We walked back towards Studley House in silence, lost in our separate fears. And I wondered – Where was Sam?
I thought the work on the stables would have been abandoned for the day, given that the men had spent the night on watch – and that half were out now searching for Sam. But Simpson was already ranging across the site, shouting orders. Wattson hesitated as we drew closer, and we both stopped for a moment, staring out across the park. The deer were scattered way off in the distance, almost out of view.
A dun-coloured stallion was racing along the east drive, half-obscured by the line of oaks. I shielded my eyes, trying to identify the rider. His feather-trimmed hat, and then his head, crested the hill. Francis Forster, his cloak streaming out behind him, showing flashes of purple lining. A few moments later he had galloped up to meet us. I would not have ridden so fast, with one arm bound.
‘Hawkins!’ he shouted. ‘Is it true? There was a fire?’
‘A small one, in Mrs Fairwood’s chamber. She is unharmed. One of the maids was—’
‘Mrs Fairwood!’ he exclaimed, jumping down from the saddle and pulling at the silver clasp on his cloak. ‘I must go to her.’ He threw the reins at Wattson and rushed towards the house. ‘Take him to the stables,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
Wattson bit back a scowl. ‘Mr Sneaton is missing,’ he called.
Forster bronzed paused upon the steps. ‘Sneaton?’ He chuckled. ‘Well, I don’t suppose he’s got very far.’
‘Did you see him, sir?’ Wattson asked, fiercely. His hands were bunched into fists. ‘On your ride from Fountains?’
Forster’s face puckered with annoyance. ‘This your servant, Hawkins?’
‘I’m no one’s servant,’ Wattson said. His voice was quiet, but there was a boldness to him that surprised me.
Forster glared at him. ‘How dare you speak to me in such an insolent fashion! I shall speak to your master of this. What is your name? Well?’
Wattson reddened, and said nothing.
‘You did not see Mr Sneaton upon the road?’ I said, stepping in swiftly.
Forster tore his gaze from Wattson. ‘Was he not dismissed from service yesterday?’
‘We found bloodstains upon the floor of his cottage. I fear he may have been attacked.’
‘Heavens! That is troubling. Forgive me for speaking lightly before. I pray you find him well. If you would excuse me.’ He bowed and bounded up the steps.
Wattson pivoted sharply on his boot heel and led Forster’s horse to the stables. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was angry.
I followed him to the courtyard where I found Kitty, sitting on the mounting block with her face turned to the sunshine. She waved and jumped down as we approached.
I asked after Sally.
Wattson halted. ‘She’s been hurt?’
‘She burned her hands, saving Mrs Fairwood,’ Kitty explained. ‘They’ll take weeks to heal, poor girl. Aislabie has her locked in the cellar. He thinks she started the fire.’
Wattson bit his lip, furious.
I touched Kitty’s arm. ‘Mr Sneaton is missing. We found blood in his cottage.’
‘Sam is not returned.’
We looked at one another – afraid for Sam, and afraid for what he might have done. ‘We’d best find him.’
‘Let me join you sir,’ Wattson said. ‘I know the land better than most. And we might look for Mr Sneaton, too.’
There were only two horses left in the stables, so I borrowed Forster’s stallion, hoping it was not the one that had thrown him off its back. Wattson led Kitty and me to the edge of the water gardens. We paused at the base of the lake, where it narrowed again into a river. There was a wooden footbridge here over a smaller cascade, and a stone sphinx guarding either side of the bank. They stared at each other across the river, front paws stretched towards the water. The one upon this side of the bridge had the face of a woman of middling age. Her hair streamed across her lion’s back, and a string of pearls rested on her plump bosom. I leaned down, peering into her face. The expression was cool and commanding, as if she ruled over the waters below.
‘When did the search party set out?’ Wattson asked.
I sat up straight in the saddle. ‘Almost an hour ago.’
‘Then he’s not here.’ Wattson indicated the party of men picking their way through the gardens, hunting under the tangle of bushes and tree roots. He gathered the reins, turning his horse about. ‘They’d’ve found him by now.’
I wasn’t sure if he was speaking of Sneaton or Sam. ‘Where do you propose we look?’
‘Wherever’s left.’ Wattson rode away from the cascade, following the river downstream.
I urged my horse forward, and followed.
Aislabie had shaped the River Skell into straight canals and moon ponds, mirror lakes and cascades. But as we left the water gardens behind, the river was released back to its natural flow, winding down a steep valley bristling with Scots pines. We had to ford our way across several times, drifting further and further from the water gardens and from the house.
There was no one out here.
‘We’ve gone too far,’ I called out, as we reached another bend in the river.
Kitty drew up next to me. ‘Let us see what lies up ahead,’ she said, lifting her voice over the rush of water.
We had said that at the last turn, and the one before that. We could follow the river to its end, tantalised by the hope of discovery. There was something eerie about this valley, with its narrow banks and silent woods. Some antique memory, some ancestor’s ghost whispered through my blood: This would be the ideal place for an ambush.
But there was no ambush waiting for us at the next bend, only a wide and sunlit riverbank, dotted with dandelions and daisies. Tiny white butterflies drifted in the air. Red damselflies hovered by the water.
A small, dark figure lay upon the grass.
‘Sam!’ I heard myself cry out. ‘It’s Sam!’
The sun beat down upon our heads. The wind pushed wisps of cloud across the sky. The river rushed on down the valley.
Sam didn’t move. He lay perfectly still.
Chapter Seventeen
He was death cold.
‘Blankets. Fetch blankets!’ Kitty, pushing open the great doors of Studley and shouting at the nearest footman.
‘Bring him down to the kitchen.’ Wattson was waiting for us in the great hall. He’d galloped ahead to prepare the servants. The boy was found, lying frozen on the river path below Gillet Hill, the back of his skull all bloody. Mrs Mason had stoked the fire and called for blankets long before we arrived. Rumours spread through the house. The boy’s dead. The boy’s alive.
The boy was dying. He hadn’t stirred, not when I carried him in my arms from the riverbank, as I hefted him up on to the saddle. I’d held him in front of me on that frantic ride back from the river, clutching him to my chest and praying that my own heat could warm him. How long had he lain there, all alone? I could feel my heart pounding hard against his back, life thrumming through my veins. Why did he not stir?
The back of his head was sticky with blood. I thought of the blood in Sneaton’s cottage and rode on, fury burning through me like a forest fire. When I found who did this . . . God help them.
We stripped off his damp coat and breeches and cocooned him in blankets by the fire. Kitty laid her head to his chest and found a heartbeat, very slow. His face was swollen from yesterday’s beating, but it was the blow to his head that worried me, and the fact we could not rouse him. There was a lump at the base of his skull, and blood in his ear. Kitty washed the wound clean, rinsing it with hot water and a few drops of brandy.
I sat down behind Sam on the kitchen floor just as I had sat with him on the ride back, propping his head against my chest. He was so cold. Kitty tucked the blankets around him and settled down with us by the fire.
I closed my eyes, bone weary. I had been prepared to think the very worst of him. Whereas in fact, he had s
tolen out into the night, risking his life to help me. Someone had attacked him, and abandoned him by the river to die alone. I thought of the deer, slaughtered and carried through the estate. It was the same person, I was sure of it – treating Sam as if he were an animal.
Kitty reached out and cupped a hand to my face. Saying, without words: This is not your fault.
I looked away into the fire. Of course it was my fault.
Mr Gatteker was called from Ripon. He flapped his arms against his side, declared it an outrage, and accepted a plate of fresh bread and jam from Mrs Mason. He sat at the table and asked about the night’s events. He had not seen Sneaton on the estate, in town, nor upon the road.
‘I tested Metcalfe’s laudanum on the cat,’ he said, sucking jam from his fingers. ‘I believe someone may have tampered with the mixture – more opium and less sherry. Can’t prove it, but the effects on Marigold were unfortunate.’ He added a dollop of cream to his bread and took a large bite.
‘Tom!’ Kitty inched closer, and took Sam’s hand. ‘His eyes fluttered.’ She put her fingers to his wrist, then frowned.
‘Rest and warmth,’ Gatteker pronounced.
‘And prayer,’ Mrs Mason added.
Gatteker shrugged, munching away. ‘Worth a try. Didn’t work for Marigold, I’m afraid.’
I carried Sam to our chamber and tucked him into our bed, small and vulnerable beneath the blankets. We had fashioned a bandage for his head, his black curls spilling over the top on to the pillow. I sat upon the bed and watched for each breath.
Kitty lit a fire before joining me, sitting upon the opposite side of the mattress. We watched him for a long time. I began to worry that if I turned away even for one second, he would slip away. Lady Judith paid a visit. Bagby brought a pot of coffee, some bread and cheese, and a slice of apple pie. ‘In case he’s hungry, when he wakes,’ he stumbled, then bowed and left the room.
Some time later Sam’s eyes opened a fraction. I took his hand, and told him he was safe, that he must rest. He couldn’t seem to focus, and his hand was a dead weight in mine. His eyes closed again.
Kitty looked at me with tears in her eyes. ‘Tom—’
‘Don’t say it, Kitty. Please.’
I put my head in my hands and I prayed with a force and a fear I had not felt in a long time. I’d prayed for myself that terrible night in the Marshalsea, chained in the corpse room. I’d prayed on the eve of my trial for murder, and on the cart to my hanging. But I had prayed knowing all my sins, knowing in my heart and soul what I had done right and wrong.
Now I prayed for a boy whose soul lay within the Devil’s grasp. Fourteen years old and already he had killed someone, without once expressing pity or remorse. I couldn’t let him die in such a perilous state. Death for Sam would lead only to damnation. So I begged God: Let him live. Give him time.
There was a tap at the door and Mrs Fairwood entered, escorted by one of the footmen. She’d brought the vase of orange wallflowers from her chamber. She stood at the end of the bed, remote and unreadable. ‘How does he fare? Has he spoken?’
I didn’t have the strength to answer.
‘Will he live?’ she pressed.
Kitty rose, and ushered her from the room. She was gone for a while. When she returned she stood behind me, wrapping her arms about my chest. ‘Sneaton is still missing.’ She kissed the back of my neck, and fell silent.
It was not like Kitty to be so quiet. I turned and saw that there were tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. ‘Sweetheart.’
‘This is my fault.’
‘No – by God! What makes you say such a thing?’
She brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘You only came here to protect me. Because of what I did . . . He’s just a boy, Tom. For all he’s done, he’s only a boy. I will never forgive myself.’
I rose, and held her close. Sam slept on, never stirring, his secrets trapped inside his broken body.
I grow restless in confined spaces. Eventually, when I had paced the room a thousand times, Kitty ordered me outside. Sam was no better and no worse, and there was no sense in us both staying with him – not when his attacker remained uncaught. I walked down to the great hall and out on to the steps, building myself a pipe. The sound of hammer and chisel on stone echoed from the stable works. I counted a half-dozen carts rolling up to the foundations, filled with rocks and pulled by great workhorses. The day was mild for mid-April, the heat closer to summer than spring. Looking out across the deer park, I had to shield my eyes to protect them from the sun. The deer were still far down in the south-west corner of the park, a long way from the house. I frowned, and took a long draw from my pipe.
I heard the crunch of gravel from my left. Mr Hallow, Aislabie’s gamekeeper, was walking up the avenue. He hurried to join me, snatching off his hat and performing a low bow. His thin red hair was tied at the nape of his neck, the top of his head near bald and freckled by the sun. ‘Beg leave to ask after your young friend, sir? I’m told he was attacked.’
‘Yes, some time in the night.’
‘Found by Gillet’s hill? There’s an old poacher’s track down there, sir. Steep path, hidden from view . . .’
‘It wasn’t the Gills,’ I said, before he could suggest it.
I waited for the inevitable ‘never trust a Gill’, but to my surprise, Hallow nodded his agreement. ‘Yes, sir. I have news.’ He ventured closer, lowering his voice though there was no one else about to hear. ‘Spoke with Mr Messenger’s keeper last night, sir. He says he’s not made a full count of his deer these past few days. Some of the does head into the upper woods to foal. Bugger to find them, pardon my language, your honour. But the stags – he says they’re all accounted for. Sir, I showed him one o’ the heads. He swears blind it weren’t a Fountains stag.’
I frowned. The stags had been butchered on the boundary between Fountains Hall and Studley Royal. If they did not belong to either estate, where the devil had they come from?
But Hallow grinned. ‘So I rode further afield this morning, sir. Only a handful of deer parks close to Studley, and I had a notion . . . The stags came from Baldersby. The Robinson’s estate.’
I pulled the pipe from my lips. Metcalfe.
‘I spoke with the keeper, sir. He said Mr Robinson sent an order for three young stags – a gift for his uncle. Not for meat – to join the herd.’
‘A strange request.’
‘Oh aye, sir. But – begging your pardon – it’s not the keeper’s place to question a gentleman’s order. And Mr Robinson’s known to be a little odd, sir.’
‘So the keeper sent three stags over to Studley?’
‘No, sir. The fellow what brought the message came with a cart. Rode them back the same day, bound and tethered.’
‘And this fellow – what did he look like?’
Hallow, who had until this point been mightily pleased with himself, faltered. ‘I— I didn’t think to ask, sir.’ He slapped a pale hand to his head. ‘Oh William Hallow, you almighty fool. I shall ride back and ask, sir.’
‘Could you go at once?’
Hallow grimaced. ‘Wish I could, sir – but I can’t find leave until this evening. I’ve spent too long abroad today already. Might someone go in my place, Mr Hawkins? It’s no more than an hour’s ride . . .’
I held out my hand. ‘Not to worry.’ I could ride there myself, if needed.
‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
‘Not at all. I’m obliged to you, Mr Hallow.’ I put my hand upon his shoulder. ‘I would ask that you keep this to yourself – at least for now.’
‘Of course, your honour.’
‘I’m really not an honour, you know.’ Barely a sir, given my reputation.
‘You are God’s anointed, my lord,’ Hallow declared, elevating me to the peerage and potential sainthood in one breath. ‘Restored from the dead to reveal the mercy of the resurrected Christ our redeemer praise Him.’ This said in a second breath, without pause.
I honestly
could not think how to address that grave misapprehension. So I thanked him, and took the last draw on my pipe.
‘Now, what are those deer about?’ Hallow muttered, squinting at the herd grazing way off in the distance.
‘I wondered the same. Do they not spend most of the day nearer the house, by the beech tree?’
‘Well they wander about as they please. But it’s a warm day, sir – best of the season. I’d expect them to stay close to the water trough in this heat.’
A dry day, and yet the deer were grazing a good quarter mile from the water trough. ‘Mr Hallow.’ I paused, as a thought sent a shiver down my spine. ‘Would you walk with me, for a moment?’
I walked through the park towards the beech tree, the sun warm upon my neck. My legs felt heavy. I seemed to see myself as if from above, with Mr Hallow at my side. As if I were watching myself from a high window in the house. Let me be wrong.
We had reached the beech tree, its branches spread out as if in welcome. Come and see. Come and see what lies here. The stone water trough stood on a higher patch of ground, raised enough that I could not look inside without approaching the rim. It was a heavy, roughly hewn thing, made to sustain the bitter Yorkshire winters. Lichen clung to the sides.
It looked like a stone coffin.
Hallow had caught my darkening mood. He stopped at my side, and waited.
I took a deep breath. In this final moment, there was still a chance I was mistaken – that I would peer over the edge and see nothing but water. I’d been seeing death everywhere these past few days.
But the deer had crossed to the other side of the park in the heat of the day. I saw the great stag in the distance, its head raised, watching.
I stepped up to the trough and looked down. Put a hand to my mouth.
Jack Sneaton’s body lay at the bottom of the trough. His mottled face was grey white, both eyes now staring blind through the water. There was a deep gash running across his temple, and the water was dark and clogged with blood. Floating all around him were the ruined pages of an accounts book.
‘Oh no,’ Hallow whispered. ‘Oh no.’
A Death at Fountains Abbey Page 19