A Death at Fountains Abbey (12 page)

‘Then I beg you to visit me tomorrow sir, at Fountains Hall,’ he beamed. ‘Have you viewed the abbey yet?’

‘There is a painting—’

‘No? Splendid – you must permit me to tour it with you. We must pray for good weather. Now: promise me you will set aside at least three hours, sir! One cannot appreciate all the finer details if one rushes through . . .’ He then ruined five perfectly decent minutes of my life talking about flying buttresses. Mr Gatteker, the traitor, drifted away. My eyes flickered across Forster’s face, which was more interesting than his conversation. A brilliant white scar crossed one golden brow, and another cut into his lip. The lines at the edges of his eyes suggested a man of at least five and thirty, but they might have been formed from squinting at the Italian sun. In fact he mentioned later that evening that he was born in 1700, ‘the very cusp of the new century’. It had aged him, that bright sunshine.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your arm,’ I said, leaping into a momentary lull in his monologuing.

Forster winced. ‘Broke the wrist too, would you believe. Damned horse stumbled on the Nottingham road.’ The sling kept his arm high upon his chest, his bandaged thumb and fingers pressed to his heart.

‘Must have been painful.’

‘Screamed like a baby,’ he said, laughing at himself in a likeable way – and I forgave him for his lamentable skills in conversation.

But not enough to sit with him at supper.

We were a smaller gathering in the dining room, our party whittled down to eight for a light meal. It was almost nine when we sat down, but the curtains were left open to the black night. It gave a dramatic backdrop to the room, which was bright with candles, flames mirrored in the silverware. Aislabie and Lady Judith sat at either end of the table, our elegant hosts, exchanging affectionate jests at each other’s expense. Elizabeth Fairwood sat next to her would-be father in her grey gown, training her displeasure upon her plate. Francis Forster took the chair opposite, eager to speak with Aislabie. They fell swiftly into a discussion about the new stables, to the point that Aislabie called for Bagby, ordering him to bring in the plans for closer scrutiny. Lady Judith overruled her husband, her clear voice cutting above the rest. ‘Not at supper, dearest. Poor Mrs Fairwood is drooping with boredom.’

I was seated to her left, Mr Gatteker upon her right. She leaned closer, whispered in my ear. ‘Forster is a tedious fellow. I’m glad that
you
are at my side tonight.’ I felt a slim hand on my knee, followed by a gentle squeeze.

Sneaton, placed between Mr Gatteker and Mrs Fairwood, reached for the salted fish, struggling with his damaged hand.

‘If you will permit me, sir,’ Mrs Fairwood offered, bringing the dish closer.

‘Much obliged, madam,’ Sneaton replied.

The exchange was brief and excruciatingly polite. They clearly loathed one another.

‘How quiet you are, Master Fleet,’ Lady Judith scolded Sam, cocooned in silence to my left. ‘I believe you have not spoken one word since we sat down.’

To my surprise, Mrs Fairwood spoke up in his defence. ‘Is that not refreshing, madam? To speak only when one has something
pertinent
to say?’

Lady Judith was too subtle to acknowledge the insult. ‘Now there is a noble ambition! Though I fear under such instruction, the dining rooms of England would fall silent at a stroke. Tell me, Master Fleet, do you enjoy your stay at Studley Hall?’

I sensed Sam’s consternation at the question, and his horror at being asked anything at all, to feel the eyes of the table swivel upon him. An honest reply would be no, he was not enjoying his stay at Studley, that – in fact – he hated it and wished more than anything to be gone. I had at least taught him enough manners to know that this was not an acceptable response.

‘Yes,’ he lied.

I trod on his toe.

‘Thank you,’ he added, miserable.

Another press of the toe, as if he were a pipe organ.

‘Madam.’ Half yelped.

‘There is much to commend a
quiet
gentleman,’ Mrs Fairwood announced to the air, dark ringlets shaking with the force of her feeling. ‘It suggests a thoughtful nature. To speak is a common necessity. To listen – a rare virtue.’

‘Quite so, well said, madam!’ Forster cried. ‘Nothing worse than a fellow who cannot keep his mouth closed. I have always felt . . .’

Lady Judith gave me a satirical look.

The supper continued. No one mentioned the threatening notes, or the deer. Talk returned to the stables, and the gardener’s extravagant bill for seeds, and then worse: politics. I could sense Sam growing increasingly restless. Eventually, he could bear it no longer.

‘Mr Sneaton. How were you burned?’

There was an appalled silence.

‘Mr Sneaton—’ I began.

He waved away my apology with his damaged hand. He seemed unable to speak. Gatteker poured himself another glass of claret, the wine glugging from the bottle in the silent room.

‘There was a fire in my London home,’ Aislabie answered at last, in a flat voice. ‘Many years ago now. My son William was a baby at the time. I tried to reach him . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘I was forced back by the flames. Mr Sneaton ran into the fire and the smoke, and he found my son. I lost my wife, my Anne.’ He grabbed Mrs Fairwood’s hand. ‘But Mr Sneaton saved my son. He almost lost his own life as a consequence. He suffered years of pain. Still suffers now, without complaint. Mr Sneaton is the bravest, most admirable man I have ever met. I owe him everything
.
’ He glared down the table. ‘Does that answer your question, Master Fleet?’

‘Yes,’ Sam said, reaching for the salt. ‘Thank you.’

The company rose from the table, subdued by Aislabie’s story and his obvious distress. I sent Sam to our rooms, which pleased him very well. He had plans to sketch in his room, using candles he’d tucked beneath his shirt. Sam’s instinct was to steal what he needed, rather than to ask and risk refusal. It would not have occurred to him that he could simply demand what he wanted. Not without a blade in his hand.

I suppose I should have reprimanded him for his behaviour, but why waste my breath? I had tried to explain the subtleties of polite conversation. It was like trying to recommend a complicated gavotte to a soldier striding hard across a battlefield. Sam’s view was that if one must speak, it should be to a purpose – to discover a useful fact, for example, or to offer a plan of action. Sam had wanted to know how Sneaton had been burned, and now he knew. This, to his mind, was a highly satisfactory conversational exchange.

And how could I argue with him? I now knew how Sneaton had come by his injuries, and why he was treated more as a member of the family than as Aislabie’s secretary. After all, servants did not sit down to supper with their masters, in the main. I was certain now that Sneaton had not written the threatening notes. He was loyal, and he was treated with respect – perhaps even affection – by the family. I might not have discovered this if Sam hadn’t ignored the constrants of etiquette.

I needed to think, and to restore my nerves. I needed a pipe. As Lady Judith escorted her guests to the drawing room I slipped away, through the great hall and down the front steps. It was a clear night, the waxing moon a brilliant silver. The front of the house was very still now that the work on the stables had ended for the day. Candles glowed softly in the drawing room and I could hear the sound of the harpsichord through an open window.

I stepped on to the drive, feet crunching on the gravel, then moved further out into the deer park beyond, the grass wet around my ankles. Here the darkness found me, and wrapped me in its quiet embrace. In London, night was day for me: I lived in Covent Garden, surrounded by coffeehouses, gin shops and brothels. I had run headlong into that wild and rowdy city, craving its hectic pace – the perfect tempo for my restless spirit.

But the city had turned on me, in the end. I had suffered many nights of agony and despair these past few months. Chained to a wall in the Marshalsea, with the dead festering beside me and the rats crawling across my body. Sweating with gaol fever as a parson prayed over my fading soul. Those endless nights grieving for Kitty, when I believed her dead. The eve of my hanging and the days after, when I would dream it all again. When I would embellish it in my nightmares: trapped in my coffin as they lowered me into the ground. The patter of soil on wood as I was buried alive.

These were the nights the city had bestowed upon me.

Eyes closed, I breathed in the fresh, cool air. There was no city stink here, but grass and mud, and the faintest whiff of cow dung. I could sense the deer close by, awake and alert to threats in the dark. I thought of the butchered doe and its tiny fawn, killed before it could live. Then I pushed the memory away and enjoyed a moment’s peace, alone in the night.

A moment was enough. I rolled my shoulders, stretched out my back and neck – still aching from my journey. I packed my pipe and struck a spark from my tinderbox, breathing gently on the embers. The flame burst orange, and a gaunt grey face loomed out of the dark, inches from mine.

I gave a shout of alarm and the tinderbox sailed out of my hands, flame sizzling out in the wet earth. The face vanished, the night a velvet black all around me. I could see nothing, except for my breath clouding in front of me. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel the blood thrumming in my ears. So much for the quiet peace of the country.

‘Who’s there?’ I called out. I had no sword. I’d left my dagger and pistols in my room.

‘I watched you die.’

The words drifted through the air, musical and strange.

Metcalfe. I exhaled softly.

Relief turned swiftly to annoyance. What the devil was he doing, creeping about in the dark? I dropped to the ground, hunting for my tinderbox.
I watched you die.
A fine sort of a greeting. He must have witnessed my hanging. Was I meant to thank him for his attendance? My fingers closed around the tinderbox. I stood up and started for the house.

‘Mr Hawkins?’ he called after me.

I pretended not to hear him, striding back through the grass. He hurried to catch up, breathing hard with the effort.

We had reached the steps, our shoes scuffing on the stone. In the great hall, I plucked a candle free from its sconce and lit my pipe. The first, glorious draw of tobacco sent its soothing message deep into my mind and body. All is safe, all is well. ‘You startled me, sir.’

Metcalfe ran a hand across his bare scalp, fingers rasping against the greying stubble. His nails were black with mud. He was dressed in a once-fine waistcoat, ruined by neglect. His stockings were spattered, his shoes scuffed and coated with grass and mud. If I had not known that he was the heir to a baronetcy, I might have taken him for a poacher – and not a successful one, given his thin frame and hollow cheeks.

He peered at my face, standing closer than was comfortable or civil. ‘Are you alive?’

‘Of course I’m alive,’ I snapped, leaning back.

He gave a curious, strangled sound – an almost-laugh. ‘You will permit me?’ He prodded my chest with a grimy finger, confirming my answer. ‘I saw you hang. They put you in a coffin.’

‘I was revived. Did you not hear the story?’

‘Revived. Of course. Of
course.
’ He snorted, disgusted by his own foolishness, and sat down heavily on the oak staircase. ‘Forgive me, sir. Sometimes I see things that are not there. At least, there are times when I find it hard to distinguish between truth and fiction.’ His soft grey eyes widened in fear at the thought.

I could see now how he suffered – a disorder of the mind, reflected in the body. The poor devil had watched me die, and now here I was looming out of the night in front of him. It would be enough to frighten any man, never mind one caught in the grip of a violent melancholia. I offered him my pipe.

He took a long draw, and breathed the smoke out with a sigh. ‘Thank you.’

I sat down next to him, stretching out my legs. He was older than I had expected for Aislabie’s nephew. Middling forties, I guessed. He smelled of tobacco and sweat, and his clothes were stained and in need of a wash. Why had he not sent them to be laundered? There were a dozen servants here who could attend him.

He returned my pipe, attempting a smile. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

I held out my hand. ‘Thomas Hawkins.’

He gave me a rueful smile. ‘Metcalfe Robinson.’

We shook hands. ‘Do you not remember me from this afternoon, sir? I spied you up there.’ I pointed to the minstrels’ gallery above us.

Metcalfe looked dazed. He reached a hand beneath his shirt, scratching his shoulder. ‘Was that today? What day is it, again?’

I told him it was a Thursday, wondering if he was sure of the month, even the year. He seemed only half awake. Laudanum, I thought, remembering the bottle Sally had borrowed from him.

Metcalfe lit his own pipe. His hands were trembling a little. What a shock I’d given the poor devil. ‘You’ve come to help my uncle, I believe?’