The Sudbury School Murders

Chapter Fourteen

"Lights!" I cried. "Bring a light."

"What is it, sir?" Bartholomew repeated.

"Get a light, for God's sake. Someone's here and hurt."

Bartholomew brushed past me and thumped away into the house.

I had no idea who lay at my feet. Grenville? I stripped off my gloves, felt my way across the man's shoulders. He still breathed, whoever he was, labored, gasping breaths that were loud in the darkness.

"Grenville?" I whispered, hoping to God I was wrong. "Lie still. Bartholomew has gone for help."

He coughed. "Lacey?"

My heart turned over. It was Grenville. I felt the soft weave of his expensive coat beneath my fingers and the fine cloth of his cravat.

I loosened the cravat's knot and drew the folds from his throat. "Grenville, old friend," I whispered. "Who did this?"

He took a long time to answer. "Don't know. Too dark."

Too much blood stained his chest. My hands were sticky with it.

I cursed. I was tired, and my hands shook. He must have come down to take a breath of air, or to follow someone, or… I didn't know, and I couldn't think.

His face was clammy and cold. I thanked God I did not hear the deadly bubbling sound that meant the knife had pierced his lung-I had heard that horrible sound often enough on the Peninsula. But I feared to withdraw the knife until I could see, lest I hurt him further.

"What happened?" I persisted. "Why were you out here?"

Grenville drew several breaths, as though trying to speak, but he never answered.

My heart beat hard with fear. I found and grasped one of his hands. "Don't try to talk. Squeeze my hand if I am right. Did you see someone down here?"

A faint pressure on my fingers answered me.

"Did you think you'd seen the prankster?" I asked.

Another answering pressure.

"Why the devil did you come down here alone? No, no, don't answer. You can tell me all later." I peered into the darkness of the house. "Damn it, Bartholomew, where are you?"

I heard Bartholomew just then through the open door. He trotted out swinging a lantern from his large fist. His brother, white and sleepy-eyed, came after him.

Bartholomew saw Grenville and gasped. The lantern swayed, and hot wax sprayed me.

"Hold it steady," I snapped.

Grenville looked terrible. His face was paper white, his eyes half-closed. His ivory waistcoat was thick with blood. In the center of the circle of blood stood the unmoving hilt of a knife.

Bartholomew stood transfixed with shock. Matthias gave one horrified stare then bolted back into the house.

Grenville's lips quirked. "I frightened him."

I snarled, "Don't you dare talk again unless I give you leave."

He obediently fell silent. By the light of Bartholomew's swinging lantern, I saw Grenville's chest rise and fall, too rapidly, not deeply enough.

Matthias hurried out of the house again. He hadn't run away in fear, he'd gone to fetch a pile of towels.

"Good lad," I said. I snatched the topmost towel and pressed it to Grenville's chest, below the protruding hilt. "I must take out the knife. We cannot chance that his heart or lung will not be cut when we move him."

Bartholomew bit his lip. Matthias crouched next to his master. "What do I do, sir?"

"Hold his shoulders. He must not move." I willed my hands to cease trembling. "Do you hear me, Grenville? You must not move. Think of yourself as a boulder. Heavy. Strong. Immovable. Think on it."

I did not give him time to prepare himself. I knew that men often flinched from anticipated pain, and I wanted it over with before he knew it had started. I simply grasped the knife and in one swift, silent pull, drew it out.

Grenville did move. He gasped and his body almost left the ground, but Matthias, big and strong, held him down. I clapped another towel straight over the wound and pressed down hard.

More hot wax sprayed my face. "Damn it, Bartholomew."

I heard footsteps, and then Didius Ramsay burst out of the house. He was in a dressing gown and slippers, and his eyes were wide. "Good lord! Is it Mr. Grenville?"

"Ramsay, send someone for a surgeon," I said. "Quickly."

Ramsay took a few gulps of air then started back inside and ran full tilt into the bulk of Rutledge.

Rutledge shoved Ramsay aside and came out, a candle in his hand. Several boys and tutors in dressing gowns followed him. Rutledge took in the scene, my bloody hands, and the knife. He bellowed, "What the devil is going on?"

"Fetch a surgeon," I repeated while Ramsay stood there in dismay. "A good surgeon, not a quack of a doctor."

Ramsay scampered away. Rutledge lifted his candle to study Grenville. Grenville screwed up his eyes at the light.

"What happened here?" Rutledge repeated. "Lacey, what have you done?"

I ignored him. "Matthias, is there any laudanum?"

"I can look, sir."

"No," Grenville's voice came feebly. "Not laudanum."

"It will take away the pain," I said.

"There is no pain." He drew a breath. "Don't send me to sleep."

"Damn you, will you stop talking?"

"Aye, sir," he whispered.

"Matthias, can you carry him? I want him off this walk, out of the damp."

Bartholomew rose, shoved the lantern at Matthias. "I'll do it."

"Matthias, run up to his chamber and make certain it's plenty warm. Stoke the fire high. And fetch water."

Matthias pushed past Rutledge and the staring pupils, hurrying to do as I bid. Bartholomew leaned down. With gentleness I'd never seen in him before, he scooped Grenville into his arms.

I leveraged myself to a standing position, leaning heavily on my stick. My bad knee pounded with pain. I held the towel to Grenville's chest and walked with Bartholomew into the house. The crowd of curious lads and tutors opened before us.

Rutledge was still demanding to be told what had happened. The tutors and pupils pattered after us anxiously, watching, round-eyed.

Even in my worry, I noticed two absent-Sutcliff and Fletcher.

Once inside Grenville's chamber, Bartholomew laid Grenville carefully on the bed. Matthias had the fire stoked high. A basin of water already steamed before it.

Grenville's head lolled on the pillow. I saw the glimmer of his eyes, but his lids were heavy and waxen.

"Don't you die on me," I told him. "I'll not have it said that your death was my fault."

" My fault, sir," Bartholomew said. "I should have been here to look after him."

"No, mine," Matthias put in. "He told me not to wait up for him, and I went to bed."

I broke in. "Well, now that we have thoroughly flogged ourselves, shall we go about making certain he stays alive? Matthias, bring that basin."

While Bartholomew and Matthias hovered like worried aunts, I opened Grenville's clothes and bathed the wound. The gash was small, but it was deep and had bled much. I could have no idea what the blade had cut going in.

"Bloody fool," I said as I worked. "What were you doing rushing about in the middle of the night? Going down to confront a villain alone? You should have taken Matthias. Or waited for me."

If Grenville died, it truly would be my fault. Grenville would not have come here at all had he not taken interest in me and my adventures, as he called them. He would be safe and bored in London, busy making satirical comments about other people's clothes and manners.

"Lacey," Rutledge said behind me. "What is all this?"

"Where is the damned surgeon?" I demanded.

"How the devil should I know? And where have you been? You said you would take a day in London, and you wander back three days later in the small hours without a by-your-leave."

I lost my patience. "I was ill, and you have more things to worry about. Send someone to Fletcher's chamber and do not allow Fletcher to leave it."

I felt Rutledge's stare on the back of my neck. "You think Simon Fletcher did this?"

"Well, it was not Sebastian. Bartholomew, go."

"Yes, sir."

"And if you see Sutcliff on the way, kick him in the seat of his trousers."

"Yes, sir." Swift footsteps told me he'd gone.

Rutledge breathed heavily. "You are sacked, Lacey."

"Excellent. Where is the surgeon?"

The surgeon arrived shortly. Rutledge hovered in the room like a gargoyle, still demanding to be told everything. I was weary and weak from the effects of my fever, and I bluntly told him to close his mouth. If he'd truly sacked me, I saw no more reason to be polite to him.

The surgeon sewed the lips of the wound together and bathed it again. I and Matthias finished undressing Grenville, and the surgeon wrapped a bandage around him. Grenville lay in a stupor, never acknowledging what we did, his face so white that his brows stood out like black marks on parchment.

The surgeon departed, giving us strict instructions to not let him move and to change the bandage once a day. I sank onto a chair in front of the roaring fire, perspiring freely, feeling sick and weak.

I sat there, watching Matthias sponge Grenville's face, feeling the vestiges of melancholia swarm about me. If Grenville died-

No, I could not bear to think about that. I could not afford to wallow right now in guilt and grief. I needed to get him well again and find the person who did this. Then, I'd be free to retreat into melancholia and contrition as much as I liked.

Matthias finished cleaning Grenville's face and returned the basin to the fireplace. He went back to the side of the bed and just stood there, distress on his honest face.

I had examined the knife that I'd pulled from Grenville's chest. It was small and sharp, the kind a man might keep to pare apples with, and had nothing helpful on it like engraved initials or a name. It was a well-made knife, but not one of obvious expense-it was the kind anyone might possess. I would ask Matthias and Bartholomew to quiz their network of servants until they found out who in the school was missing a knife.

I sighed. Even that course of action felt ineffectual and slow. And the knife could easily have been stolen.

After a long time of silence, I became aware of sounds in the quad. The day had dawned, and boys were scurrying to chapel as usual, although they were somewhat subdued.

But over that I heard different sounds, a shout of alarm and Rutledge swearing freely.

I rose and went to the window in time to see Bartholomew hurry out the front door of Fairleigh. Rutledge barked a question at him, then pushed past Bartholomew to rush into Fairleigh.

I got to the door by the time Bartholomew had entered the Head Master's house and run up the stairs. He stood panting heavily on the threshold, his face flushed.

"Mr. Fletcher ain't going nowhere, sir," he said. "He's dead as a stone, sir."

I ordered Matthias to stay with Grenville and let no one near him for any reason. Matthias took up his post at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, as immovable as a statue.

Bartholomew and I hastened together across the wet quad. Bartholomew breathlessly explained as we went what had happened.

"His door was locked when I arrived, sir, and he didn't answer. I decided I'd stand guard until he came out. Then a maid wanted in to stoke the fire, and I saw no harm in letting her. She had a key. She unlocked the door and went in, and then she started screaming. I went in after her and saw him, doubled up at his desk and dead."

We entered Fairleigh. The house was smaller than the Head Master's but not much different in layout-a square hall surrounded by a staircase and doors that led into rooms and corridors.

Fletcher's room was on the second floor in a corner. Rutledge was already there, his face nearly purple with rage. The surgeon who had stitched up Grenville was leaning over Fletcher, who sat slumped against his desk as Bartholomew had described.

"No saving this one, I'm afraid," the surgeon said.

He lifted Fletcher's head. A dark bruise circled his throat, and his tongue was thrust out, probing for air he could not find.

"Oh, God," I said.

On the desk before him was a long piece of twine, coarse and utilitarian. It had several knots in it. I remembered seeing Fletcher hurrying about the school, carrying piles of books bound with such twine. It must have been lying, discarded, nearby, and the murderer had caught it up.

Rutledge, as usual, began shouting. "I want everyone in the quad in ten minutes. Everyone-from the lowest pupil to the house masters. I will discover who did this if I have to beat each and every one of them."

"Do you think that will work?" I asked.

"Nothing you have done has. A sound thrashing will solve more problems than all your so-called inquiries."

He stomped away to put his plan in motion. Because he'd sacked me, I saw no reason to follow or to help. His blustering had not prevented the tragedies and would probably have no effect now.

I began looking about the room. Fletcher had led a Spartan existence, from all evidence. The room was mostly bare, the bed-hangings and furnishings plain. The bookcase that had housed his beloved books was empty, with a line of dust remaining where the books had not reached to the backs of the shelves. I ran my hands into the corners and under the lips of the shelves to see if anything important lingered there. I found nothing but more dust.

"Something here, sir," Bartholomew said.

He was squatting before the fireplace hearth. I looked over his shoulder and saw a small knife with a blade about an inch long lying on the stones. The hilt was plain metal, with no decoration. A practical, workaday knife. Bartholomew lifted it. The tip was broken off, leaving a blunt end.

"That didn't kill anyone," Bartholomew said.

"No," I answered. "But I wonder why it was dropped here."

"Could be someone was trying to shave some kindling, and broke the tip."

"Could be." I took the knife from him and put it into my pocket.

I swept my gaze over the room again. Poor Fletcher sat in his chair, his right hand on his throat, as though he'd tried to clutch at the strand that choked him. His robe lay in a black puddle on a chair near him. Remembering something Fletcher had said before I'd gone to London, I lifted the robe and probed its lining.

I found what I hoped I'd find, a small book.

Bartholomew's brow wrinkled. "I thought all his books were burned, sir."

"Apparently, one escaped. Let us see, shall we?"

The book was nothing more than a Latin grammar, or so I thought. I laid it on the desk, turned over the leaves. At first I saw only pages and pages of noun declensions and verb conjugations. In the middle of the book, however, I began to find folded pieces of paper shoved between the pages, one or two pieces every four or five pages. I extracted a few and laid them on the desk.

My pulse quickened. "The damned canals again," I said, unsurprised.

"What was that, sir?"

"These are lists, Bartholomew. Lists of people who gave money to Mr. Fletcher to invest in a canal that would never exist. This is why Fletcher sometimes talked about leaving this existence behind and living like a king. He was swindling people, planning to retire well on the money of the gullible." I touched the name Jonathan Lewis, the gentleman I'd met at the musicale. "Including those he considered his friends."

"Ought to be ashamed," Bartholomew said.

I regarded Fletcher in half-sorrow, half-anger. "Poor, stupid fool. Was he killed by someone he swindled? Or a fellow swindler?" I gathered the papers and slid them back into the book.

"And why did they cut Mr. Grenville?"

Bartholomew was angry. He and Matthias doted on Grenville, were proud to work for him, rather rubbed other footmen's noses in it that the pair had such a good place. They regarded Grenville as though he were something precious they owned.

"It's likely the murderer did not even know who he stabbed as he ran by," I said. "The killer heard Grenville come out of the Head Master's house and simply lashed out."

Bartholomew's brow clouded. "Mr. Grenville ought not to have been there. He should have called Matthias."

"I know. But likely he thought that the person would get away if he took the trouble. I'd have done the same, simply gone down to catch the culprit myself."

"But you know how to defend yourself, sir. He doesn't. He's too trusting by half, too sure of his own good luck."

"I know," I said glumly.

Bartholomew balled his fists. "When I find out who did this, I will murder him myself."

"You will have to queue up behind me."

Bartholomew simply stood there, looking morose.

I found nothing more interesting in the room than the book and its contents and the broken knife. I found little personal at all in the room, and no other letters or papers.

I finished and led Bartholomew out, Fletcher's book under my arm. I hated to leave Fletcher alone, but perhaps that was best for him. Let him sit in peace.

I removed the key from the inside of the door, closed the door, and locked it from the outside. I left the key in the keyhole, and then Bartholomew and I departed.

Rutledge had the entire school assembled in the quad under the gentle March rain. Bartholomew and I skirted the crowd and made for the Head Master's house. Sutcliff stood at Rutledge's side, looking sullen and half-asleep. Several of the boys craned to watch us, rather spoiling the effect of Rutledge's diatribe.

Back in Grenville's room, I sat down to look over the papers I'd taken from Fletcher. Grenville had not woken from his stupor, and his pallid face bore a sheen of perspiration.

I knew I needed to sleep. My head buzzed and my vision was fuzzy, and I was still weak from the fever. But I could not bring myself to leave the room again.

I was as angry as Bartholomew. Whoever had hurt Grenville would not be safe from me.

I found much of interest in Fletcher's book and its secrets. The swindling scheme was much bigger than I'd thought. Fletcher had tapped his old school friends, which included many prominent men of London. Some were fathers or other relations of the boys of Sudbury.

I found contracts and letters of agreement and particulars on what percentage return the investors could expect to see. Middleton was named on the documents as a "surveyor," which explained the maps. One other person, not named, was referred to as a "banker."

Fletcher had received letters from investors asking eagerly when the canal would be started, finished, opened-when would the money come rolling in? There were letters from the more canny souls who began claiming that they'd found no evidence that a canal was even proposed, and what was Fletcher up to?

Fletcher must have been planning to disappear very soon.

I had another thought-what if Fletcher's books were burned not because of a malicious prank, but because the killer had been looking for this particular book with all its damning evidence?

The maps in Middleton's room were just that, maps. They meant nothing by themselves. But Fletcher's documents could not be ignored. He'd fraudulently taken money from gullible people and promised them rainbows.

Bartholomew brought me coffee and told me to go to bed, but I still would not leave. I knew Bartholomew and Matthias would stand over Grenville like faithful watchdogs, but I could not bear the thought that something might happen to him while I slept. I feared the killer would not chance that Grenville had not seen who'd struck the blow. The murderer had made certain that Fletcher and Middleton had not told tales; he might make certain Grenville did not, either.

The coffee cup crashing to the floor woke me. Paper slithered to the carpet to soak up the black liquid.

"Sir?" Bartholomew hung over me.

"I'm all right." I passed my hand through my hair. My eyes were aching and sandy. "I'll take a walk around the quad, clear my head."

Bartholomew helped me to my feet. Matthias dozed in a chair near Grenville's bed. Grenville lay unmoving and wan.

"Watch over him," I said in a low voice. "Do not let anyone into this room for any reason, not Rutledge, not a maid. You and your brother take care of him yourselves, do you understand?"

Bartholomew gave me a grim nod. He understood quite well.

The noon hour struck as I left the house. Outside it had warmed somewhat, and the rain had thickened. The air braced me. Despite all the tragedy, the spring day still smelled clean and refreshing.

I walked heavily across the quad, my stick tapping the stones. Boys drifted into and out of the houses, wandering to lessons, to their rooms, to whatever task they'd been set on. They were rather subdued-a murder and a near-murder so close to home was exciting but frightening.

I heard a commotion by the gate and headed that way. The porter was arguing with a person outside who did not want to listen.

"Madam," I heard the porter say in a pained voice

Timson came sauntering toward me from the gate, a grin on his face. "I say, Captain, your bit of muslin is asking to see you."

I started. "My what?"

Timson just smirked and winked, so I hurried on.

"Lacey!" a woman cried.

Marianne Simmons held onto the bars of the gate, her white skirts rain-soaked and blotched with mud.

"What are you doing here?" I asked her.

"I need to speak to you. Tell this lummox to let me in."

"Now look here, you- " the porter began.

"Never mind," I said quietly. "Let her in."

The porter gave me an exasperated look. "Women are not allowed, sir. Particularly not women like her."

"Oh, that is nice," Marianne sneered.

"Baiting him will not help you, Marianne. Let her in," I told the porter. "I will let Rutledge berate me later."

The porter's face darkened, but he opened the gate. Marianne stuck her tongue out at him as she sailed inside.

Timson and a few other boys stared at Marianne's thin dress in great enjoyment. Timson let out a wolf-whistle.

"Mind your manners," I told them. In the relative privacy of the middle of the quad, I turned Marianne to face me.

"What is it?"

She pulled her silk shawl closer about her shoulders and shivered. From the worry in Marianne's eyes, I knew she'd already heard that Grenville had been hurt. The news must have spread quickly through the village and thence to Hungerford.

What she told me, however, I was not expecting.

"Jeanne Lanier's run away," she said.