I cleared my throat. ‘To be fair, sweetheart . . .’
‘You are much more than that, Tom. I see it, even if you do not.’
‘That is the secret of a good marriage, my dear,’ Lady Judith said, smiling sadly at her husband. ‘To see the best in them, and stay loyal through the worst.’
‘The deal,’ Sam prompted, bored and somewhat disgusted by this talk of love and loyalty.
Aislabie sat down at his desk, his politician’s mind examining every angle. At last, with a sharp nod, he came to a decision. ‘Very well.’
My heart lifted in astonishment. We had won. It didn’t seem possible. I imagined myself, ledger in hand, riding away from Studley Royal with Kitty and Sam. Home to London. ‘Excellent!’ I said, trying and failing to hide my relief. ‘Pray send for the ledger at once, so we might be sure it is genuine. If we’re satisfied, Sam will tell you everything he has discovered. Assuming his story tallies,’ I glanced at Sam, who nodded once, ‘we shall take the ledger and leave immediately.’ I had no wish to spend another night at Studley Hall. We would have to risk the journey in darkness and hope there would be rooms free in town. ‘Are we agreed?’
‘We are,’ Aislabie said. ‘With a heavy heart, we are. Mr Sneaton, pray fetch the ledger.’
Sneaton had remained silent throughout these negotiations. Now he bowed, as best he could. ‘Forgive me, your honour. But I cannot.’
Aislabie sat forward in his chair. ‘Nonsense. Do as I ask – at once.’
Sneaton bowed again, but didn’t leave.
‘For God’s sake,’ I said, losing patience. ‘If he cannot go, send one of the servants. I’ll fetch it myself if you wish.’
‘Sneaton,’ Aislabie said, exasperated. ‘Where is it?’
Sneaton straightened himself as best he could, his stick grinding into the floor. ‘Your honour, you know that I am your obedient servant. You made me promise never to speak to you of its hiding place. You entrusted it to me for this very reason. Hold firm, Mr Aislabie! You were promised a restoration of all your powers. If you lose the ledger, you will remain in exile for ever. It is your dream, sir. I will not let you give it up, after all you’ve suffered.’
There were tears in Aislabie’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Jack. With all my heart – thank you. But I have no choice.’
‘You do, sir!’ Sneaton insisted. ‘There’s always another way.’ He glowered at Sam. ‘I am sure I could beat the truth out of the boy.’
‘I will break your jaw if you try,’ I snapped.
Aislabie had risen from his chair, his expression sombre. He stood in front of Sneaton, and put a hand upon his shoulder. ‘I release you from your promise. Please. Fetch the ledger.’
The two men faced each other. I held my breath, praying for Sneaton to see sense. But he only shook his head. Aislabie lost patience. He grabbed his secretary by both shoulders and shook him. ‘Do you not understand the danger? My family. My family. You know I would give anything to protect them. Every brick of this house, every inch of land. It is all that matters in the end. It is everything.’
‘Mr Aislabie, sir. I cannot.’
Aislabie gripped harder. ‘For Elizabeth. For God’s sake, Jack. I can’t lose my Lizzie. Not again. Not again.’
Sneaton took a deep breath. ‘That woman is not your daughter, sir.’
Aislabie stepped back, as if struck.
‘It is true, sir, upon my soul. Mrs Fairwood is not your daughter.’
‘And how do you know this?’ Aislabie asked, in a cold voice. ‘What proof do you have?’
Grief shadowed Sneaton’s face – but he wouldn’t answer. ‘Your honour, I have served you faithfully for over thirty years. I ask that you trust me now.’
Aislabie covered his face with his hands. ‘Do not ask me this,’ he groaned. ‘Do not ask me to choose between you and my daughter.’
Sneaton bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
Aislabie’s hands dropped to his sides. ‘So be it. Mr Sneaton, you are dismissed from my service, without references. Mr Bagby will take up your duties until I can find a new secretary. In the meantime, you will of course be evicted from your cottage. It is almost night, so in recognition of your injuries, you may leave tomorrow at dawn.’
‘John!’ Lady Judith cried. ‘Husband! Let us all be calm, and think for a moment—’
Aislabie ignored her. ‘Bring the ledger to me within the hour and I might reconsider. Now get out.’
Sneaton sagged, and would have fallen were it not for his wooden stick. Somehow he found the strength to bow, holding his head low. Then – ever the faithful servant – he limped towards the door.
‘Jack!’ Lady Judith cried in anguish.
I blocked his path. ‘For God’s sake, sir – think again for all our sakes.’
He glared at me, one eye burning with defiance, the other blind, milk-white. His raw, scarred face was inches from mine. ‘The queen will never get her claws on that book. Never.’
He closed the door quietly behind him. Aislabie slumped into his chair, staring at nothing. Lady Judith had covered her mouth with her hands, as if afraid of what she might say.
‘He’ll come back,’ Aislabie said. ‘He’s not a fool.’
But the hour passed, and Sneaton did not return. The sun set as the servants moved through the house, lighting candles. Stunned, we allowed ourselves to be led up to our rooms, no longer guests, not quite prisoners.
Kitty flung herself upon the bed, face down. ‘What fun we shall have at supper,’ she said, her voice muffled through the pillow.
Sam was peering at himself in the mirror. There were bruises forming under his eyes, and his eyelids were swollen.
I put my hand on his shoulder and looked at him in the glass. ‘You did well. So – who is it threatens Aislabie?’
He put a finger to his lips.
‘What – d’you think I’ll give up their names in some fit of conscience?’
A nod. ‘Or . . .’ He mimed knocking back a drink.
Well that was insulting. I can hold my tongue. And my liquor. ‘I could shake the truth out of you.’
He considered this for a moment. Pointed at his swollen nose, and shrank his shoulders, acting the meek little mouse.
There would be no profit in pressing him. He had his own plans and would not be swayed from them. Even if I did beat him – and of course I would not – he wouldn’t give me the names. I had brought a thief with me to Studley Hall, but I had also brought a Fleet: secretive, sly and independent of mind. So I let him slink away to his room, back to his sketchpad and his devious schemes.
I sat down on the bed, next to Kitty. ‘I thought we’d won.’
She touched my arm. ‘Be patient. Sneaton will have a change of heart. He won’t lose his position over this.’
I didn’t agree with her. Jack Sneaton would not be turned from his path, not willingly. I sighed. God spare us from men of principle: stubborn bastards, every one. I had no wish to hurt him, but I must have the ledger. I must keep Kitty safe.
I had brought a brace of pistols with me to Yorkshire. I did not wish to use them, but I would, if I must.
The sun had set, the sky a deep blue. Soon it would grow darker still.
Chapter Fifteen
‘The boy must remain locked in his quarters – upon Mr Aislabie’s orders.’
Bagby stepped away from the door to allow Sally through. She was carrying a supper tray for Sam, decorated with a vase of purple crocuses. Seeing that the fire had burned low, she tended to the flames, adding a shovelful of coal. Sam watched her from the doorway of his cupboard room, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘You’re to be locked in,’ I told him.
Sally clapped the black dust from her hands and gestured to the tray on the windowsill. ‘Your supper, Master Fleet. The salmon is very good, sir, and there is some cream for the apple pie.’
‘He’s not a gentleman, Sally,’ Bagby scolded her from the door. ‘He’s a thief.’
Sam
hurried to the window and picked up his slice of pie. It was only after he’d crammed half of it in his mouth that he remembered his manners. He pointed to his full cheeks and grinned his appreciation.
‘You’re welcome, sir,’ Sally replied.
Sam lifted himself on to the window seat and toyed with the casement latch. The others didn’t notice the gesture, not even Kitty, but I had spent a long time in Sam’s company. He was sending me a message in his own silent language, one in which I was becoming fluent. Once you are gone, I will open this window and jump into the oak tree. And then I shall pay Mr Sneaton a visit.
I gave the briefest shake of the head, tapped my finger against my collarbone. I shall go myself.
His response did not even require a gesture, only a subtle shift in his eyes. Better this way. And, You cannot stop me.
Bagby escorted Kitty and me through the house to the library, more prison guard than footman.
‘Mr Aislabie and my Lady Judith have not yet descended,’ he said, as if he expected them to float down to supper from a celestial cloud. ‘You will remain here until his honour sends for you.’
He ushered us through the door. Metcalfe was sitting at the desk in the corner by the window, hunched over his books. He reached out a hand and dipped his quill three times, clotting it thoroughly before scraping a line or two on to the paper. He held his pipe clamped between his teeth, the air thick with tobacco smoke.
Bagby cleared his throat, but Metcalfe scribbled on, seemingly oblivious, though more likely ignoring him. ‘Mr Robinson,’ Bagby tried, at last. ‘Sir?’
‘Writing. Sit them down, Bagby. Sit them down and go.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir. Mr and Mrs Hawkins must be watched at all times – upon your uncle’s orders.’
Metcalfe sighed, and flung down his quill. He twisted in his chair, resting his arm along the back. His hands were covered with ink, and there was a dark smudge on his forehead. ‘And if they attempt an escape? What would you have me do, Bagby? Fling Lucretius at Mr Hawkins’ head?’ He picked up his copy of De Rerum Natura and tested its weight against his hand. His eyes were red and watery and he looked tired, but there was a spirit to him I’d not seen before. He rose to his feet and offered Kitty an elegant bow, pipe dangling from his lips. ‘Mrs Hawkins.’
Kitty curtsied. ‘Sir. We spoke this morning, through the keyhole.’
‘Such wonderful hair,’ he marvelled, dismissing Bagby with a well-practised baronial wave. ‘Like Bachiacca’s Sybil! How you remind me of her! Remarkable likeness. Have you seen it? There’s an etching of it here, somewhere. Let me find it . . .’ He wandered to the shelves, trailing smoke. ‘Bachiacca . . . Always painting redheads – and why shouldn’t he? Wonderful creatures.’ He plucked a heavy volume from a shelf and brought it over to the table to show us, ink-stained fingers flicking through the pages until he found an etching of a woman who looked nothing like Kitty, but whose breasts spilled over a tight corset, nipples pressing urgently through a gauzy cloth. ‘Look at the hair,’ Metcalfe said, not looking at the hair. ‘In the painting it’s red as fire.’
‘Are you recovered from this morning?’ Kitty asked.
‘How kind. Yes, I believe I am. Recovered as an old sofa. New fabric stretched over sagging old cushions.’ He tugged at his clean coat, beaming at her.
‘I only meant . . .’ Kitty gave up. ‘You have ink on your forehead.’
Metcalfe moved towards the door, rubbing at his forehead and smudging the ink deeper into his skin. He poked his head out into the corridor. ‘Gone!’ he exclaimed.
‘Who . . .’
‘Spies. Agents of Aislabie.’ He crossed to the terrace doors, cupping his hand so he might peer into the night. Satisfied, he sprang towards me and seized my hand. His palm was hot and sweaty. ‘Sir. My dear sir,’ he exclaimed, shaking my hand so vigorously my arm was half pulled from its socket. ‘Is it true? Are you here to destroy my uncle?’ He grinned, revealing a jumble of teeth.
‘Mr Robinson—’
‘Metcalfe!’ He let go of my hand, only to clap my arms and pull me into a brief hug. He smelled strongly of sweat, despite his clean clothes. ‘I must apologise, sir, for my previous uncivil behaviour.’
‘You have been perfectly decent, sir.’
‘Have I?’ Metcalfe looked doubtful. ‘I thought you were his creature, you see. Part of his great scheme to return to power.’ He held up a finger. ‘It must never happen. Uncle Aislabie is a . . .’ he glanced at Kitty and trailed away.
‘An arsehole?’ she offered.
Metcalfe giggled. ‘A thief. A veritable Mackheath. Robbed the country till it bled and pretended he bled the most of all. Oh, sirs – how can you command me to pay reparation, when I have nothing left? How will my poor family eat?’
‘You want to see your uncle ruined?’ Kitty asked.
‘Yes. No!’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘Not ruined. Diminished. Chastened. Humbled. I would have him peer into the mirror of his soul and count every dark, festering stain upon it. Let us have some sherry.’ He poured three glasses, handed them around.
We drank together in silence, the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Almost eight. I could see why Mrs Fairwood, with her love of quiet study, preferred not to share this room with Metcalfe. He was a distracting and fidgety presence in a library, if a likeable one.
‘How pleasant this is,’ Metcalfe said, in a sombrous voice. I found it difficult to follow his moods. He collapsed into a chair by the fire. ‘Sneaton will never give up the ledger, you know. He’s a man of honour. A man of honour, shielding a scoundrel.’ He yawned very hard behind his hand, and wiped his eyes. ‘Apologies, my friends. It’s the laudanum, at least the lack of it. A plague upon the wretched stuff. Probably shouldn’t drink this.’ He knocked back his sherry in one.
‘I gave the laudanum to Mr Gatteker.’
‘Did you?’ Metcalfe looked surprised. ‘Was he in need of it?’
‘I asked him to examine it. You believed you were being poisoned.’
‘Oh. So I did.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I am but a shadow of a shadow. You must think me a ridiculous figure, Mrs Hawkins.’
‘Not at all, sir.’ She sat down opposite him, and sipped her sherry.
He fixed his gaze upon her for a long time, steadying himself again. It was as if his essence was all in flux, no fixed state where he might rest. Kitty did not seem to mind. I sensed this was not the first time she had seen this affliction – a wavering on the fragile border between madness and sanity.
‘I like you both very much,’ Metcalfe decided. ‘I shall help you, if I can.’
And I thought: Mr Robinson, you poor devil. You can barely help yourself.
He fixed himself another pipe. ‘I hear you have discovered who threatens the house. Would you whisper his name to me, in confidence? I would consider it a favour, as the wretched fellow plans to murder me.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir. Master Fleet will not give up his secret.’
He coughed out a laugh. ‘And nor will Sneaton. But come – you must have some inkling.’
‘It’s a large estate, and your uncle is not loved. I can think of a dozen suspects within the household alone.’
‘Including me?’ He laughed at my discomfort. ‘Come – I should be offended if I were not suspected, sir.’
It was true, I had considered Metcalfe – and then dismissed him. It was something I had realised from my conversation with Mr Forster: it would do no good rounding up all of Mr Aislabie’s enemies and discounting them one by one. Men who had never once met my host might bear him a grudge for his wealth, or his infamous part in the South Sea disaster. To discover the truth, one should not seek out those with cause to hate John Aislabie. One should ask this, instead: what sort of a man would conduct such a violent and carefully executed campaign against him? Not Metcalfe, I was sure of it. He was too chaotic and confused.
We were hunting for a most singular person, that much seemed clear. But, in any case, we w
ould learn the truth from Sam soon enough. Unless he had been conning us all, of course. That was a distinct possibility, and one I chose not to think about too closely.
‘I fancy Mr Forster for it, myself,’ Metcalfe said. ‘No one can be that dull, surely? It is an act – it must be. And the stags were from Messenger’s park, I believe?’
‘That is not certain.’ I had not yet heard from William Hallow. ‘I’ve already questioned Forster. He confessed that he’s spying on Messenger for your uncle in exchange for his patronage. His entire future rests upon Mr Aislabie’s goodwill.’
‘Oh, that is a pity.’ Metcalfe lamented. ‘I had placed all my hopes on Forster. But do you see how I am proved right about the spies? My uncle is the most shameless devil, truly.’
We all agreed upon that. Kitty and Metcalfe fell into a discussion about London, and the theatre. They had both seen The Beggar’s Opera, so they sang one of the ballads together, and Metcalfe declared that Kitty could play Polly Peachum upon the stage, which proved he must be deaf, as well as a little mad.
I crossed the room to study the globe standing in one corner, thinking of Kitty’s dream of visiting Italy. It rested where Mrs Fairwood had left it, upon the eastern coast of the Americas, and the wide stretch of the Atlantic.
The door opened and Mr Forster entered the room. I introduced Kitty, who rose and curtsied.
‘Does she not remind you of Bacchiacca’s Sybil?’ Metcalfe prompted Forster from his chair without preamble.
‘I regret I have not seen, sir.’
‘No? Did you not visit it on your travels? Come then Forster, a game – what great work of art most reflects Mrs Hawkins’ timeless beauty?’
Kitty snorted into her sherry.
Forster tugged at the deep cuffs of his coat, flustered. ‘I am not sure that I recall . . . I do not have a clear memory of such things. I am more interested in architecture than paintings . . .’
‘Please do not trouble yourself, Mr Forster,’ Kitty laughed.
‘See! My point is made!’ Metcalfe thrust an arm towards Forster. ‘All those months upon his grand tour, and he cannot remember a single painting.’
A Death at Fountains Abbey Page 16