So we ate supper and finished the last of the wine, speaking softly so as not to wake Sam. Then Kitty slipped a hand into the band of my breeches, and pulled me into the cupboard room, and on to the bed. I took off her gown, and she shivered in the cool air until I covered her, and the heat rose between us. We pushed away the death and horror of the day and lost ourselves in a narrow room, with one candle burning by the bed.
‘Tom, you are taking up the whole mattress, you great oaf.’
I propped myself on my elbow, and traced a familiar path of freckles down her porcelain white skin. She was naked, save for the poesy ring she always wore about her neck, and the diamond-studded ring on her finger. She had shifted it to her left hand.
‘Mrs Hawkins,’ I said.
She yawned, and said nothing.
I lit a pipe and we smoked it together. I told her what Simpson had said about the night of the fire, and how Sneaton had been in love with Molly Gaining.
‘What a shame. Just think: if he’d said something, she might never have started the fire.’
‘He must have been too shy.’
‘I suppose. But to live the rest of his life all alone . . . it seems such a waste.’
I didn’t see it that way. Sneaton had lived alone, but people had loved and admired him, and mourned his death. That, surely, was the sign of a life lived well.
The bed was too narrow to lie upon together for very long. So we dressed and looked in on Sam. Kitty found Forster’s sketchbook lying on the table and flicked through it, gasping with revulsion when she reached the self-portrait. ‘Look how he has drawn his teeth,’ she said, holding it up.
I frowned at the image, the black and bloody sockets and blade-sharp cheekbones. His teeth ended in sharp points, like a wolf’s. I took the journal from her and threw it on the fire. Bright flames curled about the pages, destroying those terrible images. Elizabeth Fairwood dead upon the coffin lawn. Sneaton’s corpse floating in the water trough, surrounded by pages from the ledger.
Paper burned by fire, paper ruined by water. I had pulled the ledger from the water trough and it had disintegrated in my hands. The names of the guilty lost for ever.
And as I thought of it now, I wondered . . .
‘Kitty. Why would Forster destroy the ledger?’
She gasped, understanding at once. ‘He wouldn’t.’
I’d seen the pages floating on the water, and thought of them as a flourish – and another act of revenge. With the ledger destroyed, Aislabie could no longer use it to blackmail his way back into power. But Forster had been desperate to find the ledger, for the list of names it contained.
‘He must still have it,’ Kitty said. ‘Unless . . .’ Her eyes lit up.
Unless Sneaton had refused to hand it over. I grinned. Of course he’d refused. The book was still hidden somewhere. If I could find it, I might still free myself from the queen’s service. Yes – I would have to search one of the largest estates in Europe. Yes, night had fallen. And yes, damn it, there was a distinct chance that Forster was still out there and would murder me while I was poking about the bushes. But what is life, without the odd gamble?
I kicked the wall. Even I could see it was impossible. Sneaton could have buried the ledger anywhere. I could search for years and never find it.
‘Never mind,’ Kitty said, pouring me a glass of wine. ‘At least Mr Aislabie thinks it is destroyed. That should satisfy the queen.’
‘Hmm.’ I thought of what Sneaton had promised the day before: that the queen would never get her claws on the ledger. True enough . . .
I clapped my hands to my head, and laughed at a joke made by a dead man.
The queen’s claws.
The ledger was buried with the sphinx.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ Kitty said. ‘You can’t wander about the estate alone at night, Tom!’
I buttoned my waistcoat. ‘If I wait until morning there will be a hundred men out in the gardens. I can hardly dig the damned thing up in front of them. I have to go tonight.’
‘No, you don’t! For God’s sake, wait a few days. Why must you be so impatient? It’s perfectly safe where it is.’
‘We need it now, Kitty. Tonight. What if Sam rallies tomorrow? We must be ready to leave at once.’
‘Tom, you can’t go out alone, you can’t. Francis Forster is waiting for you in the woods. He’ll kill you.’
‘Aislabie’s men spent half the day searching the estate. I doubt he’s within five miles of Studley. And he won’t expect me to be wandering about in the dark.’
‘No, because only a screaming lunatic would do something so stupid.’
I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. ‘Enough.’ I had to go, and she knew it.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ She pulled her boots out from a corner. ‘We’ll go together.’
‘We can’t. You need to stay with Sam.’
‘Ugh!??’ She stamped her booted foot, quite hard. ‘Why don’t you stay with him? And I’ll go down to the river, as it’s so perfectly safe. I shall take a basket of cakes and drink tea by the cascade.’
We both laughed. ‘At least take Metcalfe with you,’ she said.
‘D’you know, that’s a capital idea. We’ll take a sphinx each.’
‘No. Stay together. One of you on lookout for Forster. Honestly – how much wine have you drunk?’ She clomped over, one boot on, one boot off, and kissed me. ‘Oh, go, go – then you will be back the sooner. I shall fret horribly until you return.’
Metcalfe was in a clean silk nightgown, a crisp white cap on his head. He had been clearing up his room: the window stood open to freshen the air, and the piles of dirty clothes had been sent to the laundry. He drew in his brows as I explained about the ledger and the sphinx.
‘Should we not wait a few days?’
‘Sneaton must have left instructions for your uncle somewhere. It won’t be long before he finds them.’
Metcalfe grunted, acknowledging the truth of it. ‘Is it safe, do you think – to be gallivanting about the estate at night?’
‘Probably not.’
He rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. ‘Let me find my boots . . .’
I’d lied to Kitty, up in our chamber. I could have asked one of the servants to stand guard over Sam, while we headed out across the park together. The truth was, I thought there was a strong chance that Forster was waiting for me out in the woods – and I hoped to lure him out. I am a restless soul, and I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting trapped indoors for days until Forster was found. Much better to confront him, tonight. I had a brace of pistols, a sword, and a dagger – and for all Forster’s strength and cunning, I was a foot taller than him and knew how to fight. Face to face, the odds were in my favour.
Metcalfe roused Malone, who had bedded down in a room above the stables. The horses shuffled and stamped as we lifted a couple of spades from the stalls. In the courtyard, everything was peaceful, the chickens locked up in their coop. Two of Aislabie’s men were patrolling the yard with dogs, lanterns swinging on long poles. They hurried towards us as we reached the yard door, which opened on to the woods beyond. It was locked. Metcalfe squeezed my shoulder, and put a finger to his lips.
‘Sirs!’ one of the guards called out. ‘The house is locked up for the night.’
Metcalfe drew himself up tall. ‘We are not chickens.’
The guard looked at his companion, then back at us, perplexed.
‘We are not chickens,’ Metcalfe repeated, more slowly. ‘We refuse to be cooped up all night.’
‘Mr Robinson, sir – it’s for your own safety.’
‘How dare you!’ Metcalfe puffed out his chest. ‘Am I to be cosseted and condescended to in such an ignominious fashion? This is not to be endured. Remember your station, you disobedient wretch.’
‘Mr Robinson, sir—’
‘Unlock this door at once.’
The guard did as he was told.
‘Malone. We’ll need those lanterns.’
>
Malone was carrying the spades. I took them from him, and he took the lanterns from the guards, who were not at all pleased.
‘Should we ask for the dogs?’ Metcalfe asked me, from the corner of his mouth.
‘Best not press our luck,’ I muttered.
We left the courtyard in a procession, Metcalfe leading the way with one lantern and Malone at my back with the other. We kept to the main avenues, our boots crunching on the gravel. Let Forster hear me, if he was hiding out there in the woods. Let him come. I was ready for him.
But he was not in the woods. And he was not waiting for me.
It was past midnight when we returned, jubilant with success. We had found the ledger in an iron strongbox, buried at the foot of the older sphinx. We had worked together under the stars like gravediggers, Metcalfe quoting Hamlet and Malone singing ballads.
I had hoped to encounter Forster on our way back – the three of us together could have caught him easily enough. But I was satisfied at least to hold the ledger in my hands. It felt damp, and the pages were a little foxed – but the writing was legible.
Metcalfe peered over my shoulder, tutting over the names. ‘Look at them all,’ he said. ‘Shameless villains. Tens of thousands of pounds. They robbed the nation dry. Can you imagine such a thing, Malone?’
‘D’you know, I think I can, sir.’
Malone went back to the stables, Metcalfe to his rooms, and I carried on up the stairs, holding my freedom in my hands. The true accounts of the South Sea Company. The bribes given, the free shares. My Lord this, my Lady that. Right Honourables and Most Reverends. Half the current government was implicated – along with the king himself.
The queen would do anything to keep this from the world. She could never blackmail us again.
‘Kitty!’ I called, throwing back the ruined door and holding up the ledger in triumph. ‘I have it!’
The room was empty, and very still.
Someone had thrown a white sheet over Sam’s face.
A chair had been knocked to the ground.
I strode to the cupboard-room door and peered into the gloom. ‘Kitty,’ I said. As if saying her name would conjure her to me. I stepped back into the chamber. It was not possible, none of this was possible. I had the ledger: we were free. I had won.
Where was she?
I lifted the chair by the hearth and my heart lurched. I heard myself say: No.
There was a trail of blood running across the floorboards. A bloody handprint on the wall.
I dropped to my knees, reaching a trembling hand to touch the blood on the floor. Bright red and wet. Gasping for breath, I wiped my hand against the chair to clean it. My head was pounding. I forced myself not to panic. It was only a small patch of blood. She was alive. She had to be.
I caught something glinting in the far corner by the window and crawled towards it. Kitty’s brooch-dagger. The blade was smeared with blood. She had fought him – of course she had. I shoved it in my coat pocket and staggered to the bed.
I stood over it for a moment, afraid of what I would find beneath the sheet. And then I cursed myself for a coward, and pulled it back with one swift movement.
Sam lay with his eyes closed, lips parted. White bandage wrapped over his black curls.
I crouched down and put a hand to his chest. He was warm. Thank God in Heaven, he was warm – and breathing.
‘Sam.’ I shook his shoulder. ‘Sam.’
He groaned, and opened his eyes.
‘Where is she?’
A tear slid from his eye.
A hollow feeling opened up inside me. I looked again about the room, and saw a piece of paper nailed to the painting of Fountains Abbey. I tore it free, my hand trembling. It was a sketch Sam had made of Kitty. She smiled out at me from the page, curls loose about her face. Beautiful.
Beneath it, Forster had left a message.
We are waiting for you, Mr Hawkins. Come alone.
Chapter Twenty-six
The abbey was black against the night sky. I held out my lantern, a golden light in the dark. The ruins were quiet now that the birds were gone. I could hear the River Skell somewhere to my left, and feel the west wind pulling at my coat. I groped my way over the broken walls, searching for the tombstones, where Forster had left his journal. He wasn’t there.
I turned about me in the silence. If I called out, there would be no hope of surprise. I moved the pole into my left hand, and drew my pistol. Nothing stirred. Where were the old ghosts tonight, the monks who had worshipped here for centuries? Fled into the stones, drifted away upon the wind. I was alone, with nothing to guide me but one candle, and a million stars high in the heavens.
I found myself in the cellarium, beneath its vaulted ceiling. The lantern cast great shadows over the brickwork. It was a long room, full of echoes, with any number of wide pillars to hide behind. I ventured slowly down its length, my feet scuffing against the stone. It felt as if I were walking down the throat of some great beast.
A noise behind me made me turn. ‘Who’s there?’ I hissed, circling blind. Something rustled, and then in one terrible motion, a thousand bodies rose up as one. Bats. I dropped to the ground as they rushed around me, squealing and flapping in a huge cloud. I covered my head with my hands, feeling the beat of their wings like soft breath on the air.
And then they were gone, leaving nothing but silence, and a faint, acrid scent. I rose to my feet, shaken. By some miracle, my lantern was intact. I picked it up and walked down through the nave, alone beneath the towering stones, the open sky.
The aisles were empty. Only the chapel remained unsearched, and the great tower looming up ahead. A perfect half-moon hung above it, silvering the stone.
It will be the tower. The highest point of the abbey. He will want the drama of it.
I stood in the transept, the heart of the old church. This was where the first stones had been laid, and men had worshipped for centuries. I groped for the cross that hung about my neck and sent a swift prayer to the heavens. Please God. Let her be alive.
The entrance to the tower stood to my left, black and silent. It must have been magnificent once. Now it was a hollow shell: no stained glass in the windows, no floors, no roof. I raised my lantern and stepped inside. Craning my neck, I glimpsed a flickering light near the top of the tower. There must be a platform running along that wall, though I couldn’t see it from the ground.
‘Hawkins.’ Forster’s voice drifted down. ‘Join us.’
Us. She lived.
In the far right corner of the tower stood a door, studded with iron. I wrenched it open and took the lantern from its pole, thrusting the light ahead of me up the winding stone steps. In my haste I had forgotten about Wattson until this moment. If he were here, if he were crouched waiting for me on the stairs above, I could do little to defend myself. But what choice did I have?
The staircase ran up the full height of the tower, the steps worn and crumbling. I had run from Studley House all the way to the abbey, and I was soon out of breath. I stopped upon the landing where the second floor had once stood, and which now opened upon a black void. This would have been the place for an ambush: Wattson could have grabbed me and shoved me over the edge before I could even fire my pistol. He was not here. I swallowed hard, gathering my strength, and hurried onwards.
After another fifty steps I reached a narrow wooden door. The light had come from this level. I was almost at the top of the tower, just below the belfry. I turned the ring handle and pushed open the door, shielding myself by the wall. No shots were fired; no one rushed through and kicked me down the stairs. I stepped out with my pistol raised.
I could see two figures huddled together in a dark corner, up ahead to my right. It was too dark to see their faces.
‘Forster!’ I yelled.
He didn’t reply. I held out the lantern to guide my way, then shrank back against the door frame.
There was no floor. All that remained was a wooden platform no more than a foot
wide, running along the wall from this door to the opposite corner of the tower. There was no rail or rope at its edge, only a straight drop to the ground a hundred and fifty feet below.
Directly beyond the door lay a small stone landing, leading to the platform. I put one foot upon it, testing my weight. The stone was dry, but there were weeds and moss growing on the surface. I would need both hands for balance. I lowered the lantern and slipped my pistol back in its belt. Tore my wig and hat from my head and threw them back down the stairs. Then I lifted my back foot through the doorway and on to the landing.
This alone was terrifying. The tower was cathedral high, the wind roaring through the empty windows and flapping the edges of my coat.
I took my first step on to the narrow platform. The wooden board bowed and rocked, but held firm. I pressed my back against the wall and stretched out my arms, inching sideways like a crab. Even with my heels to the wall, my feet only just fitted upon the board.
As I drew closer to the belfry window I heard a slight scuffle and then a voice. ‘Tom!’
Kitty.
‘Tom, go back!’
There was another scuffle, then silence.
It was agony. We were no more than twenty feet apart, but even the slightest misstep could be fatal. The wooden platform rested on a series of stone brackets. If I balanced towards my toes, the board tipped dangerously towards the yawning dark. Twice I thought I would fall, only to slam back hard against the wall, fingers clawing at the stone. There was no time to think of attack or defence, only the next step, and the next.
I reached the belfry window, clinging to the nearest stone mullion with a desperate relief. The wind was wild and bitter up here, howling through the empty window.
‘No further,’ Forster commanded. I heard the shuffle of footsteps as they moved slowly towards me. Forster had left his own lantern in the far corner, but I could see the white sleeves of Kitty’s gown, and flashes of her skirts, and the darker shape of Forster behind her. They walked the platform head on: I could hear the wooden plank lifting and knocking against the stone brackets.
A Death at Fountains Abbey Page 27