The Sudbury School Murders (6 page)

I liked it. I stared into the flames and
contemplated the differences between life here and my life in
London. I really ought to return to Norfolk, I thought. My home was
there, and so were my memories.

My memories. Memories were why I had gone to
London and not east and north to the fens when I had returned to
England. There were certain memories I did not want to face in
Norfolk, even after all these years. I felt them there, waiting for
me. Here in Berkshire, on the border of Wiltshire, the tentacles of
the memories were weaker. But I'd felt them even in India, strive
as I might to break them off.

What I ought to do was return there with part
of my new life, with a person who could banish the memories. Louisa
Brandon could do that. She was stronger even than memories of my
father and my deep boyish hurt when I'd realized as a child that
he'd hated me. Louisa could look at me with her wise gray eyes, put
her hand on mine, and say, "It does not matter any longer,
Gabriel." And thus it would be true.

Of course, I could not be traveling to
Norfolk any time soon. Here I was in Berkshire, earning money to
stave off poverty, investigating vicious pranks and a murder.
Norfolk, and memories, would have to wait.

Bartholomew was a long time in returning, so
I rose and limped across the room to refill my glass. I noted my
boots positioned neatly on the floor. They had never been so shiny
until Bartholomew had come to work for me. I'd had a batman in the
army, but his idea of shining boots had been to bang off the mud
and most of the dung and toss them into a corner. At the time I
hadn't cared--they'd simply get muddy again.

I heard Bartholomew's tread in the hall as I
sat down again. He opened the door and pushed young Ramsay inside
with a beefy hand on the boy's shoulder. I greeted Ramsay and
offered him a glass of claret.

He accepted. He walked quickly to the chair
by the fire, seized the glass Bartholomew brought him and took a
long gulp.

Ramsay minor was at the age of just before he
would shoot into his full height and his voice would drop. He had
very light brown hair and blue eyes and pale skin. He held his
claret glass with a practiced air, but he did not relax.

"What is your other name, Ramsay?" I asked
pleasantly. "The one your mother calls you?"

He assessed me over the rim of his glass.
"Didius, sir."

"Didius," I mused. "Very Latin."

"Yes, sir."

"Nothing to be ashamed of. My Christian name
is Gabriel. Very Biblical, I've always thought. I hope Bartholomew
did not frighten you when he persuaded you to come to see me?"

Ramsay cast a glance at Bartholomew, who
grinned back at him. The boys as a whole seemed to like
Bartholomew, who was good-natured and friendly. Bartholomew knew
his place, at the same time offering his own brand of wisdom in his
deferential way. He also towered at least six and a half feet high
and had biceps that bulged and flexed in an alarming fashion. I'd
spotted more than one boy feeling his own arms after seeing
him.

"No, sir," Ramsay said.

"Good. Now, Mr. Ramsay, why did you decide I
was a lover of reptiles?"

Ramsay jumped, looked guilt-stricken. "It was
just a bit of fun, sir. You know."

I tried to sound reassuring, but had already
realized, during my brief stay here, that I had no idea how to talk
to boys. "I do know, Ramsay, I've been to school. How did you
manage it? You have to walk right past Rutledge's sitting room to
get to my stairs."

Ramsay's gaze went to the window. "Climbed
the tree outside."

I was impressed. "And no one saw you?" My
room overlooked a bleak hill that led to the canal. The path below
was much frequented, and the boys played cricket in a field not far
from the walls.

"It was dark already."

"Are you telling me you climbed up that tree,
in the dark, carrying a snake?"

"Yes, sir."

I raised my glass. "I commend your ability
and bravery. The snake did not frighten me, Ramsay."

"I know, sir."

I took a contemplative sip of wine. Ramsay
did the same. "The other events here," I said slowly, "have not
been quite as harmless."

Did I imagine a glint of apprehension in his
eye? Or would any boy look so, while questioned by the secretary to
the headmaster?

"No, sir."

He could not seem to drop the
sir
.
Ramsay could have addressed me as he would other servants--by last
name alone. Perhaps something in my air prompted the
sir
. My
late father would have had apoplexy that Ramsay dared address me at
all. The boy's family, despite their great wealth, were merchant
class, their status below my family's landed gentry. My father
would not have even spoken to Ramsay or his father had he met them.
He would have snarled something about upstart burghers and crossed
the street to get away from them. Even as he'd owed half the
bankers and money-lenders in London, he had despised them.

"I will tell you the truth, Ramsay." I leaned
forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Rutledge has asked me to
look into the pranks. But I am not Rutledge's toady. I will learn
all I can, and then decide what to tell him."

"Yes, sir."

I could not discern whether he believed me or
not. "Nor will I reveal to him the source of my information. So I
wonder if you will tell me, what are your own opinions on the
matter?"

Ramsay looked at me in surprise. I suppose
he'd thought I was leading up to accusing him of the crimes. He
took a fortifying drink of claret. "I really couldn't say,
sir."

"I know you do not want to peach on your
fellows, but I will keep anything you suggest to me in confidence.
I am not certain how to convince you that is true, but I will give
you my word, as a gentleman."

Ramsay looked doubtful. "Were you in the war,
sir? Some of the lads said you were in the cavalry."

"In Portugal and Spain. Not at Waterloo."

Most people looked disappointed when I told
them that. I had fought the entire savage war on the Iberian
Peninsula, the six years we had pushed Napoleon from Spain, step by
bloody step. But because I had quit the army and returned to London
after Bonaparte's abdication, I could not wear the Waterloo cross
and so was considered somewhat second-rate.

Ramsay, on the other hand, simply nodded. "My
father says that the war was won because of English bankers, not
soldiering." He paused, looked at my raised brow, and finished, "My
father is an ass."

I strove not to laugh. "Arthur Wellesley was
a fine general. He knew how to make the most of a situation and how
to persevere with what he had. He set out to wear down Bonaparte,
and he did it."

"Yes, sir."

"I beg your pardon, Ramsay, I did not mean to
lecture. Well, if you do not have any views on the prankster,
perhaps you do have views on the murder this morning."

Ramsay again looked startled. "It was
horrible."

"It was. Do you, like all the others, believe
it was Sebastian?"

Ramsay immediately shook his head. He did not
even take time to think. "No, sir. I put the blame on Freddy
Sutcliff."

I stared at him in surprise. Bartholomew, who
was brushing my clothes on the other side of the room and
pretending not to listen, froze.

"Sutcliff?" I repeated. "The prefect?"

Ramsay nodded. "Yes, sir."

I thought about Frederick Sutcliff. He was
tall, nearly as tall as I was, but with the thin, spidery look of a
young man not yet grown into his body. A prefect was employed to
keep the other boys in line when they weren't overseen by the house
master. From what I had seen of Sutcliff, he'd used his post to
become a brutal little tyrant.

"Does he have a violent nature?" I asked.

"I wouldn't have said so, no," Ramsay said.
"Though he doesn't hesitate to box a chap's ears whenever he
likes."

"What makes you think he killed Middleton?
Murder is a bit different from boxing a chap's ears."

"Because I saw him, sir. He left the house
last night and hightailed it toward Sudbury."

"He did, did he?" I asked, alert.

"Yes. I saw Middleton the groom leave the
stables. He walked on the road, toward the village. Not long after,
I saw Sutcliff go over the wall. He ran across country toward the
road. To cut him off, like."

I grew excited. "Did you see them meet?"

"No. Too many trees in the way."

"Are you certain it was Sutcliff? Were you
looking out of the window of your bed chamber? He must have been a
long way from you if you watched him climb the wall."

Ramsay flushed. "I wasn't in my chamber." He
tightened his lips, then decided to plunge in completely. "I was on
the other side of the wall myself. I started to climb back, then I
heard someone coming up on the school side. I hid in the brush. I
saw Sutcliff vault over, then melt into the shadows. 'Twas him, all
right."

"Interesting," I said. "And what were you
doing on the other side of the wall, if I may ask?"

"Went to share a cheroot with some other
lads. They started another, but I came back. Timson was one of
them, and he was already drunk. He's disgusting enough when he's
sober. He likes to rag on me, anyway."

I sat back, wondering. Sutcliff could have
been pursuing his own business and might have nothing to do with
Middleton. Or, he could have followed Middleton, as Ramsay thought.
Why, I could not fathom. I would simply have to ask Sutcliff. I had
difficulty imagining the lad killing the canny Middleton, but
strange things happen. If nothing else, Sutcliff might have seen
Middleton meeting with his killer without realizing what he'd
seen.

"I appreciate your candor, Ramsay," I
finished. "Bartholomew, would you bring the box that Grenville sent
with me?"

Bartholomew, knowing what I wanted, grinned.
He fished in a drawer of the writing table and came back with a
polished box. Inside rested an assortment of small iced cakes that
Grenville's chef had prepared before I'd left London. Grenville
knew I did not have much of a sweet tooth, but Anton, the chef, had
insisted I would waste away in the country if I did not have a box
of cakes to help me between meals. Because Anton was a chef of fine
caliber, I did not decline the offer.

I offered a cake now to Ramsay. "Take one," I
said. "I guarantee it is better than Timson's cheroots."

"Did you say Grenville?" Ramsay asked, eyes
wide. "Thank you, I must say. Mr. Grenville, he's-- well, he's that
famous, isn't he? In all the papers and his caricature all over
London."

"He is that famous," I answered. "Rutledge
went to school with him."

"S'truth! Must have been a dashed odd school,
then, to turn out Mr. Grenville
and
the headmaster."

"It is a dashed odd school," I remarked.
"It's called Eton."

He did not smile at my feeble joke. "As you
say, sir."

I let it go. "Why does Timson rag on you,
Ramsay? I've seen him. Looks a perfectly ordinary little devil to
me, no better or worse than you."

Ramsay shrugged, unembarrassed. "Because my
father is wealthy. Timson and his mates think I will buy my way to
prefect, like Sutcliff. Not bloody likely. Sir."

"Did Sutcliff buy his way to prefect?"

"His father did. Sutcliff will have all his
father's money once his father turns up trumps. Sutcliff reminds us
every day."

"I see. A braggart."

"An awful one, sir." Ramsay reached in,
snatched the topmost cake. "Thank you, sir. Sorry about the
snake."

"No harm done." I snapped the box shut. "But
no more of them."

Ramsay shook his head, clutching his precious
pastry. "No, sir. I'll spread the word. You're not to be
touched."

* * * * *

Chapter Five

The next morning, I received a letter from
James Denis. He briefly thanked me for telling him of Middleton's
death. He also asked that I furnish him with the complete details
of the inquest and anything I discovered about the murder. He
stressed that it was most important. "Middleton sent me several
letters about the dangers there. Guard yourself."

I viewed the last sentences with surprise and
some mild annoyance. I agreed with Denis that danger lurked here,
and that blaming Sebastian for Middleton's death was not the right
solution. But I wished Denis had been clearer about what dangers
Middleton had hinted and who I was to guard against.

I tossed his letter aside and opened one from
Grenville. Grenville professed amazement at the murder and asserted
he wanted to come down as soon as he could get away. He was
distracted at the moment, he said, by the disappearance of Marianne
Simmons.

I stopped, brows rising. Marianne had lived
upstairs from me in London for the first year or so I'd lived in
rooms above a bake shop. She was an actress by trade, making her
living treading the boards at Drury Lane. With her golden curls and
childlike face, she also lived by enticing foolish gentlemen to
give her more money than they should.

Grenville himself had given her money; in
total, thirty gold guineas, though I tried to tell him not to waste
his coin. A few months ago, Grenville had taken Marianne from
Grimpen Lane and deposited her in a gilded cage on Clarges Street,
a fine Mayfair address. He'd given her every luxury, but she'd
chafed at her confinement and had amused herself by torturing
him.

Now, it seemed, she'd broken out of the cage
and flown. Grenville wrote of it in terse sentences. She had
disappeared a few days before. He had searched, but had not found
her. He had decided to hire a Bow Street Runner.

I blew out my breath, picked up a pen, and
prepared to write back that he should not do such a damn fool
thing.

I hesitated. It was not my business. I was
not terribly worried for Marianne's safety; she had often vanished
from her rooms for weeks at a time and returned without any harm
done. If Grenville hired a Runner to drag Marianne home, she would
simply leave again and find a more clever way of escaping. This was
a game he could not win.