The Sudbury School Murders (27 page)

The light of fear that entered his eyes
pleased me. In all of Sutcliff's plans, I was the one unexpected
puzzlement. He had never known what to make of me.

"I know what you have done, you little tick,"
I said evenly. "I know all of it."

He smiled, as I'd expected he would. "What
you know does not matter. You have no evidence. No magistrate will
charge me."

I moved the tip of the sword closer to his
throat. My walking stick was new, and this was the first time I'd
used the sword within it. I found it well-balanced and quite suited
to my purpose. "I have something better than evidence," I began. I
did not want to give myself away, so I damped down my rush of
temper. "You sent Jeanne Lanier away, did you not? You sent her to
the Continent, to smooth the way for you."

He faced me down the length of the sword.
"Then you know nothing. I am not flying to the Continent in shame
and fear. I gave her enough money to settle down and enjoy herself.
I will visit her from time to time." He snorted at my look of
surprise. "Why should I leave England? Everything I have is here.
When my father dies, I will be a rich and powerful man, one who
will be able to crush you underfoot in a trice. I look forward to
it."

I gazed at the uncaring coldness in his eyes.
I had seen that coldness before, in the eyes of James Denis. "There
are men out there more powerful than you," I said. "I have met
them."

"If you like to think so."

I ignored that. "I believe I understand you
now. It is not simply the money you enjoy from blackmailing others.
You like their fear that you will tell their dirty little secrets.
You like gentlemen handing you money while you quietly swindle
them. You must have enjoyed sniggering behind your hand the entire
time."

He smiled again. "You are a fool, Captain.
No, it is not the power. Only you, with your swagger because you
were born to a gentleman's family and your pride that you have the
most popular man in England to back you, could think it was power.
You are a pauper, you can have no idea. My father believes I am not
clever enough to handle money. But I am clever. I can turn anything
into money--an idea, a secret, anything. I play the game so well
that soon I will own the game. My father will come to understand
that I am as ruthless as any aristocrat ever was. He will know that
I can run his business better than he ever could. You will never
know what that is like."

He was no doubt correct. "Greed is
all-consuming," I remarked.

He laughed. "You poor idiot. The day of the
gentleman is over. Only those with money will matter, only those
who can pay will command respect and attention. You are puffed with
pride because of your so-called honor, but your honor will
disappear. Wealth will become honor, and I will have all of it."
His smile widened. "You are not answering, Captain? What is the
matter?"

My voice went cold and hard. "I have no wish
to waste time lecturing you. You are a fool, and soon you will
learn how much of a fool."

I eased the sword from his throat but held it
ready. "Go back to the school. You will say nothing to Rutledge, or
to Miss Rutledge."

He took a step back, making no move to try to
retrieve the pistol. "I will say nothing because it suits me. For
now."

My temper fragmented. The point of the sword
went to his throat again, dug in a little. "I know what you've
done, you little swine. And you will pay for that with every breath
you draw, from now until the day you die."

His lips parted as he observed me and my
sword. He did not know quite what to do, and I liked that. My
sergeant, Pomeroy, had used to claim that I was mad. “You get that
look, sir, like you'd do anything,” he used to say. “The lads would
rather ride out and face the Frenchies and their muskets than you
when you look like that.”

Sutcliff seemed to agree with him. I knew
this young man did not give a fig about honor, did not even know
what it was. All I had to do was stick the sword into his throat,
and the blight would leave the earth. I would hang for it, but what
did that matter?

It was not honor that stayed my hand, but
knowledge. I knew that Sutcliff would soon be doomed. I did not
have all the pieces put together yet, but soon, very soon.

I withdrew my sword and stepped back. "Get
out of my sight," I said.

He gave me another uncertain look, then he
turned on his heel and scurried away, rather swiftly. I retrieved
the pistol, which hadn't even been primed correctly, and sheathed
my sword.

* * * * *

Chapter Eighteen

Belinda wept as I led her home. I had little
comfort to give her. Inwardly, I decided that I'd rather see her
weep than have her walk in cold silence. When a woman, or man,
wept, they released their humors, which allowed healing to begin.
Holding it inside, I well knew, led to melancholia and other
dangerous maladies.

Belinda would weep, and then her heart would
mend. I did not tell her that this heartache would likely be easy
compared to others she'd face in her life. Let her believe that
this was as difficult as things would ever be.

That night, Grenville's fever reached its
peak. I did not sleep at all, but sat at his bedside while his skin
burned and his pulse beat so fast that I feared his heart would
burst. Bartholomew and Matthias continuously bathed his face and
body in cold water, but nothing brought down the fever.

Sometimes he swam to consciousness and looked
about him with glazed eyes. He would not know us, or he would call
the names of people we had never heard of. His hair was matted with
sweat, and black stubble marred his face. The room stank of his
fever. Grenville, the man so fastidious about his appearance, lay
helpless and sweating, and soiled his own bedding.

We washed him and changed the linen and held
him down when he thrashed. He'd groan and cry out, then fall into
another stupor.

The morning dawned gray and rainswept. I
opened the window, no longer able to stand the stuffy sickroom. The
air was a bit warmer, April fast approaching. Soon meadows would be
filled with flowers and the arch of sky would be a soft blue.

Bartholomew stretched out on his back on the
carpet, exhausted and snoring. His brother slept in a chair, his
blond head lolling. And Grenville . . .

His chest rose and fell evenly, his hands
resting quietly on the coverlet. His dark eyes were open, and he
was looking at me in cool appraisal.

I stepped over Bartholomew, who never moved,
and hastened to the bedside. I touched Grenville's forehead. His
skin was clammy and cool, the fever broken.

"Where is Marianne?" he asked.

I sank into a nearby chair, my legs suddenly
weak. "Is that all you can say?"

He gave me the ghost of his usual sardonic
smile. "I prefer to see her when waking. She's much prettier than
you are."

"You must be feeling better."

"No, I feel like absolute hell." He turned
his head on the pillow, gazed at Matthias who snored on. "Do they
always make that racket?"

"I am afraid so." I rested my elbows on my
knees. I did not like to hope at this point. I'd seen men awaken
from fevers then relapse so very soon.

"A wonder I could sleep at all." His gaze
roved the room again, turned puzzled. "How long have I been
ill?"

"Four days," I said. "You were stabbed early
Monday morning, and it is now Friday."

"Good Lord." He was silent a moment, then he
drew on his usual bravado. "Never say you have played nursemaid to
me all this time."

"I have. And Bartholomew and Matthias. One of
us at least has always been here."

His famous brows rose. "What remarkable
dedication. Surely you could have asked a servant."

"There are none that I trust here. Besides,
neither of the lads would leave. They guarded you like lions."

"Good lord," he said again. Color stole over
his pallid face. "A bit embarrassing."

"Why?" I smiled, the first time I'd felt like
smiling in days. "Have you never been ill before?"

"Never like this. I was always healthy
enough, except for my motion sickness." He moved his tongue over
his lips, made a face. "You gave me laudanum, damn you. I can taste
it still. I told you not to."

"You were in no condition to protest. In any
case, it let you sleep."

"I told you I did not like it."

I frowned. "Why not? It cut the pain. Surely
that was good."

He continued to look put out. Then he sighed.
"I've always had a horror of the stuff, Lacey. When I was a lad, an
uncle of mine took laudanum in water when he retired one night. He
never woke again. Whether he misjudged the dose, or he did it on
purpose, we were never certain. After that, I always refused
it."

"Ah. I understand."

He looked at me. "If you had known that,
would you have given it to me anyway?"

"Yes," I said.

His expression became perplexed, then
offended. At last he smiled. "What a bastard you are, Lacey." He
sobered. "Where is Marianne? Is she resting?"

"I sent her to London. Do you not remember?
You were awake when I asked her to go."

"No." He lifted a weary hand to his eyes. "If
you are carrying out your promise to return her to the Clarges
Street house, there is no use in that. She will not stay. I realize
this now. It is foolish of me to make her try."

I sat down by his bedside, happy to be able
to talk things out with him again. "I needed her to do things for
me in London. I sent her with messages." And I told him what the
messages were and to whom I'd sent them.

Grenville smiled, but his eyes drooped. "I
was right about you," he murmured. "You are a bastard."

"So others have said." I hesitated. "Marianne
left only reluctantly. She wanted to stay with you."

"But she went," Grenville pointed out.

"Cursing me. Depend upon it. If not for me,
you would have awoken to see her by your side."

"Damn you, then." His voice drifted to a thin
whisper, and then stopped.

His body relaxed, and he slept again. But it
was a natural sleep, a healing sleep. The fever was gone. The
murderer had not won, not yet.

*** *** ***

Grenville and I stayed in Sudbury three more
days before I decided to risk moving him back to London. I did not
feel easy about Grenville staying at the school. The murderer could
never be certain that Grenville did not see him in the darkness
that night, and Grenville would be much safer far from Sudbury. I
still did not have the evidence needed to have the murderer
arrested, but I hoped, if Marianne's errand was successful, that
I'd have it soon.

Grenville's traveling coach contained a seat
that eased into a flat platform, which could be made up into a bed.
Grenville, shaved and dressed and insisting on walking alone,
allowed Matthias to help him into the carriage and settle him on
the makeshift bed.

Rutledge came to say a grudging good-bye. He
did not bid me good journey but hoped that Grenville would soon
recover. I tipped my hat and thanked him for my brief employment,
but he merely grunted and turned away.

I saw Belinda at the gate of the school, with
her maid, watching us go. Didius Ramsay, too, ran after the coach
to wave farewell. That was all. I saw nothing of Sutcliff or Timson
or any of the others, nor did I see evidence of the Roma on the
canal.

Then the school dropped behind us and was
gone.

Grenville slept most of the way to London,
which allowed him respite from his motion sickness and lingering
pain.

Even so, by the time we reached London, he
was exhausted, and Bartholomew and Matthias and his man, Gautier,
carried him immediately upstairs and to bed.

Grenville invited me to stay with him, but I
told him that I'd return to my rooms in Covent Garden.

"Whatever for?" Grenville asked from his bed.
His sumptuous chamber was well warmed with a fire and glowing with
candlelight. He lay back on a mound of pillows in his deep bed,
thick coverlets over him.

"I want to think," I explained.

I had nearly come to a decision about asking
Denis of my wife's and daughter's whereabouts, but I did not want
to discuss any of this with Grenville. The matter was too tender to
share, and Grenville would try to dissuade me from personal
dealings with Denis.

"I am afraid I cannot think well in these
surroundings," I added lightly. "Your house is so elegant that I
would feel guilty for brooding in such a place."

Grenville looked pensive. "I had thought
you'd like to remain here permanently. I suggested it once,
remember? You can pay me a rent to satisfy your pride."

"You are generous, and I will not dismiss the
offer outright. But for now, I want to be alone. I need to be
alone. When I stayed here last week, a servant popped in every five
minutes to ask if I wanted anything."

He smiled ruefully. "My fault. I told them
they were to treat you as royalty. I can tell them to cease."

"No. Let me be cold and miserable for a
while. I need to distance myself from this. To think," I
repeated.

He looked resigned. "If that is your
pleasure."

"I do thank you for your generosity," I said,
a bit awkwardly.

He sighed. "I do wish you would all cease
being so kind and grateful. Matthias and Bartholomew tiptoe around
me as though I were fragile porcelain. You worry me. Am I that
close to death's door?"

"No, but you were. And we realized what we
might lose."

He flushed. "Please stop. It's becoming
embarrassing. Go if you must, Lacey. But do not think you must be
alone always." He fell silent a moment. "I believe I will be up to
visiting Marianne in a few days. If we have a nice, quiet cup of
tea, that is. And if she is there at all."