…?’

I held up the bottle of laudanum.

‘Oh, yes. D’you know I slept almost three days solid. A prelude to the final rest.’ An ache of longing seemed to pass through him. He blinked, more of a twitch, really. ‘Would you take that blasted thing away for me, sir? Throw it in the lake?’

I slid it into my pocket. The room felt oppressive: the smell, the clothes scattered in disarray, the balls of crumpled paper strewn across the floor. I invited Metcalfe to join me for a pipe out in the deer park. The fresh air and tobacco might help to clear his head.

‘I like deer,’ he declared, hunting for his pipe under the bedclothes. ‘They come right up to the window at Baldersby. Press their noses to the glass.’ He pushed the palm of his hand to his nose. Dropped it. ‘I’m not sure I’m entirely well, Mr Hawkins.’

‘Perhaps we should send for Mr Gatteker. Did he prescribe the laudanum?’

‘I brought it with me.’

‘So… you poisoned yourself?’

He slid a hand under his shirt and scratched his shoulder, as he had done the night before. The hair on his narrow chest was grey and somewhat matted. ‘What was I searching for?’

‘Your pipe. Here – it’s on the desk.’ As I handed it over, I noticed a letter written in a very different hand from his: small characters laid out in neat lines, without flourishes. It had been placed on the top of a pile of journals, with a lump of rock to hold it down. I pulled it free and held it up to the flickering candle. Molly Gaining’s testimony. Mrs Fairwood had said that Metcalfe had borrowed it for closer study. He believes I am a cuckoo in the nest. I read it quickly, struggling in the gloom of the chamber.

November, 1727

– Mr Aislabie, sir

I pray you would take heed of this letter, from a Woman I am sure you have curs’d a thoussend times a Day since we last met. It is twenty-six years since I set the fire on Red Lion Square that killed your good wife Anne. It will bring you no Comfort I suppose to hear that I have lived a life since then of the verry gratest Regret and Rimorse and that no Baubles that I stole from you Might ever be enuff to Smother my Shame.

But the Gratest jewell of all what I stole from you is your daughter Lizzie who I tell you now with fear it mite kill you with Happyness and Greif combin’d is alive and the lovvliest Creture in the World. I rescued her from the terrible Flames that night but to my Eternal Shame I took her with me when I mite have sent her to You. The Devil took ahold of me Mr Aislabie and I knew if I ran away with Lizzie people would Think I was her Mother and not the girl who started the Fire, the Murderess.

We have spent our lives quitely in Lincoln I married a verry kind gentleman who knew No Thing of my Past save I had a Child which he brought up as his Own.

Sir I have watch’d your Lizzie grow into a Fine Gentlewoman who loves Books just as you do and I think she has your Eyes and other feetures tho’ it is a long time since I saw you I remember you Well, John.

I know you can do Nothing but Hate me for what I did I was a verry Foolish Girl and in Love with you but God will Punnish me soon enuf. I write this in my final Hours knowing I must face Justiss soon tho’ I escap’d it these past Several Years – how fast they have Gone.

I send your Lizzie to you now with the Brooch you once Promiss’d me do you Remember it? The Diamond and Ruby flowwer it is the only thing I kept.

I beg your Forgivness Knowing I shall not Have it but Hope you will See that I have Rais’d your Daughter well. If you Can find Forgiveness as the honnest Christian Man that I know you are then I beg you to Pray for your Poor Molly whose Soul quakes as she Prepares for Death but Most of all I ask that you Love my Lizzie as I call her still as I cannot help but Love her as a Daughter. I send her to You at the End of my Life may God have mercy upon my Soul.

I am, sir, your Obedient and Sorrowful servant

Molly Gaining

‘Breaks the heart, doesn’t it?’ Metcalfe said.

I read the letter through again. Aislabie swore he recognised the hand, and there was an idiosyncratical phrasing to it that must have reminded him of Molly. And then there was his wife’s brooch, and the suggestion of an affair. I was a verry Foolish Girl and in Love with you. Nor did Mrs Fairwood appear to have anything to gain from forging the note – indeed, she seemed horrified to discover her father was John Aislabie, and not the kind gentleman who had brought her up as his own daughter.

Metcalfe had pulled back the shutters and opened a window. He was gazing at the chaos of his room as if some violent storm had ripped through it, tumbling his clothes and possessions into great heaps. ‘Let us descend,’ he said, mock regally.

I followed him downstairs, pausing on the landing to slip on my shoes. In the great hall, Sally was on her hands and knees by the enormous stone fireplace, sweeping the hearth with a hand brush. The air was gritty with yesterday’s ash. She looked up in surprise as we walked down the stairs, then jumped to her feet and curtsied.

I paused to speak with her, while Metcalfe called downstairs for keys to the main doors. Bagby had interrupted our conversation the day before. I asked her if she had more to tell me.

She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I saw someone, sir. When I were shooing away the crows.’

‘There was someone in the park?’

She shook her head. ‘You know how it is, sir, when you can feel someone watching you.’ She pressed her hand to the back of her neck. ‘It were Mrs Fairwood. She were standing at the window on the second-floor landing. I had such a strange feeling… like she’d been watching me, all that time.’

‘She could see the deer?’

‘Yes, sir. The deer, the crows. Everything.’

That explained why she had been so calm when I described the deer to her. But why did she not say she’d seen it? ‘Did she seem frightened?’

‘I suppose so…’

I smiled. ‘She is not an easy woman to read.’

Sally’s lips twisted. Clearly there were far worse things she would like to say about Mrs Fairwood. ‘No, sir.’

‘But you thought it odd.’

She hesitated, the natural caution of a servant.

‘You can speak freely with me, Sally. I don’t work for Mr Aislabie.’

‘I was surprised,’ she said, carefully. ‘I’m up every morning before dawn and I’ve never seen Mrs Fairwood rise so early. She doesn’t like to be disturbed until nine, earliest. Late to bed, late to rise.’ She left her disapproval and her envy at such behaviour unspoken, but it was clear upon her face.

‘So she was waiting, you think?’ The importance of this information struck me hard. ‘She knew the deer had been left on the step. She wanted to see its discovery.’

Sally must have had the same thought, or why mention it to me? But she was too frightened for her position to say so. ‘I’m sure it was just a coincidence, sir,’ she said, hastily. ‘She must have woke early for once. You promise you won’t say owt?’

A bolt slammed free, making us both jump. Metcalfe, opening the doors. A thin dawn light spread through the hall. Jackdaws called out to one another, their cries sharp and urgent in the spring air. They were making a tremendous racket.

Sally’s brows furrowed. ‘The crows…’ she said, then looked at me in alarm.

‘No!’ Metcalfe shouted. He was standing in the doorway, sunlight streaming all around him. We rushed over to him, just as he collapsed backwards. Sally grabbed him beneath his arms, staggering back herself as he landed upon her. I took a few steps down and stopped dead.

Three young stags had been laid out in a triangle upon the carriage drive. Their heads had been hacked from their necks, their stomachs slit wide open. Jackdaws strutted along the corpses, cawing loudly and pulling at the meat. They had already plucked out the eyes.

I scared the birds away and circled the stags, my stomach turning. One had a note stuffed in its mouth. I reached between its teeth to pull it out. The tongue was dry and rough against my fingers. There were bloody fingerprints on the paper, red swirls surrounding three words, written in blood.

YOU WILL BURN

I stood up slowly.

Metcalfe was sitting on the top step, his head in his hands. He was trembling hard. ‘This is for me,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘This is meant for me.’

‘I doubt that, sir.’

He dropped his hands. ‘Of course it is. It’s my coat of arms, for God’s sake – the Robinson coat of arms. Three stags, in a triangle. Don’t you see? It’s a warning. Someone plans to murder me.’

Chapter Ten

Sally guided Metcalfe back to his rooms, leaving me alone with the deer. I lit a pipe to calm my nerves. I’d seen animals butchered – but there was a disturbing, sacrificial quality to this display. I was afraid Metcalfe must be right: this was a warning of worse to come.

Standing about feeling anxious would achieve nothing. I crouched down to study the deer more closely. There were a few patches of blood upon the gravel, but not soaked deep. The stags must have been field dressed somewhere else. The heads had been cut clean, not sawn – with a cleaver, I thought. After death: a small mercy. I reached down to the closest stag, resting my hand upon its stomach. The early morning sun was beginning to warm its hide. The meat would soon be spoiled.

I pushed myself on to my feet. The jackdaws had hopped a short distance into the grass, and were watching me now with their clever, pale grey eyes. I addressed the boldest, waiting a few feet away. ‘You saw who did this, didn’t you?’

The jackdaw gave a sharp cry. It was standing by a muddy bootprint. I followed it with my eyes to another, and another: a jumbled trail leading from where I stood out into the park, towards the main avenue.

‘Talking to crows, Mr Hawkins?’ Mr Aislabie had emerged from the house, accompanied by Mr Gatteker. Sneaton shadowed them.

I stepped away, so he might see the stags more clearly, laid out upon his carriage drive.

He grimaced. ‘Monstrous. What do you make of this, Gatteker?’

Mr Gatteker pushed his spectacles up his nose, considering the question. ‘Venison pasties?’

Aislabie frowned at him.

‘They must have been left here within the last four hours,’ I said. ‘My wife arrived at two o’clock this morning and the drive was clear.’

‘Mrs Hawkins has come?’ Mr Gatteker exclaimed excitedly. ‘Then why are you not abed, sir? Do you not appreciate the priorities of youth?’

I ignored him. ‘The kills are recent, but they weren’t slaughtered here. Not enough blood. And the noise could have woken the house. They must have been killed out in the woods somewhere, then carried here.’

‘A long way to carry one stag, never mind three,’ Aislabie said.

‘A handcart?’ Gatteker suggested, taking a pinch of snuff.

‘No wheel tracks.’ I pointed to the trail of footprints heading through the grass. ‘What lies south of here?’

‘The water gardens,’ Aislabie replied. ‘Then Messenger’s land.’

‘Could he have done this?’

‘If I might answer, as his physician?’ Gatteker interrupted, rubbing his nostrils. ‘No. Determinedly no. Poor devil is plagued by gout. If he were a horse, I’d shoot him. He’s not a horse,’ he clarified.

‘We are on ill terms,’ Aislabie said, after some thought. ‘But we argue through our lawyers. This is too foul an act even for him. No – for all his faults, Messenger is a gentleman.’ He gestured at one of the stags: its severed head and ripped stomach. ‘What do you say, Jack?’

Sneaton limped forward. He was tired and red-eyed, with a film of sweat upon his brow. He’d left for his cottage shortly after supper last night, expecting a visit from John Simpson. Clearly his attempts to help settle the stonemason’s bill had descended into a minor debauch, and now he was suffering for it. ‘I’d say this was two men, sir. Strong and fit. Poachers, would be my guess.’

‘I agree,’ Aislabie said. ‘It’s the Gills. I have been too temperate with them. Too forgiving. Very well – take Hawkins up to Kirkby moors with a half-dozen of Simpson’s men. I will have this business fixed upon that damned family today. Beat a confession from them if you must.’

I held up my hands in protest. ‘This is not the work of poachers, sir. The notes are the work of two separate parties, I’m sure of it.’

Aislabie’s brow furrowed. ‘No, I cannot believe that. I am not so misliked.’

There followed an embarrassed silence. I dared a glance at Mr Gatteker. He tweaked an eyebrow, then looked down, prodding the gravel with his boot.

Truly, did Aislabie not understand how much the world hated him? I could mention his name in any tavern or coaching inn from here to Dover and half the room would rain down curses upon his head. Everyone knew someone who’d been ruined by his actions as chancellor – myself included. It was a wonder his house wasn’t filled to the rooftops with letters promising fire and death.

It is not easy to persuade a man that he is universally loathed, particularly one so convinced of his innocence. More than that, Aislabie believed that he was the injured party. No matter that he had kept most of his money and all of his estate – his disgrace and the loss of his power still weighed upon him as a gross injustice. He believed himself mistreated, so why should anyone blame him for their own troubles? Why should the idea even flit through his mind? No – it must be the infamous Gills – a low sort of people, mistrusted by the neighbourhood.

‘This is not about snaring rabbits and grazing sheep,’ I said. ‘This man is after revenge. He calls you a traitor, who ruined good and honest families.’ I paused, hoping that this would be enough, but Aislabie looked blank. Dear God, his self-delusion was extraordinary. ‘The South Sea disaster, sir.’

Mr Aislabie flinched. ‘We do not speak of that business.’

‘Mr Aislabie, you must see-’

‘We do not speak of it, damn you!’

I’d had enough – his stubbornness would see him dead, along with the rest of us if the house were put to the torch. I pulled the fresh note from my pocket and held it out to him. ‘I found this with the stags. I’d hoped to spare you.’

He snatched the paper from me and read the three words, written in blood. YOU WILL BURN.

‘Devil take it,’ Sneaton breathed.

Aislabie stared at the note, mute with horror. It was clear that he was thinking of the fire at his London home, all those years ago. His young wife. His lost daughter.

‘Would poachers do all this?’ I pressed. ‘It is too elaborate, surely? Mr Sneaton – would the Gills waste so much good meat? Would they even know the Robinson coat of arms?’ I gestured at the stags, laid out in a triangle.

‘A coincidence,’ Aislabie said. ‘Metcalfe is forever seeing patterns where none exist. Conspiracies and dramas…’

‘But Mr Hawkins speaks fair about the meat, your honour,’ Sneaton said, reluctantly. ‘Might it be possible…’ He paused, considering the best way to proceed. ‘Might there be some wrong-headed fool who blames you for his ruin? Unjustly, of course,’ he added, hastily.

Aislabie shook his head, unable to accept the truth.

‘You must see that the first letters were different,’ I said. ‘For all the threats and rough language, the writer sought a peaceful, reasonable resolution. There is no reason to this.’ I gestured to the stags.

‘Perhaps they grew angry,’ Sneaton argued. ‘When we ignored their demands.’

‘Precisely,’ Aislabie leaped upon this eagerly. This could not be about his part in the South Sea Scheme. It would not be. ‘I want the Gills locked up – today. Ride over to the moors, Hawkins. That is an order.’

‘This is not the army, sir.’ I squinted at the butchered stags, and the grass beyond. In the distance, the rest of the herd grazed under a great beech tree. A doe dropped her head to a water trough and drank.

The sun was rising above the trees. The sky was a pale blue, with no clouds in view. A light breeze riffled through the grass. A day for lifted spirits and gentle strolls. It was hard to believe that we were in danger here. Harder yet to recognise an enemy in such polite company. But someone was plotting revenge upon Aislabie. And, like Metcalfe, I was afraid that this bright, spring day would end in death if we did not discover the truth.

Mr Aislabie had been speaking for some time as I stared out across his estate. Sermonising. I was a clergyman’s son; I’d developed a talent for letting them waft over my head. There would be something about duty in there, no doubt, and respect, and obedience. Every sermon is the same, and it is a confounded waste of time to listen to a single word. The trick is to keep one ear half open, so one can be sure when it is over.

‘I will ride out and speak with the Gills this afternoon,’ I said, when he had spluttered to a close. There would be no peace until I’d agreed to it, and I could at least discount the family from my enquiries. ‘Mr Sneaton – would you speak with the servants? Ask them if they saw anything, or suspect anyone?’

Sneaton glanced at his master, expecting refusal, but Aislabie nodded absently. He had been looking up at the house, to a window on the second floor. I followed his gaze and saw Mrs Fairwood looking down at us – precisely where Sally had seen her the day before. She drew back, out of view.

‘I must go to my daughter,’ Aislabie said, and left us.

Sneaton sighed, a great weary sound. ‘Look at these poor creatures.’

The stags smelled of blood and meat. Flies buzzed about the gaping wounds. ‘When you speak with the servants, see if any of them know the Robinson coat of arms.’

He nodded, then moaned in pain. ‘My head aches consumedly,’ he muttered.

‘Pot of chocolate,’ I offered. ‘Helps me when I’ve drunk too much liquor.’

‘A hearty breakfast!’ Gatteker piped up. ‘Tripe and onions, if you can persuade Mrs Mason.’

‘And a fresh bowl of punch,’ I added. ‘That really is the best remedy.’ For anything.

‘Gentlemen, please.’ Sneaton swayed on his stick. ‘Gah… It’s my own fault. I should never take a drink with John Simpson, the old sot.’

‘Could he have done this? He was angry yesterday – and he’s owed a lot of money.’

Sneaton considered this for a moment then dismissed it. ‘He shouts and stamps his foot, but… this is too sneaking for him. And too elaborate, as you say.’

‘Did you tally his bill?’

Sneaton shut his eyes. ‘In truth? I can’t remember.’

I chuckled. ‘Sam can help you question the servants. He’s a sharp lad.’

Sneaton did not look pleased about that, but he didn’t have the strength to argue.

‘And what will you do, sir?’ Mr Gatteker asked.

I gazed at the trail of bootprints leading across the deer park. ‘I think I’ll follow those. Once I’ve had my breakfast.’

There was a note waiting for Mr Gatteker back in the house. Bagby brought it over. I planned to ask him why he had been so pleased by Kitty’s arrival, but he had turned upon his heel and left before I could open my mouth. What a queer fellow he was. If he disliked me so much – and I certainly wasn’t imagining his seething hostility – why should he be happy to see me reunited with my wife?

‘Oh dear,’ Mr Gatteker said, reading the note. ‘What ill news. Mrs Slingsby has died.’

‘A patient?’

‘A rich one. I thought she had another ten pounds’ worth of bills in her, at least. What a tragedy.’

‘Perhaps she remembered you in her will.’

‘That is a kind thought, sir,’ Mr Gatteker said, rallying. ‘I’m obliged to you. Let us console ourselves with a large breakfast.’

‘Good morrow,’ Kitty called down from the minstrels’ gallery. She was wearing her emerald silk gown, with matching ribbons in her cap. She skipped lightly down the stairs and allowed Mr Gatteker to take her hand.

He bowed low over it. ‘Mrs Hawkins.’

She smirked at the title. ‘Well, then – the stags! What a dreadful mess. I saw them from the window. You were very brave, Tom – examining them so closely. My husband is incurably soft-hearted when it comes to animals, Mr Gatteker, you have never met a more squeamish fellow. Mrs Mason says the stags were laid out to match the Robinson coat of arms. Tom, did you notice the bootprints leading off towards the gardens?’ She allowed room for me to nod that I had. ‘So I visited Metcalfe’s quarters to introduce myself, but he has locked himself in. Can you imagine? He spoke with me through the keyhole. He says he is afraid for his life, and that we should leave at once or else we will be burned in our beds. Or wherever we might happen to be at the time, I suppose. You may let go of my hand now, Mr Gatteker. That is, if you wish to.’

Mr Gatteker, enchanted, bowed again and – with clear reluctance – stepped back.

Kitty smiled at him. ‘And you, sir. As an expert on the human form. Would you say it’s possible for one man to carry a stag of that size on his own? How strong would he have to be? How broad his shoulders? Would he need to be of a particular height, would you say?’

He thought about this for a moment. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

I liked Mr Gatteker, but he really was quite useless.

‘I believe I could carry one,’ Kitty decided. ‘A small one, wrapped about my shoulders like a scarf.’ She demonstrated with an imaginary stag, hefting it around her neck and holding it by its imaginary hooves. ‘But for how long? That is the question.’

We took breakfast, the three of us, alone in the dining room. Mr Aislabie had returned to his study, where he was presumably buying up the rest of Yorkshire. Mrs Fairwood had escaped to the library, her sanctuary. Lady Judith had left for her morning ride.

I told Kitty about Lady Judith’s breeches. She listened intently. ‘Would she lend me a pair do you think?’

‘As a physician, I am heartily in favour of them,’ Gatteker declared. ‘I am persuaded they offer diverse benefits to a lady’s health. We must secure them for you, Mrs Hawkins.’

I frowned at him and changed the subject. ‘I’m worried about Metcalfe. This business with the stags seems to have thrown him into a fit of despair. You’re his physician, I believe?’

‘When he’s in Yorkshire,’ Gatteker said, buttering a roll. ‘Excellent man, but a profound melancholic. Prone to fits of paralytic gloom.’

Kitty blinked. ‘Is that a medical term?’

Gatteker giggled at the very notion. ‘Of course, I tend to see him at his worst. He comes home to Baldersby to rest. Lies there in his bed at odds with the world. Barely eats, barely sleeps. Days go by. Weeks, sometimes. Convinced he’s the worst devil ever to have walked the earth. He’s threatened to injure himself, you know, on many occasions.’

Kitty shook her head slowly. ‘It is a terrible affliction.’

‘Yes, poor fellow. He’ll rally for a while, but it always comes back. Runs in the blood, I think. Aislabie’s brother hanged himself at Oxford, did you know? Seventeen years old. Same age Metcalfe suffered his first attack.’

I thought of the portrait of Mallory Aislabie up in Sam’s room, hidden away in the neglected east wing like a shameful secret. Those soulful eyes – very much like Metcalfe’s, now I thought of it. ‘Would you prescribe laudanum for such an illness?’

‘Heavens, no!’ Gatteker exclaimed, waving his butter knife at me. ‘Fresh air, long walks, and good company. And regular bleedings, naturally.’

I pulled the bottle of laudanum from my coat. ‘He’s been taking this for a while. He thinks someone’s trying to poison him.’ I unstoppered the bottle and held it out to him across the table.

Gatteker took a deep sniff. ‘Smells regular to me. He does succumb to these fancies…’

‘He seems most confused and unpredictable. Not sure what’s real and what isn’t. Is that common for him?’

‘Not particularly. Excessive melancholy and self-hatred… Disproportionate sense of futility. What’s it all, for? Why is the world so dreadful? But he knows a hawk from a handsaw.’ He sniffed the bottle again. ‘Could be a mistake with the dose, I suppose.’

‘He said it has kept him asleep these past three days. Could you examine the contents for me, sir?’

‘Delighted. I’ll try it on one of the little Gattekers. Pray don’t be alarmed, Mrs Hawkins!’ he grinned. ‘I’ve eight or ten of ’em at home. We won’t run out.’

‘What a curious fellow,’ Kitty called out to me, later. ‘He was joking, wasn’t he?’

We were on horseback, riding through Mr Aislabie’s deer park towards the fabled water gardens. Lady Judith had promised me a tour. Instead I was riding with Kitty, following a set of bootprints that led both to and from the butchered stags. The tracks had disappeared for a time in drier grass, but now we had found them again, heavy prints pushed deep into the mud. Boots sinking under the weight of a deer. The prints were tangled together; it was hard to tell if one man had carried one stag upon three separate occasions, or whether there had been two or even three men working together. Whoever they were, they were strong. I’m not sure I could have carried such a weight upon my shoulders such a great distance.

Kitty rode behind me on a fine chestnut colt marked with a star. She was sitting side-saddle in the usual fashion, and wearing a velvet riding cap. I was riding a dappled grey mare called Athena. There had been some argument among the grooms about whether she should be ridden today. She was set to be covered by Aislabie’s best stallion, Blunt. Perhaps Athena had sensed there was something afoot, as she had been ‘skittish’ all morning, according to Mr Pugh. I must keep a close watch upon her, he warned. She seemed placid enough to me. I patted her flank and nudged her on with my knees down a long, sheltered avenue. A pheasant rustled through a patch of wild garlic, then darted across our path into the woods beyond. Athena plodded on, unperturbed.

Kitty caught up with me and brushed a hand against my leg. It was such a glorious spring day, we might be mistaken for a true husband and wife, taking a quiet tour of the county’s finest estate. I nodded to a journeyman trimming the grass along the path, and he touched his hat.

So far our views had been of woods and distant farm land, with the deer park at our backs. As we emerged from the trees, the water gardens were revealed at last. We brought our horses to a halt, speechless with astonishment. Below us, the river had been tamed into a long, straight canal, ending in a dramatic cascade. I could hear its roar even from here, a constant rushing sound. Beneath the cascade, the riverbanks had been widened to form a large fishing lake, smooth as glass. The river travelled on from there through a narrower cascade into a steep valley bristling with pine trees – and out of view.

Kitty was staring out at the lake. Its pristine surface acted as a mirror, reflecting the trees surrounding it and the sky as if there were two worlds, above and below. A pair of swans glided by, the very picture of grace.

‘Beautiful,’ Kitty murmured.

It was truly a magnificent sight, and for a moment I was left amazed. But we had not come here to admire the view. I leaned down in my saddle to inspect the ground. ‘The tracks have disappeared.’

We had reached a fork in the path, the left leading down to the lake, the right taking a steep course up a densely wooded hill. I suspected the men had travelled along one of those paths with the stags across their backs, then moved on to the grass for stealth, to avoid the crunch of gravel beneath their boots.

We turned left, following the path to the lake – and found Lady Judith by the edge of the water, astride her bay stallion. Her horse whinnied at our approach.

‘Mr Hawkins. And this must be your wife? Welcome to Studley, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘Thank you…’ Kitty stared at Lady Judith’s breeches, entranced.

Lady Judith laughed, and rubbed a hand along her thigh. ‘Why, I believe you are more astonished than your husband.’

‘They are a wonder,’ Kitty marvelled.

‘Are they not? Sadly I can only wear them about the gardens. It would be too great a scandal to present my legs to the world.’

‘The world,’ Kitty observed, ‘is full of idiots.’

Lady Judith laughed again, appraising me anew. Women judge men by their choice of wife, and Mrs Aislabie approved of mine. I edged Athena closer to the lake, curious to see myself reflected in the mirrored surface, but when I peered into the water, all I saw was the silt and mud beneath. A trick of the light and the angle of perspective – but it gave me a hollow feeling, to see nothing of myself.

‘Do you like fishing, Mr Hawkins?’ Lady Judith pointed to a pair of tiny lodges built on either side of the higher cascade. ‘The lake is stocked with carp. One can fish from the window in poor weather.’

I smiled politely.

‘Tom is too impatient for fishing,’ said Kitty, the least patient woman in the western hemisphere.

‘My husband is the same. He must be doing. But what do you say, sir, about our little endeavour?’

‘I’m lost for words, madam.’ And I was truly astounded – at the beauty, and the cost.

‘The canal was a nightmare of mud for almost ten years. Thousands upon thousands of cartloads,’ she shuddered, as if she had been personally responsible for carrying them all. ‘There is much yet to be done, but when it is finished I believe it will be the most embellished estate in England. You must walk the grounds with John tomorrow – he can explain his plans far better than I. This garden is his great passion. At least, it was. He has been distracted these past few weeks. Mrs Fairwood’s arrival has affected him profoundly.’

‘You wish her gone from Studley, I think?’

Lady Judith looked out across the lake. ‘If we may speak in confidence, as friends… Yes. I believe it would be for the best. I fear she is dangerous in some odd way. I do not like mysteries and secrets. And Mrs Fairwood is a great mystery.’

I explained that we had been following the trail of bootprints from the house, and that they had vanished on the path above. ‘Both paths lead into the woods,’ she said. ‘It’s the border between our land and Fountains Hall. Mr Messenger’s estate.’

‘Mr Forster is a guest at Fountains Hall, I believe? He has invited me to visit him.’

Her lips curved into their familiar smirk. ‘How curious, if the trail should lead to him. Perhaps he murdered those poor stags.’

‘With one arm?’

‘He might have bored them to death.’

I grinned, but was not so quick to dismiss Forster. Yes, he was a dull companion at supper, but that did not mean he was incapable of violence, one-handed or otherwise. I had learned not to underestimate anyone, these past few months.

‘Have you not explored the higher path yet?’ Lady Judith asked. ‘We must ride it together.’

We turned our horses away from the lake, following her up the steep path into the woods. We climbed for a short while before Lady Judith pulled upon the reins. ‘This is my favourite view.’

The lake was still within sight from here, but now we could also see the vast scale of the work taking place above the highest cascade. On the far side of the canal, three formal ponds had been dug into the riverbank: two neat crescents flanking a perfect circle.

‘We call them our moon ponds,’ she said.

They were pretty, but the rest of the bank was a hodgepodge of planting and construction. It was clear that the gardens would take years to complete. Behind the precisely laid-out ponds, a dozen labourers were digging foundations for a building. Mr Doe and one of his fucking follies, I supposed. Beyond these works stretched a nursery of young trees, which gave the area a bald look. How long before those trees would grow to maturity? Far longer than Mr Aislabie’s lifetime, no doubt. But what a mark he would leave upon the land.

There were journeymen everywhere. I counted thirty before I gave up: planting borders, carting dung, felling trees, trimming hedges, clearing blown wood from the water. It took an army to overcome nature; countless hours of labour to create serenity. Unfathomable patience and vision. Unfathomable wealth. And I thought – Thirty more men; thirty more suspects.

‘Could any of those men bear a grudge against your husband?’

Lady Judith blinked in surprise. ‘No indeed – why should they? Are you not diverted by the view, Mrs Hawkins?’

Kitty shielded her eyes against the sun. ‘Very.’

‘We have been working on these gardens for twelve years. It will be another ten at least before they are complete.’

‘Can we not see Fountains Abbey from here?’ I asked, craning my neck.

Kitty’s eyes widened. ‘An abbey?’

‘A ruined monastery,’ I explained. ‘There’s a picture of it above our fireplace. It sits on the river does it not? Very close to here?’

Lady Judith pursed her lips. ‘It is hidden over that hill.’ She gestured vaguely at the wooded slopes ahead.

‘How frustrating. Well, you must level the hill, I suppose.’

‘We have considered it.’

‘Indeed?’ I had been joking.

Lady Judith huffed. ‘We’ve decided to wait for Mr Messenger to die. Then we shall buy it and open up all the land below.’ She urged her stallion up the steep path, beckoning for us to follow. ‘We have built something wonderful just up here, let me show you.’

We fell into shadow beneath the trees, the air turning cooler. The top of the hill formed a plateau, the trees cleared away to create a sunken lawn. At the far end of the grass stood a small but handsome stone lodge, backed by a border of elm hedges. It was, in miniature, what I had expected of Mr Aislabie’s hall, rather than the groaning, creaking thing we were staying in.

Pheasants scattered into the undergrowth as we approached. Deep in the trees to my left, jackdaws were cawing loudly to one another, in alarm or excitement. I could see where their wings were flapping against the bushes. I shifted in my saddle.

‘And here is our banqueting house, newly built this year,’ Lady Judith said. Her voice had taken on a knowing tone, as if banqueting were the last thing that happened there. ‘We’ve had some merry times up here.’ She jumped down from her horse and looped the reins over a tree, striding over to the door. ‘There’s a most diverting statue of Venus inside.’

Kitty slid from her horse, but she was watching me closely. ‘Tom?’

Two more jackdaws flew low across the sunken lawn and deep into the bushes. Lady Judith’s stallion snorted, and shook its head. Athena’s ears twitched. I tapped her flanks and rode down into the lawn and up the other side, recognising its shape as I crossed it. A coffin lawn – a memento mori. In the midst of life we are in death. I hated all that nonsense.

I nudged Athena on to a narrow trail amidst the trees and found the bootprints we’d been searching for, pushed deep into the mud. Athena whinnied softly. I stroked her neck and murmured to her, soothingly. She took a few more steps into the woods.

The wind blew down the trail and I caught something ripe and foul in the air. I wrinkled my nose. Burst deer guts. Once smelled, never forgotten. As we approached the bushes the stench became stronger. This was where the stags had been killed, their innards left in piles beneath the bushes. Glistening links of intestine spilled out across the path, covered with a dense swarm of insects. The jackdaws pecked at the offal and snapped insects from the air, as more and more birds joined the feast.

There is nothing worse than the stink of burst deer guts. The stench was unbearable. Athena whinnied, and flared her nostrils in disgust. I jumped down and tried to approach, breathing through my mouth. It was no use. I reeled back and vomited hard, until my stomach was empty and my ribs ached.

‘Tom?’ Kitty’s voice, at the edge of the clearing.

I wiped my mouth. ‘Don’t come down here, Kitty.’

‘Why, what have you found?’ I could hear her making her way down the path, gown rustling against the bushes.

‘Deer guts. Truly, stay where you are – it is too foul to bear. I won’t be a moment.’ I wiped my mouth and remembered what Samuel Fleet had taught me. Forget the stink, forget the blood. Step back and think. What could I learn from this discovery?

The trees and bushes were thickly tangled in this part of the gardens. It would be easy to kill the stags here undisturbed. The trail itself was well disguised: I would have missed it if I’d not been drawn by the jackdaws. And we were a long way from the house, bordering Messenger’s land. Francis Forster’s host, and John Aislabie’s enemy.

Someone had led the three stags here and slaughtered them. They’d not been hunted out in the woods. They’d been gathered in this hidden place to be killed. But the innards had been abandoned here. That meant there’d been no time to bury them, and no way to discard them elsewhere.

What struck me with the greatest force was the effort of it all. Whoever this was, he had slaughtered three young stags in their prime, ripped out their guts, and carried at least one of them on his shoulders for over a mile, in the dark. He’d found an accomplice or accomplices to help him with the rest. All so that he could lay the bodies out upon Aislabie’s front step this morning. This is but the beginning of sorrows.

A campaign, then. And if this was how it started – how on earth would it end?

I freed Athena’s reins and put my left foot in the stirrup. I needed to speak with Aislabie’s keeper, as soon as possible.

I had just swung my right leg over the saddle when the jackdaws rose into the air on a swirl of black wings. Startled, Athena reared up, almost throwing me from her back. I slid in the saddle, my right foot free of the stirrup. As I fought for balance she reared again, then plunged down the trail into the bushes. I gave a shout of alarm, clutching the reins hard.

We whisked through the trees at an impossible speed, branches whipping against my face. I ducked low, searching with my foot for the stirrup. As we raced down a muddy slope I found it, and pulled myself upright.

I pulled upon the reins, trying to regain control, but it was too late. Athena was trapped in a blind panic and there was nothing I could do but to ride it out with her. I held on, terrified, as she tore through the woods, whinnying and snorting as the mud and leaves flew up from her hooves and the jackdaws cawed and circled above us.

If she threw me now, I would break my neck.

A low branch loomed up ahead, forcing me to drop my head. As I raised it again, Athena leaped over a fallen tree, almost throwing me from the saddle. The trees were dense here, with only the narrowest of paths cutting a way through. We scraped through a tunnel of hawthorn bushes, the thorns ripping my hands. I threw up an arm to protect my eyes and in another moment we had burst free from the wood on to a fresh stretch of bright green riverbank. Sunlight dazzled my eyes and the river sparkled.

I pulled again on the reins, but Athena galloped on at a furious pace. The world was a blur of spring grass, glittering river, flanking woods and then, rising up ahead, a vast building of golden stone. We had stumbled upon Fountains Abbey. Athena’s hooves clattered on the remnants of ancient floors, thudded through high grass and mud, as we entered the old monastery ruins. Too fast. She leaped over a broken column, faltered, then cantered on down a maze of crumbling walls. The sun disappeared as we galloped through a long, vaulted hall, and then we flew out again into a great roofless space, the sky wide and bright above our heads, birds calling from a great tower, and we were slowing. Thank God, we had stopped.

I swung my leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, panting hard. Athena moved away as if nothing remarkable had happened, as if we had just enjoyed a pleasant trot through the countryside.

I collapsed, rolling on to my back. The sun warmed my face. Pigeons cooed from nests made high upon the ruined walls. My breath returned to me, and with it came a flood of relief that I had survived. And, now it was over… I should rather like to do it again. I put my scratched and bleeding hand to my chest and began to laugh. It came from deep inside me, like drawing water from a well. I had not laughed so freely in a long time.

I didn’t hear the footsteps until they were upon me. I sat up, still laughing, to find a stranger standing over me, holding a pistol. He was aiming it at my head.

Chapter Eleven

Mr Messenger’s family had lived at Fountains Hall for a hundred years. It was a fine estate, the mysterious abbey ruins a brooding counterweight to the rich farmlands and quarries beyond. The hall itself was built with stone taken from the abbey, binding the two in some ineffable way that some might consider mystical, even holy.

Aislabie coveted Fountains Abbey. He imagined it as the focus of his gardens, the way a chef envisioned a great pyramid of sweetmeats at the centre of a feasting table. He wanted it. He must find a way to have it. Messenger was short of funds. Surely he would give it up, for a fair price?

There had been a time – during the months of the South Sea madness – when Messenger had contemplated the exchange. Boundaries were discussed, and sale prices. Then the agreement had collapsed. Perhaps Messenger had never intended to sell the abbey to Mr Aislabie in the first place. Perhaps it had all been a piece of mischief on his part. But it had soured relations between the two neighbours for good.

Have you forgotten, at this point, that I have a pistol aimed at my head? I have not, I assure you. This particular pistol looked old – older than the man holding it, who appeared to be about fifty. It was a horse pistol, with a long barrel and a plain mahogany grip. My hope was that it had last been fired some time during the Civil War, and that the internal parts had corroded in the subsequent eighty-odd years. My second, encouraging thought was that, in the main, gentlemen did not shoot other gentlemen in the face. Not without very good reason. Not even in Yorkshire.

‘Mr Messenger?’ I guessed.

‘WHO THE DEVIL ARE YOU?’ he yelled. His face was fat and exceedingly red, and there was a bandage tied around his right knee. ‘What do you mean by this OUTRAGE! You’re TRESPASSING, sir! Are you a SPY? Are you a SPY for that DAMNABLE ROGUE?’

I raised my hands in supplication. ‘My name’s Thomas Hawkins, sir. I lost control of my horse.’

He narrowed his eyes at Athena, who was munching thoughtfully on a crop of dandelions. ‘You came from Studley.’ He had a growling but gentlemanly voice, soaked in the local accent.

‘Yes, sir.’ I kept my eyes upon the barrel of his pistol. ‘I’m a guest of Mr Aislabie.’

Messenger’s face puckered. ‘Aislabie’s man are you? Sneaking about my land. A spy-’

‘Mr Messenger!’ Francis Forster hurried across the broken stones as best he could, hampered by his bandaged arm. ‘Put down your weapon, sir!’ He swept his uninjured arm towards me, as if introducing a celebrated actor to the stage. ‘This is Mr Hawkins. I spoke of him last night? Mr Thomas Hawkins.’ And then, when Messenger still didn’t react, ‘Half-Hanged Hawkins.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Messenger’s thick grey brows jerked in surprise. He uncocked his pistol, and lowered it. ‘Half-Hanged Hawkins.’

I stood up, brushing the dirt from my breeches.

Messenger cleared his throat, embarrassed. ‘Welcome to Fountains Abbey, sir.’

We bowed to one another as if we were at court. And in truth the monastery did have the air of an ancient palace, built for a forgotten king. Messenger dug a pewter flask from his coat jacket and passed it to me. I took a swig and coughed at its unexpected power. Scotch whisky: a silent signal of Messenger’s support for the king across the water. He watched me drink it with a knowing eye, but I have never let politics stand in the way of liquor. And I was half Scots myself. I grinned, and held on to the flask.

‘Are you injured, sir?’ Forster asked, seeing my scratched and bleeding hands.

‘A fight with a hawthorn bush.’

We were standing in the vast nave of the abbey beneath a great arched window, its mullions and stained glass long destroyed. I recognised it from the painting in my chamber: the window, the tower, the thick columns standing firm amidst the devastation. Even in sunlight, the ruins stirred a mixture of awe and melancholy – that something so magnificent should have been brought down with such speed and violence. For four hundred years it had weathered plague and war, until the Reformation claimed it. The abbey was too powerful, too wealthy, too much a symbol of the old ways to be tolerated. King Henry’s men had dragged down the roof, taken the glass, smashed down walls, and allowed Nature to do the rest. Fountains Abbey must never rise again.

Now the columns were topped with thick moss, the stone flagging broken and clogged with weeds. An elm tree grew in one corner. The walls were covered in bright orange wallflowers and long trails of ivy. Birds roosted in pairs in the high crevices, as if they had mistaken the abbey for some remote cliff face. Plump pigeons in the main, wings smacking the air as they rose together in sudden waves. Jackdaws commanded the highest walls, tiny black figures lined up like sentinels. There was a constant fluttering and calling in the air, echoing off the ancient stone. A great city of birds, agitated by our presence.

‘Magnificent, is it not?’ Forster said. ‘There is something noble about such ruins, I find. The very act of destruction gives them power. Cromwell and King Henry rot in their graves, but the abbey speaks its story even now, if one knows how to listen.’ He pulled out a journal from beneath his sling. It was filled with detailed pencil drawings of the abbey.

‘Francis is a most talented architect,’ Messenger said.

Oh, God.

‘A right-handed architect, thank heavens,’ Forster amended, waggling his good hand. ‘I find the abbey’s construction most inspiring – refreshing in its departure from the classical ideal, wouldn’t you agree? Where is the balance? Where the symmetry? And yet it has such an exquisite pairing of force and grace, has it not? Every part has a purpose, a spiritual and temporal purpose. Is that not the very definition of beauty?’ He continued on in this earnest manner for some time, speaking of purpose and power, of ribbed barrel vaults and lancet arches, while I wondered if I could persuade Messenger to shoot me after all.

As Forster spoke, a cloud passed across the sun, and a block of shadow moved slowly through the abbey. It caught us all for a moment: myself, Messenger, and Forster. The heat vanished from the air, enough to make me shiver beneath my thin coat.

‘You feel it, eh?’ Messenger murmured, below Forster’s hearing. ‘Old ghosts…’

I gave a half smile, and the shadow moved on. The world brightened, the abbey walls turning gold again in the sunshine. I took a last swig of whisky and handed the flask back to Messenger.

‘Bad for the gout,’ he said, which appeared to be a toast, as he then tilted it to his lips and took a great glug. ‘What brings you to Yorkshire, Mr Hawkins?’

I hesitated. Aislabie had not given me permission to speak about his troubles; but then I was not one of his men, carting dung and raking gravel from his lawns. ‘Someone has been threatening Mr Aislabie. More than one party, I believe.’ I described the notes, and the butchered deer.

Messenger shook his head. ‘This business with Mrs Fairwood is passing strange. I should say it’s connected, wouldn’t you?’

‘I believe so.’

‘It is a wondrous thing,’ Forster sighed. ‘To have lost a daughter, and grieved for her all these years, and now to have found her again. A great miracle, if it is true. And it does seem to be so…’

Messenger snorted. ‘If Mrs Fairwood is John Aislabie’s daughter, this is my arse,’ he said, pointing at his elbow.

‘That would be unfortunate,’ I said.

Messenger laughed so hard his face purpled. ‘You seem a decent lad. Why are you helping that thieving bastard? Leave him to his troubles – he’s earned ’em. Come and stay here at Fountains. We’d be glad of your company, eh Forster?’

Forster had been gazing up at the abbey. He wrenched his face away from his beloved bricks and mortar. ‘Of course. But are you not under orders from the queen, Mr Hawkins?’

Messenger scowled, his good humour vanishing in an instant. ‘Damned gout,’ he said, in a clipped voice. ‘You’ll excuse me, sir.’ He gave a curt bow and limped away towards the western entrance.

‘Mr Messenger is a papist,’ Forster explained, once his patron had left. ‘He’s not over fond of Hanover George.’

I frowned at him. ‘Then was it wise to mention my connection, do you think?’

‘Oh! My apologies. I didn’t think-’

‘Who told you I was sent by the queen? I did not tell you of it. And I don’t imagine Mr Aislabie would have offered the information either.’

‘Oh!’ He floundered for a moment. ‘I believe Mrs Fairwood told me at supper.’

‘I don’t recall that conversation,’ I said, coldly. They had scarce spoken two words together, I was sure.

He laughed, nervous. ‘You and I were at different ends of the table, sir.’

I studied him for a moment. He was a short, lean fellow – slight, one might call him. Could I imagine him carrying a stag upon his shoulders all the way to Aislabie’s door? With a broken wrist and arm? No. But he might have directed someone else.

‘I have offended you,’ he said, misreading my silence. ‘Mr Hawkins – I offer you my most heartfelt apologies. Would you permit me to show you about the abbey?’

‘I’m afraid I must return to Studley. I will be missed.’ I walked down the sunlit aisle, searching for Athena.

Forster trailed after me. ‘At least let me show you the view from the cloister steps,’ he begged, pointing through an arched doorway to a square beyond. ‘Please, sir. Let us not part on poor terms.’

‘Very well.’

He led me at an eager pace through the cloisters and up a set of worn stone steps. We stood upon an open landing, side by side. I had to admit, it was a fine view: the ruins a grand performance of light and shadow on stone. The tower rose up in front of us, jackdaws circling and settling. The abbey was set upon the riverbank, and we could hear the gentle rush of water below us. No canals and cascades on Mr Messenger’s land: the river ran its own winding course, as it pleased.

Forster pointed out the treacherous route Athena had taken – a steep and jagged track down through the woods. Had we ventured a few paces the other way we would have galloped off an overhanging rock and broken both our necks. ‘Those are not true paths between the estates,’ he explained. ‘Mr Messenger and Mr Aislabie wouldn’t stand for it.’

‘Poachers’ tracks?’

‘Foxes, more likely.’

‘These hidden trails. They’re familiar to you?’

‘I’ve walked them, once or twice.’

I thought about that for a moment, pretending to admire the view. ‘I found the place where the stags were butchered. The innards had been left beneath some bushes, near the banqueting house. You know of it?’

His eyes sparked with enthusiasm. ‘I do, sir! A splendid Palladian folly, most neatly done from a design by Colen Campbell, I’m told-’

‘Forster.’

‘-it has some unusual rustications in an icicle design-’

I glared at him. He fell silent.

‘The stags weren’t hunted, do you understand? They were slaughtered on that trail and then carried through Studley Park to Mr Aislabie’s front steps. D’you know the Robinson coat of arms, sir?’

He blinked at the unexpected question. ‘Three stags, is it not? Two below, one above. Oh…’ His shoulders flinched. ‘Is that how they were found?’

‘That is how they were found, Mr Forster. Three stags, slaughtered at the top of a trail that leads directly to the Fountains estate.’

It took him a moment to understand the accusation, and even then he mistook it. ‘Mr Messenger? You believe he is responsible? No, surely not, sir. Well, there’s no denying that he detests Mr Aislabie, but I cannot conceive that he would…’

‘How long have you been a guest at Fountains Hall, Mr Forster?’

He blew out his cheeks. ‘A few weeks now. I set off in early February. There was still ice upon the roads.’ He lifted up his sling.

‘And how did you come by your invitation?’

‘I’m a friend of Mr Messenger’s cousin, Andrew Benedict. Excellent fellow, has a house on Chancery Lane. Do you know him?’

He was hiding something behind that affectation of nonchalance. A few hundred more questions and I might have the whole story. I settled for a swifter solution. With a sudden lunge, I put my hand upon his collarbone and used my weight to shove him hard against the nearest wall. Forster gave a shout of surprise, fragments of rock and mortar crunching under his back. ‘My arm!’ he yelped.

I pressed harder. ‘Did you send the notes?’

‘No! Good God, sir! Let me go!’ He was squirming under my weight, his legs flailing beneath him.

‘Are you conspiring with Messenger? Do you plan to harm Aislabie? Mrs Fairwood?’

‘No!’

I moved my arm higher, leaning against his throat.

He began to choke. ‘I swear…’ He clawed at my arm but he couldn’t free himself. ‘I’m his spy!’ he spat, at last. ‘Let me go, damn you – I’m Aislabie’s spy.’

It took him a minute or two to recover. He made a great show of rubbing his throat, as if I’d crushed his windpipe. Once he had stopped fussing, and straightened his wig, and brushed the stone dust from his coat, he began his defence. ‘I am a man of ambition, Mr Hawkins, I admit. Ambitious for my work. The palazzi I visited on my tour – such marvellous constructions. I should like to build them here in the green fields of England. But who can afford such an undertaking?’ He sighed, and shook his head. ‘Did you truly think I wished to burn down Studley Hall?’

‘Someone wishes it.’

‘Well…’ A mischievous tone entered his voice. ‘It is monstrously old-fashioned. Might be best to burn it down and begin again. Not that I would ever do such a thing,’ he added hastily, catching my look.

‘You call yourself a spy.’

‘So I did. Sounds rather thrilling, does it not? Mr Benedict said I must visit his cousin, see the ruins. He knew I had an interest in architecture.’

Discovered that deep secret, did he? Some sort of wizard, no doubt.

‘I was not convinced at first. I’m not a wealthy man. I can’t afford to travel all the way to Yorkshire without the hope of some profit… It is vital I find a patron. Then Benedict mentioned that the Fountains estate bordered Mr Aislabie’s land.’ He paused. ‘John Aislabie! One of the great champions of the new architecture! A close friend of Lord Burlington! His name appears upon the subscription list for-’

I held up my hand. ‘He likes new buildings. I understand.’

‘It is not that he likes them, Mr Hawkins. He builds them. Have you seen the scheme for his stables? The follies for his water gardens? D’you know he intends to build a great mansion by the lake? It will be a shrine to the modern style! A building for the ages! If I could be a part of such an endeavour, even on the smallest scale…’

‘The dog kennels, perhaps?’

He frowned. ‘You mock me, sir.’ He slid his free hand beneath his sling, and pressed it to his heart. ‘This is my greatest dream. What is yours, I wonder?’

To keep Kitty safe. To return to London. To visit Moll’s coffeehouse and drink far too much punch. To carry Kitty through the filthy streets while she sings a ballad, so out of tune I can scarce breathe for laughing. To reach our street, our home, our bed. To be free of all of this.

‘I came up to Yorkshire,’ Forster continued, ‘and I met with Mr Aislabie at the first opportunity. I believe I impressed him. At least, he is prepared to consider my worth. There is a great deal to be done about the estate. It’s no secret that Mr Aislabie grows impatient with Mr Simpson. Drunken imbecile. Oh, he’s a superb stonemason, I’ll grant you, but he should never have been put in charge of such a great project. It is beyond his skills and his temperament. If Mr Doe is brought in to complete the work, then I might take over the building of the follies. And I will be in the perfect position to help with the new hall. Years of work, Mr Hawkins! With a patron who shares my passion, and has the resources to build the greatest estate in Europe.’

‘And who asked you to spy on your host.’

‘One does what one must.’ He shrugged. ‘And really, it is no great betrayal. Why, when I come back from Studley Hall, Mr Messenger fires a hundred questions at me. I suppose one could say I was spying for both of them. Perhaps one balances the other.’

‘What is it that Aislabie wants from you?’

‘Oh, the merest tidbits, I assure you. Land deals, in the main. He’s afraid Mr Messenger will sell the abbey to another buyer, out of spite.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘No. He loves this place – worships it, one might say. You know how these papists are.’

That rankled, but I had learned to hold my tongue at such a common opinion. My mother’s family were of the Catholic faith. She had been forced to abandon both when she married my father, but she had whispered stories and prayers to me when I was a child, and taught me how to genuflect – a gentle secret with no harm intended. It was her gold crucifix I wore beneath my shirt.

‘Is it so terrible?’ Forster asked. ‘Mr Aislabie has it in his power to grant me everything I have ever wanted. This is how he works – making deals and trading information.’

‘Using people.’

Forster blinked. ‘Yes. But then, he uses you too, sir.’

Him and the Queen of England. ‘Are you sure he is the best patron for you, Mr Forster?’

He shrugged. ‘I can imagine worse.’

‘I’m sorry for throttling you.’

He gave a rueful smile, rubbing his throat again. ‘All in the past, sir. All in the past. Shall we begin again?’ He held out his good hand.

I smiled, and took it. After all, I had liked him on first meeting. If I could keep him from the subjects of religion and architecture, we would probably muddle along together well enough.

‘Who do you think killed the deer, Mr Forster? Please don’t say it was poachers,’ I added hastily.

He frowned. ‘Mr Aislabie is not loved in these parts – though to be fair, I speak only from Mr Messenger’s account. He is known for paying his bills late, and his steward drives a hard bargain. He must be the wealthiest man in the county, and that alone breeds resentment among the commonality.’ He chewed his lips. ‘I’m afraid I have not helped you.’

No, he hadn’t. He had just widened my number of suspects to the entire county. Whittling down all of Aislabie’s enemies would take a dozen lifetimes. I needed an answer today. I must find another way to reach the truth.

I had a long talk with Athena about her disgraceful behaviour before I returned to the saddle. Her ears drooped as she waited for me to finish. I wasn’t the only one with a talent for ignoring sermons. We trotted through the abbey and past Fountains Hall, a splendid sight in the noonday sunshine. As we reached the open road I lit a pipe and let Athena set the pace, anxious not to bring about another skittish frenzy.

It had been a long, brutal winter, and it was good to feel the sun upon my face. Life was returning, spring flowers bright beneath the trees and hedgerows. The countryside wove its spell, too beautiful to feel dangerous. The birds sang, the bees hummed, and I rode on, smoking my pipe.

Chapter Twelve

Kitty sat on the front steps of Studley Hall, arms wrapped about her legs,chin upon her knees. She was pretending to watch the work on the stables, but I knew she had been waiting for me, and worrying.

‘Still alive,’ I said, cheerfully.

The stags were gone, the blood washed away, and the gravel smoothed across the drive.

I jumped down and kissed her. ‘I need a drink.’

‘You’ve scratched your hands. Why did you not wear your gloves?’

We walked Athena around the east side of the house towards the yard, passing the oak tree that stood outside our bedroom window. ‘Where’s Sam?’

‘Lurking.’ She tangled her fingers in Athena’s creamy white mane. ‘I had a nightmare about him last night. I dreamed that I woke up and he was standing over the bed. He pressed a pillow over my face and smothered me.’ She looked up at me. ‘I know it sounds foolish…’

‘We’ll keep my blade under the pillow.’

She tugged at the jewelled brooch nestled between her breasts. As the brooch slid higher I realised it was the handle of a thin blade tucked inside her stomacher. Sam’s mother Gabriela wore a similar device. She’d sliced open my arm with it a few weeks back, leaving a fresh scar to remember her by. She must be wondering where Sam was now. I should send word to settle her fears. But would she blame me for stealing him from her? God knows I had not encouraged him.

‘Sam told Mr Gatteker that I was his brother.’

‘That would be quite charming,’ Kitty said, ‘if it were anyone else.’

We found Pugh in the yard, instructing one of the grooms. I told him about Athena’s gallop through the woods to Fountains Abbey. ‘Best clean up these scratches,’ he frowned, showing his man. ‘Don’t want them turning bad. Poor girl,’ he said, stroking Athena’s nose. ‘You’ve had a fright, han’t you? Let’s take you to your stall.’

‘Where’s my stall and rub down, Mr Pugh? I think I fared the worst out of the two of us.’

He grinned. ‘Horses first at Studley. Before servants, before guests, before family.’

‘You heard about the stags?’

‘Bloody poachers. I’d hang the lot of ’em.’

I didn’t bother to correct him. ‘I must speak with the gamekeeper – I forget his name.’

‘William Hallow. He’s in the kitchens, taking a mug of beer with Mrs Mason.’

William Hallow was a short, square fellow with russet brows and pale, grey-blue eyes. He wore his own hair, for some eccentric reason, tied at the nape of his neck. His hat was resting on a hook on the kitchen wall while he sat at the table, freckled hands clutching his beer. He had the tired, contented look of a man who had worked hard all night, and was about to go home to bed.

He stood up when Kitty and I came through the door, grabbing his hat so he could shove it on his head and then remove it again. He bowed several times to me without saying a word, overcome with shyness.

Mrs Mason, amused, got up from the table to fetch some more ale. ‘Mr Aislabie’s asked for an early dinner today,’ she said. ‘Says you’ve urgent business this afternoon.’

She waited for me to add to this little nugget of information, but I did not have the heart to talk of the Gills. In truth I had forgotten my promise until now.

‘I’m stewing carp,’ Mrs Mason continued, not bothering to conceal her disappointment. ‘Fresh from the lake this morning. Do you like carp, sir?’

‘Delicious.’ I hated carp.

‘Aye, delicious,’ Hallow echoed.

‘You hate carp, Tom,’ Kitty said.

‘… I find it can be a little muddy. Sometimes.’

‘Very muddy, carp,’ Hallow agreed eagerly.

‘My carp,’ Mrs Mason sniffed, glaring at Hallow, ‘is never muddy.’

We sat down. Mrs Mason poured out a mug of ale for Kitty and for me, and freshened her own.

‘You must see to those scratches, Tom,’ Kitty said. ‘They might fester.’

It was true they stung like the devil, but I said nothing, not wishing to appear foppish.

‘I have a salve!’ Hallow jumped up, groping deep in his breeches pocket. ‘I could anoint you, your honour. As the blessed whore Mary Magdalene anointed our Lord Jesus.’

‘I don’t think-’

‘What a kind thought,’ Kitty said, in a solemn voice. ‘Do hold out your hands for him, Tom.’

There was nothing for it. Hallow began to slaver a thick paste over the scratches. God knows what was in it, but it smelled pleasant enough. ‘I use this on the stags, sir,’ he explained. ‘Helps when they gore themselves in rutting season.’

Mrs Mason remembered that she needed something from the pantry. I could hear her sniggering behind the door.

‘You must be sorry to have lost three stags this morning,’ I said. ‘They were fine beasts.’

Hallow kept his eyes on mine as he rubbed the salve into my skin. ‘Weren’t none of mine, sir, praise the Lord for His mercy. Never seen them before.’

‘Indeed? Where did they come from?’

‘Must ha’ been one of the adjoining estates. Fountains would be my guess, sir.’

‘No love between Mr Aislabie and Mr Messenger, I hear.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did you hear anything on your rounds last night?’

‘No sir, your honour. But I weren’t on the estate most of the night. Rode up to Studley moor about midnight – weren’t back until dawn. Mr Aislabie’s orders. Wants us to catch the Gills out poaching. Never trust a Gill,’ he added, as if reciting the eleventh commandment.

‘Bag of scoundrels,’ Mrs Mason said, returning to the table. She took one look at Hallow rubbing my hands, his pale face flushed red with holy reverence, then spun around and headed back to the pantry.

Kitty took a swig of beer. She looked at ease here in the kitchen, and very beautiful with the light at her back. Hallow was oblivious.

I tugged my hands from his grasp. ‘Mr Hallow, I must ask something of you. But it must be kept secret, you understand?’

He nodded, thrilled.

‘Are you on good terms with Mr Messenger’s keeper at Fountains Hall?’

He nodded again.

‘I’d like you to speak to him, if you will. Ask if he’s lost any of his deer.’

‘I’ll visit him today, sir.’

We drank our beer. The kitchen fell quiet, save for Mrs Mason, humming to herself as she chopped up a salad. Kitty said something about the weather.

Mr Hallow gulped his beer. ‘Mr Hawkins, your honour. May I beg a favour of you, sir?’

‘William,’ Mrs Mason said in a warning tone, without turning around.

I waved at Hallow to continue.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he stammered, ‘but might I touch your neck for luck?’

Oh, God. ‘Very well.’

Kitty suppressed a laugh. ‘You’d best loosen your cravat, Tom.’

I frowned at her, then untied it, winding the cloth around my hand. My neck felt exposed without it. Hallow reached across the table and cupped his hand around my throat. His palm was warm, and smelled of the salve. His fingers touched the back of my neck, where the hangman had tied the knot.

Hallow closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. Then he sat back, his head bowed.

Kitty wasn’t laughing any more. We looked at each other across the table, remembering.

‘A miracle,’ Hallow said. ‘Christ be praised.’

I retied my cravat.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘May God protect you.’ He smiled at Kitty, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘And your wife.’

Four of us sat for dinner that day: myself and Kitty, Aislabie, and Mrs Fairwood. Bagby stood at the window, but had little to do but watch, as we served ourselves. Mrs Fairwood was dressed in another grey gown, this one with a black lace trim. She sat with her back very straight. I had noticed her judging Kitty upon their introduction – unfavourably, I thought. It was more than a mere difference in character. She had narrowed her eyes when Kitty’s vowels lurched towards the London gutter, and suppressed a little smirk. I hated her for it.

‘Mr Hawkins rides up to Kirkby moors this afternoon,’ Aislabie told her. ‘He will arrest the Gills in the king’s name.’

‘I will speak with them,’ I corrected, poking the carp about my plate.

Mrs Fairwood lowered her fork. ‘You question their guilt?’

‘Mr Sneaton wasted the entire morning interrogating the servants,’ Aislabie said, frowning at me. ‘As expected, they neither heard nor saw a damned thing. It was the Gills.’

Bagby, unnoticed at the window, gave an assertive nod. Never trust a Gill.

‘Then who took the sheets?’ I asked.

‘I don’t give a damn about the sheets!’ Aislabie shouted.

The table fell silent. Kitty, busy crunching a radish, stopped chewing.

Aislabie pressed his fingers against his forehead. ‘This wretched business.’

‘Perhaps Mrs Fairwood should return home,’ I said. ‘For a while, at least.’

I’d meant it out of spite, for slighting Kitty. But to my surprise she gave me a surreptitious nod in thanks. ‘If you think it best, Mr Aislabie,’ she began, carefully.

‘No!’ Aislabie cried in alarm, as if she might disintegrate in front of him. He snatched hold of her hand, gripping it fiercely. ‘We have been parted long enough, Lizzie. You are my daughter and I will not let you go again. I forbid it.’

Mrs Fairwood closed her eyes for a moment. ‘As you wish, Mr Aislabie.’

‘Father,’ he corrected. ‘Enough of this nonsense. From now on, I would have you call me Father, as I call you Elizabeth.’ He waited a moment. ‘It would please me more than I can say.’

There followed a moment of excruciating silence.

Mrs Fairwood swallowed. ‘As you wish, Father.’

Aislabie’s face lit up with joy. He gazed at each of us in turn, to ensure we had witnessed this miracle. Kitty, myself, even Bagby. His eyes as they met mine were bright with wonder – and even though I had not warmed to him, I found myself praying that this was all true. That his youngest daughter had in fact come back to him after all these years. For how could he recover if she turned out to be false? He squeezed Mrs Fairwood’s hand. ‘There, Lizzie! I am your father. You will remain here at Studley, and I shall keep you safe.’

He held her hand for the rest of the meal. Mrs Fairwood didn’t speak, didn’t eat another morsel.

Kitty and I talked about the carp, and the salad, and the weather. And as soon as we could, we left.

Bagby looked out across the table, and said nothing.

Chapter Thirteen

It was a long ride out to the moors. Aislabie insisted on joining our party, saddling a dark chestnut stallion himself. I had tried – one last time – to persuade him that this was a poor use of our limited time, but he was determined to have the Gills exposed, arrested, and led in chains to Ripon gaol ‘before dark’. He was annoyed that I had invited Kitty, thinking it a sign that I did not take his warnings about the Gills seriously. ‘This is not a suitable expedition for a lady,’ he complained. ‘Mrs Hawkins – I think you must turn back.’

Kitty smiled sweetly, and said she was sure that her husband could protect her.

We rode with two of Simpson’s men in case of trouble – a silent fellow named Crabbe, and Thomas Wattson, the handsome lad scolded by Sneaton for asking about his master’s bill. He looked pleased to have won a rest from breaking stones and digging holes for a few hours.

We passed through the pretty village of Galphay. Aislabie pointed to a raised patch of ground. ‘That was a hanging place, long ago. Ah. Sorry, Hawkins.’

Kitty was riding a few paces ahead with Wattson. He was naming the different flowers that had sprouted along the hedgerows. I’d grown up in the country, I could tell her all that sort of nonsense, damn the fellow. I nudged my horse forward. It so happened that the path was narrow at this point, and only left room for two horses to ride abreast. Wattson touched his hat and urged his horse on a pace, joining the silent Crabbe as I settled beside Kitty.

‘Bluebells,’ I said, nodding at a pile rotting under a hawthorn tree.

‘Yes… Thank you, Tom.’ She sighed, and shifted in her saddle. ‘I wish I could have worn Lady Judith’s breeches.’

I thought of Kitty’s legs astride her horse. And then of Wattson riding alongside her with his clear, healthy complexion, his strong muscles and sharp cheekbones. Closer in age to Kitty, who was not yet nineteen. ‘You ride very well in a gown,’ I decided. I wondered when she had learned to ride with such ease. As a child, perhaps. Kitty had been working in a coffeehouse in the Marshalsea when we first met, but I did know that her early life had been comfortable. Beyond that, most of Kitty’s history remained a mystery to me. She had been twelve when her father died, and not much older when she fled her mother’s home. She never spoke of how she survived those later years, but I knew this much: she had grown up fearless and sharp-witted, with scant regard for the rules of polite society.

We had just left the hamlet of Laverton when Aislabie called out from behind. ‘The Gills live down there,’ he said, pointing down a wooded lane. He steered his horse on to the grass bank, coming up alongside Wattson and Crabbe. ‘The house is hidden in a copse over in the next field. You won’t see it until you’re hard upon it.’ He handed Wattson his pistol. ‘I would have you make the house safe before we arrive – I would not have Mrs Hawkins in any danger. Guard the family until we return.’

‘I’m sure I would be safe,’ Kitty said, disappointed. She loved a brawl.

Aislabie ignored her. ‘The moors are just up here,’ he said. ‘I should like to show them to you.’

After a good ten minutes’ ride we reached the edge of Kirkby moor. At once, it felt as though we had crossed a border into a foreign land. The hills and green valleys vanished, replaced with acre upon acre of open moorland, stretching almost to the horizon in every direction. There were no trees, no dwellings, only tufted grass and heather, and a few rocks lying low upon the ground. We rode on, picking our way through what felt like an empty land, devoid of life. Then the grouse began to call out to one another. We couldn’t see them hidden in the chocolate brown heather, but their gurgling cries filled the air, warning of our approach.

‘Magnificent, is it not, Mrs Hawkins?’ Aislabie prompted Kitty.

‘Quite a contrast to your gardens, sir.’

He liked the comparison. ‘A pleasing contrast, yes. Here nature is unbound, untroubled by men. I ride here at least once a week when I am at Studley. An indulgence, I suppose…’ He breathed in deep, then out again in a long sigh. And I thought how much more confident and composed he appeared, when he was beyond Mrs Fairwood’s reach.

A couple of plump rabbits bounded out from cover to nibble on the spring grass. They kept an eye upon us, hunched ready to hop to safety. ‘There’s a large warren over there,’ Aislabie said, tilting his chin towards a spot close by. ‘Excellent meat.’

‘Is this the disputed land?’

‘There is no dispute, sir. I own the land.’

The idea of owning such a wild, open place felt unnatural to me. No doubt Mr Aislabie, and Mr Aislabie’s lawyer, would disagree. ‘But it was common land, in the past? The Gills farmed here?’

Aislabie snorted. ‘Farmed? A pretty word for it. They snared rabbits and grouse. Grazed a few sheep.’

Then why not let them continue, if their needs were so small? Lord knows, the world was not about to run out of rabbits. And the sheep would help keep the moors cropped close.

I surprised myself with these thoughts. I sounded like my father. He had argued against the enclosure of common land – from the pulpit, at the dinner table. Sermonising. I could have sworn I hadn’t taken in a single word, but I must have been listening after all.

I knew better than to debate the matter with Aislabie. As far as he was concerned the land was his, and there was an end to it. And, overnight, with a scrawl of ink, farmers had become poachers.

Crabbe and Wattson had been discovered the moment they stepped on to the Gills’ land – by the dogs, or one of the many children roaming about the place. Annie Gill, contrary to her fierce reputation, had invited them in for a bowl of rabbit stew. We found them gathered around a rough table with her husband Jeb, eating the evidence. A tiny Gill was sitting on Wattson’s lap. ‘Again!’ she yelled in delight as we entered the cottage, and Wattson bounced her on his knees, then lifted her high in the air.

‘Wattson,’ Aislabie snapped.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, the child still raised above his head. ‘She clambered.’

‘Put her down.’

Wattson did as he was ordered. As the girl’s bare legs touched the cold stone floor she went very quiet. Then she filled her lungs and began to scream. A baby, asleep in a cot by the fire, woke up and joined in.

‘Pick her up,’ Aislabie said hastily to Wattson, over the din. ‘For God’s sake.’ His head almost touched the ceiling even at the highest point of the cottage – as did mine.

Annie Gill went over to the cot and took the screaming baby in her arms. She loosened her gown and put it to her breast. ‘Mr Aislabie, your lordship. What an honour,’ she smirked. The baby suckled contentedly, its tiny hand opening and closing like a starfish.

Aislabie snuffed and averted his gaze. ‘You know why we have come, I’m sure. Mr Hawkins has travelled from London at the queen’s bidding to discover the culprits. You will answer his questions.’ He grabbed me and pulled me to one side. ‘Be sure to press them hard, sir.’ Then he strode out of the cottage, slamming the door behind him. He might have faced down a knife, or a pistol – but not a bare breast.

Annie Gill grinned. She must have been a striking woman once – tall, with high cheekbones and thick hair now turned an iron grey. Ten years younger than Lady Judith, most likely, but she wore her hard life upon her body. I counted seven children tumbling in and out of the cottage, plus the one at her breast. Her face was etched with deep lines, and most of her teeth were rotten. She walked stiffly too, as though her joints plagued her. Her husband Jeb had fared no better – his back was bowed, his hands gnarly. There was a spirit to them both, though. The Gills’ cottage was cramped, and at one point a mouse ran over my foot, but it was a welcome change from the brooding, tense atmosphere at Studley Hall.

‘Sit down and have some stew,’ Annie Gill said, slapping Wattson from his chair to make space for me at the table. ‘And who’s this?’

‘Kitty Sparks,’ Kitty said, then corrected herself swiftly. ‘Hawkins now.’

‘Just wed – bless you!’ Annie exclaimed. Jeb grunted something that might have been congratulations or might have been a withering critique of the very notion of matrimony – it was hard to tell over the noise of eight children.

There were no more chairs, so Kitty sat upon my knee and shared a bowl of stew, while Annie paced about the room with the baby. The food was fresh and very good – much better than Mrs Mason’s carp. I started to explain about the threats Aislabie had received, but the Gills knew all about them. ‘I hear everything that happens at Studley,’ Annie said. ‘They’re saying we wrote those letters, I suppose.’

‘Never trust a Gill,’ Jeb muttered into his stew. Annie snorted.

‘Two of them mention Kirkby moors.’ I laid the notes upon the table. ‘You claim a right to farm there, I believe?’

Annie wouldn’t look at them. ‘The moors belong to everyone and no one. There’s enough coneys and grouse up there to feed half the county.’

Jeb grunted his agreement.

‘But see here.’ Kitty held the first note up so that Annie and Jeb could read it. She pointed to a line halfway down the page. ‘They threaten to burn the moors to ash. See – this line here.’

Annie and Jeb exchanged an odd, complicit look, then glanced at the note. Annie shook her head, but she seemed hesitant and shifted away at once to nurse the baby. Jeb frowned at the letter for a moment, tracing a finger across the page. ‘Bad business, burning moorland,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t hold with that.’

We talked further, but the convivial mood had faded. Kitty had pinched my leg after the exchange about the notes, but I couldn’t understand what she meant by it. Wattson too appeared distracted, the child now half asleep in his arms with her thumb snug in her mouth. Crabbe ate his stew.

The Gills swore they had been at home all night. Raising all these children, they said, aged from three months to seventeen years old, had worn them to the bone. So much so they would collapse into bed at nightfall and know nothing until dawn. Jeb stifled a yawn. More likely he’d spent the night on the moors checking his snares, but I couldn’t prove it and had no interest in doing so. A wave of futility passed through me. The visit had been a waste of time and effort, just as I’d expected.

I gave Annie a few coins for the stew, leaving the cottage in an irritable state. It would be dusk soon, and I was no closer to discovering Aislabie’s tormentors. I mounted my horse, gathering the reins as the Gills’ dogs barked at our feet. Kitty followed a few seconds behind, Wattson holding her horse steady as she settled herself in the saddle. I set off at a trot through the field. The day was ending, and I’d learned nothing.

Kitty drew up beside me. She was grinning.

‘Did you see? The note, Tom,’ she added, handing the first letter to me.

‘I’ve read it a dozen times.’

‘Read what it doesn’t say.’

I glanced at her, catching her meaning. ‘There’s no mention of burning the moors.’

Kitty beamed. ‘I made it up. I pointed to a line about grazing sheep, and they didn’t know the difference. D’you see?’

‘They can’t read.’

‘Can’t read, can’t write.’

The Gills were innocent. Very good. At least now I could focus my investigations upon Studley Hall, as I had wished to do from the start. ‘Aislabie will be disappointed. He’d cart all ten of them off to gaol if he could, including the baby.’ I reached for Kitty’s hand. ‘What a cunning woman you are.’

‘Hell fire!’ Wattson, riding behind us, pulled his horse up short. He poked his fingers into his pocket, growing agitated. ‘She’s stolen the coins from my pocket!’

‘Annie?’

‘Little Janey. Gah! You’d best ride on, sir. I’ll catch up.’ He nudged his horse around and rode back towards the cottage to retrieve his coins.

Kitty watched him go, watched his hips rising up and down against the saddle. I watched Kitty.

Crabbe sucked a piece of meat from between his teeth. ‘Never trust a Gill,’ he said.

Our ride back to Studley Hall was a brief, happy moment in my trip to Yorkshire. I find my mind often returns to that journey, to that quiet contentment as we trotted through the country lanes. We almost stopped at the inn at Galphay for a bowl of punch, but – worrying over the fading light – continued on.

Crabbe had ridden ahead, so Kitty and I talked of private things, plans for the future, and plans for when we reached our room, and our bed. We talked so well and in such detail that it became necessary to stop, and tie up the horses, and find a clearing away from the path. The ground was too muddy to lie upon, so Kitty leaned against an oak tree, and I pulled her gown about her hips. She guided me into her, grazing her teeth against my neck. I pushed deeper and she cried out in pleasure, so loud the jackdaws cawed and flew off through the clearing.

‘We’re scaring the crows,’ Kitty said, and laughed.

As I said, my mind wanders back to that journey.

We straightened our clothes and stumbled back to the path. Wattson had caught up with the horses and was waiting for us. He didn’t ask where we’d been or what we’d been doing; he didn’t need to.

‘You retrieved your coins?’ I asked him, helping Kitty into the saddle.

Wattson nodded. ‘I’d best catch up with Crabbe,’ he said, and touched his hat before riding off.

Kitty bit her lip in mock dismay. ‘He’ll tell the servants.’

‘Let him. We’re married, remember?’

We rode on, casting long shadows upon the path. It was early evening now, the clouds tinged a warm pink. The air smelled of mud and wet leaves. Partridges pecked their way through the undergrowth, and squirrels raced each other around the tree trunks. As we drew close to Studley Royal, I heard a rustle high on a steep bank to my right. I turned in my saddle and saw a stoat, not much bigger than my hand, streaming backwards through the bushes, its body low and lean. It was dragging a rabbit twice its size along the ground, jaws clamped tight around the coney’s neck. It stopped for a moment, struggling with its cumbersome prize. Then it began again.

I watched it do this three times, and each time I thought it might give up. It never did. A tiny, determined creature, so much more powerful than it seemed, and full of purpose. It pulled the rabbit deep into the bushes and disappeared.

Chapter Fourteen

Something had changed at Studley Hall. I felt it the moment we rode past Simpson’s men. They paused in their work to watch us, clasping chisels and hammers in their strong fists. A tension rippled between us that would have had me reaching for my blade in London.

Simpson was standing on the top of a low wall, legs astride.

‘What’s happened?’ I called out.

He jumped down from the wall and sauntered away.

Bagby was waiting for us in the great hall in his smart green coat and his over-powdered wig. Any last shred of deference had vanished. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered, swivelling on his heel.

Kitty began to move. I touched her arm to stop her.

It took Bagby a moment to realise we weren’t following. He strode back to us. ‘Mr Aislabie demands your presence. You must come at once.’

He was stubborn, and so was I. We might have spent the rest of the day scowling at one another, while the fire crackled in the great stone hearth and the housemaids hurried back and forth on their errands.

‘Is someone hurt?’ Kitty asked.

‘Yes, madam,’ Bagby replied, making a great show of politeness. ‘Your husband’s ward. We caught him thieving.’

Damn it.

Bagby caught my dismay, and smirked in triumph. ‘He waits for you in the study, with his honour and Mr Sneaton. I can take you to them, sir – if you would be gracious enough to permit me.’ He gave me a sardonic bow.

‘I know the way. Leave us.’ I put my hand on Kitty’s back and guided her from the hall.

‘What has he done?’ Kitty asked from the corner of her mouth.

I had no answer.

We hurried through the drawing room. Lady Judith was perched on a plump red sofa, pretending to read a book. She threw me a disappointed look, then rose and followed us into her husband’s study without a word.

Aislabie was at the window. He kept his back to the room as we entered.

Sam stood by the unlit hearth, guarded by two of Aislabie’s footmen. He looked terrible. There was a cut upon his lip, and his nose was red and swollen. A thick stream of blood had poured from his nostrils, running down his neck and staining his shirt. His guards held an arm each, so tight he was forced on to tiptoes. Sneaton stood beside them, grim and angry, leaning heavily on his stick.

Most boys would have been dazed and frightened. Sam was not.

‘What the devil is this?’ I glared at the closest footman. ‘Let him go.’

The footman glanced at Sneaton, who shook his head.

Kitty approached them. If I’d done the same there would have been a fight, but they would not strike a woman. She put a hand to Sam’s chin and tilted his head. He’d lost the ribbon for his hair, and his black curls hung loose about his face, falling over his eyes. She brushed his hair away gently. There was a small cut on the bridge of his nose. ‘This will hurt,’ she warned, and pressed her finger and thumb on either side. Sam winced, but didn’t cry out. ‘Do you feel something inside it?’ she asked. ‘Any more blood?’

‘No.’

She moved her finger and thumb down the nose. ‘Ooh. Something crunched there.’ She dropped her hand. ‘Your nose is broken.’

‘He’s lucky it’s not his neck.’ Aislabie said, turning to the room.

I strode to the door and wrenched it open. As I’d half-expected, a cluster of servants had gathered to listen, including Sally. They began to back away. ‘I need a bowl of hot water and clean cloths. At once! And someone run to the ice house.’ I slammed the door on them. ‘Who did this?’

‘I did,’ Sneaton replied, calmly. He held up his stick, to show how he’d used it as a cosh. ‘I’ve had my eye on him since you arrived. I know a gutter thief when I see one.’

Sam smiled a wolf’s smile. His teeth were red with blood from the cut upon his lip.

Sneaton didn’t see the quiet menace in his eyes; the unspoken threat. ‘I caught him in here, hunting through the desk.’

‘I won’t tolerate thieves,’ Aislabie said. ‘I’ll have him flogged for this.’

Lady Judith had listened to this exchange in silence, sitting in a chair by the door, her fingers linked together in her lap. ‘What were you searching for, Master Fleet?’ she asked.

Sam shifted his gaze. ‘A green ledger. South Sea accounts.’

Lady Judith looked startled. She glanced at her husband, and then at me. ‘I see.’

I think – at least Kitty told me later – that I managed to keep an even countenance.

Aislabie ordered the guards from the room. He stood over Sam, legs wide, hands upon his hips as if he were King Henry VIII, about to order a fresh beheading. No doubt this would have intimidated the workers on his estate, who relied upon his good favour. Sam had no such concerns. He had grown up among thieves and murderers: villains who would slit a man’s throat then sit back down and finish their supper. Aislabie didn’t frighten him. He kept his eyes upon Sneaton, the man who had dared to strike him.

‘Look at me,’ Aislabie commanded.

Sam ignored him.

There is nothing more foolish-seeming than a weak man posturing his strength. Worst of all to a small, slight boy of fourteen with a tangled mop of curls. ‘Insolent boy,’ he snarled. And in his rage, and embarrassment, he snatched Sam’s shirt in his fist.

My first instinct was to draw my blade. But Sam caught my eye and without a word, without a gesture, warned me to stand back. This was his game.

There was a knock at the door. Sally entered with a bowl of hot water and a stack of fresh cloths draped over her arm. She gave a short gasp. Aislabie, suddenly seeing himself through her eyes, let go of Sam’s shirt.

I used the distraction to drag a chair to the hearth and settle Sam upon it. Kitty soaked a cloth and began cleaning away the blood from his face and neck. It struck me that Sam was using his injuries to appear vulnerable. He couldn’t have expected or wanted a broken nose, but he added it at once to his arsenal.

When she had cleaned up the worst of it, Kitty dropped the cloth into the bowl. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she scolded Sneaton. ‘He’s just a boy.’

She knew very well he was far more than that.

‘Why do you search for the ledger?’ Lady Judith asked him.

A plain question: the sort Sam appreciated. It deserved a plain answer. ‘Queen wants it.’

I gritted my teeth. He wouldn’t spill our secrets without a plan – I just wished he’d shared it with me first.

Aislabie’s mouth had dropped open. ‘The queen? This is why she sent you?’ He spun to face me. ‘You ordered him to do this. You knew I would be on the moors.’

I didn’t contradict him. Might as well appear more cunning than I was.

‘You have lied to me from the start. I trusted you. I welcomed you into my home.’

‘You threatened the royal family, sir! What did you expect?’

‘What I was owed!’ Aislabie thundered ‘I could have used that ledger to defend myself, but I held my tongue, even when they threw me in the Tower. And through all my suffering, I never spoke out. Because I love my country. If the names in that book were revealed there would be riots in every town in England. The government would fall. I doubt the king himself could survive the scandal. He’d be kicked back to Hanover if he was lucky, along with your mistress,’ he sneered. ‘We’d be kneeling to Rome by the end of the year.’

‘You love your country. But you would blackmail the queen?’

Aislabie scowled. ‘I will not be judged by you, sir. You were a damnable disgrace long before you were sentenced to hang. And yet how swiftly you are forgiven. I hear my keeper touched your neck for luck, as if you were some popish saint.’ He snorted. ‘See what passes for a hero in these corrupted days! An infamous rake, stewing in his own vice and idleness – and I would say worse, if your wife were not present.’

‘At least Tom owns his faults,’ Kitty said. ‘And he is ten times the better man for it.’

‘Your loyalty is touching, madam,’ Aislabie acknowledged, gracing her with a patronising smile. ‘But your husband knows his true worth, or lack thereof. Tell me, Hawkins – what great services have you performed for your country?’

‘Well,’ I shrugged. ‘I didn’t bankrupt it.’

He glared at me, his lips pressed into a thin line.

‘Mr Aislabie is an honourable man,’ Sneaton answered in his place. ‘And this is his home. He has no need to defend himself to you.’

‘Thank you, Jack,’ Aislabie said. He shook his head. ‘See what I endure. Do you see, Judith? Would this scoundrel have dared speak to me in such a fashion, when I was chancellor? No indeed – he would have bowed and scraped with the rest of them. Has ever a man been so ill-treated? I sacrificed my own good name to save my country. I took the blame upon my own shoulders while the guilty prospered. But I was promised, I was assured, that once a decent time had passed, I would be raised up again. Eight years I have waited. And this is my reward. The first time I ask for aid, to save my family, the queen sends a villain and a thief to steal from me. Do you see how I am betrayed? Because I dared ask for help?’

‘You didn’t ask, Mr Aislabie. You threatened.’

Aislabie was silent for a moment. He looked at me, and then at Sam, sitting by the hearth with his swollen nose and bloody shirt. His shoulders sank. ‘Oh, just go, damn you,’ he said, wearily. ‘Pack your belongings and leave.’

Sam had been waiting for this. He pushed himself up from his chair. ‘No.’

Everyone stared at him.

‘You must give us the ledger first.’

Lady Judith, still seated in the corner, began to laugh. ‘And why would we do that, Master Fleet?’

‘A trade.’

‘Oh, a trade. I see.’ Lady Judith was amused. ‘Well, sir – let us negotiate. What great treasure do you have for us?’

‘Information.’

Here was the nub of it. Sam had watched his father negotiate such deals all his life. He would not have started down this path if he did not have something with which to trade. And there was only one thing of greater value to John Aislabie than his wretched accounts book. Now I thought of it, why would Sam hunt for the ledger in daylight? Why would he let himself be caught? He must have planned the entire business – save for the broken nose. He hadn’t anticipated Sneaton’s violent loyalty to his master, or the savage crack of the walking stick. A lesson he would remember for next time.

‘I know who killed the deer.’

A moment’s silence.

‘Well? Who was it?’ Aislabie spluttered.

Sam put his hands in his pockets.

‘Damn you, boy,’ Sneaton shouted, lunging for him, but Sam darted out of reach, hands still in his pockets.

Aislabie rushed forwards, but Kitty stepped in front of him, stretching out her arms to block the way. Sam, shielded behind Kitty, allowed himself a brief grin. Such foolish etiquette, these gents. In Sam’s world, women fought alongside the rest of the company. Children too, once they were strong enough.

‘It would seem there’s a deal to be struck,’ I said.

Aislabie rounded on me. ‘Now we see your colours, sir. You would trade over such a matter? You would risk our lives, my daughter’s life for this?’

‘If you love your family, hand over the ledger and we will leave your house at once.’

Aislabie’s jaw tightened, his chest rising and falling as he fought his temper. He thought for a moment, dark eyes shrewd and narrow. ‘How much does the queen pay you?’

I shook my head.

‘Come sir, let us not be delicate about such things. What will be your reward, if you hand over the ledger? Whatever she pays you, I will double it.’

‘That is not possible, Mr Aislabie.’

‘Why, do you think I cannot afford it?’ he gestured about his room, the rich furnishings and the work continuing outside in the dusk.

‘It’s not in your power.’

‘An elevation at court, is that it?’ he jumped in, eagerly. ‘But think, sir – money buys influence. I know the worth of every position, believe me. And I have friends at court, in government – even now. My son has many useful contacts. My brother-in-law, Sir William Robinson, is one of the most influential men in the country. I may have been cast into the wilderness, but I have men in my pocket even now. The queen is not the only power in the land, sir. There is a great web of connections-’

‘John!’ Lady Judith interrupted.

‘-clubs and organisations,’ Aislabie continued, oblivious. ‘You have heard of these new gatherings in London – the freemasons? I could offer introductions-’

‘John. I don’t believe Mr Hawkins has been offered payment or position.’

Aislabie’s brow furrowed.

Lady Judith turned to me, her expression soft. ‘She has some hold upon you. Something private.’

I gave her a half bow in acknowledgement.

Aislabie’s shoulders sank. He had quite transported himself with all his promises. I think I had just witnessed something of the man he once was. Mayor of Ripon. Lord of the Admiralty. Chancellor of the Exchequer. A man of national consequence. ‘I did not think…’ He turned a little pink. ‘I see I have misjudged you.’

‘Clearly.’ Kitty glared at him. ‘You thought him nothing more than a worthless rake.’

I cleared my throat. ‘To be fair, sweetheart…’

‘You are much more than that, Tom. I see it, even if you do not.’

‘That is the secret of a good marriage, my dear,’ Lady Judith said, smiling sadly at her husband. ‘To see the best in them, and stay loyal through the worst.’

‘The deal,’ Sam prompted, bored and somewhat disgusted by this talk of love and loyalty.

Aislabie sat down at his desk, his politician’s mind examining every angle. At last, with a sharp nod, he came to a decision. ‘Very well.’

My heart lifted in astonishment. We had won. It didn’t seem possible. I imagined myself, ledger in hand, riding away from Studley Royal with Kitty and Sam. Home to London. ‘Excellent!’ I said, trying and failing to hide my relief. ‘Pray send for the ledger at once, so we might be sure it is genuine. If we’re satisfied, Sam will tell you everything he has discovered. Assuming his story tallies,’ I glanced at Sam, who nodded once, ‘we shall take the ledger and leave immediately.’ I had no wish to spend another night at Studley Hall. We would have to risk the journey in darkness and hope there would be rooms free in town. ‘Are we agreed?’

‘We are,’ Aislabie said. ‘With a heavy heart, we are. Mr Sneaton, pray fetch the ledger.’

Sneaton had remained silent throughout these negotiations. Now he bowed, as best he could. ‘Forgive me, your honour. But I cannot.’

Aislabie sat forward in his chair. ‘Nonsense. Do as I ask – at once.’

Sneaton bowed again, but didn’t leave.

‘For God’s sake,’ I said, losing patience. ‘If he cannot go, send one of the servants. I’ll fetch it myself if you wish.’

‘Sneaton,’ Aislabie said, exasperated. ‘Where is it?’

Sneaton straightened himself as best he could, his stick grinding into the floor. ‘Your honour, you know that I am your obedient servant. You made me promise never to speak to you of its hiding place. You entrusted it to me for this very reason. Hold firm, Mr Aislabie! You were promised a restoration of all your powers. If you lose the ledger, you will remain in exile for ever. It is your dream, sir. I will not let you give it up, after all you’ve suffered.’

There were tears in Aislabie’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Jack. With all my heart – thank you. But I have no choice.’

‘You do, sir!’ Sneaton insisted. ‘There’s always another way.’ He glowered at Sam. ‘I am sure I could beat the truth out of the boy.’

‘I will break your jaw if you try,’ I snapped.

Aislabie had risen from his chair, his expression sombre. He stood in front of Sneaton, and put a hand upon his shoulder. ‘I release you from your promise. Please. Fetch the ledger.’

The two men faced each other. I held my breath, praying for Sneaton to see sense. But he only shook his head. Aislabie lost patience. He grabbed his secretary by both shoulders and shook him. ‘Do you not understand the danger? My family. My family. You know I would give anything to protect them. Every brick of this house, every inch of land. It is all that matters in the end. It is everything.’

‘Mr Aislabie, sir. I cannot.’

Aislabie gripped harder. ‘For Elizabeth. For God’s sake, Jack. I can’t lose my Lizzie. Not again. Not again.’

Sneaton took a deep breath. ‘That woman is not your daughter, sir.’

Aislabie stepped back, as if struck.

‘It is true, sir, upon my soul. Mrs Fairwood is not your daughter.’

‘And how do you know this?’ Aislabie asked, in a cold voice. ‘What proof do you have?’

Grief shadowed Sneaton’s face – but he wouldn’t answer. ‘Your honour, I have served you faithfully for over thirty years. I ask that you trust me now.’

Aislabie covered his face with his hands. ‘Do not ask me this,’ he groaned. ‘Do not ask me to choose between you and my daughter.’

Sneaton bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Aislabie’s hands dropped to his sides. ‘So be it. Mr Sneaton, you are dismissed from my service, without references. Mr Bagby will take up your duties until I can find a new secretary. In the meantime, you will of course be evicted from your cottage. It is almost night, so in recognition of your injuries, you may leave tomorrow at dawn.’

‘John!’ Lady Judith cried. ‘Husband! Let us all be calm, and think for a moment-’

Aislabie ignored her. ‘Bring the ledger to me within the hour and I might reconsider. Now get out.’

Sneaton sagged, and would have fallen were it not for his wooden stick. Somehow he found the strength to bow, holding his head low. Then – ever the faithful servant – he limped towards the door.

‘Jack!’ Lady Judith cried in anguish.

I blocked his path. ‘For God’s sake, sir – think again for all our sakes.’

He glared at me, one eye burning with defiance, the other blind, milk-white. His raw, scarred face was inches from mine. ‘The queen will never get her claws on that book. Never.’

He closed the door quietly behind him. Aislabie slumped into his chair, staring at nothing. Lady Judith had covered her mouth with her hands, as if afraid of what she might say.

‘He’ll come back,’ Aislabie said. ‘He’s not a fool.’

But the hour passed, and Sneaton did not return. The sun set as the servants moved through the house, lighting candles. Stunned, we allowed ourselves to be led up to our rooms, no longer guests, not quite prisoners.

Kitty flung herself upon the bed, face down. ‘What fun we shall have at supper,’ she said, her voice muffled through the pillow.

Sam was peering at himself in the mirror. There were bruises forming under his eyes, and his eyelids were swollen.

I put my hand on his shoulder and looked at him in the glass. ‘You did well. So – who is it threatens Aislabie?’

He put a finger to his lips.

‘What – d’you think I’ll give up their names in some fit of conscience?’

A nod. ‘Or…’ He mimed knocking back a drink.

Well that was insulting. I can hold my tongue. And my liquor. ‘I could shake the truth out of you.’

He considered this for a moment. Pointed at his swollen nose, and shrank his shoulders, acting the meek little mouse.

There would be no profit in pressing him. He had his own plans and would not be swayed from them. Even if I did beat him – and of course I would not – he wouldn’t give me the names. I had brought a thief with me to Studley Hall, but I had also brought a Fleet: secretive, sly and independent of mind. So I let him slink away to his room, back to his sketchpad and his devious schemes.

I sat down on the bed, next to Kitty. ‘I thought we’d won.’

She touched my arm. ‘Be patient. Sneaton will have a change of heart. He won’t lose his position over this.’

I didn’t agree with her. Jack Sneaton would not be turned from his path, not willingly. I sighed. God spare us from men of principle: stubborn bastards, every one. I had no wish to hurt him, but I must have the ledger. I must keep Kitty safe.

I had brought a brace of pistols with me to Yorkshire. I did not wish to use them, but I would, if I must.

The sun had set, the sky a deep blue. Soon it would grow darker still.

Chapter Fifteen

‘The boy must remain locked in his quarters – upon Mr Aislabie’s orders.’

Bagby stepped away from the door to allow Sally through. She was carrying a supper tray for Sam, decorated with a vase of purple crocuses. Seeing that the fire had burned low, she tended to the flames, adding a shovelful of coal. Sam watched her from the doorway of his cupboard room, rubbing the back of his neck.

‘You’re to be locked in,’ I told him.

Sally clapped the black dust from her hands and gestured to the tray on the windowsill. ‘Your supper, Master Fleet. The salmon is very good, sir, and there is some cream for the apple pie.’

‘He’s not a gentleman, Sally,’ Bagby scolded her from the door. ‘He’s a thief.’

Sam hurried to the window and picked up his slice of pie. It was only after he’d crammed half of it in his mouth that he remembered his manners. He pointed to his full cheeks and grinned his appreciation.

‘You’re welcome, sir,’ Sally replied.

Sam lifted himself on to the window seat and toyed with the casement latch. The others didn’t notice the gesture, not even Kitty, but I had spent a long time in Sam’s company. He was sending me a message in his own silent language, one in which I was becoming fluent. Once you are gone, I will open this window and jump into the oak tree. And then I shall pay Mr Sneaton a visit.

I gave the briefest shake of the head, tapped my finger against my collarbone. I shall go myself.

His response did not even require a gesture, only a subtle shift in his eyes. Better this way. And, You cannot stop me.

Bagby escorted Kitty and me through the house to the library, more prison guard than footman.

‘Mr Aislabie and my Lady Judith have not yet descended,’ he said, as if he expected them to float down to supper from a celestial cloud. ‘You will remain here until his honour sends for you.’

He ushered us through the door. Metcalfe was sitting at the desk in the corner by the window, hunched over his books. He reached out a hand and dipped his quill three times, clotting it thoroughly before scraping a line or two on to the paper. He held his pipe clamped between his teeth, the air thick with tobacco smoke.

Bagby cleared his throat, but Metcalfe scribbled on, seemingly oblivious, though more likely ignoring him. ‘Mr Robinson,’ Bagby tried, at last. ‘Sir?’

‘Writing. Sit them down, Bagby. Sit them down and go.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir. Mr and Mrs Hawkins must be watched at all times – upon your uncle’s orders.’

Metcalfe sighed, and flung down his quill. He twisted in his chair, resting his arm along the back. His hands were covered with ink, and there was a dark smudge on his forehead. ‘And if they attempt an escape? What would you have me do, Bagby? Fling Lucretius at Mr Hawkins’ head?’ He picked up his copy of De Rerum Natura and tested its weight against his hand. His eyes were red and watery and he looked tired, but there was a spirit to him I’d not seen before. He rose to his feet and offered Kitty an elegant bow, pipe dangling from his lips. ‘Mrs Hawkins.’

Kitty curtsied. ‘Sir. We spoke this morning, through the keyhole.’

‘Such wonderful hair,’ he marvelled, dismissing Bagby with a well-practised baronial wave. ‘Like Bachiacca’s Sybil! How you remind me of her! Remarkable likeness. Have you seen it? There’s an etching of it here, somewhere. Let me find it…’ He wandered to the shelves, trailing smoke. ‘Bachiacca… Always painting redheads – and why shouldn’t he? Wonderful creatures.’ He plucked a heavy volume from a shelf and brought it over to the table to show us, ink-stained fingers flicking through the pages until he found an etching of a woman who looked nothing like Kitty, but whose breasts spilled over a tight corset, nipples pressing urgently through a gauzy cloth. ‘Look at the hair,’ Metcalfe said, not looking at the hair. ‘In the painting it’s red as fire.’

‘Are you recovered from this morning?’ Kitty asked.

‘How kind. Yes, I believe I am. Recovered as an old sofa. New fabric stretched over sagging old cushions.’ He tugged at his clean coat, beaming at her.

‘I only meant…’ Kitty gave up. ‘You have ink on your forehead.’

Metcalfe moved towards the door, rubbing at his forehead and smudging the ink deeper into his skin. He poked his head out into the corridor. ‘Gone!’ he exclaimed.

‘Who…’

‘Spies. Agents of Aislabie.’ He crossed to the terrace doors, cupping his hand so he might peer into the night. Satisfied, he sprang towards me and seized my hand. His palm was hot and sweaty. ‘Sir. My dear sir,’ he exclaimed, shaking my hand so vigorously my arm was half pulled from its socket. ‘Is it true? Are you here to destroy my uncle?’ He grinned, revealing a jumble of teeth.

‘Mr Robinson-’

‘Metcalfe!’ He let go of my hand, only to clap my arms and pull me into a brief hug. He smelled strongly of sweat, despite his clean clothes. ‘I must apologise, sir, for my previous uncivil behaviour.’

‘You have been perfectly decent, sir.’

‘Have I?’ Metcalfe looked doubtful. ‘I thought you were his creature, you see. Part of his great scheme to return to power.’ He held up a finger. ‘It must never happen. Uncle Aislabie is a…’ he glanced at Kitty and trailed away.

‘An arsehole?’ she offered.

Metcalfe giggled. ‘A thief. A veritable Mackheath. Robbed the country till it bled and pretended he bled the most of all. Oh, sirs – how can you command me to pay reparation, when I have nothing left? How will my poor family eat?’

‘You want to see your uncle ruined?’ Kitty asked.

‘Yes. No!’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘Not ruined. Diminished. Chastened. Humbled. I would have him peer into the mirror of his souland count every dark, festering stain upon it. Let us have some sherry.’ He poured three glasses, handed them around.

We drank together in silence, the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Almost eight. I could see why Mrs Fairwood, with her love of quiet study, preferred not to share this room with Metcalfe. He was a distracting and fidgety presence in a library, if a likeable one.

‘How pleasant this is,’ Metcalfe said, in a sombrous voice. I found it difficult to follow his moods. He collapsed into a chair by the fire. ‘Sneaton will never give up the ledger, you know. He’s a man of honour. A man of honour, shielding a scoundrel.’ He yawned very hard behind his hand, and wiped his eyes. ‘Apologies, my friends. It’s the laudanum, at least the lack of it. A plague upon the wretched stuff. Probably shouldn’t drink this.’ He knocked back his sherry in one.

‘I gave the laudanum to Mr Gatteker.’

‘Did you?’ Metcalfe looked surprised. ‘Was he in need of it?’

‘I asked him to examine it. You believed you were being poisoned.’

‘Oh. So I did.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I am but a shadow of a shadow. You must think me a ridiculous figure, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘Not at all, sir.’ She sat down opposite him, and sipped her sherry.

He fixed his gaze upon her for a long time, steadying himself again. It was as if his essence was all in flux, no fixed state where he might rest. Kitty did not seem to mind. I sensed this was not the first time she had seen this affliction – a wavering on the fragile border between madness and sanity.

‘I like you both very much,’ Metcalfe decided. ‘I shall help you, if I can.’

And I thought: Mr Robinson, you poor devil. You can barely help yourself.

He fixed himself another pipe. ‘I hear you have discovered who threatens the house. Would you whisper his name to me, in confidence? I would consider it a favour, as the wretched fellow plans to murder me.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir. Master Fleet will not give up his secret.’

He coughed out a laugh. ‘And nor will Sneaton. But come – you must have some inkling.’

‘It’s a large estate, and your uncle is not loved. I can think of a dozen suspects within the household alone.’

‘Including me?’ He laughed at my discomfort. ‘Come – I should be offended if I were not suspected, sir.’

It was true, I had considered Metcalfe – and then dismissed him. It was something I had realised from my conversation with Mr Forster: it would do no good rounding up all of Mr Aislabie’s enemies and discounting them one by one. Men who had never once met my host might bear him a grudge for his wealth, or his infamous part in the South Sea disaster. To discover the truth, one should not seek out those with cause to hate John Aislabie. One should ask this, instead: what sort of a man would conduct such a violent and carefully executed campaign against him? Not Metcalfe, I was sure of it. He was too chaotic and confused.

We were hunting for a most singular person, that much seemed clear. But, in any case, we would learn the truth from Sam soon enough. Unless he had been conning us all, of course. That was a distinct possibility, and one I chose not to think about too closely.

‘I fancy Mr Forster for it, myself,’ Metcalfe said. ‘No one can be that dull, surely? It is an act – it must be. And the stags were from Messenger’s park, I believe?’

‘That is not certain.’ I had not yet heard from William Hallow. ‘I’ve already questioned Forster. He confessed that he’s spying on Messenger for your uncle in exchange for his patronage. His entire future rests upon Mr Aislabie’s goodwill.’

‘Oh, that is a pity.’ Metcalfe lamented. ‘I had placed all my hopes on Forster. But do you see how I am proved right about the spies? My uncle is the most shameless devil, truly.’

We all agreed upon that. Kitty and Metcalfe fell into a discussion about London, and the theatre. They had both seen The Beggar’s Opera, so they sang one of the ballads together, and Metcalfe declared that Kitty could play Polly Peachum upon the stage, which proved he must be deaf, as well as a little mad.

I crossed the room to study the globe standing in one corner, thinking of Kitty’s dream of visiting Italy. It rested where Mrs Fairwood had left it, upon the eastern coast of the Americas, and the wide stretch of the Atlantic.

The door opened and Mr Forster entered the room. I introduced Kitty, who rose and curtsied.

‘Does she not remind you of Bacchiacca’s Sybil?’ Metcalfe prompted Forster from his chair without preamble.

‘I regret I have not seen, sir.’

‘No? Did you not visit it on your travels? Come then Forster, a game – what great work of art most reflects Mrs Hawkins’ timeless beauty?’

Kitty snorted into her sherry.

Forster tugged at the deep cuffs of his coat, flustered. ‘I am not sure that I recall… I do not have a clear memory of such things. I am more interested in architecture than paintings…’

‘Please do not trouble yourself, Mr Forster,’ Kitty laughed.

‘See! My point is made!’ Metcalfe thrust an arm towards Forster. ‘All those months upon his grand tour, and he cannot remember a single painting.’

‘I did not say-’ Forster stammered.

‘Clearly you are not who you seem,’ Metcalfe decided. He seemed to speak in jest, but his behaviour was so unpredictable, it was hard to be sure. ‘Tell us sir – are you an impostor? Were you out upon the estate last night, murdering stags? Did you chop off their heads and drag them to the front steps for me to discover?’

Mr Forster was stunned by the accusation – naturally enough. But before we could explain, or he could reply, we were called to the dining room.

As Kitty had predicted, the atmosphere at supper was strained. I had hoped to eat and retire as swiftly as possible – smuggling out a bottle of claret or two – but Mr Aislabie had other plans. He was convinced I knew the identities of the conspirators, and spent the meal attempting to coax the truth from me. He appealed to my compassion, my sense of decency. He pointed out that if I stayed at Studley Hall – ‘and damn it Hawkins, you will stay until I’m satisfied’ – that my own life was at risk. ‘Do you not care for your wife’s safety?’ he asked, glowering at me down the table.

‘John.’ Lady Judith put a hand on Kitty’s arm. ‘You are perfectly safe, my dear, I assure you. There will be twenty men guarding the house and grounds tonight. All the male servants will stay up, and Mr Simpson’s men will take turns at watch.’

Kitty smiled. She was, I’m sure, thinking of the dagger nestled inside her gown, the handle disguised as a brooch at her breast. And of the brace of pistols under the bed, and the dagger beneath our pillow.

‘I will visit Mr Sneaton in the morning and reason with him,’ Lady Judith said. ‘He will hand over the ledger, and Master Fleet will give up his information. Good will prevail. Now please, let us speak no more on the matter. I think Mrs Fairwood might faint.’

We all turned to look at Elizabeth Fairwood, who had not spoken once since we had sat down. She was indeed very pale, her face frozen in its customary mask. She was wearing the same grey fustian gown she had worn at dinner, a dress more suited to a governess than a gentlewoman. Only the jewel at her throat gave a hint of her wealth and status: the glittering diamond flower with the ruby at its heart. Her true mother’s brooch, if she was who she claimed to be. ‘It is a terrible business,’ she said, in a flat voice. ‘Those poor animals.’

Kitty narrowed her eyes at this. Mrs Fairwood’s compassion rang hollow, to be sure. I had seen her gazing at the stags from the window this morning. I’d seen no pity in her gaze. If anything, she had looked rather peevish.

Mr Forster, seated to her left, did his best to rouse the table to more cheerful matters. Even his clothes brightened the room, the gold buttons on his scarlet waistcoat gleaming in the candlelight. For once he did not speak of architecture, but entertained us with stories of his two friends, who had now reached Rome and had both sent letters. Each was in love with the same woman, he explained, without the other’s knowledge. The lady, meanwhile, was being showered with gifts from both suitors and presumably laughing behind her hand at the ridiculous Englishmen.

‘Tom and I have plans to visit Rome,’ Kitty said. ‘I should like to travel all across the world, to the very ends of the earth.’ She laughed at her own eagerness, and the rest of the table joined her, save for Mrs Fairwood. ‘Tom has a friend who lives in the colonies.’

‘New York. He’s set up a trading company.’

Forster leaned forward. ‘There are vast fortunes to be made out there, no doubt – in the south most of all. A whole great continent to exploit – and the cheapest of labour. Slaves and criminals – they must be the hardest working souls in the world. D’you know, I have always wondered – why do we waste so much abundant, free labour on the colonies? Just think, Mr Aislabie, if you could whip your men when required? Your stables would be built in a matter of weeks. You’d need a good slave master, some pitiless brute-’

‘No!’ Mrs Fairwood cried, and dropped her fork to her plate. She drew a steadying breath. ‘Please, sir. I beg you. Do not speak of such dreadful things.’

‘Dreadful?’ Forster seemed puzzled. ‘But I’m afraid it’s how the world turns, madam.’ He tried to catch her eyes, but she kept her gaze upon her plate. Her shoulders were trembling with suppressed emotion, her slim hands gripping the table. Forster appealed to Aislabie. ‘Sir, I’m sure you would agree-’

Mrs Fairwood scraped back her chair with a violent movement. ‘I pray you would excuse me,’ she said, and hurried from the room.

Mr Aislabie rose to follow her, then thought better of it. He sat back down, and gave Forster a critical look. ‘England is not a country of slaves, sir.’

‘No indeed, sir,’ Forster agreed hastily with his would-be patron, smiling about the table. ‘We are all free men here, thank God.’

Lady Judith signalled to Bagby to refill her glass.

Metcalfe roused himself. ‘Think I’ll take a walk about the gardens.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Metcalfe, it’s long past nine o’clock. It’ll be pitch black out there,’ Aislabie grumbled.

‘We carry our darkness with us, Uncle,’ Metcalfe said, then bowed and excused himself.

‘Does anyone in this house,’ Lady Judith asked, ‘know how to conduct an agreeable conversation?’

We retired to the drawing room and did our best to pretend this was a perfectly regular evening. To my surprise Mrs Fairwood joined us there, though she crossed at once to the harpsichord and began to play. Aislabie watched her for a while, with a quiet pride, before suggesting a game or two of cards. Fortune favoured me at last.

I am excessively good at cards. I played every day at school, and every night at Oxford. I survived for three years in London almost entirely upon my winnings. I have an exceptional talent for remembering what has been played, and for judging the meaning of each decision, based upon my opponent’s character and behaviour. There is an alchemy to it that I cannot put down in words – a hundred subtle ingredients I must draw upon in the few moments before I make my own play. One must understand the risks each player is prepared to take, and read the expression in every eye, no matter how fleeting. From these reactions, and the cards left to play, I am able to make swift calculations on the best use of my own hand. Not only that, I can do it tired, or sick, or drunk.

I wish this much-honed skill extended beyond the gaming tables, that this were all some great metaphor for how I conduct my life. True, cards have taught me how to read minute expressions of the face very well, if I bother to concentrate. But away from the table there are too many distinctions and distractions to make precise predictions. Life is not like a game of cards; life is like nothing but itself. That is why it is so precious.

Kitty preferred cockpits and wrestling to playing cards, and tended to grow restless sitting too long at the gaming table. But she made an exception that strange, unsettled night at Studley Hall. It was as if we had all decided to ignore the encroaching danger – as there was so little we might do about it. Aislabie and Lady Judith were both experienced players, but they were too confident and too focused upon each other’s game. I had plucked almost twenty pounds from Aislabie before the end of the night.

As we played, Lady Judith did her best to counsel her husband on Sneaton’s behalf, in her subtle way. A passing reference to some work that needed doing about the hall, and how Sneaton would be best placed to arrange it. A reminder of how he had ordered the wallpaper and much of the furniture in the room, obtaining the very best price for each item. Aislabie gritted his teeth through each hint and said at last, when his patience grew thin, ‘Enough, madam. Sneaton has put my family at risk with his stubbornness. I will not change my mind on the matter.’

‘You have always loved him for his integrity,’ Lady Judith said, behind her cards. ‘And now you punish him for it.’

Aislabie frowned at her over his cards, and lost the game.

Forster did not join us at the card table. He spent the time speaking to Elizabeth Fairwood while she sat at the harpsichord. I cannot remember what she played, though she played it well. The rest of the world disappears when I play cards. I didn’t pay attention to their conversation, spoken softly beneath the music. I didn’t notice whether Bagby stayed in the drawing room, or if he came back and forth to refill our glasses and bring fresh candles. And I don’t recall when Metcalfe returned from his solitary walk around the water gardens. I noticed him only when we rose from the table at last and saw him slumped alone by the fire, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers, as if suffering from a headache. His fingernails were black with grime.

‘Good heavens, it is past eleven,’ Mr Forster exclaimed.

And with that, our party broke up.

Bagby escorted us to our chamber, with two footmen following close behind. I had been inside two gaols in the last few months, I knew how it felt to be led back to a cell. ‘I will not be locked in like some damned criminal,’ I said, as we reached the door. ‘I would rather stay up all night on watch.’

‘As would I,’ Kitty said.

Bagby considered her for a moment, not unkindly. ‘Mr Aislabie has twenty men on guard, with dogs. It would be no place for a lady.’ He glanced at me, and added in a knowing tone: ‘If you wish to stand watch, mistress, I should keep an eye upon your husband.’

‘What do you mean? What does he mean, Tom?’

‘I don’t know.’ But I’d had my fill of his insolence. I grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall, squeezing hard. ‘Pray tell us. What do you mean, Bagby?’

His eyes bulged, and he began to choke.

The two footmen pulled me away, with Kitty’s help. Bagby fell to the ground, pulling at his cravat to loosen it. Kitty took my hand and dragged me into our chamber as he lurched to his feet, wig askew. When he had regained his composure, and fixed his wig, he took the key from the lock.

‘What if there is a fire?’ Kitty asked, as he closed the door on us.

‘I’m to stand guard here,’ Bagby replied. ‘All night.’ The key turned in the lock.

The sound of it sent a wave of rage through me. I rushed to the door and kicked it as hard as I could. ‘I’m notyour prisoner, damn you!’ I kicked the door again for good measure, splintering the bottom panel. I think I might have torn the door from its hinges had I not turned, and seen Kitty’s face.

‘Tom. Peace. This won’t help.’

‘Fucking Aislabie,’ I snapped, and snatching the nearest thing to hand I threw it against the wall. A sherry glass, as it transpired, still half full. I began to pace the room, kicking at the walls. ‘I am not his fucking prisoner.’ Except I was. Locked up again. Pacing my cell again.

Kitty understood rage. I’d watched her kick and punch and curse at the world, and now she watched me do the same, until my anger was spent. She understood my hatred at being trapped, after my time in the Marshalsea and Newgate. She knew what had happened to me in the Marshalsea strongroom that night, and how it still haunted me. She poured some sherry into our remaining glass and proffered it, more as a tonic than as liquor.

I knocked it back in one gulp and offered her a weak smile. ‘I’m sorry.’

She stepped into my arms.

‘When I was in Newgate,’ I said, closing my eyes, ‘I used to dream of holding you like this.’

She sighed into my neck.

I broke free, after a time. Sam had not yet returned – the casement window was open, and his room was empty.

Kitty squeezed into the room with me. ‘Look at these,’ she murmured, flicking through a sheaf of sketches he had left upon his bed. ‘How well he draws. See, he’s captured those strange icicle shapes on the banqueting house.’

‘What was he doing up there?’ I wondered, taking some of the pages from her. Perhaps there was some clue within them, something that had helped him discover the identity of Aislabie’s foes. There were architectural studies of the canal and the moon ponds, and details of the new folly under construction – but that meant little. He liked to puzzle out the workings of things through his sketches, whether he was drawing some mechanical device or the skeleton of a bird. The cascades and the canal would have interested him in themselves, and might have no other meaning.

The subsequent pages were filled with character studies of the Aislabies and their guests, Mrs Fairwood with her eyes lowered, next to a portrait of Forster in his smart coat and bandaged arm. His mouth was open, which was characteristic, to be sure. Sam had made several attempts at Sneaton, with separate details of his scars, his wooden leg, and ruined eye. I had grown used to the way Sam witnessed the world and recorded it in his drawings, though I never liked to see my own face in there. But here I was – a portrait from our journey into Yorkshire, when he’d had hour upon hour to study me. I was leaning back into a corner of the carriage, away from the window. He had filled in part of the carriage interior behind me, shading heavily with his pencil. It looked as though a great charcoal shadow had gathered about my shoulders.

Kitty had found another set of portraits. She held up the page for me: four sketches of Sally Shutt. They were the most well observed and finished of all the pictures.

‘Is he sweet on her?’ Kitty asked.

‘Either that or he suspects her of something dreadful.’

‘Or both. Well, there is no shame in falling for a maidservant, is there, Tom?’

I smiled at her.

‘Has he gone to visit Sneaton, do you think?’

‘I expect so. I’d hoped he would have returned by now.’ I dropped the pictures back upon the bed.

‘He knows how to take care of himself.’

I wandered back into our chamber. ‘We must leave the window open for him.’ I peered out, and saw one of Simpson’s men standing beneath the oak tree holding a lantern. ‘Damn it.’ I craned my neck further out of the window and saw more lanterns, left and right. The men had formed a boundary all the way around the house. I hadn’t really thought I could take Sam’s route out of the window and along the oak tree – I valued my neck too well for that. But this confirmed it. There was no way I could leave the room tonight, which meant that my earlier thought to visit Sneaton and persuade him to talk at pistol point was now impossible.

‘Sam had the same idea, most likely,’ Kitty said. ‘No doubt Mr Sneaton is bound to a chair at this very moment, begging for his life.’

I hunted through my belongings. My pistols were still in their box beneath the bed, but Sam had retrieved his blade. I began to pace again, worried for Sam and worried for Sneaton.

‘He won’t risk sneaking past the men,’ Kitty said. ‘He’ll find shelter overnight, wait until he can slip back unseen. You know how he is.’

I nodded, absently.

‘Tom.’ She stroked my arm. ‘Sam has survived fourteen years in the worst slums in London. He’s a Fleet. I don’t think it’s his fate to die in a deer park.’

I frowned, and touched my mother’s cross for luck.

We undressed and slipped into bed, shivering from the draught blowing through the open window. I snuffed out the candle and lay in the dark, worrying.

‘He’ll be back by morning,’ Kitty whispered, running a hand beneath my shirt. ‘Most likely with the ledger tucked in his breeches.’

We laughed at this, then fell silent.

Kitty curled into me and kissed my jaw. ‘You’re not responsible for him, Tom.’

The silence fell heavy around the bed.

There is a body lying on the riverbank.

Sam spends two hours hunting for the ledger in Sneaton’s cottage, while the old bastard sits snoring in his chair. Two hours of nimble fingers – the quiet pulling of drawers, riffling through neat stacks of ledgers. Senses alert to any sound or movement, to the very density of the air. All the skills his father taught him and a few he’d taught himself, roving through St Giles at night.

He finds nothing.

He returns to the hearth and slides the dagger from his pocket. He holds the blade an inch from Sneaton’s neck, keeping his breath steady. No pleasure in this, and no fear. He lets the scene unfurl in his mind, testing it for flaws. First, he would press the blade deeper. Sneaton would wake with a start, and feel the bite of steel. Sam imagines the terror in the old man’s good eye. No pleasure in this, no pleasure. Sam would ask his questions. Would the old man answer him? Maybe. Maybe not. He was stubborn, and loyal to his master. He might refuse, even under the threat of death. And then what?

Never make a threat you can’t keep. His father’s rule and one that Sam respects. A man’s only as good as his word.

He can’t kill Sneaton. Everyone would know he’d done it.

Sam lowers his blade. No pleasure, no fear. No disappointment. Well, perhaps a twinge.

There is nothing more he can do tonight. Tomorrow will bring new opportunities. This is the first rule of the Fleets:Stay alive till morning.

He leaves the cottage. Mr Sneaton, oblivious, sleeps on.

Sam crosses the estate towards Studley Hall, hurrying through the deer park. He is very quiet, but the deer scent him in the air and rise up from their half slumber. A stag bellows, and the herd moves away across the grass.

And here Sam’s luck runs out. Five minutes one way, five minutes another and no one would have discovered him. But two figures have stepped away from the house to talk urgently, and now, as if conjured by magic, their problem is walking towards them across the grass.

They grab him before he has a chance to pull out his blade. He fights hard but they are stronger than him, much stronger than he expected.

‘What should we do with him?’

He’s frightened now. ‘Please, sirs – I won’t say nothing. I’ll say I was telling stories.’

They don’t believe him.

A decision is made.

Sam isn’t struggling any more, he’s too afraid. He thinks of his mother. He is, after all, still a boy.

‘Please,’ he whispers.

He feels a sharp crack to his skull.

He feels nothing.

There is a body lying on the riverbank. It is perfectly still.