A Death at Fountains Abbey (38 page)

Metcalfe roused Malone, who had bedded down in a room above the stables. The horses shuffled and stamped as we lifted a couple of spades from the stalls. In the courtyard, everything was peaceful, the chickens locked up in their coop. Two of Aislabie’s men were patrolling the yard with dogs, lanterns swinging on long poles. They hurried towards us as we reached the yard door, which opened on to the woods beyond. It was locked. Metcalfe squeezed my shoulder, and put a finger to his lips.

‘Sirs!’ one of the guards called out. ‘The house is locked up for the night.’

Metcalfe drew himself up tall. ‘We are not chickens.’

The guard looked at his companion, then back at us, perplexed.

‘
We are not chickens
,’ Metcalfe repeated, more slowly. ‘We refuse to be cooped up all night.’

‘Mr Robinson, sir – it’s for your own safety.’

‘How dare you!’ Metcalfe puffed out his chest. ‘Am I to be cosseted and condescended to in such an ignominious fashion? This is not to be endured. Remember your station, you disobedient wretch.’

‘Mr Robinson, sir—’

‘
Unlock this door at once.
’

The guard did as he was told.

‘Malone. We’ll need those lanterns.’

Malone was carrying the spades. I took them from him, and he took the lanterns from the guards, who were not at all pleased.

‘Should we ask for the dogs?’ Metcalfe asked me, from the corner of his mouth.

‘Best not press our luck,’ I muttered.

We left the courtyard in a procession, Metcalfe leading the way with one lantern and Malone at my back with the other. We kept to the main avenues, our boots crunching on the gravel. Let Forster hear me, if he was hiding out there in the woods. Let him come. I was ready for him.

But he was not in the woods. And he was not waiting for me.

It was past midnight when we returned, jubilant with success. We had found the ledger in an iron strongbox, buried at the foot of the older sphinx. We had worked together under the stars like gravediggers, Metcalfe quoting
Hamlet
and Malone singing ballads.

I had hoped to encounter Forster on our way back – the three of us together could have caught him easily enough. But I was satisfied at least to hold the ledger in my hands. It felt damp, and the pages were a little foxed – but the writing was legible.

Metcalfe peered over my shoulder, tutting over the names. ‘Look at them all,’ he said. ‘Shameless villains. Tens of thousands of pounds. They robbed the nation dry. Can you imagine such a thing, Malone?’

‘D’you know, I think I can, sir.’

Malone went back to the stables, Metcalfe to his rooms, and I carried on up the stairs, holding my freedom in my hands. The
true
accounts of the South Sea Company. The bribes given, the free shares. My Lord this, my Lady that. Right Honourables and Most Reverends. Half the current government was implicated – along with the king himself.

The queen would do anything to keep this from the world. She could never blackmail us again.

‘Kitty!’ I called, throwing back the ruined door and holding up the ledger in triumph. ‘I have it!’

The room was empty, and very still.

Someone had thrown a white sheet over Sam’s face.

A chair had been knocked to the ground.

I strode to the cupboard-room door and peered into the gloom. ‘Kitty,’ I said. As if saying her name would conjure her to me. I stepped back into the chamber. It was not possible, none of this was possible. I had the ledger: we were free. I had
won
.

Where was she?

I lifted the chair by the hearth and my heart lurched. I heard myself say: No.

There was a trail of blood running across the floorboards. A bloody handprint on the wall.

I dropped to my knees, reaching a trembling hand to touch the blood on the floor. Bright red and wet. Gasping for breath, I wiped my hand against the chair to clean it. My head was pounding. I forced myself not to panic. It was only a small patch of blood. She was alive. She had to be.

I caught something glinting in the far corner by the window and crawled towards it. Kitty’s brooch-dagger. The blade was smeared with blood. She had fought him – of course she had. I shoved it in my coat pocket and staggered to the bed.

I stood over it for a moment, afraid of what I would find beneath the sheet. And then I cursed myself for a coward, and pulled it back with one swift movement.

Sam lay with his eyes closed, lips parted. White bandage wrapped over his black curls.

I crouched down and put a hand to his chest. He was warm. Thank God in Heaven, he was warm – and breathing.

‘Sam.’ I shook his shoulder. ‘
Sam.
’

He groaned, and opened his eyes.

‘Where is she?’

A tear slid from his eye.

A hollow feeling opened up inside me. I looked again about the room, and saw a piece of paper nailed to the painting of Fountains Abbey. I tore it free, my hand trembling. It was a sketch Sam had made of Kitty. She smiled out at me from the page, curls loose about her face. Beautiful.

Beneath it, Forster had left a message.

We are waiting for you, Mr Hawkins. Come alone.

Chapter Twenty-six

The abbey was black against the night sky. I held out my lantern, a golden light in the dark. The ruins were quiet now that the birds were gone. I could hear the River Skell somewhere to my left, and feel the west wind pulling at my coat. I groped my way over the broken walls, searching for the tombstones, where Forster had left his journal. He wasn’t there.

I turned about me in the silence. If I called out, there would be no hope of surprise. I moved the pole into my left hand, and drew my pistol. Nothing stirred. Where were the old ghosts tonight, the monks who had worshipped here for centuries? Fled into the stones, drifted away upon the wind. I was alone, with nothing to guide me but one candle, and a million stars high in the heavens.

I found myself in the cellarium, beneath its vaulted ceiling. The lantern cast great shadows over the brickwork. It was a long room, full of echoes, with any number of wide pillars to hide behind. I ventured slowly down its length, my feet scuffing against the stone. It felt as if I were walking down the throat of some great beast.

A noise behind me made me turn. ‘Who’s there?’ I hissed, circling blind. Something rustled, and then in one terrible motion, a thousand bodies rose up as one. Bats. I dropped to the ground as they rushed around me, squealing and flapping in a huge cloud. I covered my head with my hands, feeling the beat of their wings like soft breath on the air.

And then they were gone, leaving nothing but silence, and a faint, acrid scent. I rose to my feet, shaken. By some miracle, my lantern was intact. I picked it up and walked down through the nave, alone beneath the towering stones, the open sky.

The aisles were empty. Only the chapel remained unsearched, and the great tower looming up ahead. A perfect half-moon hung above it, silvering the stone.

It will be the tower
.
The highest point of the abbey. He will want the drama of it.

I stood in the transept, the heart of the old church. This was where the first stones had been laid, and men had worshipped for centuries. I groped for the cross that hung about my neck and sent a swift prayer to the heavens.
Please God. Let her be alive.

The entrance to the tower stood to my left, black and silent. It must have been magnificent once. Now it was a hollow shell: no stained glass in the windows, no floors, no roof. I raised my lantern and stepped inside. Craning my neck, I glimpsed a flickering light near the top of the tower. There must be a platform running along that wall, though I couldn’t see it from the ground.

‘Hawkins.’ Forster’s voice drifted down. ‘Join us.’

Us.
She lived.

In the far right corner of the tower stood a door, studded with iron. I wrenched it open and took the lantern from its pole, thrusting the light ahead of me up the winding stone steps. In my haste I had forgotten about Wattson until this moment. If he were here, if he were crouched waiting for me on the stairs above, I could do little to defend myself. But what choice did I have?

The staircase ran up the full height of the tower, the steps worn and crumbling. I had run from Studley House all the way to the abbey, and I was soon out of breath. I stopped upon the landing where the second floor had once stood, and which now opened upon a black void. This would have been the place for an ambush: Wattson could have grabbed me and shoved me over the edge before I could even fire my pistol. He was not here. I swallowed hard, gathering my strength, and hurried onwards.

After another fifty steps I reached a narrow wooden door. The light had come from this level. I was almost at the top of the tower, just below the belfry. I turned the ring handle and pushed open the door, shielding myself by the wall. No shots were fired; no one rushed through and kicked me down the stairs. I stepped out with my pistol raised.

I could see two figures huddled together in a dark corner, up ahead to my right. It was too dark to see their faces.

‘Forster!’ I yelled.

He didn’t reply. I held out the lantern to guide my way, then shrank back against the door frame.

There was no floor. All that remained was a wooden platform no more than a foot wide, running along the wall from this door to the opposite corner of the tower. There was no rail or rope at its edge, only a straight drop to the ground a hundred and fifty feet below.

Directly beyond the door lay a small stone landing, leading to the platform. I put one foot upon it, testing my weight. The stone was dry, but there were weeds and moss growing on the surface. I would need both hands for balance. I lowered the lantern and slipped my pistol back in its belt. Tore my wig and hat from my head and threw them back down the stairs. Then I lifted my back foot through the doorway and on to the landing.

This alone was terrifying. The tower was cathedral high, the wind roaring through the empty windows and flapping the edges of my coat.

I took my first step on to the narrow platform. The wooden board bowed and rocked, but held firm. I pressed my back against the wall and stretched out my arms, inching sideways like a crab. Even with my heels to the wall, my feet only just fitted upon the board.

As I drew closer to the belfry window I heard a slight scuffle and then a voice. ‘Tom!’

Kitty.

‘Tom, go back!’

There was another scuffle, then silence.

It was agony. We were no more than twenty feet apart, but even the slightest misstep could be fatal. The wooden platform rested on a series of stone brackets. If I balanced towards my toes, the board tipped dangerously towards the yawning dark. Twice I thought I would fall, only to slam back hard against the wall, fingers clawing at the stone. There was no time to think of attack or defence, only the next step, and the next.

I reached the belfry window, clinging to the nearest stone mullion with a desperate relief. The wind was wild and bitter up here, howling through the empty window.

‘No further,’ Forster commanded. I heard the shuffle of footsteps as they moved slowly towards me. Forster had left his own lantern in the far corner, but I could see the white sleeves of Kitty’s gown, and flashes of her skirts, and the darker shape of Forster behind her. They walked the platform head on: I could hear the wooden plank lifting and knocking against the stone brackets.

And then they were in front of me, with only the window between us. Kitty’s face, lit by starlight.

Forster had a pistol pressed to her temple. His left arm, free of its sling, was wrapped tightly about her waist. I could just make out the brand upon his thumb.

He grinned at me in mad triumph.

‘Are you hurt?’ I asked Kitty.

She shook her head, then winced. He must have stunned her with a sharp blow. It was the only way he could have brought her all this way without a fierce struggle.

‘There was blood.’

‘
His
,’ she spat. ‘I sliced him—’

Forster lowered his lips to Kitty’s ear, and bit down hard. She screamed in pain, trying to pull away. I took a step closer and he lifted his head, pressing the pistol harder into her skin. I could see blood trickling down her neck. Blood on his lips.

‘Animal!’

He wiped his mouth, and smiled at me, as if I had paid him a compliment. It was the strangest thing, to see the dull gentleman transformed before my eyes. The form was the same, and the features: but the spirit . . . my God. I understood now why he drew himself with vacant holes for eyes. His spirit was as black and desolate as the endless drop below us.

‘Throw your pistols over the edge,’ he said. ‘And your sword.’

I hesitated.