The Sudbury School Murders

  "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.

  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 trul
y 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."

  * * * * *