A Death at Fountains Abbey (22 page)

‘—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.’