The Sudbury School Murders (15 page)

Marianne arrived on foot. She wore a long
mantle and another deep-crowned bonnet. She marched across the
bridge and down to where I waited on the west bank.

She looked carefully past me. "You did not
bring
him
with you, did you?"

"I agreed that I would not."

She tilted her head back, eyeing me with a
hard gaze. "Gentlemen have broken their words to me before. They
laugh about it."

"But not I."

"Still, I am not certain it is a good
idea."

I grew impatient. "If you do not wish to tell
me, I will not press you. You are correct, it is not my
business."

She regarded me a moment longer. "You are
disarming with your show of honor, did you know that?"

"Not everyone finds me so."

"More fool they. My feet hurt, and it is a
long walk."

I nudged the horse to her, removed my foot
from the left stirrup, and held my gloved hand down to her.

She lifted her skirt, giving me a glimpse of
a long slender leg, then she thrust her foot into the stirrup and
vaulted upward, clinging to my hand as I pulled her into the
saddle.

She was evidently used to riding in front of
gentlemen, because she settled herself easily on the pommel of the
saddle, clutched the horse's mane, and returned the use of the
stirrup to me.

I nudged the horse into a walk again. She
gave me the direction, and we rode off past Froxfield and down a
track that led west of the town. Marianne's bonnet bumped my chin
and I had to twitch sideways to avoid it.

She directed me to a lane that led behind
hedgerows. We rode along this for about two miles, then the lane
began to rise, winding through taller trees and scrub.

Marianne told me to turn onto a barely marked
path between the trees. I guided the gelding slowly, ducking
beneath low branches.

She spoke little, except to guide me. I could
not imagine why we'd come back here, far from any farm. But she
offered no explanation.

The path finally died out in a small
clearing. Here, on a bleak pocket of land, stood a tiny house. The
cottage's roof was in ill repair. The two windows and door sagged,
and neither had seen paint in a long time. Noises came to us from
within. We heard a woman shouting, and then a wail, long and
winding and shrill. Marianne slid from the saddle and ran inside
the house without a word.

I dismounted more slowly, looped the horse's
reins over a branch, and stooped beneath a low lintel and into the
cottage.

I found what I expected to find. A kitchen
occupied the entirety of the cottage's ground floor, with a stair
in the corner that led to a room or rooms above. The place was
clean, though the cavernous fireplace smoked a little. The kitchen
table was littered with fruit, an open bag of flour, and a pot of
coarse salt.

The room was deserted, the back door open. I
ducked through and found myself in a surprisingly neat garden
surrounded by a crumbling wall.

Three people ran through the tall grasses
beyond the wall, Marianne, a plump woman who strove to keep up with
her, and a small person I could not well see, sprinting far
ahead.

I moved through the garden gate after them.
The large woman gave up, stood panting, hands on hips. When I
reached her, she stared at me, startled, but was too out of breath
to ask who I was.

Marianne eventually caught up to the child
she chased. Her bonnet tumbled off in the wind and fell to the
ground before the lad. His wails abruptly ceased. When he stooped
to grab the bonnet, Marianne swept him into her arms.

Astonishment kept me in place as she walked
back to us. The lad had long legs that reached to Marianne's knees,
and a square body, slightly running to fat. His hair was
wheat-colored. He laid his head on Marianne's shoulder and did not
lift it when she stopped before us. He seemed content to lie there
and let his limbs go slack while she swayed with him, back and
forth.

She looked at me over his head. "He is mine,"
she said, almost fiercely. "His name is David."

The boy lifted his head. His lethargy seemed
to leave him, and he squirmed to get down. Marianne set him on his
feet.

I put the lad about seven years old, and when
I saw his face, I realized what Marianne had hidden.

I had seen children like him before, and they
generally did not live very long. His nose was too broad in his
round face, especially at the bridge, where it flattened out into
his forehead. Low brows jutted out, giving him a frowning look over
rather vacant eyes.

"Shake hands," she told him.

David stared up at me, his mouth open. His
teeth were dirty and stained. He wore clothes that were soiled, but
the dirt came from his recent run through the field, plus flour
from the kitchen. The clothes had been fine ones, carefully
mended.

I held out my hand to the boy. He continued
to stare at me, as though he could not look away from my face.
Marianne took his hand, guided it to mine. I shook it. The hand
slid away, slack, as though he hadn't noticed.

"Marianne," I said.

The child, without breaking his unabashed
stare, suddenly slurred, "Who's he?"

"He is Captain Lacey," Marianne said. "My
friend."

Whether the boy registered this or not, he
continued to stare at me in blank fascination.

The plump woman was still out of breath. She
was not much older than Marianne, and her face was red and creased
with worry.

"I am sorry, madam," she said. "He was trying
to grub up the pies before I even made 'em, and then ran away when
I shouted at him." She looked apologetic, but not contrite.

"Never mind, Maddie," Marianne said. "Let us
return to the house. He's filthy."

Her own dress was ruined with mud from his
little boots. She took the lad's hand and pulled him around. He
planted his feet and would not move until I took his other hand and
walked along with them.

Once we'd gained the house, Maddie dragged
the lad to the fireplace and started stripping off his clothes, to
his squealing protest.

Marianne sank to a bench set against the
wall, looking exhausted. I sat next to her, resting my hand on my
walking stick. We waited in silence while Maddie cleaned David's
face and redressed him in a fresh shirt. He screamed for a while,
then as she swiped his nose several times, hard, he began to
laugh.

Maddie led David to a stool and sat him
there. She told him to stay, and then she returned to the table and
her pies.

David remained on the stool for nearly ten
minutes, sitting motionless. Then he climbed down, curled up on the
floor, and went to sleep. Marianne continued to sit silently.

"I can brew tea for you, if you like," Maddie
said to me as she worked. "You're the captain what lives downstairs
from Miss Simmons are you not? Not that she's polite enough to
introduce ye."

Marianne gave her an irritated look.
"Yes."

"No cause for anger," Maddie said. "From what
you say, he's a kind gentleman."

"Do not tell him so, he will become
arrogant," Marianne answered.

I declined the tea. Maddie shrugged as though
it made no difference to her, and began to mix butter into the
flour with her fingers. Marianne remained fixed in place. Maddie
worked. David slept.

I let questions spin through my head and then
fall silent. I knew now where Grenville's generous gifts to
Marianne had gone. They'd gone here, to Maddie, to buy food and
clothes for David.

I suddenly understood Marianne's grasping
selfishness, her economies that included borrowing my candles and
coal and snuff. I knew now why she did not want to be shut up in
Grenville's elegant house in Clarges Street. From there, she could
not visit David, could not make sure he was cared for.

From the slump of her shoulders, I guessed
that she was in no way proud of her sacrifice. She was tired of it;
she hated it. And yet, she must love David enough to continue
caring for him, to continue paying Maddie to look after him while
she worked in London.

I let out a small sigh. Marianne shot a glare
at me. She rose from the bench and stalked from the cottage without
a word. Maddie looked up from her pies but simply watched her
go.

I took up my walking stick, said good-bye to
Maddie, and followed Marianne.

She waited for me by the gelding, absently
stroking his neck. The horse stretched to yank leaves from the
tree, most of which it dropped.

"Marianne," I began. "You must tell
Grenville."

She turned to me, her face a study of misery.
"Would you? If you had a half-wit child, would you tell him?"

I was not certain what I'd do, but I
pretended that I would. "Grenville is a generous man. He can help
you. I know you are proud, Marianne, but you need his help."

She gave me a defiant look. "He is
not
generous. He gives me money only because I fascinate him, no more.
What do you think he'd do, did he know that his money went to
another man's child?"

I could not guess that, and she knew I could
not. "He deserves to know," I said stubbornly. "You are using his
coin."

She walked away from me, swiftly, without
looking back. I untied the horse, turned him, followed.

"Suppose he does prove to be generous?" she
snapped when I caught up to her. "You know what his generosity is
like. He will consider this cottage wretched, try to take David
away from it. He'll lock David away somewhere, perhaps in a private
house where David will be shut away from all eyes, including
mine."

I could not disagree with her. Grenville did
like to be high-handed, and he was not always predictable.

Still, I tried to defend him. "You are
supposing ahead of yourself. If Grenville wishes to put David in a
fine house with every comfort, where is the harm?"

She swung to me, her eyes moist. "Because
here, he is happy. He can run about and not be bothered. Maddie
does not mind him; she knows how to care for him. I do not want him
bewildered by a pack of jailers."

"I agree with you," I said. She looked
surprised. "But I still believe he deserves to know."

"You may think so," she said savagely.

"You cannot keep lying to him and hiding,
Marianne. He will grow tired of it and decide he's had enough."

She began walking again. "Well, it is simple
enough to unravel the tangle. I will cease accepting his money and
living in his house. I will be quit of him. Then he can spend his
money on some other lady who will be grateful for soft quilts and
silk dresses."

Her voice faltered at the end of this speech.
She walked along, her head down, her hair hiding her face. She had
left her bonnet behind.

"That is not fair to him," I said. "Nor to
you. I believe that you care for him."

Her flush told me I'd guessed correctly. "It
is useless for me to care for anyone. As you saw."

"Who is David's father?" I asked.

She looked up. "What?"

"Who is David's father? He ought to be giving
you coin and making certain his son is well. Name him, and I will
drag him here by the neck and shake him until his pockets
empty."

She gave me a faint, ironic smile. "Are you
not the gallant gentleman? It truly does not matter. I bore David
eight years ago, and his father died of a fever seven years ago,
the bloody fool."

"Well, then, his family ought to help you," I
persisted. "David is their kin."

"A by-blow and a half-wit? Oh, certainly, any
family would be pleased to hear of it."

I stopped again, turned her to me. "You
should not have to do this alone, Marianne."

"Do not pity me, Lacey. I am finished with
pity. I have been taking care of him for eight years now. I am used
to it."

"But you no longer need do it alone."

She looked at me in alarm. "Damn you, Lacey,
you gave me your word you would not tell him-- "

I held up my hand. "I did not mean Grenville,
I meant me. I know about David. I can help you."

She stared. "How on earth can you? You barely
have two coins to rub together yourself. And in any case, why
should you?"

"Do you judge a gentleman only on what he has
in his coffers? That is rather irritating of you. I can at least
let you talk about David. I can offer my advice, for whatever it is
worth, and my ear when you need it."

For one moment, I thought I saw her soften.
Marianne Simmons, who turned a hard face to the world, looked for a
brief moment, grateful.

The moment did not last long. "I told you, I
do not want your pity," she snapped. "David is happy. He does not
know that there is anything wrong with him."

"I am pleased to hear it. I am offering you
friendship, Marianne. It is all I have to offer. You may take it or
leave it alone, as you wish."

She turned away and remained silent while I
got myself awkwardly mounted, and boosted her once more into the
saddle.

She said, her voice sour, "You must have had
a fine upbringing, Lacey, to be so damn obliging."

"I had a terrible upbringing," I said,
turning the horse to the road. "But I am determined to be nothing
like my boor of a father. You will simply have to bear the brunt of
it. You have forgotten your bonnet, you know."

She touched her hand to her bare, golden
head. "Leave it," she said. "I hate the bloody thing."

* * * * *

Chapter Eleven

I took Marianne all the way back to
Hungerford. We were silent most of the way. Mist hugged the canal,
and we rode along the towpath through a hazy world of water and
greenery.

We reached Hungerford's High Street and went
on to the lane at the end. Before we reached the house, Marianne
said, with some of her usual acerbic manner, "By the bye, Mr.
Sutcliff visited again last night. He was not pleased to discover
that you had spoken to Jeanne Lanier."