The Sudbury School Murders (5 page)

I do not think he did, but he nodded.

I gave him a few more reassuring phrases,
then I departed.

The door opened for me easily enough. The
woman had not locked us in. She was waiting, though, in the yard,
ample arms folded. As soon as I emerged, she slammed the door and
shot home the bolt, as though fearing that poor Sebastian would
leap from his den and murder us both.

* * * * *

Chapter Four

I returned to the tavern to collect my horse,
intending to ride down the canal from here to Bedwyn to look for
Sebastian's family.

The tavern, called the Boar, was the tavern
to which Middleton apparently had been making his way last night. I
inquired of the hostler whether he had seen Middleton the night
before. The man shrugged. I decided to discover what the landlord
knew and ducked my head to enter the warm, dark interior of the
taproom.

Despite the excitement of the murder, the
tavern was quiet, the people of Sudbury having gone about their
business. They had not forgotten, however. When the landlord
approached me, he expressed his views.

"Gave me a turn, hearing we had such a brutal
murder so close to home. The lads hereabouts are all looking out
for the murderer, I can tell you."

I asked him if Middleton had come to the
tavern the previous night, and he shook his head. "Never saw him.
Not last night. Came in here from time to time, he did, but didn't
talk much with us. Kept to himself. Looked on in kind of a quiet
way. But last night, no. Didn't darken the doorway."

I wondered why Middleton had set off for the
tavern and never reached it. Had the killer lain in wait for him
and dispatched him at once, or taken him somewhere?

Someone waved to me from a dark corner. I
recognized Simon Fletcher, the Classics tutor. I moved across the
room to him, and he grinned and gestured to the chair beside
him.

"Sit down, Lacey, and share a pint. Poor old
Middleton," he said jovially as I took a chair facing him. "One day
saddling your horse, the next dead in a canal. You never know what
the world will send your way, do you?"

"Did you know him?" I asked.

Fletcher shook his head. He had lank brown
hair that was wearing thin and rather flat brown eyes. His face was
long, horse-like, but his mouth curved into ready smiles that made
his otherwise dull eyes twinkle. "I never went to the stables much.
Not a horse man. I trust my own shanks or ride a coach if I need to
go farther afield. Don't much understand the beasts."

The landlord's wife brought me an ale. I much
wanted to be on my way scouring the canal for Sebastian's kin, but
Fletcher could possibly tell me much. I took a fortifying sip of
ale and found it spicy and warm, pleasant after the chill rain
outside.

"What do you think happened?" I asked.

Fletcher looked mildly surprised I should ask
him. "Good lord, I have no idea. Probably he met up with some
ruffians who tried to rob him. Is there not a band of Roma
wandering about?"

"They've arrested Sebastian, the Romany
stable hand."

Fletcher nodded. "I heard. Some of the lads
are unhappy. They like the fellow. Others say he should be stoned
to death." He made a face. "Bloody little beasts boys can be."

"One of them put a garter snake in my bed," I
remarked.

Fletcher barked a laugh. "That would be young
Ramsay. He enjoys greeting the newcomer with reptiles."

"Ramsay is the tow-haired boy about thirteen
years old? A bit nervous?"

"Oh, yes. Looks as though he is quiet and
innocent, but is a little devil in fact. Smart, though. Sits
through his Latin studies and soaks it up. His father is filthy
rich, filthy. Owns half of London, I wouldn't wager."

"But he is a prankster."

Fletcher chuckled. "They all are. But if you
mean, is he writing letters in blood and setting servants' rooms on
fire or murdering grooms, I'd say no. He hasn't got the balls for
it. It's garter snakes and toads and beetles down the younger boy's
backs. Annoying things. Harmless."

When I'd suggested to Rutledge that the snake
was harmless, he'd gone purple with rage. Fletcher, closer than
Rutledge to the boys, agreed with me.

"If you had to choose which boy was
perpetrating the more harmful pranks, which would you say?" I
asked.

Fletcher's eye gleamed. "Ah, Captain, that I
cannot answer. You are Rutledge's man. First thing you learn when
you're inside is that you do not peach on your fellows."

"I am hardly Rutledge's man," I said,
slightly offended. "He employs me, as he employs you."

"The school employs me. And you. And
Rutledge."

"I am not his man, Fletcher," I repeated.

He nodded. "I know. Sensed that when I met
you. In Sudbury, you are either for Rutledge or against him. No
middle ground. He's a bastard, but he knows what he's doing running
a school. Have to say that much for him."

He slurped the last of his ale, waved aside
the publican's wife who advanced to ask if he wanted more. "I have
Latin lessons to grade." He grimaced. "A task that requires two
pints of ale, no more, no less. To answer your question, Captain, I
am hard-pressed to say. There are a fair number of little beggars
that I'd like to see the back of, but none that I'd call cruel. Or
mad. No, depend upon it, it's a servant causing these problems. Or
a tutor." His eyes twinkled.

I admitted, "I had speculated that the tutors
would have access to the places in which the pranks were
played."

"A fair statement," Fletcher agreed. "I will
protest my innocence, however, Captain. I have no time to play
pranks, and what little time I find on my hands, I spend here or
flat on my back with my eyes closed. When I sleep, the boys could
burn down the entire school without me being the wiser."

He smiled, as though he'd think it a good
joke.

"I imagine the other tutors have similar
impediments."

Fletcher nodded. "Oh, yes. Rutledge believes
idleness is the refuge of weak minds and all that. We barely have
souls to call our own. Only the occasional pint." He smiled at his
glass. "Tunbridge does extra tutoring, but God knows where he finds
the time."

"And he rides," I commented, remembering what
Sebastian had said.

"Oh, he likes a hack across the fields. He
fancies himself a gentleman and a man of sport."

And, I thought, he'd have occasion to know
Middleton and his habits.

"Is Tunbridge a good tutor?"

"One of the best, according to Rutledge. And
himself. But I know for a fact he's no better or worse off than the
rest of us, despite his airs." Fletcher shook his head, turned his
empty glass. "Ah, the joys of teaching. Joy is all we get; the
income is certainly shallow. But one day, Lacey . . ." He gave me a
wink. "One day, I will be quit of all this. I'll have my fortune,
retire to a grand house in the country, and enjoy the amenities of
life denied a conscientious schoolmaster."

I smiled, nodding in sympathy. It was
unlikely a fortune would drift my way, either.

"Shall we stroll back together?" Fletcher
suggested, rising.

"No, I shall ride along the canal. Perhaps we
can meet for port some evening," I said.

"Never a free moment to myself, I'm afraid.
But we'll retreat here for a pint soon, I promise that."

He nodded to me, gathered up his robe, which
had lain on the seat next to him, and a book, which he clutched to
his chest, and departed.

I took a long drink of my ale, deposited a
few coins, and left the tavern, setting my hat at an angle against
the rain.

*** *** ***

I rode up and down the canal to no avail. I
saw many barges traveling from Avon to London, but none with Roma.
Like the villagers in Sudbury and Great Bedwyn, the bargemen I
spoke to talked of the murder with interest and faint horror. In a
small place like this, murder was an extraordinary thing--a thing
of dangerous places like London, although highwaymen still appeared
now and again. The farmers and villagers of Sudbury had spread the
word to their friends and neighbors, who told the lockkeepers, who
in turn told the bargemen as they traveled through the locks.

The horror was mitigated a bit by the fact
that a man had been arrested. Quick work--at least we can all sleep
in our beds tonight, was the general feeling.

For me, the unease had not gone away. I truly
did not think Sebastian had committed the crime--his arrest was
just to soothe Rutledge's pique. Someone who had brutally cut the
throat of a large man who had been used to danger was still walking
about. I wondered whether Middleton had simply been unlucky and
come across a robber or madman. But if that were the case, would we
not have found him where he'd been killed? Instead, his body had
been placed in the lock and all traces of the murderer's trail
obliterated.

I believed Middleton had known his killer.
Probably had not feared him, which was why he'd allowed the man to
get behind him with a knife. They had met somewhere between the
stables and the village of Sudbury, walked together to another
location, and Middleton had died. Whereupon the killer had taken
Middleton to the lock and rolled him in.

Why? A quarrel? Over money, a woman? Or had
the man planned to kill Middleton all along? Again, why?

One man I could easily picture cutting
Middleton's throat was Rutledge himself. He was large enough and
strong enough, and he had the devil's own temper. But I had asked
Bartholomew to discover from Rutledge's servants what he had done
the night before, and they had all sworn that Rutledge had retired
to his bed at ten o'clock and had not left it until rising as usual
at six the next morning.

Again, no reason presented itself, at least
on the surface. If Rutledge had found out that his daughter and
Sebastian were yearning for each other, I could imagine him wanting
to kill Sebastian. But Middleton? As far as I could see, the two
men had had little contact.

I rode back to the school, unsatisfied. I
knew so little. I would have to discover everything about
Middleton--his connections and his friends and his enemies. I would
have to pry into his life with Denis and beyond.

I would have to discover why anyone would
bother cutting the throat of a man who'd simply come to enjoy
working with horses in peace of the Berkshire countryside.

*** *** ***

I had no time to investigate that afternoon,
because Rutledge spied me returning. Angry that I'd disappeared for
so long, he piled me with work until supper.

I managed to speak briefly with Belinda after
I left the study and before I returned to my own rooms for my meal.
I'd spied her in Rutledge's garden, and I slipped out there,
pretending to take a short, leg-stretching stroll and encounter her
by chance. Swiftly, while I tipped my hat and bowed, I told her
that Sebastian was well and that, at this point, she was to say
absolutely nothing about meeting him the night before the murder. I
would give her further instructions later.

I walked away as she drew breath to ask
questions. I knew it cruel, but I could not chance that her father
would note any lengthy conversation with her.

After Bartholomew fed me supper, removed the
tray, and served me claret that Grenville had sent with me, I went
over things with him. Bartholomew had already made friends with
every other lackey about the place, and likely knew the gossip
upstairs and down about the inhabitants of each house. I told
Bartholomew what Fletcher had talked about, and I asked if he had
learned anything from the other servants about the boy called
Ramsay.

"Yes, sir," Bartholomew said, dribbling wine
into my glass. "From what I gather, he's a quiet tyke. Not the
mischievous kind, I'd 'uv said, but not cowed much by the others,
either. The tutors call him Ramsay
minor
. That means he has
an older brother, that they called Ramsay major, even though the
older brother's gone off to work for his father. No one called me
and Matthias
minor
and
major
," he went on, chuckling.
"Mostly they just shouted at us to bring their boots."

"Which of you would be major?" I asked
curiously. The brothers looked much alike and were roughly the same
age. I'd long thought them twins, but Grenville had told me they
were not. Grenville did not know himself which was the elder and
which the younger.

Bartholomew cleared up the matter. "Matthias
is older," he said. He caught up one of my boots and leaned against
the table to clean it. He spat on the leather and scrubbed busily
with a brush. "But not by much. I popped up less than a year after
he did. We have two more brothers, younger than us, about one year
apart." He grinned. "Our mum and dad, they were much partial to
each other."

I smiled, imagining the four brothers in a
rough and tumble but happy household. "Ramsay is a normal boy,
you'd say?"

"I wouldn't call any of the lads here
normal
, sir. Their fathers' arses are all planted on piles
of money so high they must go dizzy. Ramsay's dad is rich as
sneezes, they say. Like them Rothschilds."

"Ramsay is in this house, am I correct?" I
inquired.

Bartholomew spat again, brushed vigorously.
"Stands to reason. It's much easier for him to get up here to put a
snake in your bed than if he were at Fairleigh."

"Do you think you could get your hands on
young Ramsay? I'd like to ask him a few questions."

Bartholomew set down the boot. "Right now,
sir?"

"Yes, unless he is meant to be doing
something else. I do not wish to get the boy into trouble with
Rutledge."

"You leave it to me, sir."

Bartholomew left the room, a spring in his
step.

I envied his energy, and his youth. I had to
say, however, that so far my stay in the country had been good for
me. Riding each morning was beginning to harden my muscles again,
and the fresh country air renewed my appetite, which had never been
light to begin with.