The Sudbury School Murders Read online

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  Chapter Eight

  Sutcliff agreed to meet with Grenville and myself for a glass of claret that afternoon. His tone when he delivered his answer told me that he never would have accepted had Grenville not been involved. Gabriel Lacey might be a gentleman, his look said, but Gabriel Lacey could barely afford the clothes on his back.

  My own father would have thrashed him soundly just for that look. Lucky for Sutcliff that my father was dead.

  At three o'clock, Sutcliff reported to Grenville's rooms, and Grenville, now rested and bathed and dressed again in a fine suit, received him.

  While Didius Ramsay was a usual sort of boy trying to fit in with his fellows, Sutcliff was a few years older than the rest, and definitely Rutledge's man. He regarded everyone about him with a sneer and considered himself higher than all except Rutledge. Sutcliff's father, I had learned from gossip, one of the wealthiest men in London, had risen from assistant clerk at a warehouse to become the owner of a fleet of merchant ships and several warehouses. Goods from all over the world--and the money those goods made--had passed through his hands. Sutcliff stood to inherit all that money, and he made certain with every gesture and turn of phrase, that we all knew it.

  I wondered, however, how much money he truly had at present. His father likely gave him an allowance, but even wealthy fathers could be stingy as a way to teach their sons to respect money. Sutcliff's clothes were not shabby, but nor were they the equal of Grenville's, or even small Ramsay's. Perhaps his papa held the purse strings tighter than Sutcliff liked.

  Sutcliff seated himself on a Turkish sofa in Grenville's rather grand rooms and accepted the glass of claret that Matthias, Bartholomew's brother, whom Grenville had brought with him, served us.

  When Matthias had emptied the bottle, Grenville told him he was finished with his duties and suggested he find Bartholomew and take him to visit the pub in Sudbury. Matthias thanked him, said a cheerful good afternoon to me, and departed.

  Sutcliff gave Grenville a look of mild disdain when he'd gone. "They get above themselves, you know, if you allow it."

  Grenville nodded as though Sutcliff had said something wise. "Indeed, my servants ever take advantage of me." He studied the fine color of his claret before taking a sip. "Now then, Mr. Sutcliff, what do you think of Sudbury School? It has a fine reputation."

  Sutcliff arched a brow. "What do I think of it? You hardly plan to send your sons here, do you?"

  "I am interested."

  Grenville was holding himself in check. I'd seen him turn the full force of his cold and satirical persona to others, observed peers of the realm wilt before him, seen powerful gentlemen fear to come under his stare. Grenville needed only to imply that a gentleman purchased his gloves ready-made or did not pay his servants or had bad table manners, and that gentleman would be forever marked. Sutcliff was unaware of his danger.

  "It's a tedious place, if you must know," Sutcliff said. He gulped his claret, and then helped himself to more. "But at the end of this term, I will be finished, thank God."

  "I agree, being buried in the country is not stimulating to the intellect," Grenville said. "What do you do for diversion?"

  "Oh, we amuse ourselves. Games and whatnot. The younger boys smuggle in spirits and dice and believe themselves sophisticated. Of course, I report all that to Rutledge."

  Grenville smiled in reminiscence. "When I was at school, we knew a house nearby that didn't mind offering cards and other vices to us as long as we could pay."

  Sutcliff snorted. "Nothing like that in Sudbury. Or even Hungerford."

  "And yet," I broke in. I knew Grenville was leading up to the question in his own way, but my impatience got the better of me, as usual. "There must be a reason that you climbed the wall on Sunday evening, shortly after Middleton the groom left for the village."

  Sutcliff's glass froze halfway to his mouth. He stared at me for a long moment, while Grenville shot me an annoyed look.

  "Who has said this?" Sutcliff asked stiffly.

  "I am well informed," I answered.

  Sutcliff clicked his glass to the table beside him. "Did Rutledge ask you to spy for him? To follow his pupils and report what they do?"

  I shook my head. "I can hardly run about after you on a game leg, can I? You were seen, Mr. Sutcliff. Where did you go?"

  His lip curled. "Not to the village, certainly. It is quite dull on a Sunday night."

  "Ah, you know this."

  His eyes sparkled with anger. "See here, Captain Lacey."

  Grenville broke in with a soothing gesture. "Who is the lady, Mr. Sutcliff?"

  Frederick Sutcliff stopped, flushed.

  I grew irritated with myself for not having thought of it. I had been so fixed on the murder, that I forgot that young men sneaked away from school for other reasons, one of them being female companionship.

  Sutcliff's tone was a bit less disdainful. "You are a gentleman of the world, Mr. Grenville. I say, you will not peach to Rutledge, will you?"

  "I assure you, I have no wish to tell your secrets to Rutledge," Grenville said. "Neither does Captain Lacey. We are simply interested in Middleton's murder."

  "I see. Well, this can have nothing to do with it." He lowered his voice, looked at us as though we were co-conspirators. "I do have a lady, gentlemen. She stays in Hungerford. She is French."

  He sat back, quite proud of himself. For a moment, I wondered what lady would want him, then I remembered that Frederick Sutcliff's father was enormously rich.

  "You said she stays in Hungerford," I said. "She does not live there?"

  He gave me a half-smile. "She lives where I tell her to live. This term, I have hired rooms for her in Hungerford."

  I had a awful thought. Marianne was staying in Hungerford. This could not be her secret could it? That she was mistress to a stripling man with a spotty face? But Sutcliff's potential of a vast fortune might attract Marianne. Grenville had a fortune too, of course, but I imagined Marianne would find Sutcliff much more controllable than Grenville. I could only hope I was wrong.

  "You visited her late Sunday evening, then?" I prompted.

  He gave us a self-important smile. "I confess, gentlemen. I walked to Hungerford and stayed with her most of the night, if you know what I mean. I returned just before dawn. Good thing I did because at first light, all sorts of ruckus was raised about the dead groom, and I might have been seen creeping back in."

  Grenville sipped his claret and gave him an indulgent nod. "Yes, your timing seems to have been excellent."

  Sutcliff preened himself.

  "While you were traveling to and from Hungerford," I broke in, "did you happen to see Middleton? Or anything unusual?"

  Sutcliff frowned. "No. What does it matter, in any case? The Romany killed him."

  "Did he? there was no sign of blood on Sebastian's clothes. He was absent from the school when Middleton died, yes. But so were you."

  Sutcliff gaped. "Are you accusing me? How dare you? I am not a dirty Romany."

  "I did not say you were. I said that there was as much evidence to convict him as you."

  "Rutledge told me you were far too impertinent. And why do you care about his clothes? Doubtless he stripped off his bloody clothes and threw them into the canal. His kind are not stupid."

  "Why did he return to the stables, then, if he was so crafty?" I plunged on. "He could have met up with his family, disappeared with them. He could be far away by now. But he chose to return to his room."

  "There would have been a hue and cry after him if he'd run away," Sutcliff said. "The entire countryside would be turned out to find him. He'd know that."

  "And so he stayed put where he was immediately arrested? No, Mr. Sutcliff, you cannot argue that he was simultaneously crafty and a fool."

  His eyes flared. "What is your interest? He is Romany, for God's sake."

  "I am interested in the truth. I do not like to see an innocent person hanging for someone else's crime."
/>   Sutcliff regarded me in dislike. "You certainly are easily agitated. Perhaps you are a radical, ready to let the mob and the Jew and the Roma rule us?"

  "The mob and the Jew will likely be customers for the goods you ship, and you will employ them in your warehouses," I pointed out. "The Roma, of course, will not be allowed to work for you."

  "Good God. You are a radical."

  "Not so. But perhaps I have sympathy for those crushed underfoot. I do not have to be a radical to wish a man to pay for his crimes."

  Sutcliff sat forward, his long nose flaring. "The Romany is to blame, and he will pay. Do you know, my father would tan my hide if he knew I'd spoken to a radical. The mob overthrew the aristocrats in France, you know. You have more to fear than I." He climbed to his feet, his large hands red below the cuffs of his jacket. "Good afternoon, Mr. Grenville. I am afraid I do not think much of your claret, or your friends."

  Grenville and I watched him as he strode across the room, dodging furniture like a young hound not yet accustomed to his body. He went out and slammed the door, the sound echoing from the dark beams.

  Grenville, to my surprise, chuckled. "The poor chap. This claret is the finest money can buy. A man who cannot recognize quality when he tastes it will not make a very good merchant."

  I glanced at the closed door. "We did not obtain the name of the French lady who is willing to live in Hungerford for him."

  "That is not a bother," Grenville answered. "Hungerford is not a large town; I imagine the entire population knows who this woman is and where she resides. I do not know why he thinks he can keep such a secret from curious neighbors. They will have found out, one way or another, and be happy to confide the information."

  I raised my brows. "You sound as though you speak from experience."

  "I have a country estate located near a town about the size of Hungerford. The most entertaining activity there is gossip. A stranger is dissected down to his boots. They are hospitable people, but secrets are impossible to keep." He drained his glass. "If you like, I'll pursue the mystery of the Frenchwoman while you do your duties with Rutledge."

  "No," I said immediately.

  He looked surprised. "Why not?"

  I certainly did not want him in Hungerford to trip over Marianne. "I'd rather have you here, speaking with the lads," I extemporized. "They will admire you and be thrilled to speak to you. You might be able to pry more information from them than I. I will attend to the French lady of Hungerford."

  He watched me with curiosity in his black eyes, then he grinned. "Ah, of course, you would want to interview the lady. Your affinity for the fair sex eclipses me every time."

  I opened my mouth to argue with him, then closed it. Let him think what he liked. I did not want him near Hungerford until I was certain that the "French" lady was not Marianne, and until I could persuade Marianne to go sensibly back to London.

  He put his hands to his chest. "Command me. What would you have me do?"

  I thought. "Speak to what students you can, then search Middleton's rooms in the stables. I have not had chance to do so. No groom has been hired to replace him, but I am certain Rutledge will not wait long. And find a lad called Timson, the one Ramsay smoked cheroots with the night of Middleton's death."

  Grenville reached out an elegant hand and poured more claret. "I will endeavor to charm Mr. Timson. Has James Denis sent you any more warnings, by the bye?"

  "No, as a matter of fact. Not since he wrote asking me to look into Middleton's death."

  "Hmm. I wonder what danger Middleton had mentioned. The pranks?"

  "My greater wonder is that Denis should ask me to take care. Why should he?"

  "Because he knows you could be a valuable resource to him."

  I lifted a brow. "James Denis knows I will not work for him. I am investigating this death because I wish to help Sebastian, not because Denis has asked me to."

  Grenville made a placating gesture. "I know. But see it from Denis' point of view. You are intelligent, you have been right more times than not, and you persist until you know the truth. You could be quite an asset to him."

  "He is a criminal," I said quietly, "though the magistrates fear to arrest him. He procures artwork, however dubiously, for vast fortunes, owns Members of Parliament and peers outright, and once murdered a coachman who worked for him because he was displeased. I hope I will never be an asset to him."

  "And yet, many men would envy your exalted position," Grenville said. "No, do not grow angry with me. I admire your resistance. Not many a man could, or would. He could pay you quite well, I imagine."

  "I imagine he could," I agreed. "But I should lose myself, Grenville. My dignity is all I have left, and even that deserts me now and again. Shall I give up that as well, and become another of Denis' anonymous lackeys? Sell my soul for a handful of coins? Maybe I am a fool. I do not know any more."

  Grenville studied his wine, not looking at me. I must have embarrassed him. I'd certainly embarrassed myself.

  "I do not believe you a fool." He raised his eyes, but they were shuttered. "In fact, Lacey, I always considered myself a wise man until I met you. And then I realized that I have been looking at my life the wrong way round."

  I stared at him. "The wrong way round? What does that mean?"

  "It means you are the wise man, and I am the fool. But enough." He set aside his glass, rose. "Let me find and interest the boys, and you go in search of your French lady."

  *** *** ***

  Hungerford had once been used by Charles I as a base from which he fought battles with Cromwell's army. One could picnic now at the battle sites, as I imagined that one day Spanish ladies and gentlemen would picnic at the sites of Talavera and Abuerra and other gruesome chapters in the war against Bonaparte. The locals also proclaimed that Queen Elizabeth had some time rested here on one of her progresses to and from London.

  Hungerford's High Street was long and backed onto the canal. This late in the afternoon it was crowded with those purchasing goods for their afternoon meal. The sky was leaden, but the rain had ceased. Mud coated the street, and a passing cart threw more upon my boots.

  Grenville had been correct about the ease with which I discovered the rooms in which Sutcliff had placed his paramour. I stepped into a tavern that smelled of stale beer and yesterday's roast, and nursed an ale while the publican's wife told me everything I wanted to know. I finished the ale, thanked her, and went off in pursuit.

  At the end of the High Street, I found a small lane branching from the main road. At the end of this, just as the publican's wife had indicated, sat a square brick house, not very large, surrounded by an untidy garden.

  Two women had taken rooms to let here. The woman who owned the house, a widow by the name of Albright, offered the rooms to bring in extra money. The renters were expected to find their own meals and pay extra for a maid to clean their rooms and remove their night soil. According to the publican's wife, the house attracted only those who knew they would not be welcome at other, more respectable lodging houses.

  One woman at this house was Miss Simmons, an actress from London. The other was a young woman named Jeanne Lanier. She was French, the daughter of French emigres, and, I had no doubt, Frederick Sutcliff's lover.

  Mrs. Albright wore a brown dress with rents in several places mended with clumps of black thread. She had brown hair the same shade as the dress and faded blue eyes. When I asked to see Miss Simmons, she gazed at me doubtfully but ushered me into a small, stuffy sitting room and departed to find her.

  Dust lay thick on the furniture, and the windows must not have been opened for a long while. I had given Mrs. Albright my card, and as the minutes ticked past, I wondered if Marianne had seen it and fled the house. After a time, however, I heard her step.

  She entered the sitting room alone. "You gave me a fright, Lacey," she said, closing the door. "I thought you'd brought him with you."

  I had risen at her entry. "You know he's arrived, then."

&
nbsp; "Oh, yes. I saw his coach. You were correct about him flying down here on the moment. He cannot keep his long nose out of any business."

  "Grenville has been most helpful to me in the past," I told her, my tone cool. "I welcome his help now."

  "Yes, yes, he is your dearest friend."

  I ignored this and motioned for her to sit on one of the chairs. She glanced at it in disdain, brushed it off with her hand, then sank into it.

  I seated myself, facing her. "Have you decided to confide in me?" I asked.

  Marianne studied her hands. In the dim light of the room, the hair on her bent head looked more silver than blonde. I realized, studying her, that though she dressed in a young woman's clothing and wore her hair in ringlets like a girl, Marianne was not as young as she pretended to be. She had the gift that some women had of maintaining a young face no matter how much time passed. But I saw in the droop of her shoulders the tiredness that years bring.

  "I have decided," she said. She looked up at me, her blue eyes hard. "I will tell you everything."

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  Chapter Nine

  She had no intention of telling me there and then, however. "I will show you," she said. "That will be easier than explaining. Tomorrow, when you go out for your preposterously early ride, meet me by Froxfield Lock."

  "Froxfield?" I asked, surprised.

  "Yes. I will not tell you any more, so do not press me. If you want to know, you will meet me; if not, then I will tell you nothing."

  "Very well, you have convinced me." I wanted to shake her, truth to tell, but I could see she was troubled and a bit frightened.

  "I have another errand here," I went on. "I came to see Jeanne Lanier."

  Marianne looked surprised. "What on earth for? She would not suit you, Lacey."

  I ignored her needling. "What do you know about her?"

  Marianne shrugged. "She is French, but she has lived in England all her life. She's young, pretty, wants money. Typical."

  "Typical of what?"