A Death at Fountains Abbey (15 page)

‘There was someone in the park?’

She shook her head. ‘You know how it is, sir, when you can feel someone watching you.’ She pressed her hand to the back of her neck. ‘It were Mrs Fairwood. She were standing at the window on the second-floor landing. I had such a strange feeling . . . like she’d been watching me, all that time.’

‘She could see the deer?’

‘Yes, sir. The deer, the crows. Everything.’

That explained why she had been so calm when I described the deer to her. But why did she not say she’d seen it? ‘Did she seem frightened?’

‘I suppose so . . .’

I smiled. ‘She is not an easy woman to read.’

Sally’s lips twisted. Clearly there were far worse things she would like to say about Mrs Fairwood. ‘No, sir.’

‘But you thought it odd.’

She hesitated, the natural caution of a servant.

‘You can speak freely with me, Sally. I don’t work for Mr Aislabie.’

‘I was surprised,’ she said, carefully. ‘I’m up every morning before dawn and I’ve never seen Mrs Fairwood rise so early. She doesn’t like to be disturbed until nine, earliest. Late to bed, late to rise.’ She left her disapproval and her envy at such behaviour unspoken, but it was clear upon her face.

‘So she was waiting, you think?’ The importance of this information struck me hard. ‘She knew the deer had been left on the step. She wanted to see its discovery.’

Sally must have had the same thought, or why mention it to me? But she was too frightened for her position to say so. ‘I’m sure it was just a coincidence, sir,’ she said, hastily. ‘She must have woke early for once. You promise you won’t say owt?’

A bolt slammed free, making us both jump. Metcalfe, opening the doors. A thin dawn light spread through the hall. Jackdaws called out to one another, their cries sharp and urgent in the spring air. They were making a tremendous racket.

Sally’s brows furrowed. ‘The crows . . .’ she said, then looked at me in alarm.

‘No!’ Metcalfe shouted. He was standing in the doorway, sunlight streaming all around him. We rushed over to him, just as he collapsed backwards. Sally grabbed him beneath his arms, staggering back herself as he landed upon her. I took a few steps down and stopped dead.

Three young stags had been laid out in a triangle upon the carriage drive. Their heads had been hacked from their necks, their stomachs slit wide open. Jackdaws strutted along the corpses, cawing loudly and pulling at the meat. They had already plucked out the eyes.

I scared the birds away and circled the stags, my stomach turning. One had a note stuffed in its mouth. I reached between its teeth to pull it out. The tongue was dry and rough against my fingers. There were bloody fingerprints on the paper, red swirls surrounding three words, written in blood.

YOU WILL BURN

I stood up slowly.

Metcalfe was sitting on the top step, his head in his hands. He was trembling hard. ‘This is for me,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘This is meant for me.’

‘I doubt that, sir.’

He dropped his hands. ‘Of course it is. It’s my coat of arms, for God’s sake – the Robinson coat of arms. Three stags, in a triangle. Don’t you see? It’s a warning. Someone plans to murder me.’

Chapter Ten

Sally guided Metcalfe back to his rooms, leaving me alone with the deer. I lit a pipe to calm my nerves. I’d seen animals butchered – but there was a disturbing, sacrificial quality to this display. I was afraid Metcalfe must be right: this was a warning of worse to come.

Standing about feeling anxious would achieve nothing. I crouched down to study the deer more closely. There were a few patches of blood upon the gravel, but not soaked deep. The stags must have been field dressed somewhere else. The heads had been cut clean, not sawn – with a cleaver, I thought. After death: a small mercy. I reached down to the closest stag, resting my hand upon its stomach. The early morning sun was beginning to warm its hide. The meat would soon be spoiled.

I pushed myself on to my feet. The jackdaws had hopped a short distance into the grass, and were watching me now with their clever, pale grey eyes. I addressed the boldest, waiting a few feet away. ‘You saw who did this, didn’t you?’

The jackdaw gave a sharp cry. It was standing by a muddy bootprint. I followed it with my eyes to another, and another: a jumbled trail leading from where I stood out into the park, towards the main avenue.

‘Talking to crows, Mr Hawkins?’ Mr Aislabie had emerged from the house, accompanied by Mr Gatteker. Sneaton shadowed them.

I stepped away, so he might see the stags more clearly, laid out upon his carriage drive.

He grimaced. ‘Monstrous. What do you make of this, Gatteker?’

Mr Gatteker pushed his spectacles up his nose, considering the question. ‘Venison pasties?’

Aislabie frowned at him.

‘They must have been left here within the last four hours,’ I said. ‘My wife arrived at two o’clock this morning and the drive was clear.’

‘Mrs Hawkins has come?’ Mr Gatteker exclaimed excitedly. ‘Then why are you not abed, sir? Do you not appreciate the priorities of youth?’

I ignored him. ‘The kills are recent, but they weren’t slaughtered here. Not enough blood. And the noise could have woken the house. They must have been killed out in the woods somewhere, then carried here.’

‘A long way to carry one stag, never mind three,’ Aislabie said.

‘A handcart?’ Gatteker suggested, taking a pinch of snuff.

‘No wheel tracks.’ I pointed to the trail of footprints heading through the grass. ‘What lies south of here?’

‘The water gardens,’ Aislabie replied. ‘Then Messenger’s land.’

‘Could he have done this?’

‘If I might answer, as his physician?’ Gatteker interrupted, rubbing his nostrils. ‘No. Determinedly no. Poor devil is plagued by gout. If he were a horse, I’d shoot him. He’s not a horse,’ he clarified.

‘We are on ill terms,’ Aislabie said, after some thought. ‘But we argue through our lawyers. This is too foul an act even for him. No – for all his faults, Messenger is a gentleman.’ He gestured at one of the stags: its severed head and ripped stomach. ‘What do you say, Jack?’

Sneaton limped forward. He was tired and red-eyed, with a film of sweat upon his brow. He’d left for his cottage shortly after supper last night, expecting a visit from John Simpson. Clearly his attempts to help settle the stonemason’s bill had descended into a minor debauch, and now he was suffering for it. ‘I’d say this was two men, sir. Strong and fit. Poachers, would be my guess.’

‘I agree,’ Aislabie said. ‘It’s the Gills. I have been too temperate with them. Too forgiving. Very well – take Hawkins up to Kirkby moors with a half-dozen of Simpson’s men. I will have this business fixed upon that damned family today. Beat a confession from them if you must.’

I held up my hands in protest. ‘This is not the work of poachers, sir. The notes are the work of two separate parties, I’m sure of it.’

Aislabie’s brow furrowed. ‘No, I cannot believe that. I am not so misliked.’

There followed an embarrassed silence. I dared a glance at Mr Gatteker. He tweaked an eyebrow, then looked down, prodding the gravel with his boot.

Truly, did Aislabie not understand how much the world hated him? I could mention his name in any tavern or coaching inn from here to Dover and half the room would rain down curses upon his head. Everyone knew someone who’d been ruined by his actions as chancellor – myself included. It was a wonder his house wasn’t filled to the rooftops with letters promising fire and death.

It is not easy to persuade a man that he is universally loathed, particularly one so convinced of his innocence. More than that, Aislabie believed that
he
was the injured party. No matter that he had kept most of his money and all of his estate – his disgrace and the loss of his power still weighed upon him as a gross injustice. He believed himself mistreated, so why should anyone blame him for their own troubles? Why should the idea even flit through his mind? No – it must be the infamous Gills – a
low
sort of people, mistrusted by the neighbourhood.

‘This is not about snaring rabbits and grazing sheep,’ I said. ‘This man is after revenge. He calls you a traitor, who ruined good and honest families.’ I paused, hoping that this would be enough, but Aislabie looked blank. Dear God, his self-delusion was extraordinary. ‘
The South Sea disaster
, sir.’

Mr Aislabie flinched. ‘We do not speak of that business.’

‘Mr Aislabie, you must see—’

‘
We do not speak of it, damn you!
’

I’d had enough – his stubbornness would see him dead, along with the rest of us if the house were put to the torch. I pulled the fresh note from my pocket and held it out to him. ‘I found this with the stags. I’d hoped to spare you.’

He snatched the paper from me and read the three words, written in blood. YOU WILL BURN.

‘Devil take it,’ Sneaton breathed.

Aislabie stared at the note, mute with horror. It was clear that he was thinking of the fire at his London home, all those years ago. His young wife. His lost daughter.

‘Would poachers do all this?’ I pressed. ‘It is too elaborate, surely? Mr Sneaton – would the Gills waste so much good meat? Would they even know the Robinson coat of arms?’ I gestured at the stags, laid out in a triangle.

‘A coincidence,’ Aislabie said. ‘Metcalfe is forever seeing patterns where none exist. Conspiracies and dramas . . .’

‘But Mr Hawkins speaks fair about the meat, your honour,’ Sneaton said, reluctantly. ‘Might it be possible . . .’ He paused, considering the best way to proceed. ‘Might there be some wrong-headed fool who blames you for his ruin? Unjustly, of course,’ he added, hastily.

Aislabie shook his head, unable to accept the truth.

‘You must see that the first letters were different,’ I said. ‘For all the threats and rough language, the writer sought a peaceful, reasonable resolution. There is no reason to
this
.’ I gestured to the stags.

‘Perhaps they grew angry,’ Sneaton argued. ‘When we ignored their demands.’

‘
Precisely
,’ Aislabie leaped upon this eagerly. This could not be about his part in the South Sea Scheme. It
would not be
. ‘I want the Gills locked up – today. Ride over to the moors, Hawkins. That is an order.’

‘This is not the army, sir.’ I squinted at the butchered stags, and the grass beyond. In the distance, the rest of the herd grazed under a great beech tree. A doe dropped her head to a water trough and drank.

The sun was rising above the trees. The sky was a pale blue, with no clouds in view. A light breeze riffled through the grass. A day for lifted spirits and gentle strolls. It was hard to believe that we were in danger here. Harder yet to recognise an enemy in such polite company. But someone was plotting revenge upon Aislabie. And, like Metcalfe, I was afraid that this bright, spring day would end in death if we did not discover the truth.

Mr Aislabie had been speaking for some time as I stared out across his estate. Sermonising. I was a clergyman’s son; I’d developed a talent for letting them waft over my head. There would be something about duty in there, no doubt, and respect, and obedience. Every sermon is the same, and it is a confounded waste of time to listen to a single word. The trick is to keep one ear half open, so one can be sure when it is over.

‘I will ride out and speak with the Gills this afternoon,’ I said, when he had spluttered to a close. There would be no peace until I’d agreed to it, and I could at least discount the family from my enquiries. ‘Mr Sneaton – would you speak with the servants? Ask them if they saw anything, or suspect anyone?’

Sneaton glanced at his master, expecting refusal, but Aislabie nodded absently. He had been looking up at the house, to a window on the second floor. I followed his gaze and saw Mrs Fairwood looking down at us – precisely where Sally had seen her the day before. She drew back, out of view.

‘I must go to my daughter,’ Aislabie said, and left us.

Sneaton sighed, a great weary sound. ‘Look at these poor creatures.’

The stags smelled of blood and meat. Flies buzzed about the gaping wounds. ‘When you speak with the servants, see if any of them know the Robinson coat of arms.’

He nodded, then moaned in pain. ‘My head aches consumedly,’ he muttered.

‘Pot of chocolate,’ I offered. ‘Helps me when I’ve drunk too much liquor.’

‘A hearty breakfast!’ Gatteker piped up. ‘Tripe and onions, if you can persuade Mrs Mason.’

‘And a fresh bowl of punch,’ I added. ‘That really is the best remedy.’ For anything.

‘Gentlemen, please.’ Sneaton swayed on his stick. ‘
Gah
. . . It’s my own fault. I should never take a drink with John Simpson, the old sot.’

‘Could he have done this? He was angry yesterday – and he’s owed a lot of money.’