The Sudbury School Murders (20 page)

I drifted in and out of sleep, my dreams
strange and horrible. Sometimes I lay staring at the canopy above
me, my body wracked with fever, skin wet with sweat. From time to
time I'd hear Grenville's servants enter the room, clean the grate
and stoke the fire, hear whispered conversations at the door.

Bartholomew would loom over me every once in
a while with a worried expression, but I could not break myself out
of my stupor to reassure him.

When I finally awoke, the fever was broken
and I lay weak and limp and watched the sunshine at the window.

Bartholomew came to look in on me. I asked
him the time.

"Four o'clock in the afternoon, sir."

I rubbed my face, a stiff growth of stubble
on my skin. "Too late to start for Sudbury, then. I do not mind a
night's journey, but Grenville's coachman might object."

He gave me an odd look. "You all right,
sir?"

"Just tired. And powerfully hungry. Did Anton
not say he would make something for my supper?"

Bartholomew's brow wrinkled. "That was two
days ago, sir."

"What?" I tried to sit up. My head spun, and
I held it.

"Two days you've been in bed, sir. Sick as a
blind cow, sir."

I fingered the linen nightshirt I did not
remember putting on. "Hell," I said feelingly. "I need a bath. And
a shave." My stomach growled. "Food first, I think."

"I'll bring you a tray, sir, and hot water.
And, oh-- " He dipped his fingers inside his waistcoat. "A letter,
sir."

"From Grenville?" I reached for it.

"No, sir. I wrote him your note, about the
canals and Mr. Fletcher, like you said, and I added that you were
sick and wouldn't return until you felt better. He answered saying
he'd look into the matter and to give you a tonic, but nothing
since yesterday."

I had half-expected Grenville to come rushing
back to London to find out what was wrong with me, or ask me what
the devil I meant about canals and Fletcher, but perhaps he'd
realized it was best to stay and wait for my return.

I rubbed my face again. "Then who sent the
letter?"

"A lady, sir."

"Mrs. Brandon?" I asked.

He read from the direction on the folded
page. "Viscountess Breckenridge." He tossed it into my lap, then
went into the hall and shouted for someone to fetch me hot water
and coffee.

I opened the letter. It was a formal
invitation, addressed to me, informing me that Lady Breckenridge
was hosting a musicale at eleven o'clock on the evening of March
16th, and would I attend?

"What day is it, Bartholomew?" I asked as he
began to fill the shaving basin with steaming water from a
kettle.

"Sunday the sixteenth of March, sir. The year
of our lord, 1817."

I studied the invitation again. "Can you make
me presentable? And get me to South Audley Street by eleven
o'clock?"

"You sure you're feeling all right, sir?"

"Perfectly fine," I said. The fever had left
me and now I was only restless and very hungry.

"I will endeavor, sir," Bartholomew said as
he stropped my razor. "I'll shave you now, sir, while Anton fixes
your dinner."

*** *** ***

Donata Anne Catherine St. John, nee Pembroke,
was known better to me by her title, the viscountess Breckenridge.
She lived in South Audley Street, enjoyed the comforts of a vast
fortune given to her by both her father and her late husband, and
moved among the most fashionable people. Tonight it pleased her to
host a musicale in order to introduce a young Italian tenor to the
London
ton
.

I was still tired from my illness, but
curiosity made me answer her invitation. I walked to the house,
ignoring Bartholomew's bleats of protest about traveling there on
foot. I was tired of the stuffy indoors and wanted to clear my
head, the night was clear, and South Audley Street was not far from
Grosvenor Street. Besides all that, my daily rides in the country
had strengthened my muscles, and I wanted the joy of using
them.

The door of Lady Breckenridge's house was
opened by a liveried footman. Her butler, Barnstable, stood beyond
him and gave me a smile of pleasure when he saw me. "Captain Lacey,
welcome. How is your leg?"

"Much better," I said.

I'd hurt my weak leg badly earlier this
spring, and Barnstable had given me his cure--scalding hot towels
and a concoction of mint and other oils that had done my muscles
well. Barnstable was proud of it.

"Excellent, sir," he beamed.

He led me upstairs through Lady
Breckenridge's very exquisite, very modern, very white house.

The musicale was being held in a drawing room
on the first floor. Double doors had been opened between front and
back rooms, rendering them one large, high-ceilinged rectangle. A
harp stood before rows of chairs, and a plump woman was plucking
the harp's strings, sending tiny strains of music over the
crowd.

Lady Aline Carrington, a spinster of fifty,
and like Lady Breckenridge, a believer in women speaking their
minds, presented the tenor to me. Lady Breckenridge stood next to
them, dressed in a white silk high-waisted gown and holding an
ostrich feather fan. Her only adornment was a necklace of diamonds,
and her dark hair was pinned into innumerable coils.

The tenor's name was Enzio Vecchio, and he
had only recently reached England from Milan. I bowed to him
politely. He gave me a bored glance and mouthed a greeting.

"Mr. Vecchio will take London by storm,
Captain," Lady Breckenridge said, her shrewd gaze on me. "You will
shortly comprehend why."

Mr. Vecchio cast a fond glance upon Lady
Breckenridge. "Only because you, dear lady, will make it so."

Lady Aline, behind him, looked at the
ceiling. Lady Breckenridge took his fawning without changing
expression. "Captain Lacey has shaken the country dirt from his
boots to join us," she told him.

I made a brief show of studying my boots,
then I replied, "For a short time only, my lady. I believe the
boots will be thick with mud again in a day's time."

She deigned to smile at this feeble
witticism. Lady Aline snorted. Vecchio only stared at me. Lady
Breckenridge slipped her hand under Vecchio's arm and guided him
off to other eagerly waiting guests.

As I watched the white-gowned Lady
Breckenridge walk away on the arm of the black-garbed gentleman, I
experienced a dart of annoyance. The annoyance bothered me. Why
should it matter if Lady Breckenridge paraded about with a very
young, black-haired Italian? It should not matter to me in the
slightest.

But it did matter, and that bothered at
me.

Lady Aline broke my thoughts. "Let us find
chairs, Lacey, before we're forced to stand like rubes in the back
of the room." She took my arm with strong fingers and more or less
shoved me toward two empty chairs. Politely, I settled her, and
asked if I could bring her lemonade.

"I am not thirsty," she said. "I've drunk tea
with Lady Breckenridge and her callers all afternoon." She patted
the chair beside her. "Sit down, dear boy. I always welcome a
chance to speak to you. Your conversation is intelligent. You do
not say what you are expected to say."

I smiled and took my seat. "A high
compliment, one I am happy to accept from you."

"Never mind the Spanish coin," she said
sternly, though she looked pleased. "Donata is no fool; Vecchio's
voice is quite fine. Have you heard it?"

I shook my head. "I have been buried in the
country since the Season began. I have heard nothing but the
bleating of sheep and the shouting of schoolboys."

"How idyllic."

"Not really. Early, noisy mornings, cold
draughts at breakfast."

"And murder." She tapped my arm with her fan.
"I will not forgive you for not mentioning it in your letters. I
had to hear the news from Louisa."

"It is rather sordid. Nothing a lady need
hear."

"Do not be ridiculous. I enjoy sordid things.
But are you not in danger? Louisa says you do not believe the
Romany did it. You never do."

I suppose she meant that I never liked the
easiest solution. "Things are not as straightforward as they
seem."

In fact, they were a muddle in my brain. The
fever had not helped.

"I want to hear the entire story from you,
you know," Lady Aline said. "I wanted to tell you that Hungerford,
and canals, reminded me of something. There is someone I believe
you should speak to."

I turned to her, alert. But just then, the
crowd quieted as Vecchio walked past the chairs to the front of the
room.

"I will tell you later," Lady Aline
hissed.

I curbed my impatience and turned to watch
Vecchio take his position near the harp. Lady Breckenridge had
seated herself in the first row of chairs. Ostrich feathers drifted
back and forth as she slowly fanned herself.

The woman at the harp, whom I did not know,
introduced Mr. Vecchio as a new prodigy with the voice of an
angel.

The prodigy was little above twenty years
old. His black-eyed stare as it roved the room told me he did not
think much of his audience--middle-aged women in finery,
overdressed gentlemen, bored debutantes--waiting to be entertained.
Vecchio needed their approval if he would make a career, but he
seemed to hold them in contempt.

The harpist played a few strains. The tenor
opened his mouth, and then all contempt vanished.

So did the audience's boredom. From Vecchio's
lips came sounds as sweet as any I had ever heard. His voice
soared, filling the room with music, shaking the very beams of the
ceiling, then it dipped to sounds soft and true as a lover's
whisper.

As he sang, the music swept away the
remaining mists of my fever. The sadness in my heart, the painful
indecision about my wife and daughter, did not leave me, but the
sounds touched my soul in a way nothing else had in a long
while.

I sat as one entranced. I was sorry Grenville
could not be here--he who loved all things beautiful would have
been enraptured by Vecchio's voice.

I was not the only one moved. Next to me,
Lady Aline blew her nose into a large handkerchief. The lady seated
before me wiped her cheeks, and a tear trickled from the corner of
her husband's eye.

The beauty of his voice was incredible. He
wound to the height of the aria, holding one note high and clear
that had us all trembling on the edges of our seats. Then he
brought the note down, gave a rousing crescendo, and ended the
piece with a flourish of his hand.

For a moment, the crowd sat in stunned
silence. Then as one, we burst into applause that shook the
room.

The young man closed his mouth, and the magic
vanished. He became a petulant youth again, despising the crowd who
cheered him.

He entranced us with two more pieces, each
still more beautiful than the last, then he made his final bow, and
the entertainment was over.

Thunderous applause surrounded him as he
stood quietly after his last aria. The harpist, too, clapped her
hands, eyes glowing, cheeks pink. The crowd then surged to surround
him, each guest vying to get near him.

I did not join the throng. I helped Lady
Aline to her feet and reminded her of our conversation before the
music started. "You mentioned Hungerford," I said. "Said you were
reminded of something."

"Your keenness of mind amazes me, Lacey,"
Lady Aline said with a smile. "You never forget anything. A friend
of mine was complaining of canals to me earlier this week. He is
here tonight; let me find him."

I followed Lady Aline while she craned her
head to look over the sea of people surrounding Vecchio. She used
her bulk and a few loud-voiced "I beg your pardons" to move us
through the crowd toward the door.

A tall, thin man stood near the open doorway,
conversing with a few ladies who had either already greeted Vecchio
or did not want to fight the throng to do so. The man had a long
face that matched his long body, and a self-deprecating smile. No
one, that smile said, can be as great a fool as I can be.

Lady Aline greeted the gentleman fondly, then
turned to me. "Captain Lacey, I would like to introduce an old and
dear friend, Mr. Lewis. He is a writer."

Lewis held out a long-fingered hand to me.
"Not the famous 'Monk' Lewis, alas," he said. "I am Jonathan Lewis,
writer of books for youths. Have you read my
Boy in the
Yorkshire Dales
by any chance?"

I shook my head. "I am afraid I have
not."

He regarded me sadly. "The story is poignant,
quite poignant, or so my publisher tells me. But young men,
Captain, do not want poignancy. They want daring adventure and
harrowing escapes, and a bit of skirt does not hurt, either. Oh, I
do beg your pardon, dear Aline."

Aline looked amused, not offended. "Captain
Lacey is staying in Sudbury, near Hungerford."

Lewis' expression changed from sadness to
vast irritation. "Oh, my dear, do not speak to me of Hungerford.
Hungerford, heart of my sorrow, fount of my madness. Speak to me
not of Hungerford."

I hid a smile. "I found it an atmospheric
little town."

"Oh, yes, atmosphere. Old England and all
that. I've never been there, myself."

I was mystified.

"Explain yourself, for heaven's sake, Lewis,"
Lady Aline prompted.

Mr. Lewis shook his head, sighed
theatrically. "An evil man did me an evil turn. ‘Give me your
money, Mr. Lewis,’ he said. ‘I will make you rich.’ Such a
declaration was too much for a writer of stories to resist. Alas, I
should have remembered Swindler Tom in
A Boy's Days on the
Cornwall Coast.
Tom came to a bad end, as well he should. But
this time, it was I who came to the bad end."

My pulse quickened. "How is this related to
Hungerford?"

"Canals, my dear Captain. ‘Invest in canals,’
he told me. ‘It is the future of England.’ ‘It is England's past,’
I said. Canals are everywhere. ‘But these canals will connect other
canals, and we shall prosper.’ And so I gave him the money." He
shook his head mournfully. "I lost all of it, Captain. Every last
farthing."