The Sudbury School Murders (12 page)

Sutcliff gave Grenville a look of mild
disdain when he'd gone. "They get above themselves, you know, if
you allow it."

Grenville nodded as though Sutcliff had said
something wise. "Indeed, my servants ever take advantage of me." He
studied the fine color of his claret before taking a sip. "Now
then, Mr. Sutcliff, what do you think of Sudbury School? It has a
fine reputation."

Sutcliff arched a brow. "What do I think of
it? You hardly plan to send your sons here, do you?"

"I am interested."

Grenville was holding himself in check. I'd
seen him turn the full force of his cold and satirical persona to
others, observed peers of the realm wilt before him, seen powerful
gentlemen fear to come under his stare. Grenville needed only to
imply that a gentleman purchased his gloves ready-made or did not
pay his servants or had bad table manners, and that gentleman would
be forever marked. Sutcliff was unaware of his danger.

"It's a tedious place, if you must know,"
Sutcliff said. He gulped his claret, and then helped himself to
more. "But at the end of this term, I will be finished, thank
God."

"I agree, being buried in the country is not
stimulating to the intellect," Grenville said. "What do you do for
diversion?"

"Oh, we amuse ourselves. Games and whatnot.
The younger boys smuggle in spirits and dice and believe themselves
sophisticated. Of course, I report all that to Rutledge."

Grenville smiled in reminiscence. "When I was
at school, we knew a house nearby that didn't mind offering cards
and other vices to us as long as we could pay."

Sutcliff snorted. "Nothing like that in
Sudbury. Or even Hungerford."

"And yet," I broke in. I knew Grenville was
leading up to the question in his own way, but my impatience got
the better of me, as usual. "There must be a reason that you
climbed the wall on Sunday evening, shortly after Middleton the
groom left for the village."

Sutcliff's glass froze halfway to his mouth.
He stared at me for a long moment, while Grenville shot me an
annoyed look.

"Who has said this?" Sutcliff asked
stiffly.

"I am well informed," I answered.

Sutcliff clicked his glass to the table
beside him. "Did Rutledge ask you to spy for him? To follow his
pupils and report what they do?"

I shook my head. "I can hardly run about
after you on a game leg, can I? You were seen, Mr. Sutcliff. Where
did you go?"

His lip curled. "Not to the village,
certainly. It is quite dull on a Sunday night."

"Ah, you know this."

His eyes sparkled with anger. "See here,
Captain Lacey."

Grenville broke in with a soothing gesture.
"Who is the lady, Mr. Sutcliff?"

Frederick Sutcliff stopped, flushed.

I grew irritated with myself for not having
thought of it. I had been so fixed on the murder, that I forgot
that young men sneaked away from school for other reasons, one of
them being female companionship.

Sutcliff's tone was a bit less disdainful.
"You are a gentleman of the world, Mr. Grenville. I say, you will
not peach to Rutledge, will you?"

"I assure you, I have no wish to tell your
secrets to Rutledge," Grenville said. "Neither does Captain Lacey.
We are simply interested in Middleton's murder."

"I see. Well, this can have nothing to do
with it." He lowered his voice, looked at us as though we were
co-conspirators. "I do have a lady, gentlemen. She stays in
Hungerford. She is French."

He sat back, quite proud of himself. For a
moment, I wondered what lady would want him, then I remembered that
Frederick Sutcliff's father was enormously rich.

"You said she
stays
in Hungerford," I
said. "She does not live there?"

He gave me a half-smile. "She lives where I
tell her to live. This term, I have hired rooms for her in
Hungerford."

I had a awful thought. Marianne was staying
in Hungerford. This could not be her secret could it? That she was
mistress to a stripling man with a spotty face? But Sutcliff's
potential of a vast fortune might attract Marianne. Grenville had a
fortune too, of course, but I imagined Marianne would find Sutcliff
much more controllable than Grenville. I could only hope I was
wrong.

"You visited her late Sunday evening, then?"
I prompted.

He gave us a self-important smile. "I
confess, gentlemen. I walked to Hungerford and stayed with her most
of the night, if you know what I mean. I returned just before dawn.
Good thing I did because at first light, all sorts of ruckus was
raised about the dead groom, and I might have been seen creeping
back in."

Grenville sipped his claret and gave him an
indulgent nod. "Yes, your timing seems to have been excellent."

Sutcliff preened himself.

"While you were traveling to and from
Hungerford," I broke in, "did you happen to see Middleton? Or
anything unusual?"

Sutcliff frowned. "No. What does it matter,
in any case? The Romany killed him."

"Did he? there was no sign of blood on
Sebastian's clothes. He was absent from the school when Middleton
died, yes. But so were you."

Sutcliff gaped. "Are you accusing
me?
How dare you? I am not a dirty Romany."

"I did not say you were. I said that there
was as much evidence to convict him as you."

"Rutledge told me you were far too
impertinent. And why do you care about his clothes? Doubtless he
stripped off his bloody clothes and threw them into the canal. His
kind are not stupid."

"Why did he return to the stables, then, if
he was so crafty?" I plunged on. "He could have met up with his
family, disappeared with them. He could be far away by now. But he
chose to return to his room."

"There would have been a hue and cry after
him if he'd run away," Sutcliff said. "The entire countryside would
be turned out to find him. He'd know that."

"And so he stayed put where he was
immediately arrested? No, Mr. Sutcliff, you cannot argue that he
was simultaneously crafty and a fool."

His eyes flared. "What is your interest? He
is Romany, for God's sake."

"I am interested in the truth. I do not like
to see an innocent person hanging for someone else's crime."

Sutcliff regarded me in dislike. "You
certainly are easily agitated. Perhaps you are a radical, ready to
let the mob and the Jew and the Roma rule us?"

"The mob and the Jew will likely be customers
for the goods you ship, and you will employ them in your
warehouses," I pointed out. "The Roma, of course, will not be
allowed to work for you."

"Good God. You
are
a radical."

"Not so. But perhaps I have sympathy for
those crushed underfoot. I do not have to be a radical to wish a
man to pay for his crimes."

Sutcliff sat forward, his long nose flaring.
"The Romany is to blame, and he will pay. Do you know, my father
would tan my hide if he knew I'd spoken to a radical. The mob
overthrew the aristocrats in France, you know. You have more to
fear than I." He climbed to his feet, his large hands red below the
cuffs of his jacket. "Good afternoon, Mr. Grenville. I am afraid I
do not think much of your claret, or your friends."

Grenville and I watched him as he strode
across the room, dodging furniture like a young hound not yet
accustomed to his body. He went out and slammed the door, the sound
echoing from the dark beams.

Grenville, to my surprise, chuckled. "The
poor chap. This claret is the finest money can buy. A man who
cannot recognize quality when he tastes it will not make a very
good merchant."

I glanced at the closed door. "We did not
obtain the name of the French lady who is willing to live in
Hungerford for him."

"That is not a bother," Grenville answered.
"Hungerford is not a large town; I imagine the entire population
knows who this woman is and where she resides. I do not know why he
thinks he can keep such a secret from curious neighbors. They will
have found out, one way or another, and be happy to confide the
information."

I raised my brows. "You sound as though you
speak from experience."

"I have a country estate located near a town
about the size of Hungerford. The most entertaining activity there
is gossip. A stranger is dissected down to his boots. They are
hospitable people, but secrets are impossible to keep." He drained
his glass. "If you like, I'll pursue the mystery of the Frenchwoman
while you do your duties with Rutledge."

"No," I said immediately.

He looked surprised. "Why not?"

I certainly did not want him in Hungerford to
trip over Marianne. "I'd rather have you here, speaking with the
lads," I extemporized. "They will admire you and be thrilled to
speak to you. You might be able to pry more information from them
than I. I will attend to the French lady of Hungerford."

He watched me with curiosity in his black
eyes, then he grinned. "Ah, of course, you would want to interview
the lady. Your affinity for the fair sex eclipses me every
time."

I opened my mouth to argue with him, then
closed it. Let him think what he liked. I did not want him near
Hungerford until I was certain that the "French" lady was not
Marianne, and until I could persuade Marianne to go sensibly back
to London.

He put his hands to his chest. "Command me.
What would you have me do?"

I thought. "Speak to what students you can,
then search Middleton's rooms in the stables. I have not had chance
to do so. No groom has been hired to replace him, but I am certain
Rutledge will not wait long. And find a lad called Timson, the one
Ramsay smoked cheroots with the night of Middleton's death."

Grenville reached out an elegant hand and
poured more claret. "I will endeavor to charm Mr. Timson. Has James
Denis sent you any more warnings, by the bye?"

"No, as a matter of fact. Not since he wrote
asking me to look into Middleton's death."

"Hmm. I wonder what danger Middleton had
mentioned. The pranks?"

"My greater wonder is that Denis should ask
me to take care. Why should he?"

"Because he knows you could be a valuable
resource to him."

I lifted a brow. "James Denis knows I will
not work for him. I am investigating this death because I wish to
help Sebastian, not because Denis has asked me to."

Grenville made a placating gesture. "I know.
But see it from Denis' point of view. You are intelligent, you have
been right more times than not, and you persist until you know the
truth. You could be quite an asset to him."

"He is a criminal," I said quietly, "though
the magistrates fear to arrest him. He procures artwork, however
dubiously, for vast fortunes, owns Members of Parliament and peers
outright, and once murdered a coachman who worked for him because
he was displeased. I hope I will never be an asset to him."

"And yet, many men would envy your exalted
position," Grenville said. "No, do not grow angry with me. I admire
your resistance. Not many a man could, or would. He could pay you
quite well, I imagine."

"I imagine he could," I agreed. "But I should
lose myself, Grenville. My dignity is all I have left, and even
that deserts me now and again. Shall I give up that as well, and
become another of Denis' anonymous lackeys? Sell my soul for a
handful of coins? Maybe I am a fool. I do not know any more."

Grenville studied his wine, not looking at
me. I must have embarrassed him. I'd certainly embarrassed
myself.

"I do not believe you a fool." He raised his
eyes, but they were shuttered. "In fact, Lacey, I always considered
myself a wise man until I met you. And then I realized that I have
been looking at my life the wrong way round."

I stared at him. "The wrong way round? What
does that mean?"

"It means you are the wise man, and I am the
fool. But enough." He set aside his glass, rose. "Let me find and
interest the boys, and you go in search of your French lady."

*** *** ***

Hungerford had once been used by Charles I as
a base from which he fought battles with Cromwell's army. One could
picnic now at the battle sites, as I imagined that one day Spanish
ladies and gentlemen would picnic at the sites of Talavera and
Abuerra and other gruesome chapters in the war against Bonaparte.
The locals also proclaimed that Queen Elizabeth had some time
rested here on one of her progresses to and from London.

Hungerford's High Street was long and backed
onto the canal. This late in the afternoon it was crowded with
those purchasing goods for their afternoon meal. The sky was
leaden, but the rain had ceased. Mud coated the street, and a
passing cart threw more upon my boots.

Grenville had been correct about the ease
with which I discovered the rooms in which Sutcliff had placed his
paramour. I stepped into a tavern that smelled of stale beer and
yesterday's roast, and nursed an ale while the publican's wife told
me everything I wanted to know. I finished the ale, thanked her,
and went off in pursuit.

At the end of the High Street, I found a
small lane branching from the main road. At the end of this, just
as the publican's wife had indicated, sat a square brick house, not
very large, surrounded by an untidy garden.

Two women had taken rooms to let here. The
woman who owned the house, a widow by the name of Albright, offered
the rooms to bring in extra money. The renters were expected to
find their own meals and pay extra for a maid to clean their rooms
and remove their night soil. According to the publican's wife, the
house attracted only those who knew they would not be welcome at
other, more respectable lodging houses.

One woman at this house was Miss Simmons, an
actress from London. The other was a young woman named Jeanne
Lanier. She was French, the daughter of French emigres, and, I had
no doubt, Frederick Sutcliff's lover.