The Sudbury School Murders (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #4)

by Ashley Gardner

  "It's likely the murderer did not even know who he stabbed as he ran by," I said. "The killer heard Grenville come out of the Head Master's house and simply lashed out."

  Bartholomew's brow clouded. "Mr. Grenville ought not to have been there. He should have called Matthias."

  "I know. But likely he thought that the person would get away if he took the trouble. I'd have done the same, simply gone down to catch the culprit myself."

  "But you know how to defend yourself, sir. He doesn't. He's too trusting by half, too sure of his own good luck."

  "I know," I said glumly.

  Bartholomew balled his fists. "When I find out who did this, I will murder him myself."

  "You will have to queue up behind me."

  Bartholomew simply stood there, looking morose.

  I found nothing more interesting in the room than the book and its contents and the broken knife. I found little personal at all in the room, and no other letters or papers.

  I finished and led Bartholomew out, Fletcher's book under my arm. I hated to leave Fletcher alone, but perhaps that was best for him. Let him sit in peace.

  I removed the key from the inside of the door, closed the door, and locked it from the outside. I left the key in the keyhole, and then Bartholomew and I departed.

  *** *** ***

  Rutledge had the entire school assembled in the quad under the gentle March rain. Bartholomew and I skirted the crowd and made for the Head Master's house. Sutcliff stood at Rutledge's side, looking sullen and half-asleep. Several of the boys craned to watch us, rather spoiling the effect of Rutledge's diatribe.

  Back in Grenville's room, I sat down to look over the papers I'd taken from Fletcher. Grenville had not woken from his stupor, and his pallid face bore a sheen of perspiration.

  I knew I needed to sleep. My head buzzed and my vision was fuzzy, and I was still weak from the fever. But I could not bring myself to leave the room again.

  I was as angry as Bartholomew. Whoever had hurt Grenville would not be safe from me.

  I found much of interest in Fletcher's book and its secrets. The swindling scheme was much bigger than I'd thought. Fletcher had tapped his old school friends, which included many prominent men of London. Some were fathers or other relations of the boys of Sudbury.

  I found contracts and letters of agreement and particulars on what percentage return the investors could expect to see. Middleton was named on the documents as a "surveyor," which explained the maps. One other person, not named, was referred to as a "banker."

  Fletcher had received letters from investors asking eagerly when the canal would be started, finished, opened--when would the money come rolling in? There were letters from the more canny souls who began claiming that they'd found no evidence that a canal was even proposed, and what was Fletcher up to?

  Fletcher must have been planning to disappear very soon.

  I had another thought--what if Fletcher's books were burned not because of a malicious prank, but because the killer had been looking for this particular book with all its damning evidence?

  The maps in Middleton's room were just that, maps. They meant nothing by themselves. But Fletcher's documents could not be ignored. He'd fraudulently taken money from gullible people and promised them rainbows.

  Bartholomew brought me coffee and told me to go to bed, but I still would not leave. I knew Bartholomew and Matthias would stand over Grenville like faithful watchdogs, but I could not bear the thought that something might happen to him while I slept. I feared the killer would not chance that Grenville had not seen who'd struck the blow. The murderer had made certain that Fletcher and Middleton had not told tales; he might make certain Grenville did not, either.

  The coffee cup crashing to the floor woke me. Paper slithered to the carpet to soak up the black liquid.

  "Sir?" Bartholomew hung over me.

  "I'm all right." I passed my hand through my hair. My eyes were aching and sandy. "I'll take a walk around the quad, clear my head."

  Bartholomew helped me to my feet. Matthias dozed in a chair near Grenville's bed. Grenville lay unmoving and wan.

  "Watch over him," I said in a low voice. "Do not let anyone into this room for any reason, not Rutledge, not a maid. You and your brother take care of him yourselves, do you understand?"

  Bartholomew gave me a grim nod. He understood quite well.

  The noon hour struck as I left the house. Outside it had warmed somewhat, and the rain had thickened. The air braced me. Despite all the tragedy, the spring day still smelled clean and refreshing.

  I walked heavily across the quad, my stick tapping the stones. Boys drifted into and out of the houses, wandering to lessons, to their rooms, to whatever task they'd been set on. They were rather subdued--a murder and a near-murder so close to home was exciting but frightening.

  I heard a commotion by the gate and headed that way. The porter was arguing with a person outside who did not want to listen.

  "Madam," I heard the porter say in a pained voice

  Timson came sauntering toward me from the gate, a grin on his face. "I say, Captain, your bit of muslin is asking to see you."

  I started. "My what?"

  Timson just smirked and winked, so I hurried on.

  "Lacey!" a woman cried.

  Marianne Simmons held onto the bars of the gate, her white skirts rain-soaked and blotched with mud.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked her.

  "I need to speak to you. Tell this lummox to let me in."

  "Now look here, you-- " the porter began.

  "Never mind," I said quietly. "Let her in."

  The porter gave me an exasperated look. "Women are not allowed, sir. Particularly not women like her."

  "Oh, that is nice," Marianne sneered.

  "Baiting him will not help you, Marianne. Let her in," I told the porter. "I will let Rutledge berate me later."

  The porter's face darkened, but he opened the gate. Marianne stuck her tongue out at him as she sailed inside.

  Timson and a few other boys stared at Marianne's thin dress in great enjoyment. Timson let out a wolf-whistle.

  "Mind your manners," I told them. In the relative privacy of the middle of the quad, I turned Marianne to face me.

  "What is it?"

  She pulled her silk shawl closer about her shoulders and shivered. From the worry in Marianne's eyes, I knew she'd already heard that Grenville had been hurt. The news must have spread quickly through the village and thence to Hungerford.

  What she told me, however, I was not expecting.

  "Jeanne Lanier's run away," she said.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  I looked at Marianne in surprise. "Oh, she has, has she?"

  "Indeed, she has." Her gaze slid from mine to the windows surrounding us. "Tell me the truth, Lacey. Is he all right?"

  "He is alive," I said.

  When she looked back at me, her eyes were wet. "For how long?"

  I could only shake my head. Grenville could heal or die. The blade could have torn him up inside in ways we could not know. I could only hope that the cut was clean, and that his body would heal itself.

  "Will you let me see him?" she asked.

  I started to answer, then I spied Sutcliff coming out of Fairleigh. He saw Marianne, recognized her, and froze.

  "Mr. Sutcliff," I called.

  He hesitated then at last came toward us, his expression wary.

  "Hello, Mr. Sutcliff," Marianne said, with forced cheerfulness. "I came to tell you that your ladybird's done a bunk."

  Sutcliff's face went white. "What?"

  "I said your ladybird's done a bunk. Cleared out this morning without a word to Mrs. Albright."

  Sutcliff stared at her in pure anger. Marianne smiled. No woman could give a man a more scornful smile than could Marianne Simmons. "Gave you a start, did it?" she asked. "I take it this news is unexpected?"

  Sutcliff's face reddened, and he raised his hand to strike
her. "Impertinent whore."

  I caught his arm. "Keep a civil tongue," I said, "or I'll thrash you worse than Fletcher ever did."

  His lip curled. "Unhand me. You do not know your place."

  Marianne gave a sharp laugh. "He knows better than you. He is a gentleman. Your father is a trumped-up clerk."

  Sutcliff tried to hit her again. Marianne hid behind me.

  "Marianne, be quiet," I said sternly. "Mr. Sutcliff, go away."

  I pushed him off. He glared at me, then he turned on his heel and marched back into Fairleigh.

  I faced Marianne. "I'll take you to see Grenville, but you must keep quiet. Provoking the students will not help."

  She made a face at the door Sutcliff had just slammed. "He puts my back up. He swaggers around like he's something, while Grenville is worth fifty of him." Her voice faltered.

  "I agree. But keep your thoughts to yourself, or I will not be able to stop Rutledge having you bodily removed. Do not speak again until we reach Grenville's chamber, agreed?"

  She started to answer, then closed her lips and nodded.

  Good. For now.

  I took her by the arm and led her into the Head Master's house. Boys stared. Tunbridge tried to stop me. I gave the mathematics tutor a look that sent him scuttling away and took Marianne up the stairs.

  Bartholomew and Matthias had locked the door. When I knocked, Bartholomew opened the door a crack and peered out with one blue eye. He saw me, opened the door wider. He eyed Marianne askance, but I pulled her inside and shut the door.

  Marianne approached the bed, her boots whispering on the carpet. She removed her bonnet and dropped it absently, her face white. She looked down at Grenville for a long time. His face was still starkly pale, the flesh of his bare shoulders nearly as white as the bandage that wrapped him.

  Marianne took his hand. His fingers lay limply in her grasp.

  "Is he going to die, Lacey?" she asked in a low voice.

  "No," I said, trying to sound certain. "We will not let him."

  "Such a comfort you are. You are not a doctor. How the devil should you know?"

  "I have seen men with wounds far worse recover and live as though nothing had happened," I answered. I did not add that I'd seen men with smaller wounds die for no reason I could discern. Grenville could so easily sicken, take fever. He could die while we sat helplessly and watched him.

  Marianne said nothing. She gently stroked the hand in hers. Grenville did not respond.

  Matthias heaped more coal on the fire. Bartholomew leaned against the bedpost, at a loss for what to do.

  I was tired, and my short nap had not helped. I settled back into my chair, stretched my bad leg toward the fire that Matthias had stirred to roaring. "Marianne, tell me about Jeanne," I said.

  She did not look at me. "She's gone. What is there to tell?"

  I thought about Jeanne's charming smile and winsome conversation. She had been very practiced. "When did she go? Did she pay up and depart or simply disappear?"

  Marianne kept her gaze on Grenville's pale face. "She went out the window. Or so it looks like. Never a word to anyone. Mrs. Albright didn't think anything of it when Jeanne didn't come down for breakfast, because she always likes to lie abed in the mornings. But later, when Mrs. Albright went up, she found the window open and Jeanne and her things gone."

  "Did Mrs. Albright send for the constable?"

  Marianne shook her head. "Mrs. Albright cursed something fearsome, but let it be. Mr. Sutcliff paid to the end of the month, so if Jeanne wants to run off, Mrs. Albright does not much care. She has her money."

  "Money," I said, thinking hard. "Yes, that would explain it."

  "You are babbling, Lacey. Explain what?"

  I should be talking this over with Grenville. My anger stirred. I would get the man who'd done this to him, and I'd pot him.

  I snatched up Fletcher's papers and spread them out. "Three people: Middleton, who drew the false maps; Fletcher, who had the connections; and the banker, who kept the money. The contracts are here, the maps are here, but where is the money? I believe it flew out the window of a seedy boarding house this morning."

  Marianne finally looked at me. She cocked her head. "What are you talking about?"

  "A grand swindle. Fletcher came up with the scheme--he was clever enough yet innocent-looking enough to trick men into investing in a canal that would never be built. Canals make money. Boats move whether it's raining or snowing or sunny. One does not have to worry about bad roads. No matter what, the boats keep going. Investing in canals is sure money."

  "But not in canals that don't exist," Bartholomew added.

  "Yes, but unless you have access to all the proposed canal routes in England, how would you know whether one was truly planned? A canny man would check, of course, but most men want to make an easy fortune--to give the money to a trusted friend and he will take care of the complicated details. That is why so very many people are swindled, Bartholomew--they want things to be easy."

  He watched me, eyes round, as though I were dispensing great wisdom.

  I stood and began to pace, trying to think. "The average gentleman like Jonathan Lewis, who earns little from his writing, would be eager to put money into something with so sure a return. So Fletcher persuades him to invest. Fletcher is a likable man, easy to trust. Good old Fletcher, his friends say, let's throw our lot in with him."

  "To their misfortune," Bartholomew said gravely.

  "Very much so. But Fletcher couldn't do it all himself--he didn't have the time or the resources. So he recruited others. Perhaps Fletcher chose Middleton because he knew Middleton had worked for Denis. Middleton would know how to shut people up if they began to squawk, in any case. So, Middleton drew the maps, perhaps even took gentlemen out to show them where the survey stakes would be."

  All three had turned to listen to me now. I continued, "They have a third person to collect the money, a person with connections in the City who can assure Fletcher and Middleton that their portion would be taken care of. But--in the end, the 'banker' gets greedy, perhaps frightened that Middleton will tell James Denis everything, murders Middleton and Fletcher, and flees with the money."

  They looked at me like I'd run mad. I was breathing heavily, my blood pounding with excitement. Marianne raised the first protest. "You are never saying that Jeanne killed them. And stabbed him. You're wrong, Lacey. She'd never be able to get into the school. You saw how the porter nearly posted me off to jail when he spied me at the gate."

  I shook my head. "She murdered no one. She never could have killed Middleton; he'd not have let her. Nor do I think she sneaked into the school in the middle of the night to kill Fletcher. No, she is working with someone, and that someone sent her away with the money."

  And I knew who.

  "I must go to Sudbury," I said crisply. "Jeanne Lanier must be found. I wish Mrs. Albright had called in the constable, but it can't be helped."

  "Shall I go with you, sir?" Bartholomew said, coming alert.

  "No. Stay here, protect Grenville. He was stabbed because he saw Fletcher's murderer leaving Fairleigh. The murderer cannot be certain that Grenville did not see him, and he will try again. Marianne, you must remain here, as well. You will not be safe at the boarding house."

  "What about you?" she countered. "Waltzing off to Sudbury all alone? For all the killer knows, Grenville has already told you his name, and he'll be waiting along a lonely stretch of road to gut you."

  "I have my walking stick," I said. I hefted it in my hand. "And I trust no one in this school, pupil or tutor, no matter how innocuous they seem."

  Marianne came to face me, hands on hips. "Don't be a bloody fool, Lacey, you are not invulnerable. Take Bartholomew. To get to Grenville the murderer will have to come through me. I'll fight them just as hard as anyone."

  She cared for him. I saw in her eyes that today she had realized what she might lose.

  I gave in. "Very well. Come along, Bartholomew. And bring that
book."

  *** *** ***

  I borrowed a horse to ride to Sudbury. Bartholomew chose to walk. He carried Fletcher's book under his arm, wrapped in a bit of canvas to keep it out of the rain.

  As we rode, I mulled over ideas for catching the murderer. I had one excellent resource I could tap, though I cringed from it. Also, Rutledge would be an obstacle--a very loud, very stubborn obstacle.

  When we arrived in Sudbury we discovered that the magistrate had gone to Hungerford to visit an important official who'd just arrived from London. The constable was a bit harried, having to deal with both Fletcher's murder and a farmer whose sheep had wandered onto a large landlord's holding and who complained that the landlord would not return them.

  Bartholomew and I went on to Hungerford. Impatient, I let the horse trot ahead, while Bartholomew came behind, hunkering into the rain.

  I found the magistrate at the inn on the High Street. The important official he visited was Sir Montague Harris.

  I exhaled with relief when I saw Sir Montague. He beamed at me when I greeted him as though we were meeting to renew acquaintance over a pint of bitter. But he was an intelligent man and had already drawn conclusions from the Sudbury magistrate's description of matters today.

  Bartholomew lumbered in, shaking rain from his hair. I bade him sit down and unwrap the book.

  I showed both magistrates Fletcher's papers and explained the canal scheme and Middleton's part in it. I recalled the letter Middleton had sent Denis, implying he'd discovered who'd been sending him threatening letters and stating that he wanted to tell Denis something interesting. I speculated that Middleton might have been killed because he'd been about to tell James Denis about the canal swindle. Perhaps he'd wanted Denis to take over the scheme; perhaps he'd only wanted to win Denis' praise.

  I finished my tale with Jeanne Lanier's departure and my belief that she needed to be found.

  The two men, sitting side-by-side on the bench and looking much alike--rotund bodies and red faces--could not have had more dissimilar reactions.

  Sir Montague's eyes glowed with interest, and he smiled, intrigued. The Sudbury magistrate frowned at me, white brows knitting over a bulbous nose.