I fully admitted to prejudice in my views--I had realized once that if someone were to come along and paint a red or blue spot on each of our foreheads, we who had the blue spots would congregate to other blue-spotters and come up with reasons why we were infinitely better than the red-spotters.
The Fairleighs contended that they were superior to the Head Masters and vice versa. Therefore, if any Head Master boy were caught sneaking into Fairleigh uninvited, said boy had better be fast on his feet and good with his fists. In addition, news of such a break-in would be all over school the next day.
Therefore, the prankster must either be a master of infiltration and deception, or there must be more than one.
I continued to drink my coffee, and Bartholomew and I continued to speculate on the pranks until I sought my bed and slumber. The matter of Middleton, for the time, was dropped.
But the matter reasserted itself almost immediately. Bartholomew woke me early the next morning to tell me that Middleton had been killed in the night, his body fetched up in a lock of the nearby canal.
* * * * *
Chapter Two
I had to saddle a horse myself in order to ride out to the canal the next morning because Sebastian and every other stable hand had abandoned their posts. Bartholomew boosted me aboard then followed me on foot to Lower Sudbury Lock and the crowd gathered there.
This canal was one leg of the Kennet and Avon Canal, which bisected England from Bath to Reading. I was told that over one hundred locks raised and lowered water so that canal boats could navigate across the heartland of England. The intricate locks and arched bridges were fairly new, the canal having been completed and open for use within the last decade.
This morning, my only interest in the canal was in the body of the hapless groom that floated in it.
The gates of the lock were closed, and a barge waited quietly on the lower side. The pumps clanked as the lockkeeper, a fleshy man with lank hair and sweat-stained clothes, turned the sluice wheel. Water noisily drained from the lock to the flat pond that housed the excess water. The parish constable, a sturdy man of about forty years, stood on the narrow parapet of the lock, peering over the side.
Bartholomew fell into conversation with a village lad, then reported what he said to me. "Lockkeeper found him not an hour ago. Came out to open the gates for the barge, and there was Middleton, floating all peaceful. They tried fishing him out with a boat hook, but couldn't catch him. Constable said send in the barge to get him out."
The waiting canal boat was long and narrow, its flat deck filled with goods. One bargeman watched from the tiller, while the other stood on shore, his teeth working a piece of straw. He held the barge horse, a large beast, which lowered its head to crop a patch of grass.
The lock was a simple mechanism, but one that had changed England forever. Locks allowed barges to move up or down hill without having to portage. Locks on this particular canal, I'd read, were a marvel of engineering.
Sebastian the stable hand leaned to watch near me, his swarthy face wan. He wore the same garb as any stable lad, dusty breeches, boots, and shirt, but his blue-black hair, thick-lashed brown eyes, and dark skin betrayed his Romany origins.
The lockkeeper closed the pumps and cranked open the gates. The bargeman slapped the horse's side and guided the boat into the lock.
Relative peace descended, broken by the soft sound of canal water lapping at the gate. I watched while the man on the barge dragged the corpse onto its deck. I expected the boat to back out again, but the bargeman signaled for the lockkeeper to close the gates. He did so, and then rushing water drowned the silence. The water rose slowly, the pumps struggling to drag water back in from the pond.
Once the boat was level with the upper part of the canal, the lockkeeper opened the gates. The horse, used to the procedure, pulled the boat silently into the canal beyond.
The constable trudged to the boat and put his foot on the deck. The bargeman and his partner obligingly hauled the corpse out onto the green bank.
As one, we crowded round to see. Middleton lay still, his eyes closed, his body bloated, an ugly gash across his pale throat. Now that I could look at him closely, I saw that he was indeed Denis' man.
The constable heaved a sigh, hands on hips. "Nasty business, eh? Now then, one of you lads run for the surgeon. Though it's obvious he died of having his throat cut, we might as well get it put down right."
Bartholomew whispered to me, "Think Mr. Denis killed him?"
"I would be surprised if he did," I answered. "Somehow, I imagine Denis is . . . neater. Likely we'd not have found Middleton's body at all."
"Are you going to tell the constable who he was?"
"I have no reason not to."
When I could draw the constable's attention, I took him aside and explained what I knew about Middleton. The constable showed no recognition of the name Denis, thanked me for the information, then said that there was no accounting for the trouble into which foolish Londoners could land themselves.
Bartholomew and I drifted away from the others, looking over the scene.
The lock and pumps stood near the lock house, where the lockkeeper lived. The pond for excess water lay serenely under the clouded sky not far away, a thick stand of trees lining its far bank.
"I wonder that the murderer bothered to drag the man to the lock," I said. "Easier I'd think to drag him to the pond. He'd not be seen in the woods and would not have to pass so close to the lock house and risk awakening the lockkeeper."
"Unless," Bartholomew suggested, "the killer pushed the dead man into the canal, then opened the lock when the chap floated to the gate."
"Which would make still more noise. Unless our lockkeeper is very hard of hearing or an unusually sound sleeper."
"Or he killed the man himself."
I studied the lockkeeper who stood silently outside the ring of men around the body. "Perhaps he did. Although I hardly think he'd hide the body in his own lock. Why not send him downstream? Or not bring him to the canal at all?"
"What should we do, sir?" Bartholomew gazed up at me, blue eyes gleaming with eagerness.
I had asked Bartholomew for help in two previous investigations, and he had obviously decided that he would help me again.
"I think we should have a care," I answered. "Someone near this place does not mind slicing throats."
Bartholomew looked startled, as though he'd not thought of that. "You say truth, sir. Where Mr. Denis is concerned, it's best to go carefully."
He followed me as I moved on, looking about. The Sudbury School rested on a rise of land above the canal. To the west and north, up the canal, lay the village of Sudbury. Trees lined the towpath, the narrow lane that the barge horses traversed with their guides. The canal widened as it curved to the east, shaded by cool trees, its banks shrouded in mist.
The pond that held the water for the lock lay on the west bank of the canal. I rode to it carefully, scanning the undergrowth for any disturbance. I found none. I likewise found nothing in the mud surrounding the pond, except tracks of deer and smaller creatures that had wandered here for a drink.
I suppose I wanted to find two distinct sets of footprints, the dead man's and the killer's, and broken bracken that designated a struggle. A fresh set of footprints leading back to the killer would have been most helpful as well.
A doctor had arrived by the time Bartholomew and I returned to the lock, looking rather nauseated as he stooped over the corpse. I wondered whether he was the sort of doctor who examined his patients from across the room, pronounced what was wrong with them without touching them, and then prescribed an expensive tonic and collected his fee.
The constable set the stable hands and the lockkeeper to scouring the brush and the canal for the knife. He and the doctor decided to wrap Middleton's body and have him taken to the parish church to be held for the coroner's examination. The constable declared his next task was to report to the magistrate and asked me, hesitantly, to break the ne
ws to Rutledge.
*** *** ***
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 alrea
dy 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."