He turned to Fletcher. 'Did anyone come in late?'
Fletcher shrugged tired shoulders. 'I did not notice.'
'Or,' I suggested, 'he could have run outside and began the shouting. Does anyone know who shouted first?'
'By the time I reached the quad, most of the boys were there, and the tutors,' Fletcher said.
'There were only a handful when I came out,' Sutcliff volunteered. 'But I really didn't see who. Ramsay was one, but I couldn't say which were first. I saw what had happened then ran to fetch the headmaster.'
'Leaving us with a large number of suspects,' I mused. I shifted my gaze to Rutledge, and he glared back at me.
Grenville let the spill fall to the floor, and we went out again.
As we clattered down the stairs, I reflected that a boy could easily rush from this place without detection. He could run out into the quad, as I suggested, or he could stay beneath the portico and hurry past a windowless wall to the gate, or he could duck inside the east wing of the Head Master's house without anyone being the wiser. He did not necessarily have to 'discover' the fire; he could have bolted back to his own room and innocently run down when the shouting began.
Outside, the rain had begun to stream down. Fletcher wandered back to his ruined books and stared at them morosely. Most of the boys had dispersed, hounded by the tutors to lessons. Sutcliff hurried off, too, his robe flapping.
'I believe you offered me a brandy, Lacey.' Grenville gave me a pointed look. 'You needn't worry, Rutledge, about putting me up here. I'll take rooms in Sudbury.'
Rutledge grunted. 'You're welcome to stay here. Food isn't much, though. Not what you're used to.'
I imagined Rutledge was thinking that having someone like Lucius Grenville as a visitor to the school could not hurt its reputation. Grenville might be a fashionable dandy, but he was also quite wealthy and made plenty of investments. The men of the City of London approved of him.
Grenville laughed lightly. 'I am not likely to find the best in cuisine at the public house in Sudbury. I will take up your offer, Rutledge. It will take me back to our carefree days at Eton.'
Rutledge looked as though his carefree days were the last things he wanted to remember. He nodded once. 'I'll have my daughter set up a room for you. Fletcher,' he called. 'Cease your weeping. You have lectures this morning. Get to it, man.'
He walked away, leaving Grenville and me alone in the rain.
Once upstairs in my cramped quarters, Grenville let his mask drop. He exhaled sharply as he leaned back in the wing chair and gratefully accepted the brandy I handed him. 'The road from London has more twists and turns than I remember. Thank God I wasn't going all the way to Bath.'
'Next time, try a canal boat,' I suggested. 'They seem to move slowly and smoothly.'
Grenville grimaced, took a long draught of brandy. 'A strange sight I would look, perched atop a pile of cargo. But I suppose no less strange than lying in my coach, gasping and praying that the journey will end soon.'
'I would think you would be used to traveling by now.' I sat facing him with a glass of brandy, perfectly happy to take time from my duties. 'Have you not stood outside the emperor's city in China, bought sandalwood from the natives of the Cook islands?'
'It was pure misery. But worth the trouble, I assure you.' He made a face. 'Although I do not recommend weevil-ridden biscuit for a daily diet.'
I smiled because he expected me to. 'I wrote you yesterday afternoon of the inquest. Did you receive the letter, or shall I explain it all again?'
'I did not receive your letter. I left late last night to arrive this morning. I imagine the letter is waiting for me on my bedside table to peruse when I return. Please.' He took a sip of brandy. Color slowly returned to his face. 'Regale me with the details.'
I went back over all that had happened during the inquest and since, including my interview with Didius Ramsay and my finding of the knife and the place Middleton had died, omitting, of course, that Marianne had been with me. He listened attentively and asked pointed questions, as though he were a scholar taking notes.
'This prank is a little different from the others,' he mused. 'It was malicious, but not dangerous, after all. It hurt only your poor tutor in his pocket, though it did disrupt things.'
'Yes, poor Fletcher,' I agreed. 'He has no money besides the income he gets from the school. In the brief time I've known him, he's lamented it.'
'Well, I might be persuaded to purchase him a few new tomes. I always hated my Latin tutors. I wanted to revel in the lurid adventures of Jason; they wanted declensions.'
'Perhaps they found excitement in grammar,' I suggested. My mood became reflective. 'Being here does odd things to my memories. I left Cambridge to join the army. Harrow seems another life. I had forgotten much about it and the lads I counted as friends, until I arrived here and began to remember. An odd feeling.'
Grenville gave a half-laugh. 'In my case, somebody reminds me every day at White's of some damn fool thing I did while at Eton. My cronies have long memories. The boy I fagged for now has gray hair and side whiskers, and he still reminds me I was not very good at blacking boots.'
I raised my brows. 'Somehow I cannot picture you slaving. I thought you'd have had the entire school dancing to your tune.'
He shook his head. 'Not a bit of it. When I arrived, I was small and dark and ugly. The perfect quarry for every bully. And then, one day, I grew tired of it. I had discovered that sarcasm and wit could be far more effective than fists. The duller-brained the boy, the more others laughed at my bons mots. And so I became a nasty bit of goods in my own way, fighting with words where I could not fight with fists.' He smiled ruefully. 'Not that I did not receive my share of black eyes.'
'Whereas I never learned the art of words.' I studied my large hands. 'I relied only on my fists. In the world today, I believe you are the stronger.'
'You flatter me.' He finished his brandy, set aside his glass. 'Tell me, Lacey, why do you believe that Sebastian is not the murderer?'
'I like him,' I said at once. 'Then again, perhaps I simply feel sorry for him, a downtrodden soul. He is a warmhearted, if somewhat foolish, young man. I can imagine him arguing with Middleton, perhaps even knocking him down, but luring him to the canal and slicing his throat? I am not so certain.'
'But you can imagine James Denis hiring someone to do such a thing.'
I rubbed my chin. 'Yes, indeed. Or, perhaps someone hired by Denis' rival.'
'You refer to Lady Jane?'
I nodded. When Grenville and I had investigated the affair of the Glass House, we came across an individual called Lady Jane. She was a ruthless businesswoman, and James Denis considered her a rival. Why she would bother to have killed a man who had not worked for Denis for six months, I did not know, but I could not rule out the possibility.
'An odd business, this,' Grenville mused. 'When I suggested Rutledge employ you, I never dreamed things would progress to brutal murder. I assumed the pranks to be the work of a lad with a strange sense of humor. I thought you would quickly sort it out.'
'It's more of a mare's nest than that. If you reasoned it would be simple, why send me? Why not offer to hire a Bow Street Runner to poke about here and find out the truth?'
Grenville twined his fingers together. 'Because London was doing nothing for you. I thought I would do you a favor, send you to the peace of the countryside and a problem that would intrigue you. I suppose I thought that here in the country, you would find something missing in your life.'
I gave him a faint smile. 'I have. Knee-deep mud. A foul murder. A man who is a boor running a school for appallingly rich bankers' sons.'
Grenville snorted. 'Yes, Rutledge can be an ass. You would not think he comes from one of the finest families in England. Why he decided to take up a post as headmaster I never understood. But he seems to enjoy it.'
Grenville crossed his ankles on the ottoman, giving me a view of his extraordinarily clean boots. Rumor had it that he had his right boots and left boots made by two different boot makers so that they'd fit his feet perfectly. I doubted that-Grenville was not frivolous-but the leather did conform to the shape of each foot and was shined with care. Even after a journey of sixty miles, the boots were nearly free of mud.
