The Sudbury School Murders (23 page)

Bartholomew helped me to my feet. Matthias
dozed in a chair near Grenville's bed. Grenville lay unmoving and
wan.

"Watch over him," I said in a low voice. "Do
not let anyone into this room for any reason, not Rutledge, not a
maid. You and your brother take care of him yourselves, do you
understand?"

Bartholomew gave me a grim nod. He understood
quite well.

The noon hour struck as I left the house.
Outside it had warmed somewhat, and the rain had thickened. The air
braced me. Despite all the tragedy, the spring day still smelled
clean and refreshing.

I walked heavily across the quad, my stick
tapping the stones. Boys drifted into and out of the houses,
wandering to lessons, to their rooms, to whatever task they'd been
set on. They were rather subdued--a murder and a near-murder so
close to home was exciting but frightening.

I heard a commotion by the gate and headed
that way. The porter was arguing with a person outside who did not
want to listen.

"Madam," I heard the porter say in a pained
voice

Timson came sauntering toward me from the
gate, a grin on his face. "I say, Captain, your bit of muslin is
asking to see you."

I started. "My what?"

Timson just smirked and winked, so I hurried
on.

"Lacey!" a woman cried.

Marianne Simmons held onto the bars of the
gate, her white skirts rain-soaked and blotched with mud.

"What are you doing here?" I asked her.

"I need to speak to you. Tell this lummox to
let me in."

"Now look here, you-- " the porter began.

"Never mind," I said quietly. "Let her
in."

The porter gave me an exasperated look.
"Women are not allowed, sir. Particularly not women like
her
."

"Oh, that is nice," Marianne sneered.

"Baiting him will not help you, Marianne. Let
her in," I told the porter. "I will let Rutledge berate me
later."

The porter's face darkened, but he opened the
gate. Marianne stuck her tongue out at him as she sailed
inside.

Timson and a few other boys stared at
Marianne's thin dress in great enjoyment. Timson let out a
wolf-whistle.

"Mind your manners," I told them. In the
relative privacy of the middle of the quad, I turned Marianne to
face me.

"What is it?"

She pulled her silk shawl closer about her
shoulders and shivered. From the worry in Marianne's eyes, I knew
she'd already heard that Grenville had been hurt. The news must
have spread quickly through the village and thence to
Hungerford.

What she told me, however, I was not
expecting.

"Jeanne Lanier's run away," she said.

* * * * *

Chapter Fifteen

I looked at Marianne in surprise. "Oh, she
has, has she?"

"Indeed, she has." Her gaze slid from mine to
the windows surrounding us. "Tell me the truth, Lacey. Is he all
right?"

"He is alive," I said.

When she looked back at me, her eyes were
wet. "For how long?"

I could only shake my head. Grenville could
heal or die. The blade could have torn him up inside in ways we
could not know. I could only hope that the cut was clean, and that
his body would heal itself.

"Will you let me see him?" she asked.

I started to answer, then I spied Sutcliff
coming out of Fairleigh. He saw Marianne, recognized her, and
froze.

"Mr. Sutcliff," I called.

He hesitated then at last came toward us, his
expression wary.

"Hello, Mr. Sutcliff," Marianne said, with
forced cheerfulness. "I came to tell you that your ladybird's done
a bunk."

Sutcliff's face went white. "What?"

"I said your ladybird's done a bunk. Cleared
out this morning without a word to Mrs. Albright."

Sutcliff stared at her in pure anger.
Marianne smiled. No woman could give a man a more scornful smile
than could Marianne Simmons. "Gave you a start, did it?" she asked.
"I take it this news is unexpected?"

Sutcliff's face reddened, and he raised his
hand to strike her. "Impertinent whore."

I caught his arm. "Keep a civil tongue," I
said, "or I'll thrash you worse than Fletcher ever did."

His lip curled. "Unhand me. You do not know
your place."

Marianne gave a sharp laugh. "He knows better
than you.
He
is a gentleman. Your father is a trumped-up
clerk."

Sutcliff tried to hit her again. Marianne hid
behind me.

"Marianne, be quiet," I said sternly. "Mr.
Sutcliff, go away."

I pushed him off. He glared at me, then he
turned on his heel and marched back into Fairleigh.

I faced Marianne. "I'll take you to see
Grenville, but you must keep quiet. Provoking the students will not
help."

She made a face at the door Sutcliff had just
slammed. "He puts my back up. He swaggers around like he's
something, while Grenville is worth fifty of him." Her voice
faltered.

"I agree. But keep your thoughts to yourself,
or I will not be able to stop Rutledge having you bodily removed.
Do not speak again until we reach Grenville's chamber, agreed?"

She started to answer, then closed her lips
and nodded.

Good. For now.

I took her by the arm and led her into the
Head Master's house. Boys stared. Tunbridge tried to stop me. I
gave the mathematics tutor a look that sent him scuttling away and
took Marianne up the stairs.

Bartholomew and Matthias had locked the door.
When I knocked, Bartholomew opened the door a crack and peered out
with one blue eye. He saw me, opened the door wider. He eyed
Marianne askance, but I pulled her inside and shut the door.

Marianne approached the bed, her boots
whispering on the carpet. She removed her bonnet and dropped it
absently, her face white. She looked down at Grenville for a long
time. His face was still starkly pale, the flesh of his bare
shoulders nearly as white as the bandage that wrapped him.

Marianne took his hand. His fingers lay
limply in her grasp.

"Is he going to die, Lacey?" she asked in a
low voice.

"No," I said, trying to sound certain. "We
will not let him."

"Such a comfort you are. You are not a
doctor. How the devil should you know?"

"I have seen men with wounds far worse
recover and live as though nothing had happened," I answered. I did
not add that I'd seen men with smaller wounds die for no reason I
could discern. Grenville could so easily sicken, take fever. He
could die while we sat helplessly and watched him.

Marianne said nothing. She gently stroked the
hand in hers. Grenville did not respond.

Matthias heaped more coal on the fire.
Bartholomew leaned against the bedpost, at a loss for what to
do.

I was tired, and my short nap had not helped.
I settled back into my chair, stretched my bad leg toward the fire
that Matthias had stirred to roaring. "Marianne, tell me about
Jeanne," I said.

She did not look at me. "She's gone. What is
there to tell?"

I thought about Jeanne's charming smile and
winsome conversation. She had been very practiced. "When did she
go? Did she pay up and depart or simply disappear?"

Marianne kept her gaze on Grenville's pale
face. "She went out the window. Or so it looks like. Never a word
to anyone. Mrs. Albright didn't think anything of it when Jeanne
didn't come down for breakfast, because she always likes to lie
abed in the mornings. But later, when Mrs. Albright went up, she
found the window open and Jeanne and her things gone."

"Did Mrs. Albright send for the
constable?"

Marianne shook her head. "Mrs. Albright
cursed something fearsome, but let it be. Mr. Sutcliff paid to the
end of the month, so if Jeanne wants to run off, Mrs. Albright does
not much care. She has her money."

"Money," I said, thinking hard. "Yes, that
would explain it."

"You are babbling, Lacey. Explain what?"

I should be talking this over with Grenville.
My anger stirred. I would get the man who'd done this to him, and
I'd pot him.

I snatched up Fletcher's papers and spread
them out. "Three people: Middleton, who drew the false maps;
Fletcher, who had the connections; and the banker, who kept the
money. The contracts are here, the maps are here, but where is the
money? I believe it flew out the window of a seedy boarding house
this morning."

Marianne finally looked at me. She cocked her
head. "What are you talking about?"

"A grand swindle. Fletcher came up with the
scheme--he was clever enough yet innocent-looking enough to trick
men into investing in a canal that would never be built. Canals
make money. Boats move whether it's raining or snowing or sunny.
One does not have to worry about bad roads. No matter what, the
boats
keep
going
. Investing in canals is sure
money."

"But not in canals that don't exist,"
Bartholomew added.

"Yes, but unless you have access to all the
proposed canal routes in England, how would you know whether one
was truly planned? A canny man would check, of course, but most men
want to make an easy fortune--to give the money to a trusted friend
and he will take care of the complicated details. That is why so
very many people are swindled, Bartholomew--they want things to be
easy."

He watched me, eyes round, as though I were
dispensing great wisdom.

I stood and began to pace, trying to think.
"The average gentleman like Jonathan Lewis, who earns little from
his writing, would be eager to put money into something with so
sure a return. So Fletcher persuades him to invest. Fletcher is a
likable man, easy to trust. Good old Fletcher, his friends say,
let's throw our lot in with him."

"To their misfortune," Bartholomew said
gravely.

"Very much so. But Fletcher couldn't do it
all himself--he didn't have the time or the resources. So he
recruited others. Perhaps Fletcher chose Middleton because he knew
Middleton had worked for Denis. Middleton would know how to shut
people up if they began to squawk, in any case. So, Middleton drew
the maps, perhaps even took gentlemen out to show them where the
survey stakes would be."

All three had turned to listen to me now. I
continued, "They have a third person to collect the money, a person
with connections in the City who can assure Fletcher and Middleton
that their portion would be taken care of. But--in the end, the
'banker' gets greedy, perhaps frightened that Middleton will tell
James Denis everything, murders Middleton and Fletcher, and flees
with the money."

They looked at me like I'd run mad. I was
breathing heavily, my blood pounding with excitement. Marianne
raised the first protest. "You are never saying that Jeanne killed
them. And stabbed
him
. You're wrong, Lacey. She'd never be
able to get into the school. You saw how the porter nearly posted
me off to jail when he spied me at the gate."

I shook my head. "She murdered no one. She
never could have killed Middleton; he'd not have let her. Nor do I
think she sneaked into the school in the middle of the night to
kill Fletcher. No, she is working with someone, and that someone
sent her away with the money."

And I knew who.

"I must go to Sudbury," I said crisply.
"Jeanne Lanier must be found. I wish Mrs. Albright had called in
the constable, but it can't be helped."

"Shall I go with you, sir?" Bartholomew said,
coming alert.

"No. Stay here, protect Grenville. He was
stabbed because he saw Fletcher's murderer leaving Fairleigh. The
murderer cannot be certain that Grenville did not see him, and he
will try again. Marianne, you must remain here, as well. You will
not be safe at the boarding house."

"What about you?" she countered. "Waltzing
off to Sudbury all alone? For all the killer knows, Grenville has
already told you his name, and he'll be waiting along a lonely
stretch of road to gut you."

"I have my walking stick," I said. I hefted
it in my hand. "And I trust no one in this school, pupil or tutor,
no matter how innocuous they seem."

Marianne came to face me, hands on hips.
"Don't be a bloody fool, Lacey, you are not invulnerable. Take
Bartholomew. To get to Grenville the murderer will have to come
through me. I'll fight them just as hard as anyone."

She cared for him. I saw in her eyes that
today she had realized what she might lose.

I gave in. "Very well. Come along,
Bartholomew. And bring that book."

*** *** ***

I borrowed a horse to ride to Sudbury.
Bartholomew chose to walk. He carried Fletcher's book under his
arm, wrapped in a bit of canvas to keep it out of the rain.

As we rode, I mulled over ideas for catching
the murderer. I had one excellent resource I could tap, though I
cringed from it. Also, Rutledge would be an obstacle--a very loud,
very stubborn obstacle.

When we arrived in Sudbury we discovered that
the magistrate had gone to Hungerford to visit an important
official who'd just arrived from London. The constable was a bit
harried, having to deal with both Fletcher's murder and a farmer
whose sheep had wandered onto a large landlord's holding and who
complained that the landlord would not return them.

Bartholomew and I went on to Hungerford.
Impatient, I let the horse trot ahead, while Bartholomew came
behind, hunkering into the rain.

I found the magistrate at the inn on the High
Street. The important official he visited was Sir Montague
Harris.

I exhaled with relief when I saw Sir
Montague. He beamed at me when I greeted him as though we were
meeting to renew acquaintance over a pint of bitter. But he was an
intelligent man and had already drawn conclusions from the Sudbury
magistrate's description of matters today.

Bartholomew lumbered in, shaking rain from
his hair. I bade him sit down and unwrap the book.