A Death at Fountains Abbey (20 page)

Kitty smiled sweetly, and said she was sure that her husband could protect her.

We rode with two of Simpson’s men in case of trouble – a silent fellow named Crabbe, and Thomas Wattson, the handsome lad scolded by Sneaton for asking about his master’s bill. He looked pleased to have won a rest from breaking stones and digging holes for a few hours.

We passed through the pretty village of Galphay. Aislabie pointed to a raised patch of ground. ‘That was a hanging place, long ago. Ah. Sorry, Hawkins.’

Kitty was riding a few paces ahead with Wattson. He was naming the different flowers that had sprouted along the hedgerows. I’d grown up in the country, I could tell her all that sort of nonsense, damn the fellow. I nudged my horse forward. It so happened that the path was narrow at this point, and only left room for two horses to ride abreast. Wattson touched his hat and urged his horse on a pace, joining the silent Crabbe as I settled beside Kitty.

‘Bluebells,’ I said, nodding at a pile rotting under a hawthorn tree.

‘Yes . . . Thank you, Tom.’ She sighed, and shifted in her saddle. ‘I wish I could have worn Lady Judith’s breeches.’

I thought of Kitty’s legs astride her horse. And then of Wattson riding alongside her with his clear, healthy complexion, his strong muscles and sharp cheekbones. Closer in age to Kitty, who was not yet nineteen. ‘You ride very well in a gown,’ I decided. I wondered when she had learned to ride with such ease. As a child, perhaps. Kitty had been working in a coffeehouse in the Marshalsea when we first met, but I did know that her early life had been comfortable. Beyond that, most of Kitty’s history remained a mystery to me. She had been twelve when her father died, and not much older when she fled her mother’s home. She never spoke of how she survived those later years, but I knew this much: she had grown up fearless and sharp-witted, with scant regard for the rules of polite society.

We had just left the hamlet of Laverton when Aislabie called out from behind. ‘The Gills live down there,’ he said, pointing down a wooded lane. He steered his horse on to the grass bank, coming up alongside Wattson and Crabbe. ‘The house is hidden in a copse over in the next field. You won’t see it until you’re hard upon it.’ He handed Wattson his pistol. ‘I would have you make the house safe before we arrive – I would not have Mrs Hawkins in any danger. Guard the family until we return.’

‘I’m sure I would be safe,’ Kitty said, disappointed. She loved a brawl.

Aislabie ignored her. ‘The moors are just up here,’ he said. ‘I should like to show them to you.’

After a good ten minutes’ ride we reached the edge of Kirkby moor. At once, it felt as though we had crossed a border into a foreign land. The hills and green valleys vanished, replaced with acre upon acre of open moorland, stretching almost to the horizon in every direction. There were no trees, no dwellings, only tufted grass and heather, and a few rocks lying low upon the ground. We rode on, picking our way through what felt like an empty land, devoid of life. Then the grouse began to call out to one another. We couldn’t see them hidden in the chocolate brown heather, but their gurgling cries filled the air, warning of our approach.

‘Magnificent, is it not, Mrs Hawkins?’ Aislabie prompted Kitty.

‘Quite a contrast to your gardens, sir.’

He liked the comparison. ‘A pleasing contrast, yes. Here nature is unbound, untroubled by men. I ride here at least once a week when I am at Studley. An indulgence, I suppose . . .’ He breathed in deep, then out again in a long sigh. And I thought how much more confident and composed he appeared, when he was beyond Mrs Fairwood’s reach.

A couple of plump rabbits bounded out from cover to nibble on the spring grass. They kept an eye upon us, hunched ready to hop to safety. ‘There’s a large warren over there,’ Aislabie said, tilting his chin towards a spot close by. ‘Excellent meat.’

‘Is this the disputed land?’

‘There is no dispute, sir. I own the land.’

The idea of owning such a wild, open place felt unnatural to me. No doubt Mr Aislabie, and Mr Aislabie’s lawyer, would disagree. ‘But it was common land, in the past? The Gills farmed here?’

Aislabie snorted. ‘Farmed? A pretty word for it. They snared rabbits and grouse. Grazed a few sheep.’

Then why not let them continue, if their needs were so small? Lord knows, the world was not about to run out of rabbits. And the sheep would help keep the moors cropped close.

I surprised myself with these thoughts. I sounded like my father. He had argued against the enclosure of common land – from the pulpit, at the dinner table. Sermonising. I could have sworn I hadn’t taken in a single word, but I must have been listening after all.

I knew better than to debate the matter with Aislabie. As far as he was concerned the land was his, and there was an end to it. And, overnight, with a scrawl of ink, farmers had become poachers.

Crabbe and Wattson had been discovered the moment they stepped on to the Gills’ land – by the dogs, or one of the many children roaming about the place. Annie Gill, contrary to her fierce reputation, had invited them in for a bowl of rabbit stew. We found them gathered around a rough table with her husband Jeb, eating the evidence. A tiny Gill was sitting on Wattson’s lap. ‘Again!’ she yelled in delight as we entered the cottage, and Wattson bounced her on his knees, then lifted her high in the air.

‘Wattson,’ Aislabie snapped.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, the child still raised above his head. ‘She clambered.’

‘Put her
down
.’

Wattson did as he was ordered. As the girl’s bare legs touched the cold stone floor she went very quiet. Then she filled her lungs and began to scream. A baby, asleep in a cot by the fire, woke up and joined in.

‘Pick her up,’ Aislabie said hastily to Wattson, over the din. ‘For God’s sake.’ His head almost touched the ceiling even at the highest point of the cottage – as did mine.

Annie Gill went over to the cot and took the screaming baby in her arms. She loosened her gown and put it to her breast. ‘Mr Aislabie, your lordship. What an honour,’ she smirked. The baby suckled contentedly, its tiny hand opening and closing like a starfish.

Aislabie snuffed and averted his gaze. ‘You know why we have come, I’m sure. Mr Hawkins has travelled from London at the queen’s bidding to discover the culprits. You will answer his questions.’ He grabbed me and pulled me to one side. ‘Be sure to press them hard, sir.’ Then he strode out of the cottage, slamming the door behind him. He might have faced down a knife, or a pistol – but not a bare breast.

Annie Gill grinned. She must have been a striking woman once – tall, with high cheekbones and thick hair now turned an iron grey. Ten years younger than Lady Judith, most likely, but she wore her hard life upon her body. I counted seven children tumbling in and out of the cottage, plus the one at her breast. Her face was etched with deep lines, and most of her teeth were rotten. She walked stiffly too, as though her joints plagued her. Her husband Jeb had fared no better – his back was bowed, his hands gnarly. There was a spirit to them both, though. The Gills’ cottage was cramped, and at one point a mouse ran over my foot, but it was a welcome change from the brooding, tense atmosphere at Studley Hall.

‘Sit down and have some stew,’ Annie Gill said, slapping Wattson from his chair to make space for me at the table. ‘And who’s this?’

‘Kitty Sparks,’ Kitty said, then corrected herself swiftly. ‘Hawkins now.’

‘Just wed – bless you!’ Annie exclaimed. Jeb grunted something that might have been congratulations or might have been a withering critique of the very notion of matrimony – it was hard to tell over the noise of eight children.

There were no more chairs, so Kitty sat upon my knee and shared a bowl of stew, while Annie paced about the room with the baby. The food was fresh and very good – much better than Mrs Mason’s carp. I started to explain about the threats Aislabie had received, but the Gills knew all about them. ‘I hear everything that happens at Studley,’ Annie said. ‘They’re saying we wrote those letters, I suppose.’

‘
Never trust a Gill
,’ Jeb muttered into his stew. Annie snorted.

‘Two of them mention Kirkby moors.’ I laid the notes upon the table. ‘You claim a right to farm there, I believe?’

Annie wouldn’t look at them. ‘The moors belong to everyone and no one. There’s enough coneys and grouse up there to feed half the county.’

Jeb grunted his agreement.

‘But see here.’ Kitty held the first note up so that Annie and Jeb could read it. She pointed to a line halfway down the page. ‘They threaten to burn the moors to ash. See – this line here.’

Annie and Jeb exchanged an odd, complicit look, then glanced at the note. Annie shook her head, but she seemed hesitant and shifted away at once to nurse the baby. Jeb frowned at the letter for a moment, tracing a finger across the page. ‘Bad business, burning moorland,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t hold with that.’

We talked further, but the convivial mood had faded. Kitty had pinched my leg after the exchange about the notes, but I couldn’t understand what she meant by it. Wattson too appeared distracted, the child now half asleep in his arms with her thumb snug in her mouth. Crabbe ate his stew.

The Gills swore they had been at home all night. Raising all these children, they said, aged from three months to seventeen years old, had worn them to the bone. So much so they would collapse into bed at nightfall and know nothing until dawn. Jeb stifled a yawn. More likely he’d spent the night on the moors checking his snares, but I couldn’t prove it and had no interest in doing so. A wave of futility passed through me. The visit had been a waste of time and effort, just as I’d expected.

I gave Annie a few coins for the stew, leaving the cottage in an irritable state. It would be dusk soon, and I was no closer to discovering Aislabie’s tormentors. I mounted my horse, gathering the reins as the Gills’ dogs barked at our feet. Kitty followed a few seconds behind, Wattson holding her horse steady as she settled herself in the saddle. I set off at a trot through the field. The day was ending, and I’d learned nothing.

Kitty drew up beside me. She was grinning.

‘Did you see? The
note
, Tom,’ she added, handing the first letter to me.

‘I’ve read it a dozen times.’

‘Read what it
doesn’t
say.’

I glanced at her, catching her meaning. ‘There’s no mention of burning the moors.’

Kitty beamed. ‘I made it up. I pointed to a line about grazing sheep, and they didn’t know the difference. D’you see?’

‘They can’t read.’

‘Can’t read, can’t write.’

The Gills were innocent. Very good. At least now I could focus my investigations upon Studley Hall, as I had wished to do from the start. ‘Aislabie will be disappointed. He’d cart all ten of them off to gaol if he could, including the baby.’ I reached for Kitty’s hand. ‘What a cunning woman you are.’

‘Hell fire!’ Wattson, riding behind us, pulled his horse up short. He poked his fingers into his pocket, growing agitated. ‘She’s stolen the coins from my pocket!’

‘Annie?’

‘Little Janey. Gah! You’d best ride on, sir. I’ll catch up.’ He nudged his horse around and rode back towards the cottage to retrieve his coins.

Kitty watched him go, watched his hips rising up and down against the saddle. I watched Kitty.

Crabbe sucked a piece of meat from between his teeth. ‘Never trust a Gill,’ he said.

Our ride back to Studley Hall was a brief, happy moment in my trip to Yorkshire. I find my mind often returns to that journey, to that quiet contentment as we trotted through the country lanes. We almost stopped at the inn at Galphay for a bowl of punch, but – worrying over the fading light – continued on.

Crabbe had ridden ahead, so Kitty and I talked of private things, plans for the future, and plans for when we reached our room, and our bed. We talked so well and in such detail that it became necessary to stop, and tie up the horses, and find a clearing away from the path. The ground was too muddy to lie upon, so Kitty leaned against an oak tree, and I pulled her gown about her hips. She guided me into her, grazing her teeth against my neck. I pushed deeper and she cried out in pleasure, so loud the jackdaws cawed and flew off through the clearing.

‘We’re scaring the crows,’ Kitty said, and laughed.

As I said, my mind wanders back to that journey.

We straightened our clothes and stumbled back to the path. Wattson had caught up with the horses and was waiting for us. He didn’t ask where we’d been or what we’d been doing; he didn’t need to.

‘You retrieved your coins?’ I asked him, helping Kitty into the saddle.

Wattson nodded. ‘I’d best catch up with Crabbe,’ he said, and touched his hat before riding off.

Kitty bit her lip in mock dismay. ‘He’ll tell the servants.’

‘Let him. We’re married, remember?’

We rode on, casting long shadows upon the path. It was early evening now, the clouds tinged a warm pink. The air smelled of mud and wet leaves. Partridges pecked their way through the undergrowth, and squirrels raced each other around the tree trunks. As we drew close to Studley Royal, I heard a rustle high on a steep bank to my right. I turned in my saddle and saw a stoat, not much bigger than my hand, streaming backwards through the bushes, its body low and lean. It was dragging a rabbit twice its size along the ground, jaws clamped tight around the coney’s neck. It stopped for a moment, struggling with its cumbersome prize. Then it began again.