Read A Death at Fountains Abbey Online

Authors: Antonia Hodgson

A Death at Fountains Abbey (9 page)

Sally, the young maid I had spoken to earlier, arrived with a blanket. She wrapped it about the man’s shoulders, then handed him a bottle of laudanum. ‘Here you are, Fred. Borrowed this from Mr Robinson. You’ll feel sick at first, but it’ll pass.’

He took a long swig, and grimaced. ‘Hurts like bloody murder.’

‘Lucky,’ Sam said. He ran his finger along the injured leg. ‘Fibula. Clean break.’

‘Fortunate indeed.’ Sneaton limped over, wooden peg
putt-putt
ing along the stone floor. ‘If the bone breaks through the skin, your only remedy’s amputation. Most men die from the shock.’

Fred began to heave.

‘Or putrefaction,’ Sam added. ‘Nasty.’

‘Deep breaths, Fred,’ Sally said.

Fred opened his mouth, then vomited on the oilcloth.

‘That was your fault,’ Sally scolded Sam.

Sam blinked, not understanding.

Simpson, the master stonemason, strode across the room to join us, leaving a trail of muddy bootprints in his wake. His face was coated in grey stone dust, streaked with sweat. He was shorter than me by several inches but very solid, with a bull’s neck and strong fists, the knuckles grazed and torn from his work. He reminded me of William Acton, the head keeper of the Marshalsea gaol. Not a pleasant thought. ‘This is what happens when you don’t pay the men, Sneaton,’ he snarled.

Sneaton scowled at him, scars puckering. ‘For heaven’s sake, what possible connection—’

‘My men han’t seen a farthing since Christmas! They’re tired and angry, Jack. Working for nowt – it’s bad for the humours. Dangerous bloody way to work.’

Sneaton huffed in exasperation. ‘And do your men know you handed in your quarter bill
two weeks late
? And God’s truth, to call it a bill would be a jest. A pile of tattered receipts and a scrawl of unreadable names—’

‘I’m owed sixty pounds! I
have
to pay my men, my suppliers—’

‘Then show me receipts that tally. A clear list of the men you hired and the hours they worked.’

Simpson’s eyes popped in outrage. ‘Do you call me a liar, Jack? A thief?’

‘What is this damned racket?’ Aislabie shouted, marching across the hall like a general – the effect somewhat ruined by the napkin tucked into his cravat.

Simpson pulled off his hat and bowed low. ‘Your honour, sir.’

Aislabie glanced at Fred, and the pool of vomit. He pulled a face. ‘What happened here?’

‘An accident, Mr Aislabie, sir,’ Simpson answered, still in his bow, clutching his hat in his great fists.

‘I can see that. Have you been drinking?’

‘No, sir!’

Aislabie narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe Simpson, and to be fair I could smell the liquor on the stonemason’s breath from several paces away. The room waited for his honour’s decision. ‘This will be your last warning, Mr Simpson. If you cannot conduct your business in a respectable manner, I shall hire someone who can.’

Simpson dropped into an even deeper bow, head below his arse. ‘Yes, your honour. I’m obliged to you, sir.’

Aislabie gave a sharp nod, concluding business. He leaned towards Sneaton. ‘Clear up this mess. And remove these men from my house. They should never have been brought inside.’

He spun upon his heels and left, footsteps fading down the hall. No one mentioned the napkin.

Simpson rose from his bow and shoved his hat on his head. ‘Tight-fisted bastard. Ten years I’ve slaved for him! D’you remember all the mud we had to cart away just to dig out the lake? Who else could have built his precious cascades? Don’t you dare say Robert Doe, Jack – don’t you dare. What’s that soft-pricked Southerner ever built? Follies. Fucking follies.’

‘His accounts are very neat.’

Simpson opened his mouth to argue, then realised Sneaton was joking. ‘Piss off, Jack.’

Sneaton gestured to Fred, who had sunk heavily against Sally’s shoulder. ‘Bring the cart around and take him to his quarters. Mr Aislabie will pay the doctor’s fees.’

‘Aye. He pays when it suits him,’ Simpson muttered. ‘What’s sixty pounds to him? He earns three thousand a quarter from rents alone, or near as makes no matter.’

‘That’s not true—’

‘Yes it is Jack, you bloody liar. You told me yourself five nights ago.’

Sneaton closed his eyes. ‘Remind me not to drink with you again, John.’

Simpson gave a triumphant smirk. ‘I know all there is to know about you, Jack Sneaton. And Red Lion Square . . . Maybe you should remember that.’

Sneaton stared at him, shocked into silence.

‘Ahh, ignore us, Jack,’ Simpson sighed. ‘I didn’t mean nowt by it.’ He glanced at me, the only one close enough to have heard the threat. ‘How do. Who are you then?’

Now there was a fair, Yorkshire greeting. ‘Thomas Hawkins. I’m here to—’

‘Half-Hanged Hawkins!’ Simpson barked out a laugh. ‘Heard you was coming. Bloody hell. Hanged at Tyburn. How’s your neck, sir. Still stretched?’

I drew back. ‘I’ve no wish to speak of it.’

‘If wishes were fucks, the world would be full o’ bastards,’ he replied with a shrug.

Sneaton had recovered his tongue. ‘Come over to the cottage tonight, John. We’ll work through your receipts together.’

‘Thanks, Jack,’ Simpson grinned. ‘I’m grateful to you.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back outside, whistling.

Sally huffed at the fresh trail of muddy footprints.

Fred’s chum, who had helped Sam to bind the splint, rose to his feet and stretched. He was a handsome fellow, about twenty years of age, with a dark complexion from working in the sun. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he addressed Sneaton, ‘is it true that Mr Simpson handed in his bill two weeks late?’

Sneaton considered the younger man. ‘D’you enjoy working at Studley, Master Wattson?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sneaton drew closer. Annunciated slowly. ‘Then remember who you are.’

Wattson nodded rapidly. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Sneaton held Wattson’s gaze for a moment to be sure the message had been received. Then he left, following his master’s path towards the study. My bones ached to watch him, that mangled walk, the twist of a hip to propel him forwards.

Some brief sound made me glance up at the minstrels’ gallery that overlooked the hall like a balcony at the theatre. A gentleman of middling years stood at the balustrade, a pale hand resting upon the rail. Metcalfe Robinson: Mr Aislabie’s nephew. He was dressed in his nightgown, head bare. He was staring directly where I stood, but it was as if I wasn’t there. His grey eyes were dull, his bristled jaw sagging as if he did not have the strength to lift it.

‘Mr Robinson?’ I waved a hand to break him from his trance. ‘May I speak with you? My name is Thomas Hawkins.’

This jolted him so hard he had to snatch at the rail to steady himself. He stared at me in disbelieving horror, as if I were Hamlet’s father come to haunt him. ‘Impossible,’ he said, hoarsely – and backed away, vanishing into the shadows.

Chapter Six

Lady Judith had been too optimistic about the weather. It was raining again, sweeping across the valley as if God were considering a second flood. No tour of the gardens today. A quiet part of me was relieved. There was something unsettling about Mrs Aislabie, something that sent a pulse through me, half attraction and half warning. She was playful, yes – but then cats play with mice sometimes, before they eat them.

I smoked a pipe, and took a solitary stroll about the ground floor. It was something of a maze, especially the connecting rooms directly behind the great hall. These I named the ‘horse rooms’, as the walls were covered in pictures of them, from portraits of individual animals to vast hunting scenes. What other purpose they served, I never discovered. I paused in front of a painting of the Ripon races. The riders were all women, wearing breeches. The plaque upon the frame read: Ladies’ Race, 1723, Ripon. Racing, gambling, and lady jockeys. I would have jumped into the painting if I could.

The east wing lay abandoned on this floor, although I did stumble across a fellow mending the cornices in one room, so perhaps the Aislabies had plans for it. At the back of the house I found the library again, a little-used music room, and a larger room for billiards.

The west wing appeared to be the favoured aspect. There was a snug little withdrawing room, filled with tempting armchairs and more recent family portraits, and then the long dining room. Mr Aislabie’s study sat at the front of the house. He had retired there with Mr Sneaton after dinner, presumably to buy up the rest of the county.

It might appear as though I were drifting aimlessly about the place, and I admit that is one of my preferred occupations. In this case, however, I was drifting with intent. I needed to memorise the rooms while it was still light, so that I could search them more closely in darkness.

Five days ago, I had been tasked by the queen to find a certain green ledger and bring it safely to London. The book had disappeared shortly after the collapse of the South Sea Company. It contained a list of over a hundred illustrious names, and the private details of their stockjobbing – when they had sold their shares and at what price, the exact profit they had made from each transaction.
Hundreds
of thousands of pounds, all neatly recorded.

No scandal there – except that it proved that many of the shares had been given for free, as bribes. In exchange, every person listed in the ledger had supported the South Sea Scheme as it travelled through Parliament and into law. They had encouraged others to invest, inflating the price. And then, mysteriously
,
these lucky beneficiaries had sold their shares at the ideal moment, just before the bubble burst and the stock value plummeted.

Either they were the cleverest gamblers in history, or they had been passed privileged information – perhaps by Aislabie himself.
Sell now – the entire damned scheme is about to collapse.
Dukes and duchesses, bishops and lawyers, ministers of government, the old king and his mistresses. And the Prince and Princess of Wales – as they were in 1720. Now their Exalted Majesties King George II and Queen Caroline of Ansbach. All with their snouts in the trough.

The whole world knew that the scheme had been corrupted. But the whole world couldn’t prove it, not without the slim green accounts book and its list of names. Questions were asked in the Commons. Offices were ransacked. A government enquiry was set up. Aislabie and his staff were interrogated. Aislabie himself was thrown in the Tower, where he languished for months. The ledger was never found. Aislabie testified that he always destroyed his account books once they were balanced. His secretary burned them – it was all quite routine. The Commons, the Lords, the nation raged, but nothing could be done. The evidence was lost for ever.

The queen knew better. Mr Aislabie hadn’t burned the ledger. He’d smuggled it out of London to his country estate, days before his arrest. Aislabie was a politician – and a wily one at that. The book was his security. And now he was using it to demand help from the guilty.

We are all slaves to public opinion, even the King of England. His claim to the throne was tenuous, to say the least. How would his subjects react if they discovered he had helped plunge the nation into catastrophic debt in order to sate his own greed? Violently, I’d wager.

*


Have you ever visited Yorkshire, Mr Hawkins? . . . We have a friend, in need of assistance.
’ That is what Queen Caroline had asked me just five days before in her private quarters. Aislabie was no friend. He was blackmailing her – demanding her help in exchange for his continued silence. This was insufferable. The ledger must be found.

I held my tongue, and waited.

The queen was standing by the fire, shifting her weight from foot to foot. A touch of gout, I thought. ‘How is your little
trull
, sir? Are you still wretchedly in love with her? Of course you are,’ she replied for me. ‘How charming.’

I lifted the glass of wine to my lips, trying to hide my alarm. The queen had sent for both Kitty and me, but on our arrival at St James’s Palace, Kitty had been ordered to wait in the carriage. She was sitting there on her own, furious, rain pattering down upon the roof of the chaise. I hadn’t understood why the queen would summon Kitty, only to refuse her an audience. Now I began to suspect the truth.

‘Tell me, Mr Hawkins. How does it feel to be in love with a murderess?’

I clutched the glass, and said nothing. Kitty had killed a man. He had been trying to kill me, out on Snows Fields in Southwark. She had shot him in the gut, to save my life. But then she had stood over him, tipped fresh powder into her pistol and shot him again – between the eyes at close range. He would have died from the first shot, eventually. One might even call the second shot an act of mercy. But it wasn’t. Kitty had fired in a cold, deliberate rage. I knew that, and so did the one other witness to the shooting. And slowly, inevitably, the story had reached the queen.

She faced me now, one hand gripping the mantelpiece for support. Her rings glinted in the candlelight. This was real power – to threaten without ever speaking the words. ‘I am sure you will do your
very
best,’ she said sweetly.

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