The Sudbury School Murders (10 page)

I left them, rode back to the stables,
deposited my horse with the lads, retrieved my walking stick, and
made my way back to the school.

When I reached the quad, I found commotion.
The morning was fully upon us, light flooding over the eastern wing
of the Head Master's house. In the middle of the quad stood Simon
Fletcher. His brown hair was awry, his robe kilted back on his
shoulders. He stared down at what lay in the middle of the circle
of curious boys.

It was a pile of books, Fletcher's, I guessed
by the look on his face. They were charred and still smoldering.
The wind stirred sparks that whirled in tiny, bright flashes.

On the cobbles next to the pile of books was
a placard, ill-printed, containing a foul-worded invective against
boys learning Latin.

Fletcher lifted an anguished gaze to me. "My
books," he mourned. "My entire library. Gone. I'll never replace
them."

He kicked aside a scorched tome, scattering
sparks and blackened paper.

At that moment a cultured, well-bred voice
said coolly from the arched portico, "Good lord. Have I arrived at
a bad time?"

* * * * *

Chapter Seven

Grenville's sudden arrival provided a better
diversion for the boys than a pile of burned books. They swarmed
out to his traveling coach, marveling at its polished sides and
mahogany inlay, the perfectly matched horses, his coachman in fine
livery.

Grenville himself looked slightly alarmed as
the gangly youths rushed past him. He dabbed his lips with a
handkerchief and strove to maintain his mask of sangfroid. I saw,
however, that his cheeks were pale and his eyelids waxy, and I knew
that the journey from London had brought on his motion
sickness.

"You need brandy," I remarked.

"Good of you to notice." His dark eyes took
in the quad, Fletcher wringing his hands, the scattering of charred
books. "What has happened? Where is Rutledge?"

"I imagine he will charge along any moment
now," I murmured.

I was not wrong. Rutledge emerged from his
house just then, Sutcliff at his side. He swept his gaze over the
tableau, assessed the situation, and stormed to the middle of the
quad. "Bloody hell, Fletcher."

"Ruined," Fletcher moaned. "I can never
afford to replace them all."

Rutledge gazed at him in baffled outrage.
"Are you telling me, man, that you never noticed somebody carting
off a load of your books and setting them alight? Or were you off
at the tavern nursing your day's dozen pints?"

"I was having breakfast in the hall,"
Fletcher said, thin-lipped. "We heard shouting in the quad. We came
out. Found this." He gestured at the pile of books.

I looked at the sad heap on the stones, a
light rain hissing on the smoldering pages. The books lay
haphazardly, some having skittered a few feet from the main pile,
some flopped open upside down. The pile was anything but neat. Yet,
all had burned.

I turned and peered up at the south hall,
windows open to let in the mild spring air. "They were not placed
here," I said. "They were dropped. Probably from that window." I
pointed to an open window above the ground floor, right over the
clump of books.

Grenville gazed upward, tilting back his
curled-brimmed hat. "But surely someone would have seen that."

Rutledge turned a cold eye to Grenville, just
noticing that he stood among us. "Good God, what the devil are you
doing here?"

Next to him, Sutcliff glanced sideways at
Grenville, taking in his black coat and gray trousers, his ivory
and yellow striped waistcoat, and his cravat with its perfect, and
simple, knot.

Grenville ignored them both. "It would take
daring," he said to me.

"The boys were breakfasting," I said. "As
were the tutors. The quad would be deserted." I peered up at the
window again. "What is in that room?"

Grenville adjusted his hat and lifted his
walking stick. "Let us have a look. With your permission of course,
Rutledge."

"By all means," Rutledge growled. "Let
Captain Lacey indulge himself."

Grenville gave him a half-smile. The smile
shook a little; he must have been in a bad way on the journey.
"Captain Lacey's guesses have been correct before. Only a few short
weeks ago, he looked upon an anonymous body fished out of the
Thames and was able to pinpoint the killer in less than a
fortnight."

Rutledge's brows knit. "Well, he's been here
almost that amount of time and has done nothing useful."

"Give him a chance, my dear Rutledge,"
Grenville assured him.

I was ready to tell the both of them to go to
the devil. But I was curious to see that room. We all entered the
chill darkness of the south hall; me Grenville, Rutledge, Sutcliff.
Fletcher, still wretched, followed us. "I can tell you what's there
already," Fletcher said as we climbed the main stairs. "Nothing.
It's a small room, and we store things there. No one ever goes in
it."

"Is it kept locked?" I asked.

Rutledge answered. "No. Why should it
be?"

We moved down the corridor that ran the
length of the house. Rutledge opened a door partway along. "You
see?"

The room was indeed small and filled with
junk. Broken chairs, half-painted drapes obviously used as scenery
backing, old bookcases, a few crates, empty bottles, battered
books--things that might be useful to someone if they cared to come
here and root around.

Grenville moved through the junk to the
window. It was open, and rain pattered on the sill. "Well, well,"
he said. "Lacey was correct." He leaned down, retrieved a few
objects from the floor. I moved closer.

He held a piece of flint, a spill, and a
small, pocket-sized book, half-burned. "Someone stood here and
struck a spark and then calmly set the books alight. Probably piled
them on this . . . " He kicked at a velvet drape that lay in a
wrinkled mass next to the window. "And tipped them out below. From
here, he could make certain no one was in the quad. A quick rain of
burning Latin texts, and then he nipped out of the room again,
probably back to breakfast." He turned to Fletcher. "Did anyone
come in late?"

Fletcher shrugged tired shoulders. "I did not
notice."

"Or," I suggested, "he could have run outside
and began the shouting. Does anyone know who shouted first?"

"By the time I reached the quad, most of the
boys were there, and the tutors," Fletcher said.

"There were only a handful when I came out,"
Sutcliff volunteered. "But I really didn't see who. Ramsay was one,
but I couldn't say which were first. I saw what had happened then
ran to fetch the headmaster."

"Leaving us with a large number of suspects,"
I mused. I shifted my gaze to Rutledge, and he glared back at
me.

Grenville let the spill fall to the floor,
and we went out again.

As we clattered down the stairs, I reflected
that a boy could easily rush from this place without detection. He
could run out into the quad, as I suggested, or he could stay
beneath the portico and hurry past a windowless wall to the gate,
or he could duck inside the east wing of the Head Master's house
without anyone being the wiser. He did not necessarily have to
"discover" the fire; he could have bolted back to his own room and
innocently run down when the shouting began.

Outside, the rain had begun to stream down.
Fletcher wandered back to his ruined books and stared at them
morosely. Most of the boys had dispersed, hounded by the tutors to
lessons. Sutcliff hurried off, too, his robe flapping.

"I believe you offered me a brandy, Lacey."
Grenville gave me a pointed look. "You needn't worry, Rutledge,
about putting me up here. I'll take rooms in Sudbury."

Rutledge grunted. "You're welcome to stay
here. Food isn't much, though. Not what you're used to."

I imagined Rutledge was thinking that having
someone like Lucius Grenville as a visitor to the school could not
hurt its reputation. Grenville might be a fashionable dandy, but he
was also quite wealthy and made plenty of investments. The men of
the City of London approved of him.

Grenville laughed lightly. "I am not likely
to find the best in cuisine at the public house in Sudbury. I will
take up your offer, Rutledge. It will take me back to our carefree
days at Eton."

Rutledge looked as though his carefree days
were the last things he wanted to remember. He nodded once. "I'll
have my daughter set up a room for you. Fletcher," he called.
"Cease your weeping. You have lectures this morning. Get to it,
man."

He walked away, leaving Grenville and me
alone in the rain.

*** *** ***

Once upstairs in my cramped quarters,
Grenville let his mask drop. He exhaled sharply as he leaned back
in the wing chair and gratefully accepted the brandy I handed him.
"The road from London has more twists and turns than I remember.
Thank God I wasn't going all the way to Bath."

"Next time, try a canal boat," I suggested.
"They seem to move slowly and smoothly."

Grenville grimaced, took a long draught of
brandy. "A strange sight I would look, perched atop a pile of
cargo. But I suppose no less strange than lying in my coach,
gasping and praying that the journey will end soon."

"I would think you would be used to traveling
by now." I sat facing him with a glass of brandy, perfectly happy
to take time from my duties. "Have you not stood outside the
emperor's city in China, bought sandalwood from the natives of the
Cook islands?"

"It was pure misery. But worth the trouble, I
assure you." He made a face. "Although I do not recommend
weevil-ridden biscuit for a daily diet."

I smiled because he expected me to. "I wrote
you yesterday afternoon of the inquest. Did you receive the letter,
or shall I explain it all again?"

"I did not receive your letter. I left late
last night to arrive this morning. I imagine the letter is waiting
for me on my bedside table to peruse when I return. Please." He
took a sip of brandy. Color slowly returned to his face. "Regale me
with the details."

I went back over all that had happened during
the inquest and since, including my interview with Didius Ramsay
and my finding of the knife and the place Middleton had died,
omitting, of course, that Marianne had been with me. He listened
attentively and asked pointed questions, as though he were a
scholar taking notes.

"This prank is a little different from the
others," he mused. "It was malicious, but not dangerous, after all.
It hurt only your poor tutor in his pocket, though it did disrupt
things."

"Yes, poor Fletcher," I agreed. "He has no
money besides the income he gets from the school. In the brief time
I've known him, he's lamented it."

"Well, I might be persuaded to purchase him a
few new tomes. I always hated my Latin tutors. I wanted to revel in
the lurid adventures of Jason; they wanted declensions."

"Perhaps they found excitement in grammar," I
suggested. My mood became reflective. "Being here does odd things
to my memories. I left Cambridge to join the army. Harrow seems
another life. I had forgotten much about it and the lads I counted
as friends, until I arrived here and began to remember. An odd
feeling."

Grenville gave a half-laugh. "In my case,
somebody reminds me every day at White's of some damn fool thing I
did while at Eton. My cronies have long memories. The boy I fagged
for now has gray hair and side whiskers, and he still reminds me I
was not very good at blacking boots."

I raised my brows. "Somehow I cannot picture
you slaving. I thought you'd have had the entire school dancing to
your tune."

He shook his head. "Not a bit of it. When I
arrived, I was small and dark and ugly. The perfect quarry for
every bully. And then, one day, I grew tired of it. I had
discovered that sarcasm and wit could be far more effective than
fists. The duller-brained the boy, the more others laughed at my
bons mots.
And so I became a nasty bit of goods in my own
way, fighting with words where I could not fight with fists." He
smiled ruefully. "Not that I did not receive my share of black
eyes."

"Whereas I never learned the art of words." I
studied my large hands. "I relied only on my fists. In the world
today, I believe you are the stronger."

"You flatter me." He finished his brandy, set
aside his glass. "Tell me, Lacey, why do you believe that Sebastian
is not the murderer?"

"I like him," I said at once. "Then again,
perhaps I simply feel sorry for him, a downtrodden soul. He is a
warmhearted, if somewhat foolish, young man. I can imagine him
arguing with Middleton, perhaps even knocking him down, but luring
him to the canal and slicing his throat? I am not so certain."

"But you can imagine James Denis hiring
someone to do such a thing."

I rubbed my chin. "Yes, indeed. Or, perhaps
someone hired by Denis' rival."

"You refer to Lady Jane?"

I nodded. When Grenville and I had
investigated the affair of the Glass House, we came across an
individual called Lady Jane. She was a ruthless businesswoman, and
James Denis considered her a rival. Why she would bother to have
killed a man who had not worked for Denis for six months, I did not
know, but I could not rule out the possibility.

"An odd business, this," Grenville mused.
"When I suggested Rutledge employ you, I never dreamed things would
progress to brutal murder. I assumed the pranks to be the work of a
lad with a strange sense of humor. I thought you would quickly sort
it out."

"It's more of a mare's nest than that. If you
reasoned it would be simple, why send me? Why not offer to hire a
Bow Street Runner to poke about here and find out the truth?"

Grenville twined his fingers together.
"Because London was doing nothing for you. I thought I would do you
a favor, send you to the peace of the countryside and a problem
that would intrigue you. I suppose I thought that here in the
country, you would find something missing in your life."