The Sudbury School Murders (14 page)

"An odd reason to lose one's temper." I
accepted the cup of coffee that Bartholomew had been trying to
press into my hands since we'd entered the room. "I never thought
Fletcher much for thrashing. He never struck me as being cowed by
the boys. More indifferent to them, I thought."

"Well, he certainly took a cane to Sutcliff,"
Grenville said. "Rutledge is furious. I imagine the Sutcliff money
funds much of this school. Drink it yourself, Bartholomew. I am not
in the mood for coffee." Bartholomew turned away, apologetic.

"Mr. Fletcher is sulking in his rooms,"
Matthias offered. "At least, that's what his maid says. Won't come
out."

"What about Sutcliff?"

"In a towering fury," Grenville put in. "He's
going about as usual, in high dudgeon. Implying that Fletcher will
be sacked, and so forth."

Bartholomew grinned around the coffee cup.
"The other boys are in transports. They hate Sutcliff. I'll wager
every one of them has wanted to thrash 'im themselves. They're
likely having their own little celebration." He chuckled.

"I am not entirely surprised the other boys
do not like him, from what I've seen," Grenville said. "Does he
have
any
friends here?"

Bartholomew shook his head. "He is loathed by
one and all, sir. My mam would take a stick to him, that's for
certain."

"His mam will likely be dependent on him one
day and knows it," I put in.

"True, poor woman," Grenville agreed.

I drank my coffee. It had begun raining
again, and I was cold, my muscles stiff. Between sips, I informed
them of all Jeanne Lanier had told me.

Grenville listened, interested. When I asked
what he had done, he confessed he'd chatted with some of the boys,
but had not yet had the chance to search Middleton's quarters. I
suggested that while everyone in the school was up in arms about
Fletcher and Sutcliff that we take ourselves there.

Grenville and I walked through rain to the
stables by ourselves, leaving the two footmen to gossip with
servants and find out more about Fletcher's outburst. Grenville
carried a large black umbrella, held over his costly suit and
greatcoat.

As we walked, Grenville told me what he'd
learned from young Mr. Timson. He'd found Timson to be a typical
bully with a few hangers-on and a cowed younger student who acted
as a veritable slave for him. Bribed with a flask of brandy Timson
had admitted to sharing a smoke with Ramsay on Sunday night.
Ramsay, he'd said, had turned tail and run after the first
cheroot.

Timson had seen a man pass on the road, on
the other side of the brush, but he could not say who. He'd not set
eyes on Sutcliff. Neither had Timson's friends.

I mused, "I wonder why Ramsay, whose father
is almost as wealthy as Sutcliff's from what I understand, needs to
obtain his cheroots from Timson. Can he not purchase his own?"

Grenville gave a pained laugh. "I know
exactly why. To keep Timson from despising him."

I raised my brows. Grenville's black umbrella
was beaded with water, and beneath its shadow, he wore a rueful
grin. I disliked umbrellas and was letting the rain do its worst to
my hat. "Why on earth should he care whether Timson despised
him?"

"Twenty-five years ago, I was Ramsay,"
Grenville said. "Or very like him. I was the son of the man with
the most money. I hated that. I just wanted to be one of the
chaps."

"So Ramsay puts up with Timson so that he can
be one of the chaps? I suppose that makes a sort of sense."

Grenville nodded. "Better to grin and take
Timson's sneers with the others than to be universally despised,
like Sutcliff. Good lord, I would have."

"I am beginning to wonder how any of us
survived to adulthood," I remarked.

"My father told me that the boys I'd meet at
Eton would be my cronies for a lifetime. Quite frightening, I
thought. Perhaps it was that which spurred my fondness for travel."
He chortled.

"With your fondness for travel," I said, "I
am surprised you've remained in England for this long."

He looked at me in surprise. "It has been
only a year or so, Lacey."

"I read a newspaper article about you not
long ago, in which the writer made the same observation. He implied
that you rarely stayed in England above six months at a time."

Grenville shrugged. "I am getting old,
belike. I become ill when I travel, as you know, and comfort is
beginning to have greater importance."

"But you are growing tired of London life," I
said. We had reached the stables, and I stopped outside the yard.
"You long to be off, exploring distant realms. That is why you
hurried down to Sudbury the minute something sordid happened. This
murder should not interest you much. There has been an arrest, and
all agree Sebastian the Romany is guilty."

"Except you," Grenville said. "Hence my
interest. "But you might be correct. One can only stand in White's
and pass judgment on knots in others' cravats for so long. I am
fond of Egypt, as you know. Perhaps, when I take the fit to travel
there again, you would accompany me?"

I blinked. I had toyed with the idea of
offering to be his paid assistant or secretary when he traveled
again, but I'd thought I'd have to persuade him. Now he offered it
between one breath and the next. He was offering to pay my
expenses, because he knew bloody well I could not.

"How would we fare as traveling companions?"
I asked. "I am not the easiest man to live with."

"Nor am I. We would arrange something so that
we were not in each other's pockets. I would be lying ill in my
cabin for most of the voyage, in any case. Do consider it."

"Unfortunately, at present, I am busy with my
duties at the Sudbury School," I said.

He threw me an accusing glance. "I know. I
apologize, Lacey. I had forgotten what an idiot Rutledge could be.
I truly thought you could uncover his problem, and he would shower
you with gratitude." He sighed. "My benevolence seems to have
backfired."

His contrite look did not quite make me
forgive him, but I decided not to be surly. "Rutledge is not your
fault, and the problem is much more subtle than it first appeared.
Shall we commence with Middleton's chamber?"

* * * * *

Chapter Ten

The stable hand Thomas Adams grudgingly
pointed us the way to the room Middleton had occupied during the
six months he'd lived here.

The stable hands slept in a sort of dormitory
above the stables, with bunks along the walls. It was warm there,
the horses in their boxes below lending their heat and fragrance to
the air.

Middleton had had a room to himself, more of
a walled off portion of the dormitory. The room was simply
furnished. He'd had a low-post bedstead with a straw mattress, a
table and a chair, and hooks for his clothes.

The clothes had gone, but the table still
held a pile of papers, weighted down by a large book.

The one window looked out over the stable
yard and the land beyond. The canal was a flat, gray line across
the green. I could see the lock and the lockkeeper's house. A low
barge was floating toward the lock, slowing as it approached. The
lockkeeper emerged from his house, brushing off the front of his
coat, and trudged to meet it.

"This is interesting," Grenville said behind
me.

I turned from the window. Grenville had moved
the book and was now leafing through the pile of papers. He
unfolded one and spread it across the table.

I moved to him and looked over his shoulder.
"What is it?"

He had spread out a finely detailed map of
the Kennet and Avon Canal. The map depicted the portion of the
canal from Kintbury in the east to Devises in the west. Every
village was marked, as was every lock and every bridge on the
canal. A solid vertical line marked the boundary between Berkshire
and Wiltshire.

"Was Middleton interested in canal
navigation?" Grenville wondered aloud. "He was a horseman, was he
not?"

I flipped through more papers. These were
also maps, sketches of the canal and the lands beyond, each
focusing on a small fragment of canal. On two maps, a line of
another canal intersected the main canal, one at Hungerford and
another at Newbury.

"But there are no canals there," Grenville
said. "Are there?" He looked at the main map. It showed only the
Kennet and Avon Canal, with no offshoots. "I admit I do not know
the layout of every waterway in England," he said, "but I am fairly
certain there are no branches of the canal there."

"Perhaps they are old maps with proposed
routes that were never finished," I suggested. "This canal was only
opened completely end to end seven years ago."

"But why would Middleton be interested in the
canal before or after it was finished? And keep detailed maps of it
in his room?"

I touched the drawing of the canal offshoot
from Hungerford. "Perhaps it one of Denis' schemes. Something Denis
asked him to look into."

Grenville frowned. "It is most bizarre. Shall
we go to Hungerford and see whether this map is true?"

"Now?" I asked, alarmed.

"Why not? The rain is slackening, and we have
the remainder of the afternoon. Unless Rutledge is screaming for
you to write more letters."

For the first time since I arrived, I hoped
he was. I did not want Grenville wandering about Hungerford with
Marianne there. Although, I reasoned, if Rutledge detained me,
Grenville would likely traipse off to Hungerford alone.

Grenville rolled up the Hungerford map and
tucked it inside his greatcoat. "Shall we borrow a few horses? I
hate to rouse my coachman for the chaise and four for such a short
journey."

"Very well," I said, my voice hard.

His brows rose. "You do not sound keen,
Lacey. You are usually quite bursting with curiosity."

I was, but I still did not want Grenville at
Hungerford.

I hid my foreboding and descended with him to
fetch the horses.

*** *** ***

Our journey to Hungerford proved fruitless.
The map was so well marked that we found the spot of the proposed
canal without difficulty. It lay near Hungerford Marsh Lock on the
common lands where farmers could still graze their animals without
fear of landlords or enclosure.

We found the place all right, but no sign of
any canal, new or old. Grenville dismounted his horse and walked
about the tall grass, trailing the reins loosely behind him. "I see
nothing," he said. "Not even a stray surveyor's stake or mark."

Still in my saddle, I saw nothing either.

We searched the area, Grenville walking with
his head bent, studying the ground minutely.

"Bloody mystifying," he said, remounting his
patient horse. "Why draw a map of something that does not
exist?"

"Perhaps it will exist one day," I said.

"Hmm. I suppose we could check in London to
see whether someone is funding a new offshoot of the canal. Perhaps
you are right and Denis is involved. He is good at having his
finger in money-making pies. Canals make money."

"Yes," I answered. "Or perhaps Middleton
wanted to be free of Denis. He comes here to see whether the canal
offshoot will actually happen, so that he can invest."

"Well, he must have been disappointed,"
Grenville said. "There is no sign that there will ever be any canal
building here. Shall we return to the rigid atmosphere of the
school? Or wet our throats in a tavern?"

"The school," I said promptly. When he raised
his brows, I feigned a smile. "The claret you brought with you is
much finer than anything we'll find in a tavern."

"True," he conceded. "We'll shut ourselves in
my chambers and refuse to answer the door."

"Like Fletcher," I mused, and then we rode
back.

*** *** ***

At least we saw no sign of Marianne. We had
been poking about to the west of Hungerford, and her lodgings were
on the east end of the town, but even so, I held my breath until we
gained the stable yard again and dismounted.

I tried to see Fletcher while Grenville took
himself back to his chambers to change from his riding clothes to
his sitting-and-drinking-claret clothes. Fletcher opened his
chamber door to my knock and peered out. He smelled heavily of
port.

"Hallo, Lacey," he said, breathing hard. "I
do not wish to talk about it."

"Are you well?"

The eye he pressed to the crack was puffy and
red. "As well as can be expected. Good afternoon." He shut the door
in my face.

There was nothing for it, but I should leave
him alone.

Grenville and I had our claret, then I went
down to take supper in the hall while Grenville remained in his
rooms. He wanted an early night, he said.

Fletcher did not make an appearance at
supper. Rutledge glared at Fletcher's empty chair. Sutcliff, his
face white, his nostrils pinched, ate rigidly at the head of his
table. There was much nudging and tittering among the boys when
Rutledge's eye was not on them.

Rutledge took me to his study after supper
and bade me write more correspondence for him and help him go over
expenses. He was in a foul mood and found fault with everything I
did, but I chose not to heed him. The fact that I did not cower or
shout back enraged him even more, I believe.

His wife smiled serenely down while he
spluttered. When he caught me returning the smile, he let out a
string of vile invectives and dismissed me for the night.

I simply neatened the papers on my desk,
stood, and left him alone.

*** *** ***

I imagined Rutledge still cursing when I rose
earlier than usual, dressed and shaved myself, and went out to meet
Marianne.

I had to wait for her. The early morning air
was cold, and I hugged my greatcoat close. Several boats moved
along the canal, bathed in mist. The horses plodded on the towpath,
heads down, led by equally plodding men. Bargemen on the backs of
the long, narrow boats steered through the waters. The towropes
hung slack then went taut, then slack again.