Thomas pointed. At the end of the yard, a door led to a tiny hall and a stone staircase that led to the rooms over the stables. A small window broke the wall above the door. I peered at the dusty pane which overlooked the yard below.
'They stood by the gate,' Thomas said, motioning across the yard. 'Shouting. Could hear them clear as day.'
'It was dark. You could not have seen them clear as day.'
Thomas looked impatient. 'Mr. Middleton was tall, wann't he? So is Sebastian. The tallest men in the stables. No mistake.'
He was certain. I knew a suggestion that it had been another tall man, not Sebastian, would not be welcomed. I let it go and had him boost me onto the horse.
I rode to Sudbury and the magistrate's house. He and the constable were as excited as I to see the knife and hear what I'd told them about the spot near the canal. We went together back to the place I'd marked, the constable on foot, the magistrate driving himself in a one-horse cart.
The two men speculated over the crushed, bloodstained grass, and I showed them exactly where I'd found the knife. I told them my theory that the murderer had taken the body up the canal in a small boat. They were less inclined to believe that, but agreed that they could see no evidence that the body had gotten into the lock any other way.
They also agreed with me that the knife was made for butchering or cutting up meat for cooking. The constable was given the task of wandering through Sudbury and the nearby villages inquiring who had lost a knife.
I could do little more than point them to the spot and tell them what I thought. They were much interested in the area, less so in my opinions.
I left them, rode back to the stables, deposited my horse with the lads, retrieved my walking stick, and made my way back to the school.
When I reached the quad, I found commotion. The morning was fully upon us, light flooding over the eastern wing of the Head Master's house. In the middle of the quad stood Simon Fletcher. His brown hair was awry, his robe kilted back on his shoulders. He stared down at what lay in the middle of the circle of curious boys.
It was a pile of books, Fletcher's, I guessed by the look on his face. They were charred and still smoldering. The wind stirred sparks that whirled in tiny, bright flashes.
On the cobbles next to the pile of books was a placard, ill-printed, containing a foul-worded invective against boys learning Latin.
Fletcher lifted an anguished gaze to me. 'My books,' he mourned. 'My entire library. Gone. I'll never replace them.'
He kicked aside a scorched tome, scattering sparks and blackened paper.
At that moment a cultured, well-bred voice said coolly from the arched portico, 'Good lord. Have I arrived at a bad time?'
Chapter Seven
Grenville's sudden arrival provided a better diversion for the boys than a pile of burned books. They swarmed out to his traveling coach, marveling at its polished sides and mahogany inlay, the perfectly matched horses, his coachman in fine livery.
Grenville himself looked slightly alarmed as the gangly youths rushed past him. He dabbed his lips with a handkerchief and strove to maintain his mask of sangfroid. I saw, however, that his cheeks were pale and his eyelids waxy, and I knew that the journey from London had brought on his motion sickness.
'You need brandy,' I remarked.
'Good of you to notice.' His dark eyes took in the quad, Fletcher wringing his hands, the scattering of charred books. 'What has happened? Where is Rutledge?'
'I imagine he will charge along any moment now,' I murmured.
I was not wrong. Rutledge emerged from his house just then, Sutcliff at his side. He swept his gaze over the tableau, assessed the situation, and stormed to the middle of the quad. 'Bloody hell, Fletcher.'
'Ruined,' Fletcher moaned. 'I can never afford to replace them all.'
Rutledge gazed at him in baffled outrage. 'Are you telling me, man, that you never noticed somebody carting off a load of your books and setting them alight? Or were you off at the tavern nursing your day's dozen pints?'
'I was having breakfast in the hall,' Fletcher said, thin-lipped. 'We heard shouting in the quad. We came out. Found this.' He gestured at the pile of books.
I looked at the sad heap on the stones, a light rain hissing on the smoldering pages. The books lay haphazardly, some having skittered a few feet from the main pile, some flopped open upside down. The pile was anything but neat. Yet, all had burned.
I turned and peered up at the south hall, windows open to let in the mild spring air. 'They were not placed here,' I said. 'They were dropped. Probably from that window.' I pointed to an open window above the ground floor, right over the clump of books.
Grenville gazed upward, tilting back his curled-brimmed hat. 'But surely someone would have seen that.'
Rutledge turned a cold eye to Grenville, just noticing that he stood among us. 'Good God, what the devil are you doing here?'
Next to him, Sutcliff glanced sideways at Grenville, taking in his black coat and gray trousers, his ivory and yellow striped waistcoat, and his cravat with its perfect, and simple, knot.
Grenville ignored them both. 'It would take daring,' he said to me.
'The boys were breakfasting,' I said. 'As were the tutors. The quad would be deserted.' I peered up at the window again. 'What is in that room?'
Grenville adjusted his hat and lifted his walking stick. 'Let us have a look. With your permission of course, Rutledge.'
'By all means,' Rutledge growled. 'Let Captain Lacey indulge himself.'
Grenville gave him a half-smile. The smile shook a little; he must have been in a bad way on the journey. 'Captain Lacey's guesses have been correct before. Only a few short weeks ago, he looked upon an anonymous body fished out of the Thames and was able to pinpoint the killer in less than a fortnight.'
Rutledge's brows knit. 'Well, he's been here almost that amount of time and has done nothing useful.'
'Give him a chance, my dear Rutledge,' Grenville assured him.
I was ready to tell the both of them to go to the devil. But I was curious to see that room. We all entered the chill darkness of the south hall; me Grenville, Rutledge, Sutcliff. Fletcher, still wretched, followed us. 'I can tell you what's there already,' Fletcher said as we climbed the main stairs. 'Nothing. It's a small room, and we store things there. No one ever goes in it.'
'Is it kept locked?' I asked.
Rutledge answered. 'No. Why should it be?'
We moved down the corridor that ran the length of the house. Rutledge opened a door partway along. 'You see?'
The room was indeed small and filled with junk. Broken chairs, half-painted drapes obviously used as scenery backing, old bookcases, a few crates, empty bottles, battered books-things that might be useful to someone if they cared to come here and root around.
Grenville moved through the junk to the window. It was open, and rain pattered on the sill. 'Well, well,' he said. 'Lacey was correct.' He leaned down, retrieved a few objects from the floor. I moved closer.
He held a piece of flint, a spill, and a small, pocket-sized book, half-burned. 'Someone stood here and struck a spark and then calmly set the books alight. Probably piled them on this… ' He kicked at a velvet drape that lay in a wrinkled mass next to the window. 'And tipped them out below. From here, he could make certain no one was in the quad. A quick rain of burning Latin texts, and then he nipped out of the room again, probably back to breakfast.'
