‘He has lost his reason,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘I didn’t realise at first. Before we came here, he would talk of the future. He said he would come home with me to Lincoln and build me a new house. He talked of Palladio, and Lord Burlington . . . But it was all a pose, a deception. He wanted me to believe he was still the brother I had loved, so that I would help him. But how could he be? The man you have met isn’t real. The clothes he wears are a costume. The real Francis is cruel. The light is gone from him – and he cannot bear to see it in others. Worse – he takes pleasure in their suffering. It’s the only pleasure he has, now. He feeds upon fear.’
‘You’re afraid of him.’
‘Yes, very afraid. He was fascinated with how swiftly Mr Aislabie accepted me as his daughter. The boundless love of a father. He said, “Imagine if he found you dead. He would be sent mad with grief to lose you again in such a way. Think if I laid your corpse out on the coffin lawn, marked with flaming torches. How I should love to watch him discover you like that.” ’ She gave a shudder. ‘You took away my only chance to escape him, sir.’
‘Don’t you dare blame Tom,’ Kitty snapped, still furious. ‘You chose to come here and play the part of a dead girl. If you had stayed in Lincoln, we would be safe at home in London, and Mr Sneaton would still be alive. Sam would not be lying upstairs with a broken skull.’ She rose and stood over Mrs Fairwood. ‘You knew what he planned to do last night, didn’t you? You argued with him, while we were playing cards.’
Mrs Fairwood shrank back in her chair. ‘I begged him to leave before Sam gave up his name. He refused. He was so angry about the ledger. He said he would take it from Mr Sneaton, and then he would visit everyone on the list. Everyone who had cheated and escaped punishment. I didn’t know what to do . . . I stayed up all night, praying to God.’
‘Why not speak to us? We might have protected Sam if we’d known.’
‘I thought he was safe with you! You were locked in your chambers.’
‘And Mr Sneaton?’ I asked.
She tilted her head, defiant. ‘He should have told the truth about the ledger, instead of keeping it secret all these years. I’m sure I am sorry that he’s dead, but I could not risk warning him. Francis could have killed me.’ She drew herself up, discovering again her regal pose. ‘I believe that God will understand my actions, and forgive me.’
Kitty raised an eyebrow. ‘He might surprise you, Mrs Fairwood.’
There was a tap at the door. Two footmen entered the library, sent by Lady Judith. They looked excited and uncomfortable in equal measure. ‘Begging your pardon, madam,’ one of them addressed Mrs Fairwood. ‘Her ladyship has ordered us to escort you to the cellar. For your protection,’ he added.
‘I see.’ Mrs Fairwood gathered herself. ‘I should like to take one last walk about the yard, if I may? Under escort, of course.’ She gestured to Kitty and me.
In the courtyard, Mrs Fairwood clasped her hands together as if in prayer, walking slowly across the cobbles. Kitty and I followed close behind.
‘She imagines she is Anne Boleyn, bravely facing death,’ I muttered.
Kitty snorted. ‘And we are her ladies-in-waiting.’
‘Mrs Fairwood!’ I called out.
She paused, graciously.
‘Who aids your brother? He has an accomplice, does he not?’
Her gaze flickered to the back of the house. ‘He told me it was one of Aislabie’s men, but he wouldn’t say which one. If I didn’t know, I could never be certain when I was being watched. A footman, a groom . . . I must play my part to perfection, at every moment. I cannot express to you the intolerable strain of being spied upon. Of suspecting everyone.’ She continued her parade of the yard, chickens squawking at her neat little feet. ‘Of course, he might be watching us even now.’
‘And all he would see is a woman strolling through a yard.’
‘Yes . . .’ She smiled, faintly. ‘But if I am locked away in a cellar . . . He might decide to warn my brother.’
‘Oh!’ Kitty grinned without humour at this piece of cunning. ‘Bravo. So we should let you wander about the gardens instead, should we?’
Mrs Fairwood put a hand to her chest. ‘I am only trying to help. If Francis escapes, he will take his revenge upon us all, for ruining his plans. You most of all, Mr Hawkins.’
It was impossible to judge. There had been so much deceit, we couldn’t know for certain whether she was now telling the truth. Metcalfe would return from Baldersby soon. Could I risk waiting? Now I thought of it, all the servants would know that I had prevented Mrs Fairwood from leaving this morning, and had sat with her in the library in close conference with the Aislabies for over an hour.
If Forster received any warning of this, he would leave Fountains Hall at once. We might never see him again. Or worse, he might disappear for a short while and then hunt us all down in revenge. No – he must be secured as soon as possible.
I called to one of the grooms to bring me a horse, and he waved in understanding. It struck me that he could be Forster’s accomplice. It might be any one of these men in the yard. Of course, that assumed Forster had told his sister the truth: that the man was indeed a servant. It might be someone at Fountains Hall. It might be anyone. I began to see how unnerving it must have been for Mrs Fairwood all these weeks, always wondering if she were being watched.
‘Let me come with you,’ Kitty said.
I shook my head. ‘One of us must stand guard over her, until we know which servant colludes with her brother.’
‘I won’t run,’ Mrs Fairwood said. ‘Where would I go? It makes no difference now.’
The groom approached with Athena, apparently recovered from our adventures. We eyed each other warily for a moment, and then I swung up into the saddle. ‘Mrs Fairwood,’ I called down, once the groom had left us. ‘Your brother’s man. You must have your suspicions. Who is it, do you think?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want to accuse someone unfairly . . .’
I frowned down at her, and waited for a better reply.
She sighed. ‘Bagby. I believe it’s Bagby.’
Chapter Twenty-four
I galloped hard to Fountains Hall, reaching Mr Messenger’s home within a few minutes. Abandoning Athena on the carriageway, I asked the butler to bring me direct to his master as a matter of urgency. God knows my expression, but he led me at once to a room at the back of the house, where Messenger sat with his leg raised on an ottoman, nursing his gout. Mr Gatteker sat with him, drinking a glass of claret.
I was relieved to see that Forster wasn’t with them. It gave me the chance to explain myself, and ask for their help.
Messenger greeted me with some surprise, but politely enough through his pain. Gatteker had come to attend him, and to bring the news of Sneaton’s death.
‘God rest his soul,’ Messenger rumbled.
Gatteker raised his glass in memory, then drained it.
‘That is why I’m here, sir. Is Mr Forster at home?’
‘Forster?’ Messenger furrowed his brows. ‘I believe he’s down at the abbey, sketching again. Not in trouble, is he? I should be very sorry of it. Grown vastly fond of the fellow.’
I took a deep breath, and began.
‘Dear God,’ Messenger said when I was done. His fingers twirled a furtive cross against his chest. ‘Dear God and all the saints.’
Both men looked shocked, but neither had questioned the truth of my accusations. It was as if – once I had given them permission to consider Forster afresh – their instincts confirmed his true nature. There had always been something off about the man.
‘We shared breakfast together this morning!’ Messenger exclaimed. ‘He ate potted venison and sausages – and a jugged pigeon! Blithe as you please. A murderer at my breakfast table . . .’ He struggled to his feet, yelping in agony as the weight passed through his knee. ‘I must call the house together.’
‘No, please – we must not alert Forster. M
r Aislabie will be here presently with enough men to take him. I only wish to confirm that he has not fled. He has an accomplice – one of the Studley servants, I believe. Could he have received warning, within the last hour or so?’
‘No, no,’ Messenger said, gripping the mantelpiece to hold himself steady.
‘Ah – you may be mistaken, sir,’ Gatteker interrupted. ‘I passed one of Aislabie’s men on the road. Thought he must be bringing the news about Sneaton. I said I would take the message myself, but he carried on his way without a word. I thought it strange, but then it has been a very strange morning.’
‘And this was a Studley man?’
‘Aye – it was Bagby. Aislabie’s butler.’
It was a short walk to the abbey. I picked my way through the ruins, the ground a patchwork of high grass and stone flags tangled in weeds. Doves and pigeons fluttered in their nests and along the tops of the old walls, while the jackdaws eyed my approach, curious.
I ventured into the shadowed and cavernous cellarium, every footstep sending echoes to the vaulted ceiling. Lost feathers fluttered in the air, tufts of white and grey. Another turn and I emerged into brilliant sunshine.
Cocking my pistol, I stepped softly through a stone archway into the open square of the cloisters. There was no one there.
The ruins were the size of a small village, and Forster had spent hours sketching them. He could be hiding around any corner. I should leave, draw back until the magistrate arrived with his men. As I crossed the cloisters, I felt as though I were stalking not Forster, but the violence he promised. At the edge of the square lay four great arches. Three were flooded with light, the fourth was almost black with shadow. I hesitated, drawn to the darkest arch. I could hear Kitty calling at me to wait, to draw back. To think. My feet pulled me forward.
There was nothing there. The arch led to a short, dank passage, empty even of birds. I laughed at myself, under my breath. Beneath my laughter, I was disappointed. Where was he? Not in sunlight, not in shade.
I stepped through one of the three brighter arches, into a high-walled chapterhouse. The grass had been cropped here to honour the tombstones that covered the ground. Old monks, laid to rest centuries ago. A journal lay on one of the slabs, held down with a rock. I sensed, though I could not know, that it had been left for me to find. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.
I approached cautiously, expecting Forster to appear at any moment. Crouching down, I removed the rock and picked up the journal, flicking through the pages. There were neat sketches of the abbey and of Fountains Hall: scrupulously detailed notes about columns and windows, with measurements and perspectives. I turned to the next page and my stomach dropped.
It was a self-portrait. Forster stared from the page, mouth set hard. The precise lines of the previous sketches were replaced with savage shading and cross-hatching. He had drawn himself without his wig and hat, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones until he seemed more skull than living man. Where his eyes should be, he had drawn two empty sockets, blood dripping from the wounds. His fingers curled about his head, covered in blood – as if he had seen too much, and ripped his eyes out in horror.
Upon the next page, Forster had drawn a winding riverbank, with a small dark figure lying sprawled upon the grass. Another page, and here was Sneaton, beaten and drowned in the water trough, deer grazing in the distance as if in some country idyll. The next drawing depicted his sister, Elizabeth Fairwood, laid out dead upon the coffin lawn in front of the banqueting house, flaming torches surrounding her. The darkest of fantasies, or worse: preparation.
The following page was blank, save for a message scrawled lightly in pencil at the bottom.
Hawkins – I pray you find this. You have Ruined all my Plans and you will pay for it. You think you are Strong, but I have survived Seven years of hell. I know how to make a Man suffer. You will beg me to end your Life before we are done. E.F.
I took a deep breath and skimmed the rest of the pages. They were filled with sketches of windowsills and door frames, and notes upon classical proportion. He had written that venomous note, then returned to his designs, in the same way he could murder a man, and then sit down for his breakfast, quite untroubled.
I tucked the journal in my pocket and strode back to Fountains Hall, deeply unsettled. Aislabie had just arrived from Ripon with a magistrate and a small band of men.
‘He is fled,’ I told them, and explained about Bagby.
Aislabie cursed under his breath.
‘We should return to Studley and arrange a search party. He is not at the abbey.’
‘He might be halfway to Scotland by now.’
‘No, he is still here somewhere.’ I showed him Forster’s message.
His body sagged as he read it. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘He has not killed me yet,’ I said, sounding more cheerful than I felt. ‘We know who and what he is, and we know his accomplice. We’ll hunt him down.’
Aislabie tilted his head and gave me a swift, appraising look, as he had at our first meeting. Then he smiled grimly, and swung up into his saddle.
Back at Studley Hall, Aislabie gathered the house together for the second time that day. I stood with him upon the stairs and looked out across the white caps and gowns, the wigs and liveried suits, the rougher garb of the estate workers. Simpson and his men stood at the back, dusty with quarry powder. Work on the stables did not stop even for murder. Their boots had left muddy trails on the floor. I thought of Sally, scrubbing it clean again, then remembered she would not be able to work for a long time, with her burned hands. I searched for her in the crowd and found her standing with Mrs Mason. She caught my eye and gave a valiant smile, but the day had taken its toll upon her, and Mrs Mason had an arm wrapped about her waist to hold her steady.
Aislabie did not tell his household the full story – only that Mr Forster was suspected of Mr Sneaton’s death, and that if anyone should spy him upon the estate, they were to sound the alarm at once.
‘Forster killed Jack?’ Simpson called out, incredulous. He sounded drunk again. ‘That foppish prick? I’ll bludgeon his brains out if I see him.’
‘He is stronger than he seems,’ I warned.
Simpson snorted.
‘I must share further ill news,’ Aislabie said. ‘Many of you will have heard about the foul messages sent to me, and the butchered deer. This too was the work of Mr Forster, aided by a member of this household.’ Aislabie waited for the room to settle. ‘I’m afraid we have all been deceived by Mr Bagby.’
More gasps of astonishment. But I noticed Pugh cup his hand and whisper something to one of the grooms.
‘Has anyone seen him in the last hour?’ Aislabie asked.
No one had. Like Forster, Bagby had vanished.
Aislabie called upon the men to volunteer for a fresh search party. I offered to join him, but he needed estate workers – men who knew the woods well. ‘I hoped you might ride out to meet my nephew. I am worried for him on the road alone.’ He looked tired, his eyes rimmed red.
I bowed. ‘Of course.’
I asked one of the maids to let Kitty know where I was headed, then hurried to the stables, where Athena was being relieved of her saddle. ‘Leave her!’ I called out.
Athena snorted at the sound of my voice, and danced against the reins. The groom murmured in her ear and she settled again, enough for me to catch a stirrup and swing into the saddle. Pugh walked over to me, leading his horse. ‘You know the road to Baldersby?’
I nodded. ‘If you find Forster, don’t approach him alone. He’ll kill anyone in his way.’
‘I’m riding with Mr Hallow.’ Pugh tilted his chin towards the head keeper, who was already in the saddle. ‘Can’t believe Forster would do something so devilish. Seemed such a mild-tempered gent. There’s horses like that: good as gold . . . until they kick you in the teeth.’
‘Bagby was less of a surprise to you, I think?’
‘Bloody fool. He were furious when y
ou stopped Mrs Fairwood from leaving. Took off at a rare old pace to Fountains Hall. Said Mr Forster would know what to do. Said he were the only honourable gentleman around here. Begging your pardon.’
‘Not to worry. I had rather gathered that he disapproved of me.’
‘He did have some fanciful notions . . .’ Pugh hesitated. ‘He thought that you were, ah . . . That you and Lady Judith were . . . Nonsensical o’ course,’ he added, skating gamely over my disastrous reputation, and her ladyship’s shameless flirting.
I rode with Pugh down the path that ran along the east wing, thinking back over my three days at Studley. I could see now – with the eyes of a suspicious servant – how my behaviour might have appeared dishonourable. I had arrived at the estate without my wife, and moved myself at once to an abandoned set of rooms – the ideal place for illicit visits.
We passed the oak tree that grew outside my window. I thought of Sam balancing on its branches on our first day at Studley, barefoot and grinning. I should never have brought him here.
Hallow was waiting for us at the end of the path. He removed his hat and bowed in his saddle. ‘Bagby,’ he said, incredulous. ‘I’m so sorry your honour, I should have thought to ask for a description yesterday.’
‘Peace, Mr Hallow. I doubt it would have made a difference.’ Bagby was an unremarkable sort of fellow: middling height, brown eyes, neither handsome nor ill-featured. If he’d worn his liveried suit, that would have given us some clue, but most likely he had changed into rougher clothes to avoid notice. In which case, the description would apply to half the men on the estate.
‘He was always a mutton-headed fool,’ Pugh said.
‘But not a killer.’ Hallow shuddered. ‘You didn’t see the body. Devil’s work.’
‘I don’t think Bagby killed Mr Sneaton,’ I said, thinking of the sinister drawings in Forster’s notebook.
A Death at Fountains Abbey Page 25