I turned the conversation back to the pranks that Rutledge wanted me to investigate, and frowned in thought. 'I wonder whether one house has seen more of the pranks than the other. It would be difficult, for instance, for a boy in this house to get into Fairleigh at night.'
'The Fairleigh boys would chuck him right out if they saw him.' Bartholomew grinned. 'And not in a nice manner, would they?'
The houses, the Head Master's and Fairleigh, were similar in amenities and distribution of boys, but the two houses were fierce rivals, each convinced that members of the other were weak and ineffectual. It is common thing among mortals, I had observed, that when placed even arbitrarily into this or that group, they immediately begin to defend themselves against all other groups. I do not exclude myself from this phenomenon. In the army, I valiantly defended the honor of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons, and would have done so with my life. And of course, I esteemed the abilities of the light cavalry over the heavy. Still more serious was the manner in which cavalry viewed the infantry-that body of foot wobblers who could not shoot straight even standing on the ground and dug into place.
I fully admitted to prejudice in my views-I had realized once that if someone were to come along and paint a red or blue spot on each of our foreheads, we who had the blue spots would congregate to other blue-spotters and come up with reasons why we were infinitely better than the red-spotters.
The Fairleighs contended that they were superior to the Head Masters and vice versa. Therefore, if any Head Master boy were caught sneaking into Fairleigh uninvited, said boy had better be fast on his feet and good with his fists. In addition, news of such a break-in would be all over school the next day.
Therefore, the prankster must either be a master of infiltration and deception, or there must be more than one.
I continued to drink my coffee, and Bartholomew and I continued to speculate on the pranks until I sought my bed and slumber. The matter of Middleton, for the time, was dropped.
But the matter reasserted itself almost immediately. Bartholomew woke me early the next morning to tell me that Middleton had been killed in the night, his body fetched up in a lock of the nearby canal.
Chapter Two
I had to saddle a horse myself in order to ride out to the canal the next morning because Sebastian and every other stable hand had abandoned their posts. Bartholomew boosted me aboard then followed me on foot to Lower Sudbury Lock and the crowd gathered there.
This canal was one leg of the Kennet and Avon Canal, which bisected England from Bath to Reading. I was told that over one hundred locks raised and lowered water so that canal boats could navigate across the heartland of England. The intricate locks and arched bridges were fairly new, the canal having been completed and open for use within the last decade.
This morning, my only interest in the canal was in the body of the hapless groom that floated in it.
The gates of the lock were closed, and a barge waited quietly on the lower side. The pumps clanked as the lockkeeper, a fleshy man with lank hair and sweat-stained clothes, turned the sluice wheel. Water noisily drained from the lock to the flat pond that housed the excess water. The parish constable, a sturdy man of about forty years, stood on the narrow parapet of the lock, peering over the side.
Bartholomew fell into conversation with a village lad, then reported what he said to me. 'Lockkeeper found him not an hour ago. Came out to open the gates for the barge, and there was Middleton, floating all peaceful. They tried fishing him out with a boat hook, but couldn't catch him. Constable said send in the barge to get him out.'
The waiting canal boat was long and narrow, its flat deck filled with goods. One bargeman watched from the tiller, while the other stood on shore, his teeth working a piece of straw. He held the barge horse, a large beast, which lowered its head to crop a patch of grass.
The lock was a simple mechanism, but one that had changed England forever. Locks allowed barges to move up or down hill without having to portage. Locks on this particular canal, I'd read, were a marvel of engineering.
Sebastian the stable hand leaned to watch near me, his swarthy face wan. He wore the same garb as any stable lad, dusty breeches, boots, and shirt, but his blue-black hair, thick-lashed brown eyes, and dark skin betrayed his Romany origins.
The lockkeeper closed the pumps and cranked open the gates. The bargeman slapped the horse's side and guided the boat into the lock.
Relative peace descended, broken by the soft sound of canal water lapping at the gate. I watched while the man on the barge dragged the corpse onto its deck. I expected the boat to back out again, but the bargeman signaled for the lockkeeper to close the gates. He did so, and then rushing water drowned the silence. The water rose slowly, the pumps struggling to drag water back in from the pond.
Once the boat was level with the upper part of the canal, the lockkeeper opened the gates. The horse, used to the procedure, pulled the boat silently into the canal beyond.
The constable trudged to the boat and put his foot on the deck. The bargeman and his partner obligingly hauled the corpse out onto the green bank.
As one, we crowded round to see. Middleton lay still, his eyes closed, his body bloated, an ugly gash across his pale throat. Now that I could look at him closely, I saw that he was indeed Denis' man.
The constable heaved a sigh, hands on hips. 'Nasty business, eh? Now then, one of you lads run for the surgeon. Though it's obvious he died of having his throat cut, we might as well get it put down right.'
Bartholomew whispered to me, 'Think Mr. Denis killed him?'
'I would be surprised if he did,' I answered. 'Somehow, I imagine Denis is… neater. Likely we'd not have found Middleton's body at all.'
'Are you going to tell the constable who he was?'
'I have no reason not to.'
When I could draw the constable's attention, I took him aside and explained what I knew about Middleton. The constable showed no recognition of the name Denis, thanked me for the information, then said that there was no accounting for the trouble into which foolish Londoners could land themselves.
Bartholomew and I drifted away from the others, looking over the scene.
The lock and pumps stood near the lock house, where the lockkeeper lived. The pond for excess water lay serenely under the clouded sky not far away, a thick stand of trees lining its far bank.
'I wonder that the murderer bothered to drag the man to the lock,' I said. 'Easier I'd think to drag him to the pond. He'd not be seen in the woods and would not have to pass so close to the lock house and risk awakening the lockkeeper.'
'Unless,' Bartholomew suggested, 'the killer pushed the dead man into the canal, then opened the lock when the chap floated to the gate.'
'Which would make still more noise. Unless our lockkeeper is very hard of hearing or an unusually sound sleeper.'
'Or he killed the man himself.'
I studied the lockkeeper who stood silently outside the ring of men around the body. 'Perhaps he did. Although I hardly think he'd hide the body in his own lock. Why not send him downstream? Or not bring him to the canal at all?'
'What should we do, sir?' Bartholomew gazed up at me, blue eyes gleaming with eagerness.
I had asked Bartholomew for help in two previous investigations, and he had obviously decided that he would help me again.
'I think we should have a care,' I answered. 'Someone near this place does not mind slicing throats.'
Bartholomew looked startled, as though he'd not thought of that. 'You say truth, sir. Where Mr. Denis is concerned, it's best to go carefully.'
He followed me as I moved on, looking about. The Sudbury School rested on a rise of land above the canal. To the west and north, up the canal, lay the village of Sudbury. Trees lined the towpath, the narrow lane that the
