The Sudbury School Murders

Chapter Fifteen

I looked at Marianne in surprise. "Oh, she has, has she?"

"Indeed, she has." Her gaze slid from mine to the windows surrounding us. "Tell me the truth, Lacey. Is he all right?"

"He is alive," I said.

When she looked back at me, her eyes were wet. "For how long?"

I could only shake my head. Grenville could heal or die. The blade could have torn him up inside in ways we could not know. I could only hope that the cut was clean, and that his body would heal itself.

"Will you let me see him?" she asked.

I started to answer, then I spied Sutcliff coming out of Fairleigh. He saw Marianne, recognized her, and froze.

"Mr. Sutcliff," I called.

He hesitated then at last came toward us, his expression wary.

"Hello, Mr. Sutcliff," Marianne said, with forced cheerfulness. "I came to tell you that your ladybird's done a bunk."

Sutcliff's face went white. "What?"

"I said your ladybird's done a bunk. Cleared out this morning without a word to Mrs. Albright."

Sutcliff stared at her in pure anger. Marianne smiled. No woman could give a man a more scornful smile than could Marianne Simmons. "Gave you a start, did it?" she asked. "I take it this news is unexpected?"

Sutcliff's face reddened, and he raised his hand to strike her. "Impertinent whore."

I caught his arm. "Keep a civil tongue," I said, "or I'll thrash you worse than Fletcher ever did."

His lip curled. "Unhand me. You do not know your place."

Marianne gave a sharp laugh. "He knows better than you. He is a gentleman. Your father is a trumped-up clerk."

Sutcliff tried to hit her again. Marianne hid behind me.

"Marianne, be quiet," I said sternly. "Mr. Sutcliff, go away."

I pushed him off. He glared at me, then he turned on his heel and marched back into Fairleigh.

I faced Marianne. "I'll take you to see Grenville, but you must keep quiet. Provoking the students will not help."

She made a face at the door Sutcliff had just slammed. "He puts my back up. He swaggers around like he's something, while Grenville is worth fifty of him." Her voice faltered.

"I agree. But keep your thoughts to yourself, or I will not be able to stop Rutledge having you bodily removed. Do not speak again until we reach Grenville's chamber, agreed?"

She started to answer, then closed her lips and nodded.

Good. For now.

I took her by the arm and led her into the Head Master's house. Boys stared. Tunbridge tried to stop me. I gave the mathematics tutor a look that sent him scuttling away and took Marianne up the stairs.

Bartholomew and Matthias had locked the door. When I knocked, Bartholomew opened the door a crack and peered out with one blue eye. He saw me, opened the door wider. He eyed Marianne askance, but I pulled her inside and shut the door.

Marianne approached the bed, her boots whispering on the carpet. She removed her bonnet and dropped it absently, her face white. She looked down at Grenville for a long time. His face was still starkly pale, the flesh of his bare shoulders nearly as white as the bandage that wrapped him.

Marianne took his hand. His fingers lay limply in her grasp.

"Is he going to die, Lacey?" she asked in a low voice.

"No," I said, trying to sound certain. "We will not let him."

"Such a comfort you are. You are not a doctor. How the devil should you know?"

"I have seen men with wounds far worse recover and live as though nothing had happened," I answered. I did not add that I'd seen men with smaller wounds die for no reason I could discern. Grenville could so easily sicken, take fever. He could die while we sat helplessly and watched him.

Marianne said nothing. She gently stroked the hand in hers. Grenville did not respond.

Matthias heaped more coal on the fire. Bartholomew leaned against the bedpost, at a loss for what to do.

I was tired, and my short nap had not helped. I settled back into my chair, stretched my bad leg toward the fire that Matthias had stirred to roaring. "Marianne, tell me about Jeanne," I said.

She did not look at me. "She's gone. What is there to tell?"

I thought about Jeanne's charming smile and winsome conversation. She had been very practiced. "When did she go? Did she pay up and depart or simply disappear?"

Marianne kept her gaze on Grenville's pale face. "She went out the window. Or so it looks like. Never a word to anyone. Mrs. Albright didn't think anything of it when Jeanne didn't come down for breakfast, because she always likes to lie abed in the mornings. But later, when Mrs. Albright went up, she found the window open and Jeanne and her things gone."

"Did Mrs. Albright send for the constable?"

Marianne shook her head. "Mrs. Albright cursed something fearsome, but let it be. Mr. Sutcliff paid to the end of the month, so if Jeanne wants to run off, Mrs. Albright does not much care. She has her money."

"Money," I said, thinking hard. "Yes, that would explain it."

"You are babbling, Lacey. Explain what?"

I should be talking this over with Grenville. My anger stirred. I would get the man who'd done this to him, and I'd pot him.

I snatched up Fletcher's papers and spread them out. "Three people: Middleton, who drew the false maps; Fletcher, who had the connections; and the banker, who kept the money. The contracts are here, the maps are here, but where is the money? I believe it flew out the window of a seedy boarding house this morning."

Marianne finally looked at me. She cocked her head. "What are you talking about?"

"A grand swindle. Fletcher came up with the scheme-he was clever enough yet innocent-looking enough to trick men into investing in a canal that would never be built. Canals make money. Boats move whether it's raining or snowing or sunny. One does not have to worry about bad roads. No matter what, the boats keep going. Investing in canals is sure money."

"But not in canals that don't exist," Bartholomew added.

"Yes, but unless you have access to all the proposed canal routes in England, how would you know whether one was truly planned? A canny man would check, of course, but most men want to make an easy fortune-to give the money to a trusted friend and he will take care of the complicated details. That is why so very many people are swindled, Bartholomew-they want things to be easy."

He watched me, eyes round, as though I were dispensing great wisdom.

I stood and began to pace, trying to think. "The average gentleman like Jonathan Lewis, who earns little from his writing, would be eager to put money into something with so sure a return. So Fletcher persuades him to invest. Fletcher is a likable man, easy to trust. Good old Fletcher, his friends say, let's throw our lot in with him."

"To their misfortune," Bartholomew said gravely.

"Very much so. But Fletcher couldn't do it all himself-he didn't have the time or the resources. So he recruited others. Perhaps Fletcher chose Middleton because he knew Middleton had worked for Denis. Middleton would know how to shut people up if they began to squawk, in any case. So, Middleton drew the maps, perhaps even took gentlemen out to show them where the survey stakes would be."

All three had turned to listen to me now. I continued, "They have a third person to collect the money, a person with connections in the City who can assure Fletcher and Middleton that their portion would be taken care of. But-in the end, the 'banker' gets greedy, perhaps frightened that Middleton will tell James Denis everything, murders Middleton and Fletcher, and flees with the money."

They looked at me like I'd run mad. I was breathing heavily, my blood pounding with excitement. Marianne raised the first protest. "You are never saying that Jeanne killed them. And stabbed him. You're wrong, Lacey. She'd never be able to get into the school. You saw how the porter nearly posted me off to jail when he spied me at the gate."

I shook my head. "She murdered no one. She never could have killed Middleton; he'd not have let her. Nor do I think she sneaked into the school in the middle of the night to kill Fletcher. No, she is working with someone, and that someone sent her away with the money."

And I knew who.

"I must go to Sudbury," I said crisply. "Jeanne Lanier must be found. I wish Mrs. Albright had called in the constable, but it can't be helped."

"Shall I go with you, sir?" Bartholomew said, coming alert.

"No. Stay here, protect Grenville. He was stabbed because he saw Fletcher's murderer leaving Fairleigh. The murderer cannot be certain that Grenville did not see him, and he will try again. Marianne, you must remain here, as well. You will not be safe at the boarding house."

"What about you?" she countered. "Waltzing off to Sudbury all alone? For all the killer knows, Grenville has already told you his name, and he'll be waiting along a lonely stretch of road to gut you."

"I have my walking stick," I said. I hefted it in my hand. "And I trust no one in this school, pupil or tutor, no matter how innocuous they seem."

Marianne came to face me, hands on hips. "Don't be a bloody fool, Lacey, you are not invulnerable. Take Bartholomew. To get to Grenville the murderer will have to come through me. I'll fight them just as hard as anyone."

She cared for him. I saw in her eyes that today she had realized what she might lose.

I gave in. "Very well. Come along, Bartholomew. And bring that book."

I borrowed a horse to ride to Sudbury. Bartholomew chose to walk. He carried Fletcher's book under his arm, wrapped in a bit of canvas to keep it out of the rain.

As we rode, I mulled over ideas for catching the murderer. I had one excellent resource I could tap, though I cringed from it. Also, Rutledge would be an obstacle-a very loud, very stubborn obstacle.

When we arrived in Sudbury we discovered that the magistrate had gone to Hungerford to visit an important official who'd just arrived from London. The constable was a bit harried, having to deal with both Fletcher's murder and a farmer whose sheep had wandered onto a large landlord's holding and who complained that the landlord would not return them.

Bartholomew and I went on to Hungerford. Impatient, I let the horse trot ahead, while Bartholomew came behind, hunkering into the rain.

I found the magistrate at the inn on the High Street. The important official he visited was Sir Montague Harris.

I exhaled with relief when I saw Sir Montague. He beamed at me when I greeted him as though we were meeting to renew acquaintance over a pint of bitter. But he was an intelligent man and had already drawn conclusions from the Sudbury magistrate's description of matters today.

Bartholomew lumbered in, shaking rain from his hair. I bade him sit down and unwrap the book.

I showed both magistrates Fletcher's papers and explained the canal scheme and Middleton's part in it. I recalled the letter Middleton had sent Denis, implying he'd discovered who'd been sending him threatening letters and stating that he wanted to tell Denis something interesting. I speculated that Middleton might have been killed because he'd been about to tell James Denis about the canal swindle. Perhaps he'd wanted Denis to take over the scheme; perhaps he'd only wanted to win Denis' praise.

I finished my tale with Jeanne Lanier's departure and my belief that she needed to be found.

The two men, sitting side-by-side on the bench and looking much alike-rotund bodies and red faces-could not have had more dissimilar reactions.

Sir Montague's eyes glowed with interest, and he smiled, intrigued. The Sudbury magistrate frowned at me, white brows knitting over a bulbous nose.

"This Frenchwoman was ladybird to an upper-form student?" he growled. "Likely she tired of him and fled. Received a better offer."

"I see something a bit more sinister in it," Sir Montague countered. "I will put the word out about her."

I thought of Jeanne Lanier's pleasant smile, her shrewd eyes. I doubted she would debunk out a window and run to another lover. She'd finish her contract with Sutcliff and then calmly enter into a contract with another. She was a businesswoman.

It would be a pity if Jeanne Lanier were involved in the murders. She'd be arrested, no matter how pretty and charming she was. I had a brief, pleasant fantasy of myself convincing the magistrates that she was an innocent dupe, and her, in gratitude, taking up with me.

I smiled inwardly and let the fantasy go.

"What about the Romany?" Sir Montague asked.

The Sudbury magistrate looked annoyed. "What about him?"

I said quickly, "You certainly cannot pin the death of Fletcher on him, nor the assault on Grenville. Sebastian is young, and he is passionate, but these murders were not the work of passion. They were planned, from fear and greed."

"Greed can destroy so much," Sir Montague nodded.

"In this case, two men's lives," I said.

The Sudbury magistrate frowned at the both of us. "If I release the Romany, what do I tell the chief constable? That I have no one to pay for the murder of the groom? The Romany is likely guilty of something, anyway, even if not the murder."

"Would the chief constable rather hang the wrong man?" I asked.

Sir Montague nodded gravely. "He might, Captain, he just might."

"That is ludicrous."

Sir Montague agreed. I hated this.

"If you let him go," I repeated, "I will bring you the true culprit."

"You will mind your own business," the Sudbury magistrate snapped. "My constables are investigating this crime, and they will bring me the true culprit. I agree that the Romany cannot have killed Mr. Fletcher or stabbed your friend, but he could very well have killed Middleton, and that is final."

"He could not have," I said. "Middleton had been dead two hours before Sebastian returned to the stables at Sudbury. And he was gone all night before that. He has witnesses, about ten of them, to prove this."

"Romany witnesses," the magistrate growled. "Which are no witnesses at all."

I snatched up my hat. "I will bring you one. Not a Romany."

Sir Montague had sat through this exchange with a characteristic half-smile on his face. Now he looked at me in slight surprise.

I coldly wished them both good day. Bartholomew, who had remained silent, followed me. I left the book in Sir Montague's hands.

"What witness?" Bartholomew asked while he gave me a leg up to my horse.

"A very young one," I said.

Didius Ramsay was eating his dinner in the hall along with his fellow students when I returned. Rutledge was also prominently in his place at the head table, glaring fiercely at the boys eating below him. The atmosphere was subdued. The students focused on their plates, and the tutors pushed their food about in silence. None wanted Rutledge's growls directed at him.

I waited in the quad for dinner to finish, not in the mood to eat with Rutledge. Bartholomew brought me a bit of mutton, which I ate readily. My last meal seemed long ago and far away.

The boys filed out of the hall and toward their houses. The tutors followed, then Rutledge, who first glared at me then pretended to ignore me.

Of Ramsay, there was no sign.

"The little bugger, where is he?" I asked.

"There's a servants' door in the back of the hall. He might have ducked out there," Bartholomew volunteered. "Won't be a tick."

He jogged away, leaving me shivering. I wanted to go up to Grenville's chamber and look in on him, but I did not wish to lose Ramsay.

The porter sat on his bench by the gate, his chin on his chest. He came awake with a gasp as Bartholomew suddenly appeared on the other side of the gate and rattled the bars. Bartholomew's livery was soaked with rain and mud.

"He's scarpered, sir," Bartholomew called to me. "Cook says he ran through the kitchens and out the scullery."

I started for the gate. "Get after him. I will catch you up."

Bartholomew nodded and ran off. I had every faith that if anyone could catch one small boy, it would be Bartholomew.

Ignoring the gaping porter, I let myself out of the gate and walked as fast as I could after Bartholomew's retreating back. He was running, bounding over brush and clumps of grass in his path. I came along more slowly, my walking stick sinking into the mud.

Not surprisingly, Ramsay ran to the canal. Bartholomew sprinted after him. I saw Ramsay's small form dart off the towpath, and for a moment, I thought he would plunge into the canal. But he leapt to the top of the stone lock, balanced on the narrow parapet across the canal toward the pond and the lockkeeper's house.

Bartholomew climbed after him. I stifled a shout. Bartholomew was sure-footed, and I didn't want to startle him and have him topple into the lock. I would never traverse that path, so I waited on the near side, watching.

Ramsay ran for the lockkeeper's house. The lockkeeper came out, stared at him and Bartholomew and said, "What the devil?"

Ramsay ran past him into his house, slammed the door. Bartholomew skidded to a halt before it. He rattled the door handle, then banged on the door.

I walked on down the towpath. The next bridge was about a hundred yards along. My leg hurting, I made the bridge, climbed it and crossed to the other side. The stretch of canal and the greenery around it was shrouded in mist, a lovely scene. I ignored the beauty and climbed down the other side of the bridge, making my way to the lockkeeper's house as quickly as I could.

By the time I arrived, Bartholomew and the lockkeeper had succeeded in breaking open the door. Didius Ramsay tried to run out past them. Bartholomew snatched him.

Ramsay wriggled and kicked, and Bartholomew lost his hold. Ramsay ran out of the house and straight at me. I spread my arms, trying to stop him. Ramsay dodged to the right. I sprang after him and grabbed. I came down on my bad leg and sent myself and Ramsay slithering down the wet grass to the canal.

A pair of powerful hands grabbed my legs just before I would have slid into the water. I seized Ramsay under the arms and hauled him back from the muddy bank.