A Death at Fountains Abbey

by Antonia Hodgson

  And then they were in front of me, with only the window between us. Kitty’s face, lit by starlight.

  Forster had a pistol pressed to her temple. His left arm, free of its sling, was wrapped tightly about her waist. I could just make out the brand upon his thumb.

  He grinned at me in mad triumph.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I asked Kitty.

  She shook her head, then winced. He must have stunned her with a sharp blow. It was the only way he could have brought her all this way without a fierce struggle.

  ‘There was blood.’

  ‘His,’ she spat. ‘I sliced him—’

  Forster lowered his lips to Kitty’s ear, and bit down hard. She screamed in pain, trying to pull away. I took a step closer and he lifted his head, pressing the pistol harder into her skin. I could see blood trickling down her neck. Blood on his lips.

  ‘Animal!’

  He wiped his mouth, and smiled at me, as if I had paid him a compliment. It was the strangest thing, to see the dull gentleman transformed before my eyes. The form was the same, and the features: but the spirit . . . my God. I understood now why he drew himself with vacant holes for eyes. His spirit was as black and desolate as the endless drop below us.

  ‘Throw your pistols over the edge,’ he said. ‘And your sword.’

  I hesitated.

  There was a sharp click as he cocked his pistol.

  I pulled the weapons from my belt and tossed them away. Drew my sword and let it fall. They were no use to me here.

  ‘You wear a dagger,’ he said. ‘Take it out.’

  I cursed silently, and eased it from my coat pocket. I had to fight the urge to run at him with it: he could fire his pistol before I’d taken a step. I held it up for a moment, then flung it away.

  ‘What happened to you, Forster?’

  I was hoping to distract him – beyond that I had no plan. We were trapped together on the narrowest ledge: Kitty could not struggle free without falling, and I couldn’t reach her. But Forster had no desire to talk about his past.

  ‘They branded you, I see that. Stole the life you could have had. I know how that might feel. I was sentenced to death for murder—’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Forster screamed. ‘I don’t give a damn about you. I had a plan. A beautiful, wonderful plan. And you ruined it.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Me. So let her go.’

  ‘Oh, am I not playing fair?’ he mocked. ‘How rude of me.’

  ‘What is it that you want?’

  He gripped Kitty’s waist tightly and whispered in her ear. ‘I could throw you from this ledge at any moment. Whenever I wish.’

  ‘Then I’ll pull you down with me, you fucking arsehole.’

  He laughed. ‘I like your wife, Hawkins.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He licked his lips. ‘I want you to jump.’

  My heart lurched.

  ‘No, not jump,’ he corrected himself. ‘I want you to step off the ledge, slowly, with your eyes open. Facing all of that.’ He tilted his chin towards the darkness beyond.

  I gripped the window frame.

  ‘Would you do that?’ His voice had a hungry, urgent edge to it.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Would you do it for her?’

  I stared at him, understanding at last.

  He grinned. ‘Would you die for your wife, Hawkins?’

  I glanced up at the moon. One half black, the other half a blazing silver. I loosened my grip on the window.

  ‘Tom, no!’ Kitty hissed.

  ‘Let her go. Let her go and I’ll do it.’

  Forster laughed again, high and wild. ‘There is no deal to be made, Mr Hawkins. You must do as I say. You must trust me. Walk off the platform now, and I will set her free. You have my word.’

  ‘Your word is worthless.’

  ‘So be it.’ He twisted on the board and it tilted, rocking them together towards the edge. Kitty screamed.

  ‘No! Wait!’

  ‘Tom, don’t!’ Kitty lifted her arm, trying to reach me.

  ‘Promise me you’ll let her go,’ I shouted at Forster. ‘Swear it – on your father’s soul.’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘Tom don’t, don’t,’ Kitty sobbed.

  I turned upon the ledge, facing the drop below. My heart was beating so hard I could hardly breathe and my legs were trembling. But I was ready. What else could I do? I took a half-step forward, my feet hanging over the edge. Don’t look down. Look straight out. Face Death and do not flinch.

  Forster began to laugh. A high-pitched, gulping laugh, aimed up at the heavens. ‘You would do it!’ he marvelled. ‘Truly! You would throw yourself from a tower to save her. Without even knowing if I would keep my word. Oh, this is wondrous. Step back sir, step back!’

  I didn’t understand my reprieve, but I was not about to argue with it. I flung myself back to the wall, fingers grasping the mullion again, my knees almost buckling.

  ‘You don’t understand revenge, do you Hawkins? A quick death, what is that? How could that ever satisfy me? I could have killed Aislabie the second I met him. Where would have been the pleasure in it? The justice? I spent seven years in hell because of him. He had to suffer, he owed me his suffering. That would have been fair, do you not see? Forster’s eyes were full with a wild, desperate longing. ‘Imagine the grief, the agony of losing his daughter for the second time. If he had seen her murdered, stretched out upon his coffin lawn. It would have destroyed him. You stole that from me!’ he screamed, spit flying from his mouth. ‘You stole my revenge! So now you will suffer in his place. You will live, wishing you were dead. You will live, and your wife will die.’

  And with that, he pushed Kitty a few inches in front of him, and fired his pistol at the back of her head.

  The world stopped. I must have screamed, I suppose. I know that I reached out, and the platform knocked beneath my feet. There was a great, blinding flash, and smoke, and Kitty stood, eyes wide, illuminated in the flare.

  I lived a thousand years in that moment, knowing I had lost her. I felt the grief well up inside me before she was even gone, anticipated the life I would live without her, bitter and grey.

  And then, as the moment passed, I realised that a pistol did not flash that brightly, nor cause that much smoke – unless it had misfired.

  That is the trouble with pistols. They are wayward, unreliable things.

  Forster stumbled, blinded by the flash, snatching at Kitty’s arm for balance. She staggered backwards with him. In a quick, desperate move I grabbed the front of her gown with my left hand and pulled her into me, locking my right elbow around the stone mullion.

  I looked down and saw that Forster had fallen half off the board, his legs dangling over the edge. As he tried to pull himself back up, it lifted and slammed back upon its bracket. Kitty called out in terror. If the board fell, we were lost: we could not cling to the window for ever.

  ‘Go!’ I yelled at Kitty. We had to get back to the tower door before he was on his feet. At least there we wouldn’t plummet to our deaths.

  As Kitty tried to move, Forster reached out blindly and snatched a fistful of her gown, dragging her down. The extra weight wrenched my right arm, still wrapped about the mullion. He would pull us both down with him.

  The platform was rocking violently beneath my feet. I put my lips to Kitty’s ear. ‘Dagger. Inside pocket.’

  She groped in my coat and found her own dagger, tucked in the hidden pocket she had sewn for me herself, long months before. She pulled it free and plunged it into Forster’s hand where it gripped her gown, grinding the blade back and forth. There was a sickening sound as blade met bone. Forster screamed. Kitty lifted the knife and stabbed again, and again, hacking savagely at his fingers.

  He let go.

  And in that eternal instant before he fell I saw first astonishment and then rage, pure and terrible as fire.

  His howls echoed from the tower walls.

  And then, silence.

/>   Afterwards

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  We limped down the tower steps without a word. When we reached the bottom Kitty sank to the ground, the horror only now catching up with her. I found Forster’s body amidst the rubble – a terrible, mangled, bloody sight. This was the death I had been prepared to accept for myself, only a few minutes before – the death Forster had planned for Kitty. This could have been her body lying broken on the ground. But we were breathing and he was not – and in that moment I felt blessed by the privilege of life.

  I helped Kitty to her feet. She had a bump on the side of her head, and was grazed and bruised. The wound to her ear looked the most savage – the blood had poured down her neck and stained her gown. The cut would mend, but it would leave a scar, and it made me sick to think that Forster had left his mark upon her.

  I found my sword and slotted it in my belt, tucked my dagger into my coat. My pistols were broken. I kicked them into a corner.

  Fountains Hall was only a short walk away, but Kitty looked as though she might fold in upon herself. ‘Let me carry you.’

  She shook her head, then gave a gasp of pain. When the spasm had subsided, she staggered over to Forster’s body and stared at it for a moment. Then she spat in his ruined face. ‘I can walk,’ she said. ‘I can walk.’

  We headed down the middle of the nave towards the great west window. There we stopped and stared up at the heavens. It was long past midnight. I was – quite by accident – in church on a Sunday. It had been a while.

  Kitty touched my hand. ‘You would have died for me.’ She gazed out through the window into the night beyond, to the glimmering stars and the crisp half-moon. ‘I suppose I shall have to marry you now.’

  I put my hands in my breeches’ pockets. ‘Not sure I asked.’

  She laughed, and linked her arm in mine. Murmured in my ear. ‘If you gamble away my fortune I will shove you off a ledge myself.’

  She was jesting, naturally.

  I think she was jesting.

  ‘A tragic accident,’ John Aislabie said.

  ‘Tragic,’ Mr Messenger echoed.

  The two men were in agreement for once. The truth, were it widely known, would damage them both. Messenger had invited Forster to Fountains Hall, and Aislabie had given him the freedom of his estate. No one would blame them for what had happened, but no one would forget, either. Fountains Hall and Studley Royal would be for ever associated with an infamous killer.

  ‘A cruel fate for such a holy place,’ Messenger said.

  ‘Bad for land values,’ Aislabie concurred.

  So the truth was replaced with a few pragmatic falsehoods. Aislabie announced that Mr Sneaton had fallen, dashed his head, and drowned. No talk of the bloodstains at his cottage, nor how he might have struggled his way through the park at night without his walking stick. As for the accusations surrounding Mr Forster, and the attendant search – this had all been an unfortunate misunderstanding. He must have slipped and fallen to his death while sketching the old belfry. He should never have ventured on to such a narrow platform – not with his arm in a sling.

  I wasn’t convinced people would believe there had been two violent accidents within the space of one day, both of them suspicious. But Messenger was respected, and Aislabie was powerful. That same morning, the parson at Kirkby Malzeard and the Dean of Ripon cathedral were leading their congregations in prayers for the two unfortunate gentlemen who had died so tragically, God rest their souls.

  I doubted – extremely – that Francis Forster’s soul would be making God’s acquaintance.

  Martin Bagby was not discovered until the following evening, in an obscure corner of the east wing. His body had been wrapped in a dustsheet and shoved under a bed, with a horrible lack of dignity. The blood had pooled beneath him, staining the floorboards and the ceiling below.

  It was too late by then to place the blame upon Forster, so to avoid uncomfortable questions, Mr Gatteker was persuaded to declare the death a self-murder. Aislabie arranged matters discreetly so that his ill-starred butler might have a Christian burial. A generous gesture, somewhat marred by his complaints about the ruined floorboards, and the cost and inconvenience of the necessary repairs.

  But I have raced ahead of myself.

  It was almost dawn by the time we left Fountains Hall. Kitty did not fancy jolting back to Studley in a carriage – she said the thought alone made her head throb twice as hard. So we walked instead, soaked by a sudden rain shower and protected by two of Aislabie’s men, who were by now most confused by all the rumours of murder, and accidents, and injuries. No doubt they suspected something closer to the truth than they were told, but they held their tongues – at least in front of us.

  I had been almost dead upon my feet until now, but the pelting rain woke me up. By the time we arrived at Studley I was restored, though a glance at my reflection showed pale cheeks and red eyes, and the hollow stare of a man dragged back from the brink of Hell.

  Up in our apartment we found Sam awake, drifting in and out of understanding. His face softened with relief when he saw us. Kitty was so tired that she could scarcely stand, so I helped her into the tiny bed next door, taking off her shoes and loosening her stays so she could free herself from her sodden clothes.

  She slipped under the sheets. ‘What a night we’ve had,’ she yawned, understating events somewhat. I rolled the blanket up to her chin and kissed her forehead, marvelling at her resilience. She was already asleep.

  Back in our chamber, I stoked the fire and laid my head against the wall, grateful for the heat from the chimney. Then I lifted down the painting of the abbey, tore it from its frame, and fed it to the flames.

  I could not stop thinking of the moment on the platform, when I was preparing to jump. If I closed my eyes, the floor dropped away and I felt as if I were falling. A fresh scene for future nightmares. But there was a sense of relief too – of joy, almost.

  Ever since my hanging I had felt a dull but constant sense of dread that by cheating Death, I had somehow summoned him to my side. If I’d made this dolorous observation to Kitty she would have said it was a natural reaction to being hanged and shoved in a coffin. But was it really so fanciful? Sam – for all his suspicion of metaphysics – had drawn a charcoal shadow about my shoulders.

  As I gazed into the fire, I realised that this shadow had now dissolved away. I had offered up my life freely, and Death had not taken it.

  The debt was paid. I was free.

  ‘She saved my life,’ Sam murmured from the bed, so softly I thought he was dreaming.

  He meant Kitty, presumably.

  ‘Sheet.’

  This was elliptical, even for him. Later, Kitty told me she had thrown the sheet over him when Forster burst through the door. Sam had lain still, pretending to be dead, while Forster and Kitty fought. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t even cry out for help.

  ‘Forster’s dead,’ I told him. ‘He fell from the abbey tower.’

  He grunted, pleased. ‘Wattson?’

  ‘He wasn’t there. But I know where to find him.’ I had puzzled it out on my walk from Fountains Hall, who Thomas Wattson really was, and where I would find him. ‘I’ll deal with him.’

  ‘Wait for me.’

  I thought about this. Wattson didn’t know I had unmasked him, and if I spoke with Metcalfe no one else would, either. ‘As you wish. We’ll ride out together when you’re strong enough.’

  He soon fell asleep again. I sat with him as the sun rose, listening to the crackle of the fire, and marvelling that we were all safe. A blackbird began to sing, sweet and clear in the morning air.

  I rose, and stretched, and went to tell Mrs Fairwood that her brother was dead.

  The next morning I found Lady Judith sitting alone at breakfast, wearing her distracting breeches. She had already taken a long ride through the estate and said she felt much the better for it.

  ‘How does your wife fare?’

  ‘Well, I think. She is dressin
g her hair. Your husband?’

  She sighed. ‘He is in his study, dealing with correspondence. It is best he remains busy. He’ll recover, in time. We all will, I suppose.’ She glanced at Sneaton’s empty chair. ‘It will help when that wretched woman has left the county.’

  I lowered my fork. ‘She’s still here?’

  ‘Not at Studley, by God! She stays at the Oak – won’t leave until her brother is buried. Can you believe that devil will lie buried in consecrated ground? I should not be surprised if the earth boils around his coffin in protest.’ She buttered a piece of toast. ‘Speaking of such grave matters . . . I spied a great mound of earth by the lake this morning.’

  I coughed, and pretended to search for my pipe. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Indeed. It looked as though someone had dug a hole, and then filled it in again.’

  I fumbled for my pouch of tobacco. ‘How curious. By the lake, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Next to the sphinx. Next to the queen’s claws. Oh, do stop fiddling with your pipe, Mr Hawkins.’ She acted displeased, but there was a glint of humour in those wide blue eyes of hers. ‘I hear that you and my nephew set out for the gardens last night with a couple of shovels. Tell me, sir – if I searched your rooms, might I find a certain green ledger?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ I cried. Not unless she reached up Kitty’s petticoat and found her underpocket.

  Lady Judith gave me a sidelong look. ‘I don’t suppose my husband will ever return to office.’

  ‘He did blackmail the queen.’

  ‘In which case,’ she said, her eyes still fixed upon mine, ‘I suppose the ledger is of little value to him. And it would present no danger, either, as long as the contents remain secret.’

  I inclined my head. I had already decided not to reveal the details of the ledger. Not to save Mr Aislabie’s reputation, not for all the world. But to stop a war – for this I would stay silent. While it was tempting to publish and see the government and the royal family destroyed by scandal, the attendant chaos would almost certainly tear the country apart. At the very least it would give France and the Stuarts the spur to attempt another invasion.