A Death at Fountains Abbey (18 page)

Now the columns were topped with thick moss, the stone flagging broken and clogged with weeds. An elm tree grew in one corner. The walls were covered in bright orange wallflowers and long trails of ivy. Birds roosted in pairs in the high crevices, as if they had mistaken the abbey for some remote cliff face. Plump pigeons in the main, wings smacking the air as they rose together in sudden waves. Jackdaws commanded the highest walls, tiny black figures lined up like sentinels. There was a constant fluttering and calling in the air, echoing off the ancient stone. A great city of birds, agitated by our presence.

‘Magnificent, is it not?’ Forster said. ‘There is something noble about such ruins, I find. The very act of destruction gives them power. Cromwell and King Henry rot in their graves, but the abbey speaks its story even now, if one knows how to listen.’ He pulled out a journal from beneath his sling. It was filled with detailed pencil drawings of the abbey.

‘Francis is a most talented architect,’ Messenger said.

Oh, God.

‘A
right-handed
architect, thank heavens,’ Forster amended, waggling his good hand. ‘I find the abbey’s construction most inspiring – refreshing in its departure from the classical ideal, wouldn’t you agree? Where is the balance? Where the symmetry? And yet it has such an exquisite pairing of force and grace, has it not? Every part has a purpose, a spiritual
and
temporal purpose. Is that not the very definition of beauty?’ He continued on in this earnest manner for some time, speaking of purpose and power, of ribbed barrel vaults and lancet arches, while I wondered if I could persuade Messenger to shoot me after all.

As Forster spoke, a cloud passed across the sun, and a block of shadow moved slowly through the abbey. It caught us all for a moment: myself, Messenger, and Forster. The heat vanished from the air, enough to make me shiver beneath my thin coat.

‘You feel it, eh?’ Messenger murmured, below Forster’s hearing. ‘Old ghosts . . .’

I gave a half smile, and the shadow moved on. The world brightened, the abbey walls turning gold again in the sunshine. I took a last swig of whisky and handed the flask back to Messenger.

‘Bad for the gout,’ he said, which appeared to be a toast, as he then tilted it to his lips and took a great glug. ‘What brings you to Yorkshire, Mr Hawkins?’

I hesitated. Aislabie had not given me permission to speak about his troubles; but then I was not one of his men, carting dung and raking gravel from his lawns. ‘Someone has been threatening Mr Aislabie. More than one party, I believe.’ I described the notes, and the butchered deer.

Messenger shook his head. ‘This business with Mrs Fairwood is passing strange. I should say it’s connected, wouldn’t you?’

‘I believe so.’

‘It is a wondrous thing,’ Forster sighed. ‘To have lost a daughter, and grieved for her all these years, and now to have found her again. A great miracle, if it is true. And it does seem to be so . . .’

Messenger snorted. ‘If Mrs Fairwood is John Aislabie’s daughter, this is my arse,’ he said, pointing at his elbow.

‘That would be unfortunate,’ I said.

Messenger laughed so hard his face purpled. ‘You seem a decent lad. Why are you helping that thieving bastard? Leave him to his troubles – he’s earned ’em. Come and stay here at Fountains. We’d be glad of your company, eh Forster?’

Forster had been gazing up at the abbey. He wrenched his face away from his beloved bricks and mortar. ‘Of course. But are you not under orders from the queen, Mr Hawkins?’

Messenger scowled, his good humour vanishing in an instant. ‘Damned gout,’ he said, in a clipped voice. ‘You’ll excuse me, sir.’ He gave a curt bow and limped away towards the western entrance.

‘Mr Messenger is a papist,’ Forster explained, once his patron had left. ‘He’s not over fond of Hanover George.’

I frowned at him. ‘Then was it wise to mention my connection, do you think?’

‘Oh! My apologies. I didn’t think—’

‘Who told you I was sent by the queen? I did not tell you of it. And I don’t imagine Mr Aislabie would have offered the information either.’

‘Oh!’ He floundered for a moment. ‘I believe Mrs Fairwood told me at supper.’

‘I don’t recall that conversation,’ I said, coldly. They had scarce spoken two words together, I was sure.

He laughed, nervous. ‘You and I were at different ends of the table, sir.’

I studied him for a moment. He was a short, lean fellow – slight, one might call him. Could I imagine him carrying a stag upon his shoulders all the way to Aislabie’s door? With a broken wrist and arm? No. But he might have directed someone else.

‘I have offended you,’ he said, misreading my silence. ‘Mr Hawkins – I offer you my most heartfelt apologies. Would you permit me to show you about the abbey?’

‘I’m afraid I must return to Studley. I will be missed.’ I walked down the sunlit aisle, searching for Athena.

Forster trailed after me. ‘At least let me show you the view from the cloister steps,’ he begged, pointing through an arched doorway to a square beyond. ‘
Please
, sir. Let us not part on poor terms.’

‘Very well.’

He led me at an eager pace through the cloisters and up a set of worn stone steps. We stood upon an open landing, side by side. I had to admit, it was a fine view: the ruins a grand performance of light and shadow on stone. The tower rose up in front of us, jackdaws circling and settling. The abbey was set upon the riverbank, and we could hear the gentle rush of water below us. No canals and cascades on Mr Messenger’s land: the river ran its own winding course, as it pleased.

Forster pointed out the treacherous route Athena had taken – a steep and jagged track down through the woods. Had we ventured a few paces the other way we would have galloped off an overhanging rock and broken both our necks. ‘Those are not true paths between the estates,’ he explained. ‘Mr Messenger and Mr Aislabie wouldn’t stand for it.’

‘Poachers’ tracks?’

‘Foxes, more likely.’

‘These hidden trails. They’re familiar to you?’

‘I’ve walked them, once or twice.’

I thought about that for a moment, pretending to admire the view. ‘I found the place where the stags were butchered. The innards had been left beneath some bushes, near the banqueting house. You know of it?’

His eyes sparked with enthusiasm. ‘I do, sir! A splendid Palladian folly, most neatly done from a design by Colen Campbell, I’m told—’

‘
Forster
.’

‘—it has some unusual rustications in an icicle design—’

I glared at him. He fell silent.

‘The stags weren’t hunted, do you understand? They were slaughtered on that trail and then carried through Studley Park to Mr Aislabie’s front steps. D’you know the Robinson coat of arms, sir?’

He blinked at the unexpected question. ‘Three stags, is it not? Two below, one above. Oh . . .’ His shoulders flinched. ‘Is that how they were found?’

‘That is how they were found, Mr Forster. Three stags, slaughtered at the top of a trail that leads directly to the Fountains estate.’

It took him a moment to understand the accusation, and even then he mistook it. ‘Mr
Messenger
? You believe
he
is responsible? No, surely not, sir. Well, there’s no denying that he detests Mr Aislabie, but I cannot conceive that he would . . .’

‘How long have you been a guest at Fountains Hall, Mr Forster?’

He blew out his cheeks. ‘A few weeks now. I set off in early February. There was still ice upon the roads.’ He lifted up his sling.

‘And how did you come by your invitation?’

‘I’m a friend of Mr Messenger’s cousin, Andrew Benedict. Excellent fellow, has a house on Chancery Lane. Do you know him?’

He was hiding something behind that affectation of nonchalance. A few hundred more questions and I might have the whole story. I settled for a swifter solution. With a sudden lunge, I put my hand upon his collarbone and used my weight to shove him hard against the nearest wall. Forster gave a shout of surprise, fragments of rock and mortar crunching under his back. ‘My arm!’ he yelped.

I pressed harder. ‘Did you send the notes?’

‘No! Good God, sir! Let me go!’ He was squirming under my weight, his legs flailing beneath him.

‘Are you conspiring with Messenger? Do you plan to harm Aislabie? Mrs Fairwood?’

‘No!’

I moved my arm higher, leaning against his throat.

He began to choke. ‘I swear . . .’ He clawed at my arm but he couldn’t free himself. ‘I’m his spy!’ he spat, at last. ‘Let me go, damn you – I’m Aislabie’s spy.’

It took him a minute or two to recover. He made a great show of rubbing his throat, as if I’d crushed his windpipe. Once he had stopped fussing, and straightened his wig, and brushed the stone dust from his coat, he began his defence. ‘I am a man of ambition, Mr Hawkins, I admit. Ambitious for my
work
. The
palazzi
I visited on my tour – such marvellous constructions. I should like to build them here in the green fields of England. But who can afford such an undertaking?’ He sighed, and shook his head. ‘Did you truly think I wished to burn down Studley Hall?’

‘
Someone
wishes it.’

‘Well . . .’ A mischievous tone entered his voice. ‘It is
monstrously
old-fashioned. Might be best to burn it down and begin again. Not that I would ever do such a thing,’ he added hastily, catching my look.

‘You call yourself a spy.’

‘So I did. Sounds rather thrilling, does it not? Mr Benedict said I must visit his cousin, see the ruins. He knew I had an interest in architecture.’

Discovered that deep secret, did he? Some sort of wizard, no doubt.

‘I was not convinced at first. I’m not a wealthy man. I can’t afford to travel all the way to Yorkshire without the hope of some profit . . . It is vital I find a patron. Then Benedict mentioned that the Fountains estate bordered Mr Aislabie’s land.’ He paused. ‘
John Aislabie!
One of the great champions of the new architecture! A close friend of Lord Burlington! His name appears upon the subscription list for
—’

I held up my hand. ‘He likes new buildings. I understand.’

‘It is not that he
likes
them, Mr Hawkins. He
builds
them. Have you seen the scheme for his stables? The follies for his water gardens? D’you know he intends to build a great mansion by the lake? It will be a
shrine
to the modern style! A building for the ages! If I could be a part of such an endeavour, even on the smallest scale
. . .
’

‘The dog kennels, perhaps?’

He frowned. ‘You mock me, sir.’ He slid his free hand beneath his sling, and pressed it to his heart. ‘This is my greatest dream. What is
yours
, I wonder?’

To keep Kitty safe. To return to London. To visit Moll’s coffeehouse and drink far too much punch. To carry Kitty through the filthy streets while she sings a ballad, so out of tune I can scarce breathe for laughing. To reach our street, our home, our bed. To be free of all of this.

‘I came up to Yorkshire,’ Forster continued, ‘and I met with Mr Aislabie at the first opportunity. I believe I impressed him. At least, he is prepared to consider my worth. There is a great deal to be done about the estate. It’s no secret that Mr Aislabie grows impatient with Mr Simpson. Drunken imbecile. Oh, he’s a superb stonemason, I’ll grant you, but he should never have been put in charge of such a great project. It is beyond his skills and his temperament. If Mr Doe is brought in to complete the work, then I might take over the building of the follies. And I will be in the perfect position to help with the new hall. Years of work, Mr Hawkins! With a patron who shares my passion, and has the resources to build the greatest estate in Europe.’

‘And who asked you to spy on your host.’

‘One does what one must.’ He shrugged. ‘And really, it is no great betrayal. Why, when I come back from Studley Hall, Mr Messenger fires a hundred questions at me. I suppose one could say I was spying for both of them. Perhaps one balances the other.’

‘What is it that Aislabie wants from you?’

‘Oh, the merest tidbits, I assure you. Land deals, in the main. He’s afraid Mr Messenger will sell the abbey to another buyer, out of spite.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘No. He loves this place – worships it, one might say. You know how these papists are.’

That rankled, but I had learned to hold my tongue at such a common opinion. My mother’s family were of the Catholic faith. She had been forced to abandon both when she married my father, but she had whispered stories and prayers to me when I was a child, and taught me how to genuflect – a gentle secret with no harm intended. It was her gold crucifix I wore beneath my shirt.