A Death at Fountains Abbey (19 page)

‘Is it so terrible?’ Forster asked. ‘Mr Aislabie has it in his power to grant me everything I have ever wanted. This is how he works – making deals and trading information.’

‘Using people.’

Forster blinked. ‘Yes. But then, he uses you too, sir.’

Him and the Queen of England. ‘Are you sure he is the best patron for you, Mr Forster?’

He shrugged. ‘I can imagine worse.’

‘I’m sorry for throttling you.’

He gave a rueful smile, rubbing his throat again. ‘All in the past, sir. All in the past. Shall we begin again?’ He held out his good hand.

I smiled, and took it. After all, I had liked him on first meeting. If I could keep him from the subjects of religion and architecture, we would probably muddle along together well enough.

‘Who do you think killed the deer, Mr Forster? Please don’t say it was poachers,’ I added hastily.

He frowned. ‘Mr Aislabie is not loved in these parts – though to be fair, I speak only from Mr Messenger’s account. He is known for paying his bills late, and his steward drives a hard bargain. He must be the wealthiest man in the county, and that alone breeds resentment among the commonality.’ He chewed his lips. ‘I’m afraid I have not helped you.’

No, he hadn’t. He had just widened my number of suspects to the entire county. Whittling down all of Aislabie’s enemies would take a dozen lifetimes. I needed an answer today. I must find another way to reach the truth.

I had a long talk with Athena about her disgraceful behaviour before I returned to the saddle. Her ears drooped as she waited for me to finish. I wasn’t the only one with a talent for ignoring sermons. We trotted through the abbey and past Fountains Hall, a splendid sight in the noonday sunshine. As we reached the open road I lit a pipe and let Athena set the pace, anxious not to bring about another skittish frenzy.

It had been a long, brutal winter, and it was good to feel the sun upon my face. Life was returning, spring flowers bright beneath the trees and hedgerows. The countryside wove its spell, too beautiful to feel dangerous. The birds sang, the bees hummed, and I rode on, smoking my pipe.

Chapter Twelve

Kitty sat on the front steps of Studley Hall, arms wrapped about her legs,
chin upon her knees. She was pretending to watch the work on the stables, but I knew she had been waiting for me, and worrying.

‘Still alive,’ I said, cheerfully.

The stags were gone, the blood washed away, and the gravel smoothed across the drive.

I jumped down and kissed her. ‘I need a drink.’

‘You’ve scratched your hands. Why did you not wear your gloves?’

We walked Athena around the east side of the house towards the yard, passing the oak tree that stood outside our bedroom window. ‘Where’s Sam?’

‘Lurking.’ She tangled her fingers in Athena’s creamy white mane. ‘I had a nightmare about him last night. I dreamed that I woke up and he was standing over the bed. He pressed a pillow over my face and smothered me.’ She looked up at me. ‘I know it sounds foolish . . .’

‘We’ll keep my blade under the pillow.’

She tugged at the jewelled brooch nestled between her breasts. As the brooch slid higher I realised it was the handle of a thin blade tucked inside her stomacher. Sam’s mother Gabriela wore a similar device. She’d sliced open my arm with it a few weeks back, leaving a fresh scar to remember her by. She must be wondering where Sam was now. I should send word to settle her fears. But would she blame me for stealing him from her? God knows I had not encouraged him.

‘Sam told Mr Gatteker that I was his brother.’

‘That would be quite charming,’ Kitty said, ‘if it were anyone else.’

We found Pugh in the yard, instructing one of the grooms. I told him about Athena’s gallop through the woods to Fountains Abbey. ‘Best clean up these scratches,’ he frowned, showing his man. ‘Don’t want them turning bad. Poor girl,’ he said, stroking Athena’s nose. ‘You’ve had a fright, han’t you? Let’s take you to your stall.’

‘Where’s my stall and rub down, Mr Pugh? I think I fared the worst out of the two of us.’

He grinned. ‘Horses first at Studley. Before servants, before guests, before family.’

‘You heard about the stags?’

‘Bloody poachers. I’d hang the lot of ’em.’

I didn’t bother to correct him. ‘I must speak with the gamekeeper – I forget his name.’

‘William Hallow. He’s in the kitchens, taking a mug of beer with Mrs Mason.’

William Hallow was a short, square fellow with russet brows and pale, grey-blue eyes. He wore his own hair, for some eccentric reason, tied at the nape of his neck. His hat was resting on a hook on the kitchen wall while he sat at the table, freckled hands clutching his beer. He had the tired, contented look of a man who had worked hard all night, and was about to go home to bed.

He stood up when Kitty and I came through the door, grabbing his hat so he could shove it on his head and then remove it again. He bowed several times to me without saying a word, overcome with shyness.

Mrs Mason, amused, got up from the table to fetch some more ale. ‘Mr Aislabie’s asked for an early dinner today,’ she said. ‘Says you’ve urgent business this afternoon.’

She waited for me to add to this little nugget of information, but I did not have the heart to talk of the Gills. In truth I had forgotten my promise until now.

‘I’m stewing carp,’ Mrs Mason continued, not bothering to conceal her disappointment. ‘Fresh from the lake this morning. Do you like carp, sir?’

‘Delicious.’ I hated carp.

‘Aye, delicious,’ Hallow echoed.

‘You hate carp, Tom,’ Kitty said.

‘. . . I find it can be a little muddy. Sometimes.’

‘Very muddy, carp,’ Hallow agreed eagerly.

‘My carp,’ Mrs Mason sniffed, glaring at Hallow, ‘is never muddy.’

We sat down. Mrs Mason poured out a mug of ale for Kitty and for me, and freshened her own.

‘You must see to those scratches, Tom,’ Kitty said. ‘They might fester.’

It was true they stung like the devil, but I said nothing, not wishing to appear foppish.

‘I have a salve!’ Hallow jumped up, groping deep in his breeches pocket. ‘I could anoint you, your honour. As the blessed whore Mary Magdalene anointed our Lord Jesus.’

‘I don’t think—’

‘What a kind thought,’ Kitty said, in a solemn voice. ‘
Do
hold out your hands for him, Tom.’

There was nothing for it. Hallow began to slaver a thick paste over the scratches. God knows what was in it, but it smelled pleasant enough. ‘I use this on the stags, sir,’ he explained. ‘Helps when they gore themselves in rutting season.’

Mrs Mason remembered that she needed something from the pantry. I could hear her sniggering behind the door.

‘You must be sorry to have lost three stags this morning,’ I said. ‘They were fine beasts.’

Hallow kept his eyes on mine as he rubbed the salve into my skin. ‘Weren’t none of mine, sir, praise the Lord for His mercy. Never seen them before.’

‘Indeed? Where did they come from?’

‘Must ha’ been one of the adjoining estates. Fountains would be my guess, sir.’

‘No love between Mr Aislabie and Mr Messenger, I hear.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did you hear anything on your rounds last night?’

‘No sir, your honour. But I weren’t on the estate most of the night. Rode up to Studley moor about midnight – weren’t back until dawn. Mr Aislabie’s orders. Wants us to catch the Gills out poaching. Never trust a Gill,’ he added, as if reciting the eleventh commandment.

‘Bag of scoundrels,’ Mrs Mason said, returning to the table. She took one look at Hallow rubbing my hands, his pale face flushed red with holy reverence, then spun around and headed back to the pantry.

Kitty took a swig of beer. She looked at ease here in the kitchen, and very beautiful with the light at her back. Hallow was oblivious.

I tugged my hands from his grasp. ‘Mr Hallow, I must ask something of you. But it must be kept secret, you understand?’

He nodded, thrilled.

‘Are you on good terms with Mr Messenger’s keeper at Fountains Hall?’

He nodded again.

‘I’d like you to speak to him, if you will. Ask if he’s lost any of his deer.’

‘I’ll visit him today, sir.’

We drank our beer. The kitchen fell quiet, save for Mrs Mason, humming to herself as she chopped up a salad. Kitty said something about the weather.

Mr Hallow gulped his beer. ‘Mr Hawkins, your honour. May I beg a favour of you, sir?’

‘
William
,’ Mrs Mason said in a warning tone, without turning around.

I waved at Hallow to continue.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he stammered, ‘but might I touch your neck for luck?’

Oh, God. ‘Very well.’

Kitty suppressed a laugh. ‘You’d best loosen your cravat, Tom.’

I frowned at her, then untied it, winding the cloth around my hand. My neck felt exposed without it. Hallow reached across the table and cupped his hand around my throat. His palm was warm, and smelled of the salve. His fingers touched the back of my neck, where the hangman had tied the knot.

Hallow closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. Then he sat back, his head bowed.

Kitty wasn’t laughing any more. We looked at each other across the table, remembering.

‘A miracle,’ Hallow said. ‘Christ be praised.’

I retied my cravat.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘May God protect you.’ He smiled at Kitty, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘And your wife.’

Four of us sat for dinner that day: myself and Kitty, Aislabie, and Mrs Fairwood. Bagby stood at the window, but had little to do but watch, as we served ourselves. Mrs Fairwood was dressed in another grey gown, this one with a black lace trim. She sat with her back very straight. I had noticed her judging Kitty upon their introduction – unfavourably, I thought. It was more than a mere difference in character. She had narrowed her eyes when Kitty’s vowels lurched towards the London gutter, and suppressed a little smirk. I hated her for it.

‘Mr Hawkins rides up to Kirkby moors this afternoon,’ Aislabie told her. ‘He will arrest the Gills in the king’s name.’

‘I will speak with them,’ I corrected, poking the carp about my plate.

Mrs Fairwood lowered her fork. ‘You question their guilt?’

‘Mr Sneaton wasted the entire morning interrogating the servants,’ Aislabie said, frowning at me. ‘As expected, they neither heard nor saw a damned thing. It was the Gills.’

Bagby, unnoticed at the window, gave an assertive nod.
Never trust a Gill.

‘Then who took the sheets?’ I asked.

‘I don’t give a damn about the sheets!’ Aislabie shouted.

The table fell silent. Kitty, busy crunching a radish, stopped chewing.

Aislabie pressed his fingers against his forehead. ‘This wretched business.’

‘Perhaps Mrs Fairwood should return home,’ I said. ‘For a while, at least.’

I’d meant it out of spite, for slighting Kitty. But to my surprise she gave me a surreptitious nod in thanks. ‘If you think it best, Mr Aislabie,’ she began, carefully.

‘No!’ Aislabie cried in alarm, as if she might disintegrate in front of him. He snatched hold of her hand, gripping it fiercely. ‘We have been parted long enough, Lizzie. You are my daughter and I will not let you go again.
I forbid it.
’

Mrs Fairwood closed her eyes for a moment. ‘As you wish, Mr Aislabie.’

‘Father,’ he corrected. ‘Enough of this nonsense. From now on, I would have you call me Father, as I call you Elizabeth.’ He waited a moment. ‘It would please me more than I can say.’

There followed a moment of excruciating silence.

Mrs Fairwood swallowed. ‘As you wish,
Father.
’

Aislabie’s face lit up with joy. He gazed at each of us in turn, to ensure we had witnessed this miracle. Kitty, myself, even Bagby. His eyes as they met mine were bright with wonder – and even though I had not warmed to him, I found myself praying that this was all true. That his youngest daughter had in fact come back to him after all these years. For how could he recover if she turned out to be false? He squeezed Mrs Fairwood’s hand. ‘There, Lizzie! I am your father. You will remain here at Studley, and I shall keep you safe.’

He held her hand for the rest of the meal. Mrs Fairwood didn’t speak, didn’t eat another morsel.

Kitty and I talked about the carp, and the salad, and the weather. And as soon as we could, we left.

Bagby looked out across the table, and said nothing.

Chapter Thirteen

It was a long ride out to the moors. Aislabie insisted on joining our party, saddling a dark chestnut stallion himself. I had tried – one last time – to persuade him that this was a poor use of our limited time, but he was determined to have the Gills exposed, arrested, and led in chains to Ripon gaol ‘before dark’. He was annoyed that I had invited Kitty, thinking it a sign that I did not take his warnings about the Gills seriously. ‘This is not a suitable expedition for a lady,’ he complained. ‘Mrs Hawkins – I think you must turn back.’