A Death at Fountains Abbey (36 page)

Hallow was waiting for us at the end of the path. He removed his hat and bowed in his saddle. ‘
Bagby
,’ he said, incredulous. ‘I’m so sorry your honour, I should have thought to ask for a description yesterday.’

‘Peace, Mr Hallow. I doubt it would have made a difference.’ Bagby was an unremarkable sort of fellow: middling height, brown eyes, neither handsome nor ill-featured. If he’d worn his liveried suit, that would have given us some clue, but most likely he had changed into rougher clothes to avoid notice. In which case, the description would apply to half the men on the estate.

‘He was always a mutton-headed fool,’ Pugh said.

‘But not a
killer
.’ Hallow shuddered. ‘You didn’t see the body. Devil’s work.’

‘I don’t think Bagby killed Mr Sneaton,’ I said, thinking of the sinister drawings in Forster’s notebook.

‘Maybe he was forced to help,’ Hallow suggested. ‘Blackmailed, even?’

‘Maybe.’

But he had dashed over to Fountains Hall to warn Forster. That was not the act of a man forced against his will.

I turned Athena on to the carriage drive, waving goodbye to Pugh and Hallow. My pistols knocked against my side as I galloped along, and I kept a close eye upon the trees and bushes up ahead. The images I’d seen in Forster’s journal flitted through my mind. So much cruelty, so much hatred: and all of it now focused upon me. I prayed to God that the search party found him before nightfall.

*

Francis Forster stands by a window in the east wing and watches the search party ride out, sees Hawkins pass by on his grey mare, deep in conversation. No one thinks to look back at the house. The threat lies out there, somewhere in the dark woods. He laughs softly, thinking of all the men hunting for him while he waits patiently in an abandoned room. Do they not know that
he
is the hunter?

It is the only decision one can make in this life: to be the hunter or the prey. The deer in Aislabie’s park know it, every fox in its den. Man alone has forgotten Nature’s greatest law.

Francis Ellory had been prey: on the boat to Virginia, in the tobacco fields. Forster chooses not to remember those first years. They were Ellory’s memories, not his – and Ellory died a long time ago. It had been the only way to survive. Once Forster was born beneath Ellory’s skin, nothing could hurt him, because Francis Forster feels nothing. There is only the hunt.

Aislabie had been his prey, and he had come
so close
to destroying him. Forster closes his eyes, imagining the final scene again, as he has always planned it. Elizabeth, lying dead upon the coffin lawn, surrounded by flaming torches. Transformed from a weak, pathetic woman into a Goddess of Revenge. A death of such magnificent horror, she would be remembered for ever. And the Right Honourable John Aislabie, weeping insensibly over her dead body, sent mad with grief at losing his daughter not once, but twice. Tortured for the rest of his days.

It had been fascinating, watching Aislabie these past few weeks, trapped in his snare. How weak he was, how willing to be deceived. How desperate to protect his beloved daughter. Forster could have spent weeks tormenting him. More threats, more butchery. And a fire.
Yes, I would have razed this house to the ground, before the end.

There would have been time enough to find the ledger, too – and to choose his next victim. A long list of the guilty, each one deserving punishment. He could have hunted them all, one after the other.

Hawkins had taken that pleasure from him.

Rage burns in Forster’s chest, a pain he had vowed never to feel again. But all is well, all is well – he knows how to rid himself of it.

He has only to wait until nightfall.

A muffled sound brings him back to the room. He turns away from the window to consider the man gagged and bound upon the bed, his face battered and swollen.

‘My dear sir.’ He crouches in front of his prisoner. ‘I am so grateful to you for bringing me here in secret. Your concern for Mrs Fairwood does you credit.’

Beneath his gag, Bagby begins to weep.

Forster frowns, considering. A hunter does not kill indiscriminately. There must always be a purpose to any death. But he made a mistake leaving the boy to die by the riverbank. Even now, he cannot say what stayed his hand. Some remnant of Ellory’s weakness, no doubt. And something in the boy’s black eyes: watchful and clear, even at the end. Forster had admired that.

He can’t afford another mistake.

He pulls a dustsheet from a dressing table and lays it out on the floor. Then he sits down on the bed, shoulder to shoulder with his prisoner. ‘This is all Thomas Hawkins’ fault. Maddening fellow. I promise you this, Mr Bagby – he will suffer for it.’ He reaches in his coat, and takes out a knife. ‘I do hope that is a comfort to you.’

He wraps the body in the dustsheet, just as he had wrapped the doe with its fawn. It feels no different. In truth, he had felt more pity for the fawn.

He pulls out his watch. A few more hours yet. A shame there’s no way to fetch something from the kitchens. At least he’d breakfasted well.

He lifts a chair and places it by the window, and settles down to wait.

Chapter Twenty-five

I had reached the outskirts of Ripon when I spied Metcalfe on the road ahead. He was travelling with one of his father’s servants. Both wore pistols.

I was relieved to see him safe, and told him so. ‘Forster has escaped. Your uncle is searching the estate.’

‘I have a good description of his man.’

‘A wasted journey, I’m afraid. We know it was Bagby.’

Metcalfe frowned, then winced. His top lip was cut and swollen from where I had punched him. ‘Is that certain?’

‘He ran off to Fountains Hall this morning to warn Forster. Now they are both disappeared.’ ?We turned the horses about
and headed for Studley. ‘Does that not match your information?’

Metcalfe gestured for his companion to ride alongside us. ‘This is Malone, my father’s gamekeeper.’

‘Fellow rode over two days ago,’ Malone said. He was an Irishman of about five and thirty, with colouring close to my own: pale skin, dark brows, and keen blue eyes. ‘Carried a note with him, looked enough like Mr Robinson’s hand to pass.’

‘Blotchy,’ Metcalfe explained.

‘I’m awful sorry, sir. I should’ve studied it with more attention.’

‘Oh no, it is quite the sort of demented request I would make. You can’t blame yourself, Malone. I’m an erratic wretch.’

Malone threw him a kind smile. ‘There’s no shame in a pinch of spontaneity, sir.’

‘Those poor stags,’ Metcalfe said, shaking his head. ‘Butchered in such a dreadful fashion – and to what end?’

‘I think Forster knew you suspected him,’ I said. Metcalfe had not – to be fair – been entirely subtle about it. Forster’s response had been cunning. Not only had the three stags frightened Metcalfe, they also led back to Baldersby, should anyone think to ask.

‘Poor creatures,’ Metcalfe said. ‘Such a dreadful waste.’

‘Oh! Did the meat spoil?’ Malone asked.

‘Mrs Mason has them hanging up somewhere,’ I said.

‘Well, then, no waste at all sir!’ Malone observed cheerfully to Metcalfe.

I asked him to describe the man who had brought the note.

‘He was a handsome devil, that’s for sure. Tall as you are, sir, with powerful arms and shoulders. Hard muscles, like a workhorse. I joked with him about it – said he could carry two of those stags across his back at a time.’

I glanced at Metcalfe. ‘That doesn’t sound like Bagby.’

‘Martin Bagby?’ Malone laughed so hard it turned into a coughing fit. ‘No – this was a young fellow, and strong-looking. An estate man, I’d say. Burned brown from the sun.’

‘Was there dust upon his clothes? More than usual?’ I asked, my heart sinking.

Malone thought for a moment. ‘D’you know, I believe there was. And all under his nails.’

‘Quarry dust,’ Metcalfe said, catching my eye. ‘One of Simpson’s men?’

‘Maybe.’ I rode on in silence. I knew exactly who it was.

John Simpson was prowling about the foundations, watching his men with a narrow eye. From a distance, he always seemed an angry and intemperate master. Now that I ventured closer to the works, I realised that his bellowing was taken with good humour by his men, or at least with a patient roll of the eyes. He pulled a chisel from a mason’s hand and worked the stone himself with an astonishing speed and skill. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice me until I stood alongside him.

He gave a start, then removed his hat and gave a shallow bow.

‘I’m after one of your men. Thomas Wattson.’

‘Sent him home. Found him sobbing to himself in a corner. No use to me in that state. Jack was fond of the lad,’ he added, more kindly.

‘Where does he live?’

Simpson rubbed his mouth. ‘Over near Kirkby Malzeard, I think. Bill!’ he shouted out to an older man, tipping stones from a wheelbarrow. ‘Where does young Wattson live?’

He scratched his grey stubble. ‘Grewelthorpe?’

‘Grantley, isn’t it?’ someone else shouted, while another man called out, ‘Inglethorpe.’

Simpson shrugged. ‘What do you want him for?’

‘Oh, I only wanted to thank him for finding Master Fleet this morning.’

‘You can thank him with a few coins. God knows when his lordship’ll pay me, now Jack’s gone.’

I asked him to send Wattson to me if he should see him – hoping the money might entice him. There was only the vaguest chance I would find him if he did not wish to be discovered – he had given at least three different addresses to his fellow journeymen, and he knew the area far better than I. Most likely he was with Forster – in which case the search party would find him. For now, let him think he was not discovered.

It made me angry, thinking how he’d deceived us. He must have known all along where Sam lay. Had he expected to find a corpse by the riverbank? And what of Jack Sneaton, the man he claimed to admire and respect? The man who’d been teaching him his numbers, helping him to improve himself? What a wicked betrayal.

I was about to take my leave of Simpson when I remembered something I had wanted to ask him. It was of no great matter now, but I was curious.

‘Mr Simpson – do you remember your argument with Mr Sneaton? Two days ago, I think it was. When your man broke his leg. You mentioned something about the fire on Red Lion Square.’

Simpson pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his sweating face. ‘No business of yours.’

I stared him down.

‘Fuck,’ he grumbled, and walked off, away from the building works and down towards the beech tree. He picked up a bottle along the way.

We stood beneath the shade of the tree. The drinking trough had been drained of the bloodied water, but the deer still kept away. I thought of Forster, carrying Sneaton’s body out here in the dark. Had Sneaton died in his cottage, or had Forster drowned him in the water trough? Either way, it had been a horrible death.

‘Might I trouble you for a drink?’ I asked Simpson.

He looked dismayed – as all drunks do when asked to share – but handed over the stone bottle. God knows what it was: some sort of perilous cider, I think. Drinking it was possibly the most dangerous thing I’d done since arriving in Yorkshire, but I took a second swig, nonetheless. It had been a long day. I coughed my appreciation, and returned it to him.

‘I promised Jack I’d never tell no one about this,’ Simpson said, when I prodded him for his story. ‘He only told me because he was drunk. He was ashamed, you see – not that he had need to be.’

‘What happened?’

‘You know half the story. How he ran into a burning building, and saved young Master William.’ He took a long swig of scrumpy, and wiped his mouth. ‘It were a terrible thing, the way he described it. He had to fight his way up through all the flames and the smoke. Beams collapsing all about him. Staircase burning out beneath him. But he found them both, up on the second floor. William and Lizzie.’ He took another swig. ‘They were trapped in different rooms. He only had time to save one and live himself. Had to make a choice between them. Must have been seconds, but he said it felt like the whole world stopped. As if God was watching him, he said – watching to see what he would do. He saved the boy. Maybe because the other two girls were safe. Maybe because William was just a baby.
Ach
!’ Simpson waved away the reasons. ‘Maybe there was no thought to it, only what he made up to explain it all later. Do you know what I think? I reckon he would have gone back in again and tried to save her. Jack was strong like that. But he fell – and then it were too late.’

That’s how Sneaton had known Mrs Fairwood was a fraud. He’d been inside that burning house, and he’d made his choice. ‘He was a brave man.’