A Death at Fountains Abbey

by Antonia Hodgson

  ‘If you send her away now, you will never see her again,’ I said.

  Aislabie ignored me. He led Mrs Fairwood towards the carriage, never once taking his eyes from her face. What a wicked spell she had cast upon him.

  I stepped in front of them, blocking the way. ‘Madam – I cannot let you leave.’

  She scowled at me.

  Lady Judith joined us on the drive. ‘I do think it best if Mrs Fairwood returns to Lincoln,’ she said, and then, more quietly to me, ‘for all our sakes.’

  ‘I have pressing news about Mr Sneaton’s murder. It concerns Mrs Fairwood directly. Please. We must speak privately.’

  The Aislabies exchanged startled glances. ‘Very well,’ Aislabie said, after a pause.

  Mrs Fairwood was defiant. ‘I will not be held against my will,’ she declared, mounting the carriage steps. ‘You have no power to keep me here.’

  I stretched my arm across the carriage door.

  She leaned towards me. Her hood shielded her face from the Aislabies. ‘Please,’ she whispered, her dark eyes searching mine. ‘Please let me go.’

  I held firm.

  Her expression hardened. ‘Damn you,’ she hissed. She dropped back to the gravel and stalked into the house, shoulders high, cloak billowing in the wind. I followed close behind.

  Bagby glared at me as I passed, hands clenched at his side.

  The library seemed the most suitable room for an interrogation, the place where Mrs Fairwood felt most at ease. She stepped stiff-backed to the hearth, disdainful and proud, and rested a slim hand upon the mantelpiece.

  No one had entered the room this morning. The curtains were drawn, the hearth cold, the candles unlit. Sally was responsible for keeping the rooms in good order, and she was still locked up in the cellar.

  Lady Judith drew back the curtains. The library faced north, but at least this allowed some light in from the yard. She stood by the terrace windows, watching Pugh free the carriage horses from their harness and lead them back to the stables. Mrs Fairwood had her books, Lady Judith her horses.

  ‘Well, Hawkins?’ Aislabie folded his arms. ‘What is this news of yours?’

  ‘Francis Forster.’

  ‘What of him? Has he discovered something?’

  ‘He murdered Jack Sneaton.’

  He laughed, incredulous. ‘Francis Forster? He can barely lift his own cutlery.’

  But I had kept my eye upon Mrs Fairwood at the fireplace. She had flinched at Forster’s name. Now she groped for the nearest chair.

  Lady Judith tore her gaze from the horses. ‘Why do you suspect Mr Forster?’

  ‘Oh, several reasons. His coat sleeves, for example.’

  ‘What piffle,’ Aislabie muttered, pouring himself a glass of brandy.

  I held out my arm, tugging at the cuff of my coat. ‘I’m fond of this coat, but the beaux of London would consider it a travesty. They have begun to wear deeper cuffs, ending above the elbow. Mr Forster owns at least two coats in the new style. He wore one last night at supper, do you recall? Sky-blue with gold wire buttons.’

  ‘And this makes him a killer, in your eye? Because his coat sleeves are more fashionable than yours?’

  ‘How can he afford to dress in such a modish way? He makes an inordinate fuss of being poor. That suit must have cost him fifteen pounds at least. More than that – he claims he has been touring Italy these past three years, where the fashions are quite different. He must have been in England for several months at least – and with money in his pocket.’

  Aislabie frowned, and sipped his brandy. ‘Ridiculous. The fellow’s burned brown as a conker. Do you think a winter in England could scorch him to that shade?’

  ‘His complexion is not the work of one season. I believe Mr Forster has been away from England for much longer than that.’ I had continued to study Mrs Fairwood closely as we spoke. She was struggling to keep her composure, her eyes set upon her shoes. But she had lifted them once, when I mentioned Italy, her gaze drawn to the globe standing in the corner of the library. I remembered how she had toyed with it two days before, pretending very hard not to listen to my conversation with Sally.

  People give themselves away at such moments. I have seen men at the gaming table concentrate so closely upon their opponents’ game that they let their own wrists drop, revealing their hand. Mrs Fairwood had been turning the globe upon its stand, her fingers spanning the Atlantic. Back and forth between England and the colonies.

  Had Forster truly spent three years on a Grand Tour? Or had it been seven years on a plantation somewhere, labouring under the burning sun? That would give any man a dark complexion. It would make even a short, small-boned gentleman strong enough to carry a stag upon his shoulders for two miles – if it did not kill him first.

  ‘You are speaking in riddles, sir,’ Aislabie complained, but he sounded less confident.

  ‘Forster knows the pathways between Studley and Fountains Hall. He has explored and sketched the water gardens. He knows the workings of the house and the estate and may come and go as he wishes. He knows when the servants retire, and when Mr Hallow is ordered up on the moors to hunt for poachers, away from the deer park. And last night, when we retired to our chambers, he rode out into the estate, untroubled by your patrols. What time did he leave, would you say? Past eleven, was it not?’

  Aislabie nodded, thinking hard now.

  ‘The ride to Fountains Hall would take no more than a quarter hour, even in the dark. I’ll wager my life he didn’t return to Fountains until much later. My guess is that he attacked Sam first and left him to die by the river. Then he went to Mr Sneaton’s cottage and forced him to give up the ledger.’

  ‘But why would he do such a monstrous thing? I offered him patronage not two days ago. He will be working with Mr Doe on the follies this summer.’

  Mrs Fairwood twisted in her seat, her face flooded with dismay. ‘Is that true?’ she breathed.

  ‘Of course. He’s a talented young man.’

  Tears sprang in her eyes. She looked away, hurriedly, to the empty grate.

  ‘No, you have it all wrong, Hawkins,’ Aislabie said, emphatically. ‘Forster’s entire future rests upon my goodwill.’

  ‘I don’t believe he is thinking very much of the future,’ I replied. ‘More of the past. He does not want or need your money or your patronage. All he wants, sir, is revenge.’

  Aislabie sighed heavily. Even now, he did not want to believe it. ‘Then why kill poor Jack?’

  ‘Because last night he learned that the South Sea ledger was in Mr Sneaton’s possession. He also knew that Sam could betray his identity at any moment. He forced Sneaton to give him the ledger, and then he killed him. It was the book he wanted, not the man. By destroying the ledger, he destroyed your great dream of returning to power. You are the focus of a burning hatred, Mr Aislabie. He wants to see you suffer. He wants you to lose everything that is precious to you.’ I glanced at Mrs Fairwood.

  Aislabie shook his head, mystified. ‘But he is such a gentle soul.’

  ‘An act, I am sure. I believe something terrible happened to him – something connected to the South Sea Scheme. Perhaps his family was ruined.’

  ‘This is not just!’ Mrs Fairwood cried. ‘You accuse an honest gentleman of murder, without giving him the chance to defend himself. Where is your proof, Mr Hawkins? Burned skin and gold buttons? Fie.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Aislabie agreed. ‘There are too many “perhapses” and “I’ll wagers” to this story for my liking. And how could Forster carry those stags through the park? His arm’s broken, for heaven’s sake.’

  I had grave doubts upon that score. And what a convenient injury, that had left his right hand free for sketching, and every other bone in his body unbroken and unbruised. I had watched him galloping down the drive this morning. Surely he would be more cautious if his wrist and arm were broken? My guess was that he had bound up his arm to make himself appear weak, just as he had hidden his true character behind his dull
conversation. Which suggested he had always planned to commit violence, long before he arrived at Fountains Hall.

  But I couldn’t prove this, and such speculation would only irritate Aislabie further. ‘We don’t need proof. The three stags came from Baldersby Park. Mr Hallow investigated the matter on my behalf. I have not been entirely indolent,’ I said, noting Aislabie’s surprise. ‘Forster’s accomplice collected the stags from the keeper at Baldersby. Metcalfe is riding there now to secure a decent description. Once we have the fellow, we can persuade him to confess. A pistol to the head should do it.’

  ‘Good,’ Aislabie nodded, pleased with this at least.

  ‘I’m sure you will be proved wrong,’ Mrs Fairwood said, rising from her chair. ‘But either way, I cannot see why this should delay my departure any longer. This has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I must congratulate you, madam,’ I said.

  This surprised her enough to make her turn, rustling in her grey silk gown. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘On your engagement to Mr Forster.’

  It took her a moment to suppress her shock. Then she clapped her hands together, as if it were a tremendous joke. ‘Preposterous!’

  ‘What is this?’ Aislabie demanded. ‘You are engaged to the fellow?’

  ‘Of course not. I have no intention of marrying anyone. Where on earth did you hear such foolish nonsense?’

  ‘From Mr Forster himself.’

  She fluttered a hand to her chest. ‘Then he has lost all reason. The very notion is repulsive.’

  ‘A strong word for an honest gentleman,’ Lady Judith observed, drily. ‘Though I grant you he is not the most entertaining of supper guests . . .’

  ‘We are not engaged,’ Mrs Fairwood snapped. Had she been a child, she would have stamped her foot. ‘Oh, this is not to be endured.’ She closed her gloved hands about her throat as if she were suffocating. ‘This place will kill me, do you not understand?’

  I had placed myself at the door. Lady Judith remained at the terrace windows. ‘You are in no danger here,’ I said, ‘not if you confess your part in this. You were coerced, were you not? You love him – but you are frightened of him, too.’ She had told me the same, here in this room two days ago. I am so afraid of him. Love and fear – how often they were found together in one heart.

  ‘Lizzie,’ Aislabie exclaimed in concern. ‘My poor child. Come here.’

  She drew back. ‘Leave me be. I am not yours to command. I will not be dictated to, and trapped. I will not.’ She was breathing heavily in great gulps, chest rising and falling hard. ‘I must leave. Why will you not let me leave?’

  ‘Do you like wallflowers, Mrs Fairwood?’ I asked.

  She laughed frantically, and covered her face with her hands. ‘Do you like wallflowers,’ she mimicked. ‘Heaven spare me.’

  ‘I notice that you keep a vase in your room.’

  She dropped her hands. ‘Yes, Mr Hawkins. I keep a vase of wallflowers in my room. I suppose you would see me hanged for it?’

  ‘Did you pick them yourself?’

  Her brow crinkled as she sensed a trap. ‘I suppose I must have done.’

  ‘Where did you find them?’

  A long, careful pause. ‘Somewhere out in the gardens.’ She began to pace the room, fingers brushing along the spines of the books, groping for comfort.

  Lady Judith glanced at her husband, and then at me. ‘There are no wallflowers at Studley,’ she said, quietly.

  Aislabie put down his glass of brandy. ‘They were your mother’s favourite flowers, Lizzie. Perhaps that’s why you are so fond of them. I cannot bear to plant them in the gardens. They remind me of her too much, even now.’

  I hadn’t realised this was the reason, but I had noticed that there were no wallflowers on the estate. I had only seen them once, since my arrival from Ripon – great patches of them, sprouting from the crumbling walls of a ruined monastery. ‘They came from Fountains Abbey, did they not?’

  Mrs Fairwood plucked a book from a shelf and began to flick through its pages. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said, as if it were of no consequence. ‘Mr Forster gave them to me as a gift. They grow high upon the walls of my own garden, the same golden orange. I suppose I must have mentioned it to him in passing, and he was kind enough to bring some on his next visit. Is this your grave accusation, sir? Have I ruined my reputation by accepting flowers from a gentleman? Must I marry him now, or be shunned for ever by society?’ She slotted the book back on to the shelf. ‘Do you lecture me on dishonour, Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘And when did he bring you the flowers?’ I asked, mildly.

  Mrs Fairwood opened her mouth, then closed it again, teeth biting her lip. Caught.

  I turned to the Aislabies. ‘Did you see Mr Forster bringing flowers to your home in the past few days? Did he mention them to you? If we asked the servants, would they remember him riding up to the house with a bunch of bright orange wallflowers in his fist?’ I mimed one arm, caught in its sling, the other proffering a bunch of flowers.

  Mrs Fairwood continued her tour of the library, the way an animal might test the bars of its cage. Her face was almost as grey as her gown. ‘Wallflowers,’ she muttered.

  One can be undone by such small things.

  ‘I have some sympathy for you, madam,’ I said, following her with my eyes as she paced the room. ‘You are trapped, and you are afraid. But Mr Sneaton has been murdered, and Sam . . .’ I paused, unable to finish that thought. ‘You must be honest with me. This must stop. You cannot protect him any longer.’

  ‘Hold!’ Aislabie exclaimed. ‘Hold! What is this? You accuse them of conspiring together against me? Francis Forster and my own daughter?’

  ‘You were seen,’ I said, addressing my words to Mrs Fairwood. ‘Meeting in secret, at night.’

  ‘Impossible!’ she cried, then gasped at her mistake. ‘We never met,’ she added hurriedly.

  ‘Metcalfe saw you.’

  She leaned her back against the shelves. She looked as if she would like to fling every book in the library at me. ‘Metcalfe is mad. And you are a scoundrel. I have nothing more to say.’

  ‘Very well.’ I turned to Mr Aislabie. ‘I would ask that you and your wife stay here with Mrs Fairwood until Metcalfe returns. If we release her, she might run and warn her lover.’

  Mrs Fairwood curled her lip, disgusted.

  ‘I will not stand guard over my daughter as if she were some low villain!’ Aislabie protested. But for all his indignation, I saw uncertainty in his eyes. He was standing upon the precipice and refusing to look down. All his dreams, all his hopes, were about to be destroyed.

  Which had been the plan all along, of course.

  ‘Metcalfe will return soon,’ I said. ‘I ask only that you all wait here, together – and speak with no one else. Now – I must visit my ward. Pray excuse me.’ I bowed.

  ‘Of course,’ Lady Judith said, crossing the room to take my hand. ‘We are grateful to you, sir.’ She gave her husband a sharp glance.

  ‘I refuse to think ill of Forster,’ Aislabie grumbled. ‘You may have convinced my wife, but you have not convinced me.’

  I had reached the door of the library when Mrs Fairwood called out to me. ‘Mr Hawkins. I would speak with you a moment. In private.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  We stood in the narrow passageway and considered each other for a moment without speaking.

  ‘How clever you are,’ she said, with some venom. ‘I should never have guessed.’

  ‘What hold does Forster have upon you, madam? Are you truly in love with him?’

  Her nostrils flared at such an abhorrent notion.

  ‘You demanded this audience,’ I said, gesturing about the empty corridor. ‘What do you wish to say to me?’

  She gave a bitter smile. ‘I was on my way home. Do you understand? I was on my way home and you prevented me from leaving. So remember this.’ She raised herself on tiptoes so she might reach my ear. ‘You have killed me, Mr Hawkins.
You have killed me.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘Tom no, I’m sorry, it is an interesting thought, but really you are quite wrong, there is no engagement. Come with me.’

  I had almost collided with Kitty in the tattered corridors of the east wing. She had been in a desperate hurry to find me – bare-legged, no cap – snatching my hand and pulling me towards our chamber at a terrific pace. I had tried to explain about Forster and Mrs Fairwood – their secret love and plans for marriage – and received the critique relayed above. I should add that when Kitty said she found something interesting, she meant ridiculous, in the main.

  There was no time to tell her about the rest of my ideas: about Forster’s clothes, his years away from England, not even that Metcalfe had set out for Baldersby. We were at the ruined door of our chamber before I’d even finished complaining about being called muddleheaded.

  Sam lay under a pile of blankets. His eyes were bruised and swollen from his beating the day before. Strange to think that the man who’d beaten him now lay dead. I feared Sam might soon join him.

  ‘Forster is responsible for this, Kitty. I am sure of it.’

  ‘As am I.’ She had her back to me, shuffling through a sheaf of papers on the desk. The portraits of Mr Aislabie’s lost brothers lay propped against the wall on either side of the hearth – George the debauched rake, and Mallory, the doomed melancholic.

  ‘You agree? Then why am I muddleheaded? He confessed to Metcalfe that he was engaged.’

  ‘Of course. Better that than admit the truth. I mean really, does Mrs Fairwood strike you as a woman swept away by passion?’

  ‘She said the idea was repulsive.’

  ‘So.’ Kitty clapped her hands. ‘May I tell you what I have discovered? All upon my own here, abandoned for hours?’

  I sat down upon the bed. ‘I’m not convinced it has been hours, Kitty . . .’

  ‘I suppose not.’ She was standing by the casement window, sunlight filtering through the branches of the oak tree. Little strands of her hair glowed bright as hot metal. ‘And in truth, Sam helped.’

  ‘He woke again?’

  ‘Briefly. I’m not sure he knew where he was. He kept whispering “brother” – over and over. I thought at first that he was calling for you. But then I thought, Sam isn’t prone to bouts of sentiment, is he? So I tried to rouse him again, but he had drifted away. He is very ill, Tom. I fear . . . Even if he recovers, I am not sure he will be the same.’