A Death at Fountains Abbey (26 page)

‘Sam,’ I murmured, as if invoking his spirit. A shiver of dread passed through me. Sam had crept out last night, and now both he and Sneaton were missing. I knew that he was capable of murder – more than capable. I put my head in my hands, praying that I was mistaken. If Sam had killed Sneaton, the murder would be upon my head. I had brought Sam with me, refusing to hear Kitty’s warning. If a man is shot, one does not blame the pistol. One blames the fellow who carried it.

A tap at the window made me jump, but it was only Wattson. He peered through the glass, hand cupping his eyes. ‘Mr Hawkins?’ he called, his voice muffled.

The chair I had settled in sat low to the floor. I had to use one hand to push myself up, which had me wondering how Sneaton ever struggled to his feet. Then I spied his walking stick lying between the chair and the hearth. He must lever himself up with it.

I’d never seen Sneaton without his stick.

I picked it up just as Wattson entered the room. He paused at the threshold, alarmed. I must have looked quite the devil, with a brace of pistols at my belt, and a heavy stick in my hand.

I bid him a good morning, and asked why he had come to the cottage.

Wattson looked about the room. The first of the sun’s rays gleamed on the polished furniture. ‘I’ve a message for Mr Sneaton, sir.’

That struck me as odd. Wattson was Simpson’s man. He worked on the estate, not at the hall. ‘He’s not here.’

Wattson ducked his head as he inspected the other room. ‘You’ve looked upstairs?’

‘Naturally.’

He stood in the centre of the room, his head almost touching the beams. ‘But he must be here. The chickens are free.’

‘I let them out.’

‘Then he’s in trouble.’ He nodded at the stick in my hands. ‘He’d never leave the cottage without his cane.’ He pushed past me, heading for the door.

I grabbed his arm. ‘Wattson, speak truly – why are you here?’

He hesitated before replying. ‘I come at dawn every morning. I help Mr Sneaton over to the house, and then back again at night.’

I thought of the walk I had taken so easily, then imagined Sneaton, struggling to drag his ruined body over the fields. ‘You carry him?’

Another pause. ‘If the ground’s bad. He’s not as strong as he pretends. Please sir – you won’t tell the family? Mr Sneaton wouldn’t want his honour to know.’

‘You’re fond of him.’

‘He’s been kind to me. Helped me with my letters. He says I can tally better than Mr Simpson.’

‘You brought him home last night?’

Wattson shook his head, miserable. ‘Mr Aislabie dismissed him before I’d finished for the day. Must have been hard for him, walking back on his own.’

Hard on his body and his spirit
, I thought, resting Sneaton’s walking stick against the hearth. The sun was streaming through the windows now: the start of a glorious spring morning. And what had been hidden in the shadows was now picked out in golden light.

There was a dark stain on the rough mat by the fireside, no more than a step away from the chair where I had been sitting. In fact I had walked through it, my boot smearing marks across the floor. I kneeled down for a closer study.

‘What is it?’ Wattson asked, in a strained voice. But he knew. We both knew.

Blood.

We walked back towards Studley House in silence, lost in our separate fears. And I wondered –
Where was Sam?

I thought the work on the stables would have been abandoned for the day, given that the men had spent the night on watch – and that half were out now searching for Sam. But Simpson was already ranging across the site, shouting orders. Wattson hesitated as we drew closer, and we both stopped for a moment, staring out across the park. The deer were scattered way off in the distance, almost out of view.

A dun-coloured stallion was racing along the east drive, half-obscured by the line of oaks. I shielded my eyes, trying to identify the rider. His feather-trimmed hat, and then his head, crested the hill. Francis Forster, his cloak streaming out behind him, showing flashes of purple lining. A few moments later he had galloped up to meet us. I would not have ridden so fast, with one arm bound.

‘Hawkins!’ he shouted. ‘Is it true? There was a fire?’

‘A small one, in Mrs Fairwood’s chamber. She is unharmed. One of the maids was—’

‘Mrs Fairwood!’ he exclaimed, jumping down from the saddle and pulling at the silver clasp on his cloak. ‘I must go to her.’ He threw the reins at Wattson and rushed towards the house. ‘Take him to the stables,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

Wattson bit back a scowl. ‘Mr Sneaton is missing,’ he called.

Forster bronzed paused upon the steps. ‘Sneaton?’ He chuckled. ‘Well, I don’t suppose he’s got very far.’

‘Did you see him, sir?’ Wattson asked, fiercely. His hands were bunched into fists. ‘On your ride from Fountains?’

Forster’s face puckered with annoyance. ‘This your servant, Hawkins?’

‘I’m no one’s servant,’ Wattson said. His voice was quiet, but there was a boldness to him that surprised me.

Forster glared at him. ‘How dare you speak to me in such an insolent fashion! I shall speak to your master of this. What is your name? Well?’

Wattson reddened, and said nothing.

‘You did not see Mr Sneaton upon the road?’ I said, stepping in swiftly.

Forster tore his gaze from Wattson. ‘Was he not dismissed from service yesterday?’

‘We found bloodstains upon the floor of his cottage. I fear he may have been attacked.’

‘Heavens! That is troubling. Forgive me for speaking lightly before. I pray you find him well. If you would excuse me.’ He bowed and bounded up the steps.

Wattson pivoted sharply on his boot heel and led Forster’s horse to the stables. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was angry.

I followed him to the courtyard where I found Kitty, sitting on the mounting block with her face turned to the sunshine. She waved and jumped down as we approached.

I asked after Sally.

Wattson halted. ‘She’s been hurt?’

‘She burned her hands, saving Mrs Fairwood,’ Kitty explained. ‘They’ll take weeks to heal, poor girl. Aislabie has her locked in the cellar. He thinks she started the fire.’

Wattson bit his lip, furious.

I touched Kitty’s arm. ‘Mr Sneaton is missing. We found blood in his cottage.’

‘Sam is not returned.’

We looked at one another – afraid for Sam, and afraid for what he might have done. ‘We’d best find him.’

‘Let me join you sir,’ Wattson said. ‘I know the land better than most. And we might look for Mr Sneaton, too.’

There were only two horses left in the stables, so I borrowed Forster’s stallion, hoping it was not the one that had thrown him off its back. Wattson led Kitty and me to the edge of the water gardens. We paused at the base of the lake, where it narrowed again into a river. There was a wooden footbridge here over a smaller cascade, and a stone sphinx guarding either side of the bank. They stared at each other across the river, front paws stretched towards the water. The one upon this side of the bridge had the face of a woman of middling age. Her hair streamed across her lion’s back, and a string of pearls rested on her plump bosom. I leaned down, peering into her face. The expression was cool and commanding, as if she ruled over the waters below.

‘When did the search party set out?’ Wattson asked.

I sat up straight in the saddle. ‘Almost an hour ago.’

‘Then he’s not here.’ Wattson indicated the party of men picking their way through the gardens, hunting under the tangle of bushes and tree roots. He gathered the reins, turning his horse about. ‘They’d’ve found him by now.’

I wasn’t sure if he was speaking of Sneaton or Sam. ‘Where do you propose we look?’

‘Wherever’s left.’ Wattson rode away from the cascade, following the river downstream.

I urged my horse forward, and followed.

Aislabie had shaped the River Skell into straight canals and moon ponds, mirror lakes and cascades. But as we left the water gardens behind, the river was released back to its natural flow, winding down a steep valley bristling with Scots pines. We had to ford our way across several times, drifting further and further from the water gardens and from the house.

There was no one out here.

‘We’ve gone too far,’ I called out, as we reached another bend in the river.

Kitty drew up next to me. ‘Let us see what lies up ahead,’ she said, lifting her voice over the rush of water.

We had said that at the last turn, and the one before that. We could follow the river to its end, tantalised by the hope of discovery. There was something eerie about this valley, with its narrow banks and silent woods. Some antique memory, some ancestor’s ghost whispered through my blood:
This would be the ideal place for an ambush
.

But there was no ambush waiting for us at the next bend, only a wide and sunlit riverbank, dotted with dandelions and daisies. Tiny white butterflies drifted in the air. Red damselflies hovered by the water.

A small, dark figure lay upon the grass.

‘Sam!’ I heard myself cry out. ‘It’s Sam!’

The sun beat down upon our heads. The wind pushed wisps of cloud across the sky. The river rushed on down the valley.

Sam didn’t move. He lay perfectly still.

Chapter Seventeen

He was death cold.

‘Blankets. Fetch blankets!’ Kitty, pushing open the great doors of Studley and shouting at the nearest footman.

‘Bring him down to the kitchen.’ Wattson was waiting for us in the great hall. He’d galloped ahead to prepare the servants.
The boy was found, lying frozen on the river path below Gillet Hill, the back of his skull all bloody.
Mrs Mason had stoked the fire and called for blankets long before we arrived. Rumours spread through the house.
The boy’s dead. The boy’s alive.

The boy was dying. He hadn’t stirred, not when I carried him in my arms from the riverbank, as I hefted him up on to the saddle. I’d held him in front of me on that frantic ride back from the river, clutching him to my chest and praying that my own heat could warm him. How long had he lain there, all alone? I could feel my heart pounding hard against his back, life thrumming through my veins. Why did he not stir?

The back of his head was sticky with blood. I thought of the blood in Sneaton’s cottage and rode on, fury burning through me like a forest fire. When I found who did this . . . God help them.

We stripped off his damp coat and breeches and cocooned him in blankets by the fire. Kitty laid her head to his chest and found a heartbeat, very slow. His face was swollen from yesterday’s beating, but it was the blow to his head that worried me, and the fact we could not rouse him. There was a lump at the base of his skull, and blood in his ear. Kitty washed the wound clean, rinsing it with hot water and a few drops of brandy.

I sat down behind Sam on the kitchen floor just as I had sat with him on the ride back, propping his head against my chest. He was so cold. Kitty tucked the blankets around him and settled down with us by the fire.

I closed my eyes, bone weary. I had been prepared to think the very worst of him. Whereas in fact, he had stolen out into the night, risking his life to help me. Someone had attacked him, and abandoned him by the river to die alone. I thought of the deer, slaughtered and carried through the estate. It was the same person, I was sure of it – treating Sam as if he were an animal.

Kitty reached out and cupped a hand to my face. Saying, without words:
This is not your fault.

I looked away into the fire. Of course it was my fault.

Mr Gatteker was called from Ripon. He flapped his arms against his side, declared it an outrage, and accepted a plate of fresh bread and jam from Mrs Mason. He sat at the table and asked about the night’s events. He had not seen Sneaton on the estate, in town, nor upon the road.

‘I tested Metcalfe’s laudanum on the cat,’ he said, sucking jam from his fingers. ‘I believe someone may have tampered with the mixture – more opium and less sherry. Can’t prove it, but the effects on Marigold were
unfortunate
.’ He added a dollop of cream to his bread and took a large bite.

‘Tom!’ Kitty inched closer, and took Sam’s hand. ‘His eyes fluttered.’ She put her fingers to his wrist, then frowned.

‘Rest and warmth,’ Gatteker pronounced.

‘And prayer,’ Mrs Mason added.

Gatteker shrugged, munching away. ‘Worth a try. Didn’t work for Marigold, I’m afraid.’

I carried Sam to our chamber and tucked him into our bed, small and vulnerable beneath the blankets. We had fashioned a bandage for his head, his black curls spilling over the top on to the pillow. I sat upon the bed and watched for each breath.

Kitty lit a fire before joining me, sitting upon the opposite side of the mattress. We watched him for a long time. I began to worry that if I turned away even for one second, he would slip away. Lady Judith paid a visit. Bagby brought a pot of coffee, some bread and cheese, and a slice of apple pie. ‘In case he’s hungry, when he wakes,’ he stumbled, then bowed and left the room.