The Sudbury School Murders (3 page)

*** *** ***

Rutledge had already heard by the time I
returned. He glared at me in utter fury, a vein pulsing in his
forehead, when I arrived in the front hall of the Head Master's
house.

The prefect, Sutcliff, stood behind Rutledge,
his face a mixture of consternation and interest. Fletcher and the
mathematics tutor next to him did not bother to hide their
curiosity.

"Tell the constable to arrest that gypsy,"
Rutledge barked. "Bloody thieves will murder us in our beds. Should
not even be allowed to walk about. Middleton did a bad day's work
hiring him, and he's paid for it. What are you standing there for,
man? Go and have done."

I noted a fleeting movement on the stairs
high above, heard a faint gasp. I looked up without seeming to and
saw who I thought I'd see, Rutledge's daughter, Belinda. She was
twenty years old and kept house for her father, rarely leaving
their chambers.

"There is no evidence that Sebastian killed
him," I pointed out. "We have only a corpse with his throat cut,
and not even the knife that did it."

"I do not recall asking your opinion, Lacey.
Either you go, or I send someone else."

Rutledge turned on his heel and marched away,
growling at a group of boys who had come to see what the fuss was
about.

*** *** ***

The constable did arrest Sebastian. I do not
think the man would have dared had he confronted Sebastian alone.
But in the stable yard, among the group of stable hands who did not
much like Sebastian anyway, the constable lifted his chin and told
the Romany to come with him.

Sebastian, for the first time since I'd met
him, raised his voice. "No. I did not do this."

"Now then," the constable replied, a bit
nervously. "Enough of that. Come with me."

A look of abject panic spread over
Sebastian's swarthy face. He tried to run. The stable hands caught
him. Bartholomew started forward to help the stable hands seize
Sebastian, but I grabbed his coat and hauled him back.

"No," I said. "Something is not right."

Bartholomew looked at me in amazement. "But
he's Romany, sir. They're liars and thieves, everyone knows
it."

"That may be. But I do not think Sebastian
killed Middleton."

"No, sir?"

"Why should he?" I asked impatiently.
"Middleton showed kindness, and, I must say, good sense, in hiring
him. Not many would hire one of the Roma."

Bartholomew wrinkled his brow, trying to
resolve my words with his prejudices.

"I cannot say why I think so," I said.
"Perhaps I am foolish, perhaps I like Sebastian because the horses
like him, I do not know. But Middleton being Denis' man puts a
different complexion on things."

Bartholomew nodded, somewhat dubiously.

Sebastian struggled, but he could not break
free. He sent me a look of frozen terror. The appeal in his eyes
moved me. I knew that if I tried to help him, I would set myself
squarely against Rutledge, but at this point, I cared nothing for
that.

*** *** ***

Rutledge expected me to take up my duties as
usual that day, just as he expected the tutors to continue with
their lectures. A corpse in the canal should not, to his mind,
interfere with the smooth running of the school.

My regular routine was to write letters for
Rutledge after breakfast and before dinner. During this time, I
read Rutledge's correspondence, answered what I could, and waited
for him to dictate what he needed to answer himself. I also made
his appointments, reminded him of upcoming events, and wrote
formulaic letters on his behalf to people who had visited or been
beneficial to the school.

We worked in a study that was a bright,
surprisingly pleasant room, which occupied the end of a wing in the
Head Master's house. Windows lined three walls, and paintings of
landscapes filled the spaces between the windows. A portrait of a
serene woman in a black riding habit and broad-brimmed hat hung
over Rutledge's desk. “The late Mrs. Rutledge,” my employer had
grunted when I'd asked her identity.

Mrs. Rutledge looked as though she'd been far
more interesting than her husband. Dark, intelligent eyes above her
long nose held good humor and comfort. I found myself looking into
those eyes more than once when annoyed by Rutledge. I wondered how
she had weathered living with him. Had she met his prickly
personality with a fire of her own, or had he cowed her as much as
he did his daughter?

Today, though Rutledge wanted to carry on as
usual, he was more abrupt and angry than normal. He growled that I
was too slow, my writing unclear, my manner offensive. Through it
all I ground my teeth and answered him as it suited me. He had
already learned that he could not cow me with his abruptness though
he did not like this.

At last, Rutledge, too impatient to sit
still, took himself off to harass his tutors. Left alone, I
finished my work without interruption and found time to attend to
my own correspondence.

I wrote first to Grenville, informing him of
the murder and the unusual circumstances. I wrote curtly that I
wished he'd apprised me of the true reason to send me down to
Sudbury, keeping my sentences short and pointed. I knew I was rude,
but my anger at his deception had not abated.

Next I wrote to James Denis. I had never
written a letter to the man before, preferring to avoid him as much
as possible. But I informed him briefly of the death of Middleton.
I wondered what Denis would make of the news, or if he'd indeed had
a hand in Middleton's death. If he had wanted Middleton dead, Denis
would tell me. He did not bother to lie about his crimes.

I kept my letter short. I sanded it, folded
it, and directed it to number 45, Curzon Street, Mayfair.

I had just laid it aside when the door to the
room opened. I expected Rutledge, and so kept my eyes on my work,
but when I heard no noise, I raised my head.

A young woman peered around the doorframe,
her face anxious. Belinda Rutledge had the coloring of her mother,
dark hair, dark eyes, and white skin. But while her mother's eyes
held a challenge, Belinda's only ever looked timid.

I rose to my feet politely and made a small
bow. "Miss Rutledge, good morning. I am afraid your father is not
here."

She glanced once behind her, fear plain on
her face, then she took a few steps into the room. "Captain Lacey,"
she whispered hurriedly, "is it true that Sebastian--that the
Romany stable lad--has been arrested?"

"Yes," I confirmed.

Her face whitened. "Why? He did not do it."
The words were spoken with conviction.

"Why do you say so?" I asked curiously.

"Because he would never have done such a
thing." She glanced behind her again. "And, last night, Sebastian
was . . . he was speaking to me. Near the canal."

I hid a sigh. She was young, Sebastian was
young, she was pretty, he was handsome. It was inevitable that the
two should be attracted to one another.

Before I could answer, I heard Rutledge's
unmistakable tread in the hall, his growl as he dismissed a
servant. He tramped into the study and halted, his glare resting
first on me, then his daughter. "What is this, Belinda? What are
you doing here?"

"Miss Rutledge was looking for you," I
extemporized. "She assumed you here. I told her you would be along
any moment."

Rutledge did not soften. "Yes? Well, then,
girl, what do you want?"

Belinda, pale and shaking, said, "I wish to
go into Sudbury and visit Miss Pettigrew."

"Eh?" Rutledge scowled and hesitated as
though trying to think of a reason he didn't want her out of his
sight. Then he grunted. "Take Pringle with you." Pringle was one of
the housemaids, a dour, forty-year-old woman I'd seen determinedly
dogging Belinda's footsteps.

Belinda looked dismayed, but she curtseyed
and retreated from the room as rapidly as she could.

Rutledge growled. "Ladies can keep nothing in
their heads but shopping and gossip."

I knew he wronged her, but I said nothing. I
had learned early on that I should not bring up the subject of
Rutledge's private life. Rutledge curtailed any interest in his
family with blunt, scornful requests to keep my questions to
myself.

Rutledge settled himself behind his desk and
began to sort through papers that I had already sorted. It occurred
to me, as I watched him, that Sebastian had been taken to the
constable's house in Sudbury. I'd seen the anguish on Belinda's
face, and she had just obtained her father's permission to go to
Sudbury. I had a feeling that she would neglect to request Pringle
to accompany her.

"Do you need me on the moment?" I asked
Rutledge.

He looked up, brows high. "Why?"

"I have a few errands I must run. And letters
to post. Including yours."

"Everyone is in such a hurry," Rutledge said.
"If Middleton had minded his job, he'd not have got himself
murdered."

I doubted that Middleton had simply been in
the wrong place at the wrong time, but I did not say so. I did not
thank Rutledge, either. I simply took my leave.

*** *** ***

I caught up with Belinda Rutledge when she
left the gates to the school's drive and entered the road to
Sudbury. As I'd speculated, she did not have Pringle with her, but
another of the housemaids, a young woman who looked much more
biddable. It was raining. Belinda carried a wide umbrella and wore
pattens, shoes with high metal frames that would keep her feet out
of the mud.

I had hurried across the grounds to meet her,
and my boots were already well caked with mud. "Miss Rutledge," I
called.

She turned. She looked alarmed, but she
stopped.

"Miss Rutledge," I began at once, "do not try
to see Sebastian."

Her look turned panicked. "My father sent
you."

I shook my head, water dripping from the ends
of my hair. "I have not discussed this with your father. But you
must promise me not to visit him. It can do neither of you any
good."

"I know he did not kill Mr. Middleton!"
Belinda wailed. "They will lock Sebastian in a room for something
he did not do. He cannot bear to be locked indoors." Her voice
became rapid, pleading. "They will treat him cruelly, because he is
Romany."

"But if you attempt to see him, Miss
Rutledge, you will give yourself away."

Belinda stopped, confusion in her eyes. "He
so fears being kept indoors, Captain. It is torment to him."

I remembered the panic on Sebastian's face
when the men had dragged him away. "I also find it difficult to
believe that Sebastian killed the groom," I told her. "But you must
fix on the purpose of staying well away from him. You can only hurt
him if you reveal that you care for his well-being."

Tears darkened her eyes. "How can that be?
That caring for someone can hurt them?"

I knew better than she ever would how that
could be. But I was twice her age and knew my words would not
change her mind. "I will go to Sudbury and inquire after him," I
said. "I will see that he is not poorly treated."

Her eyes took on a light of hope. I hid a
sigh. I did not want to become her champion. I did not know whether
I could succeed in making it clear that Sebastian was not a
murderer. The Roma were the enemies of rural people. They stole
horses, chickens, and other livestock, and possibly, children. Why
should they not murder as well?

"I would be ever grateful to you, Captain
Lacey," Belinda said with too much admiration.

"I will see what I can do. Go back home and
stay there. I will let you know what I have done."

"When?" she asked. "You can get messages to
me through Bridgett-- "

I held up my hand. "I will let you know. You
must trust me and say nothing."

She nodded. I thought I understood some of
Rutledge's exasperation. Belinda was not stupid, but she was young
and romantic. Her father's secretary sending her secret
correspondence via a maid would be the height of foolishness. I
could be dismissed, or worse, and I hated to think what Rutledge
would do to Belinda.

I would not like to see her hurt, but I hoped
that when the infatuation between her and Sebastian ended, it would
bring her back down to earth.

I said good-bye, touched my hat, and went to
fetch a horse to take me to Sudbury.

* * * * *

Chapter Three

The village of Sudbury lay on a stretch of
the canal between Hungerford and Froxfield. The canal and the
school had made tiny Sudbury important. Bargemen and parents of
Sudbury boys frequented its public houses and inns, and tutors and
pupils walked its lanes. The High Street retained much charm of the
Tudor age. The half-timbered and stone houses were rather
crumbling, but for historians, it was a fine place to stroll and
contemplate old England.

I left my horse in the yard at the tavern and
approached the constable's house at the end of the High Street. A
cat sat square in the middle of the cobbles before the house,
washing its face. I bade it a polite good morning.

My knock was answered by a large woman in, of
all things, a fine lawn dress with short sleeves. The sleeves cut
into the folds of her plump arms, ballooning her skin. She wore a
stiff white cap with tapes that were soiled and worn. She regarded
me with a wary eye, her lips pursed. She was an unbecoming woman,
and I do not mean she was plain. I could see a prettiness that time
had marred only a little, but her demeanor had been soured by
belligerence.

"What is it?" she snapped.

I removed my rain-drenched hat and made her a
polite bow. "Good morning. I am Captain Lacey. I would like to
speak to the Romany, Sebastian, if I may."

She folded her arms. "And why would you be
wanting to do that?"

"Sebastian was employed by the school, as am
I," I said. "Naturally, I am interested in his well-being."