Ramsay looked doubtful. 'Were you in the war, sir? Some of the lads said you were in the cavalry.'
'In Portugal and Spain. Not at Waterloo.'
Most people looked disappointed when I told them that. I had fought the entire savage war on the Iberian Peninsula, the six years we had pushed Napoleon from Spain, step by bloody step. But because I had quit the army and returned to London after Bonaparte's abdication, I could not wear the Waterloo cross and so was considered somewhat second-rate.
Ramsay, on the other hand, simply nodded. 'My father says that the war was won because of English bankers, not soldiering.' He paused, looked at my raised brow, and finished, 'My father is an ass.'
I strove not to laugh. 'Arthur Wellesley was a fine general. He knew how to make the most of a situation and how to persevere with what he had. He set out to wear down Bonaparte, and he did it.'
'Yes, sir.'
'I beg your pardon, Ramsay, I did not mean to lecture. Well, if you do not have any views on the prankster, perhaps you do have views on the murder this morning.'
Ramsay again looked startled. 'It was horrible.'
'It was. Do you, like all the others, believe it was Sebastian?'
Ramsay immediately shook his head. He did not even take time to think. 'No, sir. I put the blame on Freddy Sutcliff.'
I stared at him in surprise. Bartholomew, who was brushing my clothes on the other side of the room and pretending not to listen, froze.
'Sutcliff?' I repeated. 'The prefect?'
Ramsay nodded. 'Yes, sir.'
I thought about Frederick Sutcliff. He was tall, nearly as tall as I was, but with the thin, spidery look of a young man not yet grown into his body. A prefect was employed to keep the other boys in line when they weren't overseen by the house master. From what I had seen of Sutcliff, he'd used his post to become a brutal little tyrant.
'Does he have a violent nature?' I asked.
'I wouldn't have said so, no,' Ramsay said. 'Though he doesn't hesitate to box a chap's ears whenever he likes.'
'What makes you think he killed Middleton? Murder is a bit different from boxing a chap's ears.'
'Because I saw him, sir. He left the house last night and hightailed it toward Sudbury.'
'He did, did he?' I asked, alert.
'Yes. I saw Middleton the groom leave the stables. He walked on the road, toward the village. Not long after, I saw Sutcliff go over the wall. He ran across country toward the road. To cut him off, like.'
I grew excited. 'Did you see them meet?'
'No. Too many trees in the way.'
'Are you certain it was Sutcliff? Were you looking out of the window of your bed chamber? He must have been a long way from you if you watched him climb the wall.'
Ramsay flushed. 'I wasn't in my chamber.' He tightened his lips, then decided to plunge in completely. 'I was on the other side of the wall myself. I started to climb back, then I heard someone coming up on the school side. I hid in the brush. I saw Sutcliff vault over, then melt into the shadows. 'Twas him, all right.'
'Interesting,' I said. 'And what were you doing on the other side of the wall, if I may ask?'
'Went to share a cheroot with some other lads. They started another, but I came back. Timson was one of them, and he was already drunk. He's disgusting enough when he's sober. He likes to rag on me, anyway.'
I sat back, wondering. Sutcliff could have been pursuing his own business and might have nothing to do with Middleton. Or, he could have followed Middleton, as Ramsay thought. Why, I could not fathom. I would simply have to ask Sutcliff. I had difficulty imagining the lad killing the canny Middleton, but strange things happen. If nothing else, Sutcliff might have seen Middleton meeting with his killer without realizing what he'd seen.
'I appreciate your candor, Ramsay,' I finished. 'Bartholomew, would you bring the box that Grenville sent with me?'
Bartholomew, knowing what I wanted, grinned. He fished in a drawer of the writing table and came back with a polished box. Inside rested an assortment of small iced cakes that Grenville's chef had prepared before I'd left London. Grenville knew I did not have much of a sweet tooth, but Anton, the chef, had insisted I would waste away in the country if I did not have a box of cakes to help me between meals. Because Anton was a chef of fine caliber, I did not decline the offer.
I offered a cake now to Ramsay. 'Take one,' I said. 'I guarantee it is better than Timson's cheroots.'
'Did you say Grenville?' Ramsay asked, eyes wide. 'Thank you, I must say. Mr. Grenville, he's- well, he's that famous, isn't he? In all the papers and his caricature all over London.'
'He is that famous,' I answered. 'Rutledge went to school with him.'
'S'truth! Must have been a dashed odd school, then, to turn out Mr. Grenville and the headmaster.'
'It is a dashed odd school,' I remarked. 'It's called Eton.'
He did not smile at my feeble joke. 'As you say, sir.'
I let it go. 'Why does Timson rag on you, Ramsay? I've seen him. Looks a perfectly ordinary little devil to me, no better or worse than you.'
Ramsay shrugged, unembarrassed. 'Because my father is wealthy. Timson and his mates think I will buy my way to prefect, like Sutcliff. Not bloody likely. Sir.'
'Did Sutcliff buy his way to prefect?'
'His father did. Sutcliff will have all his father's money once his father turns up trumps. Sutcliff reminds us every day.'
'I see. A braggart.'
'An awful one, sir.' Ramsay reached in, snatched the topmost cake. 'Thank you, sir. Sorry about the snake.'
'No harm done.' I snapped the box shut. 'But no more of them.'
Ramsay shook his head, clutching his precious pastry. 'No, sir. I'll spread the word. You're not to be touched.'
Chapter Five
The next morning, I received a letter from James Denis. He briefly thanked me for telling him of Middleton's death. He also asked that I furnish him with the complete details of the inquest and anything I discovered about the murder. He stressed that it was most important. 'Middleton sent me several letters about the dangers there. Guard yourself.'
I viewed the last sentences with surprise and some mild annoyance. I agreed with Denis that danger lurked here, and that blaming Sebastian for Middleton's death was not the right solution. But I wished Denis had been clearer about what dangers Middleton had hinted and who I was to guard against.
I tossed his letter aside and opened one from Grenville. Grenville professed amazement at the murder and asserted he wanted to come down as soon as he could get away. He was distracted at the moment, he said, by the disappearance of Marianne Simmons.
I stopped, brows rising. Marianne had lived upstairs from me in London for the first year or so I'd lived in rooms above a bake shop. She was an actress by trade, making her living treading the boards at Drury Lane. With her golden curls and childlike face, she also lived by enticing foolish gentlemen to give her more money than they should.
Grenville himself had given her money; in total, thirty gold guineas, though I tried to tell him not to waste his coin. A few months ago, Grenville had taken Marianne from Grimpen Lane and deposited her in a gilded cage on Clarges Street, a fine Mayfair address. He'd given her every luxury, but she'd chafed at her confinement and had amused herself by torturing him.
Now, it seemed, she'd broken out of the cage and flown. Grenville wrote of it in terse sentences. She had disappeared a few days before. He had searched, but had not found her. He had decided to hire a Bow Street
