A Death at Fountains Abbey

by Antonia Hodgson

  ‘You heard about the stags?’

  ‘Bloody poachers. I’d hang the lot of ’em.’

  I didn’t bother to correct him. ‘I must speak with the gamekeeper – I forget his name.’

  ‘William Hallow. He’s in the kitchens, taking a mug of beer with Mrs Mason.’

  William Hallow was a short, square fellow with russet brows and pale, grey-blue eyes. He wore his own hair, for some eccentric reason, tied at the nape of his neck. His hat was resting on a hook on the kitchen wall while he sat at the table, freckled hands clutching his beer. He had the tired, contented look of a man who had worked hard all night, and was about to go home to bed.

  He stood up when Kitty and I came through the door, grabbing his hat so he could shove it on his head and then remove it again. He bowed several times to me without saying a word, overcome with shyness.

  Mrs Mason, amused, got up from the table to fetch some more ale. ‘Mr Aislabie’s asked for an early dinner today,’ she said. ‘Says you’ve urgent business this afternoon.’

  She waited for me to add to this little nugget of information, but I did not have the heart to talk of the Gills. In truth I had forgotten my promise until now.

  ‘I’m stewing carp,’ Mrs Mason continued, not bothering to conceal her disappointment. ‘Fresh from the lake this morning. Do you like carp, sir?’

  ‘Delicious.’ I hated carp.

  ‘Aye, delicious,’ Hallow echoed.

  ‘You hate carp, Tom,’ Kitty said.

  ‘. . . I find it can be a little muddy. Sometimes.’

  ‘Very muddy, carp,’ Hallow agreed eagerly.

  ‘My carp,’ Mrs Mason sniffed, glaring at Hallow, ‘is never muddy.’

  We sat down. Mrs Mason poured out a mug of ale for Kitty and for me, and freshened her own.

  ‘You must see to those scratches, Tom,’ Kitty said. ‘They might fester.’

  It was true they stung like the devil, but I said nothing, not wishing to appear foppish.

  ‘I have a salve!’ Hallow jumped up, groping deep in his breeches pocket. ‘I could anoint you, your honour. As the blessed whore Mary Magdalene anointed our Lord Jesus.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘What a kind thought,’ Kitty said, in a solemn voice. ‘Do hold out your hands for him, Tom.’

  There was nothing for it. Hallow began to slaver a thick paste over the scratches. God knows what was in it, but it smelled pleasant enough. ‘I use this on the stags, sir,’ he explained. ‘Helps when they gore themselves in rutting season.’

  Mrs Mason remembered that she needed something from the pantry. I could hear her sniggering behind the door.

  ‘You must be sorry to have lost three stags this morning,’ I said. ‘They were fine beasts.’

  Hallow kept his eyes on mine as he rubbed the salve into my skin. ‘Weren’t none of mine, sir, praise the Lord for His mercy. Never seen them before.’

  ‘Indeed? Where did they come from?’

  ‘Must ha’ been one of the adjoining estates. Fountains would be my guess, sir.’

  ‘No love between Mr Aislabie and Mr Messenger, I hear.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you hear anything on your rounds last night?’

  ‘No sir, your honour. But I weren’t on the estate most of the night. Rode up to Studley moor about midnight – weren’t back until dawn. Mr Aislabie’s orders. Wants us to catch the Gills out poaching. Never trust a Gill,’ he added, as if reciting the eleventh commandment.

  ‘Bag of scoundrels,’ Mrs Mason said, returning to the table. She took one look at Hallow rubbing my hands, his pale face flushed red with holy reverence, then spun around and headed back to the pantry.

  Kitty took a swig of beer. She looked at ease here in the kitchen, and very beautiful with the light at her back. Hallow was oblivious.

  I tugged my hands from his grasp. ‘Mr Hallow, I must ask something of you. But it must be kept secret, you understand?’

  He nodded, thrilled.

  ‘Are you on good terms with Mr Messenger’s keeper at Fountains Hall?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘I’d like you to speak to him, if you will. Ask if he’s lost any of his deer.’

  ‘I’ll visit him today, sir.’

  We drank our beer. The kitchen fell quiet, save for Mrs Mason, humming to herself as she chopped up a salad. Kitty said something about the weather.

  Mr Hallow gulped his beer. ‘Mr Hawkins, your honour. May I beg a favour of you, sir?’

  ‘William,’ Mrs Mason said in a warning tone, without turning around.

  I waved at Hallow to continue.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he stammered, ‘but might I touch your neck for luck?’

  Oh, God. ‘Very well.’

  Kitty suppressed a laugh. ‘You’d best loosen your cravat, Tom.’

  I frowned at her, then untied it, winding the cloth around my hand. My neck felt exposed without it. Hallow reached across the table and cupped his hand around my throat. His palm was warm, and smelled of the salve. His fingers touched the back of my neck, where the hangman had tied the knot.

  Hallow closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. Then he sat back, his head bowed.

  Kitty wasn’t laughing any more. We looked at each other across the table, remembering.

  ‘A miracle,’ Hallow said. ‘Christ be praised.’

  I retied my cravat.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘May God protect you.’ He smiled at Kitty, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘And your wife.’

  Four of us sat for dinner that day: myself and Kitty, Aislabie, and Mrs Fairwood. Bagby stood at the window, but had little to do but watch, as we served ourselves. Mrs Fairwood was dressed in another grey gown, this one with a black lace trim. She sat with her back very straight. I had noticed her judging Kitty upon their introduction – unfavourably, I thought. It was more than a mere difference in character. She had narrowed her eyes when Kitty’s vowels lurched towards the London gutter, and suppressed a little smirk. I hated her for it.

  ‘Mr Hawkins rides up to Kirkby moors this afternoon,’ Aislabie told her. ‘He will arrest the Gills in the king’s name.’

  ‘I will speak with them,’ I corrected, poking the carp about my plate.

  Mrs Fairwood lowered her fork. ‘You question their guilt?’

  ‘Mr Sneaton wasted the entire morning interrogating the servants,’ Aislabie said, frowning at me. ‘As expected, they neither heard nor saw a damned thing. It was the Gills.’

  Bagby, unnoticed at the window, gave an assertive nod. Never trust a Gill.

  ‘Then who took the sheets?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t give a damn about the sheets!’ Aislabie shouted.

  The table fell silent. Kitty, busy crunching a radish, stopped chewing.

  Aislabie pressed his fingers against his forehead. ‘This wretched business.’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Fairwood should return home,’ I said. ‘For a while, at least.’

  I’d meant it out of spite, for slighting Kitty. But to my surprise she gave me a surreptitious nod in thanks. ‘If you think it best, Mr Aislabie,’ she began, carefully.

  ‘No!’ Aislabie cried in alarm, as if she might disintegrate in front of him. He snatched hold of her hand, gripping it fiercely. ‘We have been parted long enough, Lizzie. You are my daughter and I will not let you go again. I forbid it.’

  Mrs Fairwood closed her eyes for a moment. ‘As you wish, Mr Aislabie.’

  ‘Father,’ he corrected. ‘Enough of this nonsense. From now on, I would have you call me Father, as I call you Elizabeth.’ He waited a moment. ‘It would please me more than I can say.’

  There followed a moment of excruciating silence.

  Mrs Fairwood swallowed. ‘As you wish, Father.’

  Aislabie’s face lit up with joy. He gazed at each of us in turn, to ensure we had witnessed this miracle. Kitty, myself, even Bagby. His eyes as they met mine were bright with wonder – and even
though I had not warmed to him, I found myself praying that this was all true. That his youngest daughter had in fact come back to him after all these years. For how could he recover if she turned out to be false? He squeezed Mrs Fairwood’s hand. ‘There, Lizzie! I am your father. You will remain here at Studley, and I shall keep you safe.’

  He held her hand for the rest of the meal. Mrs Fairwood didn’t speak, didn’t eat another morsel.

  Kitty and I talked about the carp, and the salad, and the weather. And as soon as we could, we left.

  Bagby looked out across the table, and said nothing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was a long ride out to the moors. Aislabie insisted on joining our party, saddling a dark chestnut stallion himself. I had tried – one last time – to persuade him that this was a poor use of our limited time, but he was determined to have the Gills exposed, arrested, and led in chains to Ripon gaol ‘before dark’. He was annoyed that I had invited Kitty, thinking it a sign that I did not take his warnings about the Gills seriously. ‘This is not a suitable expedition for a lady,’ he complained. ‘Mrs Hawkins – I think you must turn back.’

  Kitty smiled sweetly, and said she was sure that her husband could protect her.

  We rode with two of Simpson’s men in case of trouble – a silent fellow named Crabbe, and Thomas Wattson, the handsome lad scolded by Sneaton for asking about his master’s bill. He looked pleased to have won a rest from breaking stones and digging holes for a few hours.

  We passed through the pretty village of Galphay. Aislabie pointed to a raised patch of ground. ‘That was a hanging place, long ago. Ah. Sorry, Hawkins.’

  Kitty was riding a few paces ahead with Wattson. He was naming the different flowers that had sprouted along the hedgerows. I’d grown up in the country, I could tell her all that sort of nonsense, damn the fellow. I nudged my horse forward. It so happened that the path was narrow at this point, and only left room for two horses to ride abreast. Wattson touched his hat and urged his horse on a pace, joining the silent Crabbe as I settled beside Kitty.

  ‘Bluebells,’ I said, nodding at a pile rotting under a hawthorn tree.

  ‘Yes . . . Thank you, Tom.’ She sighed, and shifted in her saddle. ‘I wish I could have worn Lady Judith’s breeches.’

  I thought of Kitty’s legs astride her horse. And then of Wattson riding alongside her with his clear, healthy complexion, his strong muscles and sharp cheekbones. Closer in age to Kitty, who was not yet nineteen. ‘You ride very well in a gown,’ I decided. I wondered when she had learned to ride with such ease. As a child, perhaps. Kitty had been working in a coffeehouse in the Marshalsea when we first met, but I did know that her early life had been comfortable. Beyond that, most of Kitty’s history remained a mystery to me. She had been twelve when her father died, and not much older when she fled her mother’s home. She never spoke of how she survived those later years, but I knew this much: she had grown up fearless and sharp-witted, with scant regard for the rules of polite society.

  We had just left the hamlet of Laverton when Aislabie called out from behind. ‘The Gills live down there,’ he said, pointing down a wooded lane. He steered his horse on to the grass bank, coming up alongside Wattson and Crabbe. ‘The house is hidden in a copse over in the next field. You won’t see it until you’re hard upon it.’ He handed Wattson his pistol. ‘I would have you make the house safe before we arrive – I would not have Mrs Hawkins in any danger. Guard the family until we return.’

  ‘I’m sure I would be safe,’ Kitty said, disappointed. She loved a brawl.

  Aislabie ignored her. ‘The moors are just up here,’ he said. ‘I should like to show them to you.’

  After a good ten minutes’ ride we reached the edge of Kirkby moor. At once, it felt as though we had crossed a border into a foreign land. The hills and green valleys vanished, replaced with acre upon acre of open moorland, stretching almost to the horizon in every direction. There were no trees, no dwellings, only tufted grass and heather, and a few rocks lying low upon the ground. We rode on, picking our way through what felt like an empty land, devoid of life. Then the grouse began to call out to one another. We couldn’t see them hidden in the chocolate brown heather, but their gurgling cries filled the air, warning of our approach.

  ‘Magnificent, is it not, Mrs Hawkins?’ Aislabie prompted Kitty.

  ‘Quite a contrast to your gardens, sir.’

  He liked the comparison. ‘A pleasing contrast, yes. Here nature is unbound, untroubled by men. I ride here at least once a week when I am at Studley. An indulgence, I suppose . . .’ He breathed in deep, then out again in a long sigh. And I thought how much more confident and composed he appeared, when he was beyond Mrs Fairwood’s reach.

  A couple of plump rabbits bounded out from cover to nibble on the spring grass. They kept an eye upon us, hunched ready to hop to safety. ‘There’s a large warren over there,’ Aislabie said, tilting his chin towards a spot close by. ‘Excellent meat.’

  ‘Is this the disputed land?’

  ‘There is no dispute, sir. I own the land.’

  The idea of owning such a wild, open place felt unnatural to me. No doubt Mr Aislabie, and Mr Aislabie’s lawyer, would disagree. ‘But it was common land, in the past? The Gills farmed here?’

  Aislabie snorted. ‘Farmed? A pretty word for it. They snared rabbits and grouse. Grazed a few sheep.’

  Then why not let them continue, if their needs were so small? Lord knows, the world was not about to run out of rabbits. And the sheep would help keep the moors cropped close.

  I surprised myself with these thoughts. I sounded like my father. He had argued against the enclosure of common land – from the pulpit, at the dinner table. Sermonising. I could have sworn I hadn’t taken in a single word, but I must have been listening after all.

  I knew better than to debate the matter with Aislabie. As far as he was concerned the land was his, and there was an end to it. And, overnight, with a scrawl of ink, farmers had become poachers.

  Crabbe and Wattson had been discovered the moment they stepped on to the Gills’ land – by the dogs, or one of the many children roaming about the place. Annie Gill, contrary to her fierce reputation, had invited them in for a bowl of rabbit stew. We found them gathered around a rough table with her husband Jeb, eating the evidence. A tiny Gill was sitting on Wattson’s lap. ‘Again!’ she yelled in delight as we entered the cottage, and Wattson bounced her on his knees, then lifted her high in the air.

  ‘Wattson,’ Aislabie snapped.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, the child still raised above his head. ‘She clambered.’

  ‘Put her down.’

  Wattson did as he was ordered. As the girl’s bare legs touched the cold stone floor she went very quiet. Then she filled her lungs and began to scream. A baby, asleep in a cot by the fire, woke up and joined in.

  ‘Pick her up,’ Aislabie said hastily to Wattson, over the din. ‘For God’s sake.’ His head almost touched the ceiling even at the highest point of the cottage – as did mine.

  Annie Gill went over to the cot and took the screaming baby in her arms. She loosened her gown and put it to her breast. ‘Mr Aislabie, your lordship. What an honour,’ she smirked. The baby suckled contentedly, its tiny hand opening and closing like a starfish.

  Aislabie snuffed and averted his gaze. ‘You know why we have come, I’m sure. Mr Hawkins has travelled from London at the queen’s bidding to discover the culprits. You will answer his questions.’ He grabbed me and pulled me to one side. ‘Be sure to press them hard, sir.’ Then he strode out of the cottage, slamming the door behind him. He might have faced down a knife, or a pistol – but not a bare breast.

  Annie Gill grinned. She must have been a striking woman once – tall, with high cheekbones and thick hair now turned an iron grey. Ten years younger than Lady Judith, most likely, but she wore her hard life upon her body. I counted seven children tumbling in and out of the cottage, plus the one at her breast. Her face was et
ched with deep lines, and most of her teeth were rotten. She walked stiffly too, as though her joints plagued her. Her husband Jeb had fared no better – his back was bowed, his hands gnarly. There was a spirit to them both, though. The Gills’ cottage was cramped, and at one point a mouse ran over my foot, but it was a welcome change from the brooding, tense atmosphere at Studley Hall.

  ‘Sit down and have some stew,’ Annie Gill said, slapping Wattson from his chair to make space for me at the table. ‘And who’s this?’

  ‘Kitty Sparks,’ Kitty said, then corrected herself swiftly. ‘Hawkins now.’

  ‘Just wed – bless you!’ Annie exclaimed. Jeb grunted something that might have been congratulations or might have been a withering critique of the very notion of matrimony – it was hard to tell over the noise of eight children.

  There were no more chairs, so Kitty sat upon my knee and shared a bowl of stew, while Annie paced about the room with the baby. The food was fresh and very good – much better than Mrs Mason’s carp. I started to explain about the threats Aislabie had received, but the Gills knew all about them. ‘I hear everything that happens at Studley,’ Annie said. ‘They’re saying we wrote those letters, I suppose.’

  ‘Never trust a Gill,’ Jeb muttered into his stew. Annie snorted.

  ‘Two of them mention Kirkby moors.’ I laid the notes upon the table. ‘You claim a right to farm there, I believe?’

  Annie wouldn’t look at them. ‘The moors belong to everyone and no one. There’s enough coneys and grouse up there to feed half the county.’

  Jeb grunted his agreement.

  ‘But see here.’ Kitty held the first note up so that Annie and Jeb could read it. She pointed to a line halfway down the page. ‘They threaten to burn the moors to ash. See – this line here.’

  Annie and Jeb exchanged an odd, complicit look, then glanced at the note. Annie shook her head, but she seemed hesitant and shifted away at once to nurse the baby. Jeb frowned at the letter for a moment, tracing a finger across the page. ‘Bad business, burning moorland,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t hold with that.’