The Sudbury School Murders (24 page)

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.

"This Frenchwoman was ladybird to an
upper-form student?" he growled. "Likely she tired of him and fled.
Received a better offer."

"I see something a bit more sinister in it,"
Sir Montague countered. "I will put the word out about her."

I thought of Jeanne Lanier's pleasant smile,
her shrewd eyes. I doubted she would debunk out a window and run to
another lover. She'd finish her contract with Sutcliff and then
calmly enter into a contract with another. She was a
businesswoman.

It would be a pity if Jeanne Lanier were
involved in the murders. She'd be arrested, no matter how pretty
and charming she was. I had a brief, pleasant fantasy of myself
convincing the magistrates that she was an innocent dupe, and her,
in gratitude, taking up with me.

I smiled inwardly and let the fantasy go.

"What about the Romany?" Sir Montague
asked.

The Sudbury magistrate looked annoyed. "What
about him?"

I said quickly, "You certainly cannot pin the
death of Fletcher on him, nor the assault on Grenville. Sebastian
is young, and he is passionate, but these murders were not the work
of passion. They were planned, from fear and greed."

"Greed can destroy so much," Sir Montague
nodded.

"In this case, two men's lives," I said.

The Sudbury magistrate frowned at the both of
us. "If I release the Romany, what do I tell the chief constable?
That I have no one to pay for the murder of the groom? The Romany
is likely guilty of something, anyway, even if not the murder."

"Would the chief constable rather hang the
wrong man?" I asked.

Sir Montague nodded gravely. "He might,
Captain, he just might."

"That is ludicrous."

Sir Montague agreed. I hated this.

"If you let him go," I repeated, "I will
bring you the true culprit."

"You will mind your own business," the
Sudbury magistrate snapped. "My constables are investigating this
crime, and they will bring me the true culprit. I agree that the
Romany cannot have killed Mr. Fletcher or stabbed your friend, but
he could very well have killed Middleton, and that is final."

"He could not have," I said. "Middleton had
been dead two hours before Sebastian returned to the stables at
Sudbury. And he was gone all night before that. He has witnesses,
about ten of them, to prove this."

"Romany witnesses," the magistrate growled.
"Which are no witnesses at all."

I snatched up my hat. "I will bring you one.
Not a Romany."

Sir Montague had sat through this exchange
with a characteristic half-smile on his face. Now he looked at me
in slight surprise.

I coldly wished them both good day.
Bartholomew, who had remained silent, followed me. I left the book
in Sir Montague's hands.

"What witness?" Bartholomew asked while he
gave me a leg up to my horse.

"A very young one," I said.

*** *** ***

Didius Ramsay was eating his dinner in the
hall along with his fellow students when I returned. Rutledge was
also prominently in his place at the head table, glaring fiercely
at the boys eating below him. The atmosphere was subdued. The
students focused on their plates, and the tutors pushed their food
about in silence. None wanted Rutledge's growls directed at
him.

I waited in the quad for dinner to finish,
not in the mood to eat with Rutledge. Bartholomew brought me a bit
of mutton, which I ate readily. My last meal seemed long ago and
far away.

The boys filed out of the hall and toward
their houses. The tutors followed, then Rutledge, who first glared
at me then pretended to ignore me.

Of Ramsay, there was no sign.

"The little bugger, where is he?" I
asked.

"There's a servants' door in the back of the
hall. He might have ducked out there," Bartholomew volunteered.
"Won't be a tick."

He jogged away, leaving me shivering. I
wanted to go up to Grenville's chamber and look in on him, but I
did not wish to lose Ramsay.

The porter sat on his bench by the gate, his
chin on his chest. He came awake with a gasp as Bartholomew
suddenly appeared on the other side of the gate and rattled the
bars. Bartholomew's livery was soaked with rain and mud.

"He's scarpered, sir," Bartholomew called to
me. "Cook says he ran through the kitchens and out the
scullery."

I started for the gate. "Get after him. I
will catch you up."

Bartholomew nodded and ran off. I had every
faith that if anyone could catch one small boy, it would be
Bartholomew.

Ignoring the gaping porter, I let myself out
of the gate and walked as fast as I could after Bartholomew's
retreating back. He was running, bounding over brush and clumps of
grass in his path. I came along more slowly, my walking stick
sinking into the mud.

Not surprisingly, Ramsay ran to the canal.
Bartholomew sprinted after him. I saw Ramsay's small form dart off
the towpath, and for a moment, I thought he would plunge into the
canal. But he leapt to the top of the stone lock, balanced on the
narrow parapet across the canal toward the pond and the
lockkeeper's house.

Bartholomew climbed after him. I stifled a
shout. Bartholomew was sure-footed, and I didn't want to startle
him and have him topple into the lock. I would never traverse that
path, so I waited on the near side, watching.

Ramsay ran for the lockkeeper's house. The
lockkeeper came out, stared at him and Bartholomew and said, "What
the devil?"

Ramsay ran past him into his house, slammed
the door. Bartholomew skidded to a halt before it. He rattled the
door handle, then banged on the door.

I walked on down the towpath. The next bridge
was about a hundred yards along. My leg hurting, I made the bridge,
climbed it and crossed to the other side. The stretch of canal and
the greenery around it was shrouded in mist, a lovely scene. I
ignored the beauty and climbed down the other side of the bridge,
making my way to the lockkeeper's house as quickly as I could.

By the time I arrived, Bartholomew and the
lockkeeper had succeeded in breaking open the door. Didius Ramsay
tried to run out past them. Bartholomew snatched him.

Ramsay wriggled and kicked, and Bartholomew
lost his hold. Ramsay ran out of the house and straight at me. I
spread my arms, trying to stop him. Ramsay dodged to the right. I
sprang after him and grabbed. I came down on my bad leg and sent
myself and Ramsay slithering down the wet grass to the canal.

A pair of powerful hands grabbed my legs just
before I would have slid into the water. I seized Ramsay under the
arms and hauled him back from the muddy bank.

* * * * *

Chapter Sixteen

It was a muddy, dripping, red-faced Didius
Ramsay that I faced in the lockkeeper's house not long later.

The lockkeeper lived simply, in a flagstone
kitchen with a stair leading to a loft. Ramsay sat on the settle
near the fire, holding onto the seat, knuckles white. I took a
stool opposite him. My clothes dripped water onto the stone floor,
and a light steam began to rise from both of us.

"Ramsay," I began.

The word galvanized him into speech. "I did
not kill him, sir, I swear I did not."

"I know," I said.

He stared at me, mouth open. The fire sparked
and sent a tendril of smoke into the room.

"Freddy Sutcliff said . . . he said you'd
blame me," Ramsay stammered. "He said I'd pay for it, that no one
would believe me."

I said calmly, "You could not have killed
Middleton. You are not tall enough."

Ramsay gaped anew. The lockkeeper, who had
fetched a kettle from the fire, now returned with mugs of coffee.
He handed them to us, looking interested.

I sipped the coffee. It was bitter and thick
and hot, and I was cold and exhausted. "Middleton was a big man,
used to fighting," I said. "He could have agreed to meet you by the
canal, but if you'd tried to hurt him, he would have tossed you
into the water and had done. The only way you could have cut his
throat was if he were kneeling. And he was not." I indicated the
muddy patches on my own trousers. "When I saw him in the lock, he
had no mud on his knees. Depend upon it, he was standing, and a man
cut him from behind."

Ramsay's teeth chattered. "Sutcliff said
you'd blame me for Mr. Grenville. And that you'd kill me."

"I know you did not hurt Grenville," I said,
keeping my voice steady. "For the same reason. He was stabbed with
a downward thrust. If you had stabbed with a downward thrust, the
knife would have gone in much lower than it did." I leaned forward,
looked him in the eye. "So you should rejoice, Mr. Ramsay, that you
have not grown as much this year as you could have wished."

He stared at me, as though still believing
I'd snatch him up and drag him to the magistrate. He swallowed, and
his face regained some color.

"How much have you been paying Sutcliff,
Ramsay?" I asked.

Ramsay took a gulp of coffee, wiped his
mouth. "Oh, a good bit, sir. My allowance is high, and he knows it.
He gouges me more than he does the other boys."

I sat back, cradled the cup in my hands. "So
he has a nice blackmailing scheme here to supplement the tiny
allowance his father gives him. I wondered how he managed to pay
for his mistress; she did not seem to be a woman who came cheap. I
imagine Sutcliff receives money from Timson about his cheroots,
from some of the other boys about their various little vices."

"The tutors, too, sir," Ramsay said in a
small, shamed voice.

"I do not doubt that. In a small place like
this, I imagine that both pupils and tutors have secrets, great and
small, that they wish to stay secret. Everyone knows that Rutledge
is not a man to look the other way at vices, no matter how
trivial."

Ramsay looked relieved that I understood.
"Just as you say, sir."

My anger rose to new heights. Doubtless a
student who filched an extra slice of bread at dinner lived in as
much fear of the sneering Sutcliff as did Tunbridge, the
mathematics tutor, whom I suspected was having it off with his star
pupil. If Sutcliff told Rutledge, both pupil or tutor would be
banished, which meant that Tunbridge would never get another place
and the student would be sent home in disgrace.

Poor Ramsay had paid over as well, I thought,
though I could have told him that Rutledge would never banish him.
His family was too wealthy. Likewise, Sutcliff was safe because of
the vast amount of money his father donated to the Sudbury
School.

I found it mildly ironic that the only
straightforward person in the entire school, the only one immune to
blackmail, was Rutledge himself. He was a tyrant, but he had no
hidden vices. He was a man who lived his life in the open and be
damned to anyone who did not like it.

"You all ought to have formed a league
against Sutcliff," I remarked. "He was going over the wall to see a
lover. I am certain Rutledge would have disapproved of that."

Ramsay nodded. "I thought of that. But
there's no way around him, sir."

"Especially as Sutcliff knew that you played
all the pranks."

Silence fell. Bartholomew stared in surprise,
his coffee halfway to his lips. Ramsay sank further into the bench.
"How did you know, sir?"

"Because no one peached on you," I said. "If
Sutcliff, or even Timson, had played the pranks, someone would have
spoken up by now. But the boys like you, don't they? So they kept
silent so you would not be punished."

Ramsay stared at me. Bartholomew was still
not happy. "Are you saying, sir, that this lad here poisoned those
other lads and set the fires? He needs a good strapping."

"I agree with you," I said, giving Ramsay a
severe look.

"I would not have hurt anyone, not really,"
Ramsay protested. "I added purge to the port, only to make them
sick. They'd never have died from it."

"Bloody hell, Ramsay," I said.

"I made sure the maids' chamber was empty
before I set the rubbish alight. It only smoldered."

I eyed him evenly. He looked ashamed, but I
saw in his eyes a tiny bit of pride at his cleverness.

"My man is right," I said, "someone should
take a strap to you. You seem a sound lad in other respects,
Ramsay. Why on earth should you set rooms alight and write letters
in blood? It is bizarre."

"So the others wouldn't think I was like
Sutcliff, sir."

"Ah, I thought so. You told me before. You
and Sutcliff come from the richest families of the school. You did
not want anyone to think you and he were cut from the same
cloth."

He shook his head fervently. "No, sir."

"A perfectly understandable wish. Sutcliff is
a nasty bit of goods. He puts himself above the other lads. You
wanted to show that you did not. I comprehend your motives, but it
was a rather dangerous way to go about it."

"Yes, sir."

"It stops, Ramsay," I said, giving him a
stern look. "Reptiles in beds are one thing. Settings fires is
dangerous. Not meaning to hurt someone and not hurting them are two
different things. Never forget it."