The Sudbury School Murders

Chapter Eighteen

Belinda wept as I led her home. I had little comfort to give her. Inwardly, I decided that I'd rather see her weep than have her walk in cold silence. When a woman, or man, wept, they released their humors, which allowed healing to begin. Holding it inside, I well knew, led to melancholia and other dangerous maladies.

Belinda would weep, and then her heart would mend. I did not tell her that this heartache would likely be easy compared to others she'd face in her life. Let her believe that this was as difficult as things would ever be.

That night, Grenville's fever reached its peak. I did not sleep at all, but sat at his bedside while his skin burned and his pulse beat so fast that I feared his heart would burst. Bartholomew and Matthias continuously bathed his face and body in cold water, but nothing brought down the fever.

Sometimes he swam to consciousness and looked about him with glazed eyes. He would not know us, or he would call the names of people we had never heard of. His hair was matted with sweat, and black stubble marred his face. The room stank of his fever. Grenville, the man so fastidious about his appearance, lay helpless and sweating, and soiled his own bedding.

We washed him and changed the linen and held him down when he thrashed. He'd groan and cry out, then fall into another stupor.

The morning dawned gray and rainswept. I opened the window, no longer able to stand the stuffy sickroom. The air was a bit warmer, April fast approaching. Soon meadows would be filled with flowers and the arch of sky would be a soft blue.

Bartholomew stretched out on his back on the carpet, exhausted and snoring. His brother slept in a chair, his blond head lolling. And Grenville…

His chest rose and fell evenly, his hands resting quietly on the coverlet. His dark eyes were open, and he was looking at me in cool appraisal.

I stepped over Bartholomew, who never moved, and hastened to the bedside. I touched Grenville's forehead. His skin was clammy and cool, the fever broken.

"Where is Marianne?" he asked.

I sank into a nearby chair, my legs suddenly weak. "Is that all you can say?"

He gave me the ghost of his usual sardonic smile. "I prefer to see her when waking. She's much prettier than you are."

"You must be feeling better."

"No, I feel like absolute hell." He turned his head on the pillow, gazed at Matthias who snored on. "Do they always make that racket?"

"I am afraid so." I rested my elbows on my knees. I did not like to hope at this point. I'd seen men awaken from fevers then relapse so very soon.

"A wonder I could sleep at all." His gaze roved the room again, turned puzzled. "How long have I been ill?"

"Four days," I said. "You were stabbed early Monday morning, and it is now Friday."

"Good Lord." He was silent a moment, then he drew on his usual bravado. "Never say you have played nursemaid to me all this time."

"I have. And Bartholomew and Matthias. One of us at least has always been here."

His famous brows rose. "What remarkable dedication. Surely you could have asked a servant."

"There are none that I trust here. Besides, neither of the lads would leave. They guarded you like lions."

"Good lord," he said again. Color stole over his pallid face. "A bit embarrassing."

"Why?" I smiled, the first time I'd felt like smiling in days. "Have you never been ill before?"

"Never like this. I was always healthy enough, except for my motion sickness." He moved his tongue over his lips, made a face. "You gave me laudanum, damn you. I can taste it still. I told you not to."

"You were in no condition to protest. In any case, it let you sleep."

"I told you I did not like it."

I frowned. "Why not? It cut the pain. Surely that was good."

He continued to look put out. Then he sighed. "I've always had a horror of the stuff, Lacey. When I was a lad, an uncle of mine took laudanum in water when he retired one night. He never woke again. Whether he misjudged the dose, or he did it on purpose, we were never certain. After that, I always refused it."

"Ah. I understand."

He looked at me. "If you had known that, would you have given it to me anyway?"

"Yes," I said.

His expression became perplexed, then offended. At last he smiled. "What a bastard you are, Lacey." He sobered. "Where is Marianne? Is she resting?"

"I sent her to London. Do you not remember? You were awake when I asked her to go."

"No." He lifted a weary hand to his eyes. "If you are carrying out your promise to return her to the Clarges Street house, there is no use in that. She will not stay. I realize this now. It is foolish of me to make her try."

I sat down by his bedside, happy to be able to talk things out with him again. "I needed her to do things for me in London. I sent her with messages." And I told him what the messages were and to whom I'd sent them.

Grenville smiled, but his eyes drooped. "I was right about you," he murmured. "You are a bastard."

"So others have said." I hesitated. "Marianne left only reluctantly. She wanted to stay with you."

"But she went," Grenville pointed out.

"Cursing me. Depend upon it. If not for me, you would have awoken to see her by your side."

"Damn you, then." His voice drifted to a thin whisper, and then stopped.

His body relaxed, and he slept again. But it was a natural sleep, a healing sleep. The fever was gone. The murderer had not won, not yet.

Grenville and I stayed in Sudbury three more days before I decided to risk moving him back to London. I did not feel easy about Grenville staying at the school. The murderer could never be certain that Grenville did not see him in the darkness that night, and Grenville would be much safer far from Sudbury. I still did not have the evidence needed to have the murderer arrested, but I hoped, if Marianne's errand was successful, that I'd have it soon.

Grenville's traveling coach contained a seat that eased into a flat platform, which could be made up into a bed. Grenville, shaved and dressed and insisting on walking alone, allowed Matthias to help him into the carriage and settle him on the makeshift bed.

Rutledge came to say a grudging good-bye. He did not bid me good journey but hoped that Grenville would soon recover. I tipped my hat and thanked him for my brief employment, but he merely grunted and turned away.

I saw Belinda at the gate of the school, with her maid, watching us go. Didius Ramsay, too, ran after the coach to wave farewell. That was all. I saw nothing of Sutcliff or Timson or any of the others, nor did I see evidence of the Roma on the canal.

Then the school dropped behind us and was gone.

Grenville slept most of the way to London, which allowed him respite from his motion sickness and lingering pain.

Even so, by the time we reached London, he was exhausted, and Bartholomew and Matthias and his man, Gautier, carried him immediately upstairs and to bed.

Grenville invited me to stay with him, but I told him that I'd return to my rooms in Covent Garden.

"Whatever for?" Grenville asked from his bed. His sumptuous chamber was well warmed with a fire and glowing with candlelight. He lay back on a mound of pillows in his deep bed, thick coverlets over him.

"I want to think," I explained.

I had nearly come to a decision about asking Denis of my wife's and daughter's whereabouts, but I did not want to discuss any of this with Grenville. The matter was too tender to share, and Grenville would try to dissuade me from personal dealings with Denis.

"I am afraid I cannot think well in these surroundings," I added lightly. "Your house is so elegant that I would feel guilty for brooding in such a place."

Grenville looked pensive. "I had thought you'd like to remain here permanently. I suggested it once, remember? You can pay me a rent to satisfy your pride."

"You are generous, and I will not dismiss the offer outright. But for now, I want to be alone. I need to be alone. When I stayed here last week, a servant popped in every five minutes to ask if I wanted anything."

He smiled ruefully. "My fault. I told them they were to treat you as royalty. I can tell them to cease."

"No. Let me be cold and miserable for a while. I need to distance myself from this. To think," I repeated.

He looked resigned. "If that is your pleasure."

"I do thank you for your generosity," I said, a bit awkwardly.

He sighed. "I do wish you would all cease being so kind and grateful. Matthias and Bartholomew tiptoe around me as though I were fragile porcelain. You worry me. Am I that close to death's door?"

"No, but you were. And we realized what we might lose."

He flushed. "Please stop. It's becoming embarrassing. Go if you must, Lacey. But do not think you must be alone always." He fell silent a moment. "I believe I will be up to visiting Marianne in a few days. If we have a nice, quiet cup of tea, that is. And if she is there at all."

Grenville had told me on the journey that he'd decided to take my advice and allow Marianne to come and go as she pleased from the Clarges Street house with no questions asked. I knew she had not told him of her son in Berkshire, but I believe he had realized she had been in Berkshire for some time. He had spoken to Jeanne Lanier before her flight; perhaps Jeanne had told him.

"Talk to her," I said. "Have a conversation."

He snorted. "I do not believe I am strong enough for Marianne's conversation. I will simply… ease away, as you suggested. She has proved she will not be held, so I will cease trying to hold her." He shielded his eyes by studying his hands on the coverlet. "I will try, in any case."

I left for my rooms above the bake shop in Grimpen Lane, rooms I had called home for two years. Mrs. Beltan, my landlady, greeted me effusively. Yes, she still had my rooms open. She'd let the rooms above mine to another gentleman, but he was away on business. She put the key in my hand, promised a bucket of coal right away, and gave me a loaf of bread.

Bartholomew stoked the fire and helped me put things to rights. Mrs. Beltan had kept the rooms aired, and so they smelled clean and not musty. The rooms had once been a grand salon and bedchamber when this entire house had been home to gentry one hundred years ago. Now the paint had faded and the grandeur was tarnished, but I was used to it.

If Bartholomew was disappointed that he'd had to exchange his comfortable rooms in Grenville's lavish mansion to the cold attics of Grimpen Lane, he made no complaint. He went about his duties cheerfully, whistling a tune as usual.

I wrote my friends that I had returned to Grimpen Lane, and the next day, letters began arriving. Lady Aline wrote of her delight at my return then made it clear that she meant for me to grace her gatherings the remainder of the season. Her letter ended with a veritable schedule of card parties, soirees, at homes, and garden parties certain to send fear into the heart of the sturdiest male. I sincerely hoped that Grenville would counteract it by taking me along to the more masculine pursuits of boxing and horseracing.

Lady Breckenridge also sent me an invitation, in the form of a personal letter, to listen to a new poet, a shy young man who needed introduction to society. She would have a gathering at her house to ease him and his wife into the right circles. She would be pleased if I would attend, and she assured me I would enjoy his poetry. "It is exquisite," she had written, "rather like Lord Byron, so intelligent and rich, without the bitterness or the airiness of the frivolous Mr. Shelley."

I had begun to realize that Lady Breckenridge, for all her enjoyment of flirting with scandal, had fine taste and the ability to locate it in obscure places. She almost had a nose for it, like a hound who could find the choicest grouse lost in the reeds.

I responded, telling her I would be most pleased to accept.

I also received a packet from Rutledge. To his credit, Rutledge had paid me in full for the three weeks I'd been in his employ. My heart lifted slightly. I could certainly use the funds.

His letter, brief and gruff as usual, said he'd found another secretary, thank you very much. "The new fellow has said that he found everything in order. Despite your shortcomings, he tells me you were somewhat efficient. Rutledge."

I tossed Rutledge's letter aside, not surprised at his tone.

More significantly, I also received, later that day, a hand-delivered message from James Denis.

My pulse quickened as I broke the seal and opened it, and still more when I read the words.

"I found Jeanne Lanier and had her brought back to London. She is more than willing to speak to you and your magistrate. Please attend us this evening at six o'clock."

I folded the letter, grimly cheerful, and ordered a hackney to Curzon Street.