The Sudbury School Murders (22 page)

"
My
fault, sir," Bartholomew said. "I
should have been here to look after him."

"No, mine," Matthias put in. "He told me not
to wait up for him, and I went to bed."

I broke in. "Well, now that we have
thoroughly flogged ourselves, shall we go about making certain he
stays alive? Matthias, bring that basin."

While Bartholomew and Matthias hovered like
worried aunts, I opened Grenville's clothes and bathed the wound.
The gash was small, but it was deep and had bled much. I could have
no idea what the blade had cut going in.

"Bloody fool," I said as I worked. "What were
you doing rushing about in the middle of the night? Going down to
confront a villain alone? You should have taken Matthias. Or waited
for me."

If Grenville died, it truly would be my
fault. Grenville would not have come here at all had he not taken
interest in me and my adventures, as he called them. He would be
safe and bored in London, busy making satirical comments about
other people's clothes and manners.

"Lacey," Rutledge said behind me. "What is
all this?"

"Where is the damned surgeon?" I
demanded.

"How the devil should I know? And where have
you been? You said you would take a day in London, and you wander
back three days later in the small hours without a
by-your-leave."

I lost my patience. "I was ill, and you have
more things to worry about. Send someone to Fletcher's chamber and
do not allow Fletcher to leave it."

I felt Rutledge's stare on the back of my
neck. "You think
Simon
Fletcher
did this?"

"Well, it was not Sebastian. Bartholomew,
go."

"Yes, sir."

"And if you see Sutcliff on the way, kick him
in the seat of his trousers."

"Yes, sir." Swift footsteps told me he'd
gone.

Rutledge breathed heavily. "You are sacked,
Lacey."

"Excellent. Where is the surgeon?"

The surgeon arrived shortly. Rutledge hovered
in the room like a gargoyle, still demanding to be told everything.
I was weary and weak from the effects of my fever, and I bluntly
told him to close his mouth. If he'd truly sacked me, I saw no more
reason to be polite to him.

The surgeon sewed the lips of the wound
together and bathed it again. I and Matthias finished undressing
Grenville, and the surgeon wrapped a bandage around him. Grenville
lay in a stupor, never acknowledging what we did, his face so white
that his brows stood out like black marks on parchment.

The surgeon departed, giving us strict
instructions to not let him move and to change the bandage once a
day. I sank onto a chair in front of the roaring fire, perspiring
freely, feeling sick and weak.

I sat there, watching Matthias sponge
Grenville's face, feeling the vestiges of melancholia swarm about
me. If Grenville died--

No, I could not bear to think about that. I
could not afford to wallow right now in guilt and grief. I needed
to get him well again and find the person who did this. Then, I'd
be free to retreat into melancholia and contrition as much as I
liked.

Matthias finished cleaning Grenville's face
and returned the basin to the fireplace. He went back to the side
of the bed and just stood there, distress on his honest face.

I had examined the knife that I'd pulled from
Grenville's chest. It was small and sharp, the kind a man might
keep to pare apples with, and had nothing helpful on it like
engraved initials or a name. It was a well-made knife, but not one
of obvious expense--it was the kind anyone might possess. I would
ask Matthias and Bartholomew to quiz their network of servants
until they found out who in the school was missing a knife.

I sighed. Even that course of action felt
ineffectual and slow. And the knife could easily have been
stolen.

After a long time of silence, I became aware
of sounds in the quad. The day had dawned, and boys were scurrying
to chapel as usual, although they were somewhat subdued.

But over that I heard different sounds, a
shout of alarm and Rutledge swearing freely.

I rose and went to the window in time to see
Bartholomew hurry out the front door of Fairleigh. Rutledge barked
a question at him, then pushed past Bartholomew to rush into
Fairleigh.

I got to the door by the time Bartholomew had
entered the Head Master's house and run up the stairs. He stood
panting heavily on the threshold, his face flushed.

"Mr. Fletcher ain't going nowhere, sir," he
said. "He's dead as a stone, sir."

*** *** ***

I ordered Matthias to stay with Grenville and
let no one near him for any reason. Matthias took up his post at
the foot of the bed, arms crossed, as immovable as a statue.

Bartholomew and I hastened together across
the wet quad. Bartholomew breathlessly explained as we went what
had happened.

"His door was locked when I arrived, sir, and
he didn't answer. I decided I'd stand guard until he came out. Then
a maid wanted in to stoke the fire, and I saw no harm in letting
her. She had a key. She unlocked the door and went in, and then she
started screaming. I went in after her and saw him, doubled up at
his desk and dead."

We entered Fairleigh. The house was smaller
than the Head Master's but not much different in layout--a square
hall surrounded by a staircase and doors that led into rooms and
corridors.

Fletcher's room was on the second floor in a
corner. Rutledge was already there, his face nearly purple with
rage. The surgeon who had stitched up Grenville was leaning over
Fletcher, who sat slumped against his desk as Bartholomew had
described.

"No saving this one, I'm afraid," the surgeon
said.

He lifted Fletcher's head. A dark bruise
circled his throat, and his tongue was thrust out, probing for air
he could not find.

"Oh, God," I said.

On the desk before him was a long piece of
twine, coarse and utilitarian. It had several knots in it. I
remembered seeing Fletcher hurrying about the school, carrying
piles of books bound with such twine. It must have been lying,
discarded, nearby, and the murderer had caught it up.

Rutledge, as usual, began shouting. "I want
everyone in the quad in ten minutes. Everyone--from the lowest
pupil to the house masters. I will discover who did this if I have
to beat each and every one of them."

"Do you think that will work?" I asked.

"Nothing you have done has. A sound thrashing
will solve more problems than all your so-called inquiries."

He stomped away to put his plan in motion.
Because he'd sacked me, I saw no reason to follow or to help. His
blustering had not prevented the tragedies and would probably have
no effect now.

I began looking about the room. Fletcher had
led a Spartan existence, from all evidence. The room was mostly
bare, the bed-hangings and furnishings plain. The bookcase that had
housed his beloved books was empty, with a line of dust remaining
where the books had not reached to the backs of the shelves. I ran
my hands into the corners and under the lips of the shelves to see
if anything important lingered there. I found nothing but more
dust.

"Something here, sir," Bartholomew said.

He was squatting before the fireplace hearth.
I looked over his shoulder and saw a small knife with a blade about
an inch long lying on the stones. The hilt was plain metal, with no
decoration. A practical, workaday knife. Bartholomew lifted it. The
tip was broken off, leaving a blunt end.

"That didn't kill anyone," Bartholomew
said.

"No," I answered. "But I wonder why it was
dropped here."

"Could be someone was trying to shave some
kindling, and broke the tip."

"Could be." I took the knife from him and put
it into my pocket.

I swept my gaze over the room again. Poor
Fletcher sat in his chair, his right hand on his throat, as though
he'd tried to clutch at the strand that choked him. His robe lay in
a black puddle on a chair near him. Remembering something Fletcher
had said before I'd gone to London, I lifted the robe and probed
its lining.

I found what I hoped I'd find, a small
book.

Bartholomew's brow wrinkled. "I thought all
his books were burned, sir."

"Apparently, one escaped. Let us see, shall
we?"

The book was nothing more than a Latin
grammar, or so I thought. I laid it on the desk, turned over the
leaves. At first I saw only pages and pages of noun declensions and
verb conjugations. In the middle of the book, however, I began to
find folded pieces of paper shoved between the pages, one or two
pieces every four or five pages. I extracted a few and laid them on
the desk.

My pulse quickened. "The damned canals
again," I said, unsurprised.

"What was that, sir?"

"These are lists, Bartholomew. Lists of
people who gave money to Mr. Fletcher to invest in a canal that
would never exist. This is why Fletcher sometimes talked about
leaving this existence behind and living like a king. He was
swindling people, planning to retire well on the money of the
gullible." I touched the name
Jonathan
Lewis
, the
gentleman I'd met at the musicale. "Including those he considered
his friends."

"Ought to be ashamed," Bartholomew said.

I regarded Fletcher in half-sorrow,
half-anger. "Poor, stupid fool. Was he killed by someone he
swindled? Or a fellow swindler?" I gathered the papers and slid
them back into the book.

"And why did they cut Mr. Grenville?"

Bartholomew was angry. He and Matthias doted
on Grenville, were proud to work for him, rather rubbed other
footmen's noses in it that the pair had such a good place. They
regarded Grenville as though he were something precious they
owned.

"It's likely the murderer did not even know
who he stabbed as he ran by," I said. "The killer heard Grenville
come out of the Head Master's house and simply lashed out."

Bartholomew's brow clouded. "Mr. Grenville
ought not to have been there. He should have called Matthias."

"I know. But likely he thought that the
person would get away if he took the trouble. I'd have done the
same, simply gone down to catch the culprit myself."

"But you know how to defend yourself, sir. He
doesn't. He's too trusting by half, too sure of his own good
luck."

"I know," I said glumly.

Bartholomew balled his fists. "When I find
out who did this, I will murder him myself."

"You will have to queue up behind me."

Bartholomew simply stood there, looking
morose.

I found nothing more interesting in the room
than the book and its contents and the broken knife. I found little
personal at all in the room, and no other letters or papers.

I finished and led Bartholomew out,
Fletcher's book under my arm. I hated to leave Fletcher alone, but
perhaps that was best for him. Let him sit in peace.

I removed the key from the inside of the
door, closed the door, and locked it from the outside. I left the
key in the keyhole, and then Bartholomew and I departed.

*** *** ***

Rutledge had the entire school assembled in
the quad under the gentle March rain. Bartholomew and I skirted the
crowd and made for the Head Master's house. Sutcliff stood at
Rutledge's side, looking sullen and half-asleep. Several of the
boys craned to watch us, rather spoiling the effect of Rutledge's
diatribe.

Back in Grenville's room, I sat down to look
over the papers I'd taken from Fletcher. Grenville had not woken
from his stupor, and his pallid face bore a sheen of
perspiration.

I knew I needed to sleep. My head buzzed and
my vision was fuzzy, and I was still weak from the fever. But I
could not bring myself to leave the room again.

I was as angry as Bartholomew. Whoever had
hurt Grenville would not be safe from me.

I found much of interest in Fletcher's book
and its secrets. The swindling scheme was much bigger than I'd
thought. Fletcher had tapped his old school friends, which included
many prominent men of London. Some were fathers or other relations
of the boys of Sudbury.

I found contracts and letters of agreement
and particulars on what percentage return the investors could
expect to see. Middleton was named on the documents as a
"surveyor," which explained the maps. One other person, not named,
was referred to as a "banker."

Fletcher had received letters from investors
asking eagerly when the canal would be started, finished,
opened--when would the money come rolling in? There were letters
from the more canny souls who began claiming that they'd found no
evidence that a canal was even proposed, and what was Fletcher up
to?

Fletcher must have been planning to disappear
very soon.

I had another thought--what if Fletcher's
books were burned not because of a malicious prank, but because the
killer had been looking for this particular book with all its
damning evidence?

The maps in Middleton's room were just that,
maps. They meant nothing by themselves. But Fletcher's documents
could not be ignored. He'd fraudulently taken money from gullible
people and promised them rainbows.

Bartholomew brought me coffee and told me to
go to bed, but I still would not leave. I knew Bartholomew and
Matthias would stand over Grenville like faithful watchdogs, but I
could not bear the thought that something might happen to him while
I slept. I feared the killer would not chance that Grenville had
not seen who'd struck the blow. The murderer had made certain that
Fletcher and Middleton had not told tales; he might make certain
Grenville did not, either.

The coffee cup crashing to the floor woke me.
Paper slithered to the carpet to soak up the black liquid.

"Sir?" Bartholomew hung over me.

"I'm all right." I passed my hand through my
hair. My eyes were aching and sandy. "I'll take a walk around the
quad, clear my head."