The Sudbury School Murders (21 page)

"An offshoot canal that would stretch from
Hungerford north," I said excitedly. "An offshoot that never
happened, or never was intended to happen."

"Alas, no. I was a fool. Good God, do not
tell me you invested, too? We are fools together, then."

"Who was this man?" I asked. "The one who
asked for your money?"

"A friend." Lewis' long face grew longer
still. "Or I'd thought him a friend. We had fellow feeling, I
thought . . . struggling to live by the thing we loved most."

He looked across the room, as though thinking
deeply on the follies of following one's heart.

"His name?" I prompted.

Lewis sighed. "A Latin scholar. A dear
friend. By name of Fletcher."

"Simon Fletcher," I responded, staring.

"Yes," said Lewis. "That's the chap."

Thoughts whirled in my brain. ‘Ask Fletcher
about canals,’ was the message I'd told Bartholomew to send to
Grenville.

Bartholomew had obeyed. My breathing grew
sharp. What had I done?

"Lady Aline," I said abruptly. "Mr. Lewis.
Good night, I must away."

"What, now?" Lady Aline's brows climbed.

"At once. Please thank Lady Breckenridge for
the invitation. It was most enjoyable."

I babbled a few more phrases and got myself
out of the room. As I hurried away, I heard Lewis' lugubrious voice
behind me. "Goodness. Who was that rude chap?"

*** *** ***

It occurred to me as I hastened down the
stairs and sent the footman scurrying for my coat that Grenville
probably had not come to any harm as a result of my slowness--if he
had, I would likely have heard of it by now. Grenville was famous
enough so that all newspapers in England would report anything
untoward happening to him.

Even so, I worried about him staying alone at
Sudbury. I needed to get myself back there and seek out Simon
Fletcher. At once.

I heard a step behind me, but it was not the
footman with my coat. I turned to see Lady Breckenridge glide
downstairs and across the cool black-and-white hall toward me.

I was in a hurry, but I was not displeased
that she'd come after me.

"You are leaving?" she asked as she reached
me. "I know it cannot be disapproval of the entertainment that
drives you away. You have enough sensibility that Vecchio's music
could not help but touch you."

I nodded. "He is astonishing, yes. You are
right. He will take London by storm."

She smiled, but with a tightness about her
eyes. "Why flee, then?"

"I have business in Sudbury. I must go there
at once."

Her brows arched. "In the middle of the
night?"

"That cannot be helped. I will reach Sudbury
by dawn."

Lady Breckenridge placed a gloved hand on my
arm. "Several of my guests are commenting on your abrupt
departure."

"Please give my apologies to any I annoyed."
I glanced up the stairs. "You do not have to see me off. Your tenor
must be waiting for you." If I put a touch more acid in my voice
than usual, I hoped she did not notice.

She made a face. "He is wallowing in
adulation. Vecchio is brilliant, but he was spoiled and petted in
Milan. Londoners will take a certain amount of rudeness, but if he
is rude to the Prince Regent, he will be out, no matter how lovely
his voice. He must learn this."

I tried to make a joke. "It will be as well,
then, if I never meet the Prince Regent."

She did not smile. "No, I do not believe he
would like you."

The footman was taking a dashed long time
looking for my coat. Lady Breckenridge made no move either to
summon him or to return to her guests.

"I enjoy receiving your letters," I remarked,
for lack of anything else to say.

Her brows lifted. "Really? I thought you'd
find them a bit pointed for your taste. Yours, as I observed, are
quite dull. You even made the murder sound dull."

"I know," I said. "I have not the wit for
writing. Not like Mr. Lewis."

She gave me an odd look then burst into
laughter. I'd never heard her laugh before, not truly. It had a
warm sound. "You do have wit," she said. "You simply show it to
very few people."

"There are very few who care to hear it."

"Perhaps," she said, her fingers tightening
on my arm, "you will include me in those few."

Our gazes met. From upstairs came the noise
of many people talking and laughing, but the downstairs hall was
nearly silent.

"I wonder," I asked eventually, "what has
become of my coat?"

Lady Breckenridge gave me a half-smile.
"Barnstable is tactfully letting me say my farewells in private.
Perhaps when you return to London, Captain, we may meet for another
evening of music?"

I lifted her hand and twined my fingers
through hers. I expected her to pull away, but she allowed the
liberty. "I enjoy music. Mr. Vecchio has a fine voice."

The contact between our hands was fine, too,
even if we both wore gloves.

"He can be made into something," she said,
"if he stops behaving like a boor." She withdrew her hand, flicked
an invisible speck of dust from my lapel. "Go back to Berkshire and
write more letters. But make them interesting this time."

"I will," I said. I traced her cheekbone with
my fingertips.

Barnstable chose that moment to come bustling
from the rear of the house, saying, "Your coat, sir," as though
he'd searched for it long and hard.

I let my hand drop and bowed to Lady
Breckenridge. By the time Barnstable had helped me into my coat and
seen me to the door, Lady Breckenridge was halfway up the stairs.
She did not turn back and tell me good-bye.

*** *** ***

I made my way as quickly as I could back to
Grenville's, my walking stick a rapid staccato on the stones.

Bartholomew was still awake when I reached
the house. I told that him I wanted to set out for Sudbury at once,
and, unsurprised, he rushed away to fetch the coachman and pack my
few things.

We rattled out of town through dark, empty
streets. The wealthy were still enjoying their revelries, and the
respectable middle class and poor were asleep in their beds. Only
beggars, game girls, thieves and other night wanderers moved
through the darkness. They gave our rapidly moving coach and
Grenville's snarling coachman a wide berth.

We arrived at the Sudbury School just before
dawn. I thanked the coachman and told him to take a much-deserved
rest. He growled that the horses needed to be tended to first and
went off to do it.

Bartholomew and I entered the quad through
the gate. The clouded sky was black, forcing us to pick our way
across the rain-slicked cobbles with great care.

As I stepped beneath the arches near the door
of the Head Master's house, I tripped over a large object that lay
across the stones and fell, my stick clattering to the pavement. I
climbed to my knees, the breath struck out of me.

"Are you all right, sir?" Bartholomew
whispered hoarsely. "What is it?"

My groping hands found a man stretched across
the stones, lying there unmoving. The man's coat was soaked with
liquid, and my fingers closed around the unmistakable form of a
knife's hilt protruding from his chest.

* * * * *

Chapter Fourteen

"Lights!" I cried. "Bring a light."

"What is it, sir?" Bartholomew repeated.

"Get a light, for God's sake. Someone's here
and hurt."

Bartholomew brushed past me and thumped away
into the house.

I had no idea who lay at my feet. Grenville?
I stripped off my gloves, felt my way across the man's shoulders.
He still breathed, whoever he was, labored, gasping breaths that
were loud in the darkness.

"Grenville?" I whispered, hoping to God I was
wrong. "Lie still. Bartholomew has gone for help."

He coughed. "Lacey?"

My heart turned over. It
was
Grenville. I felt the soft weave of his expensive coat beneath my
fingers and the fine cloth of his cravat.

I loosened the cravat's knot and drew the
folds from his throat. "Grenville, old friend," I whispered. "Who
did this?"

He took a long time to answer. "Don't know.
Too dark."

Too much blood stained his chest. My hands
were sticky with it.

I cursed. I was tired, and my hands shook. He
must have come down to take a breath of air, or to follow someone,
or . . . I didn't know, and I couldn't think.

His face was clammy and cold. I thanked God I
did not hear the deadly bubbling sound that meant the knife had
pierced his lung--I had heard that horrible sound often enough on
the Peninsula. But I feared to withdraw the knife until I could
see, lest I hurt him further.

"What happened?" I persisted. "Why were you
out here?"

Grenville drew several breaths, as though
trying to speak, but he never answered.

My heart beat hard with fear. I found and
grasped one of his hands. "Don't try to talk. Squeeze my hand if I
am right. Did you see someone down here?"

A faint pressure on my fingers answered
me.

"Did you think you'd seen the prankster?" I
asked.

Another answering pressure.

"Why the devil did you come down here alone?
No, no, don't answer. You can tell me all later." I peered into the
darkness of the house. "Damn it, Bartholomew, where are you?"

I heard Bartholomew just then through the
open door. He trotted out swinging a lantern from his large fist.
His brother, white and sleepy-eyed, came after him.

Bartholomew saw Grenville and gasped. The
lantern swayed, and hot wax sprayed me.

"Hold it steady," I snapped.

Grenville looked terrible. His face was paper
white, his eyes half-closed. His ivory waistcoat was thick with
blood. In the center of the circle of blood stood the unmoving hilt
of a knife.

Bartholomew stood transfixed with shock.
Matthias gave one horrified stare then bolted back into the
house.

Grenville's lips quirked. "I frightened
him."

I snarled, "Don't you dare talk again unless
I give you leave."

He obediently fell silent. By the light of
Bartholomew's swinging lantern, I saw Grenville's chest rise and
fall, too rapidly, not deeply enough.

Matthias hurried out of the house again. He
hadn't run away in fear, he'd gone to fetch a pile of towels.

"Good lad," I said. I snatched the topmost
towel and pressed it to Grenville's chest, below the protruding
hilt. "I must take out the knife. We cannot chance that his heart
or lung will not be cut when we move him."

Bartholomew bit his lip. Matthias crouched
next to his master. "What do I do, sir?"

"Hold his shoulders. He must not move." I
willed my hands to cease trembling. "Do you hear me, Grenville? You
must not move. Think of yourself as a boulder. Heavy. Strong.
Immovable. Think on it."

I did not give him time to prepare himself. I
knew that men often flinched from anticipated pain, and I wanted it
over with before he knew it had started. I simply grasped the knife
and in one swift, silent pull, drew it out.

Grenville did move. He gasped and his body
almost left the ground, but Matthias, big and strong, held him
down. I clapped another towel straight over the wound and pressed
down hard.

More hot wax sprayed my face. "Damn it,
Bartholomew."

I heard footsteps, and then Didius Ramsay
burst out of the house. He was in a dressing gown and slippers, and
his eyes were wide. "Good lord! Is it Mr. Grenville?"

"Ramsay, send someone for a surgeon," I said.
"Quickly."

Ramsay took a few gulps of air then started
back inside and ran full tilt into the bulk of Rutledge.

Rutledge shoved Ramsay aside and came out, a
candle in his hand. Several boys and tutors in dressing gowns
followed him. Rutledge took in the scene, my bloody hands, and the
knife. He bellowed, "What the devil is going on?"

"Fetch a surgeon," I repeated while Ramsay
stood there in dismay. "A good surgeon, not a quack of a
doctor."

Ramsay scampered away. Rutledge lifted his
candle to study Grenville. Grenville screwed up his eyes at the
light.

"What happened here?" Rutledge repeated.
"Lacey, what have you done?"

I ignored him. "Matthias, is there any
laudanum?"

"I can look, sir."

"No," Grenville's voice came feebly. "Not
laudanum."

"It will take away the pain," I said.

"There is no pain." He drew a breath. "Don't
send me to sleep."

"Damn you, will you stop talking?"

"Aye, sir," he whispered.

"Matthias, can you carry him? I want him off
this walk, out of the damp."

Bartholomew rose, shoved the lantern at
Matthias. "I'll do it."

"Matthias, run up to his chamber and make
certain it's plenty warm. Stoke the fire high. And fetch
water."

Matthias pushed past Rutledge and the staring
pupils, hurrying to do as I bid. Bartholomew leaned down. With
gentleness I'd never seen in him before, he scooped Grenville into
his arms.

I leveraged myself to a standing position,
leaning heavily on my stick. My bad knee pounded with pain. I held
the towel to Grenville's chest and walked with Bartholomew into the
house. The crowd of curious lads and tutors opened before us.

Rutledge was still demanding to be told what
had happened. The tutors and pupils pattered after us anxiously,
watching, round-eyed.

Even in my worry, I noticed two
absent--Sutcliff and Fletcher.

Once inside Grenville's chamber, Bartholomew
laid Grenville carefully on the bed. Matthias had the fire stoked
high. A basin of water already steamed before it.

Grenville's head lolled on the pillow. I saw
the glimmer of his eyes, but his lids were heavy and waxen.

"Don't you die on me," I told him. "I'll not
have it said that your death was my fault."