'Well, it was not Sebastian. Bartholomew, go.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And if you see Sutcliff on the way, kick him in the seat of his trousers.'
'Yes, sir.' Swift footsteps told me he'd gone.
Rutledge breathed heavily. 'You are sacked, Lacey.'
'Excellent. Where is the surgeon?'
The surgeon arrived shortly. Rutledge hovered in the room like a gargoyle, still demanding to be told everything. I was weary and weak from the effects of my fever, and I bluntly told him to close his mouth. If he'd truly sacked me, I saw no more reason to be polite to him.
The surgeon sewed the lips of the wound together and bathed it again. I and Matthias finished undressing Grenville, and the surgeon wrapped a bandage around him. Grenville lay in a stupor, never acknowledging what we did, his face so white that his brows stood out like black marks on parchment.
The surgeon departed, giving us strict instructions to not let him move and to change the bandage once a day. I sank onto a chair in front of the roaring fire, perspiring freely, feeling sick and weak.
I sat there, watching Matthias sponge Grenville's face, feeling the vestiges of melancholia swarm about me. If Grenville died-
No, I could not bear to think about that. I could not afford to wallow right now in guilt and grief. I needed to get him well again and find the person who did this. Then, I'd be free to retreat into melancholia and contrition as much as I liked.
Matthias finished cleaning Grenville's face and returned the basin to the fireplace. He went back to the side of the bed and just stood there, distress on his honest face.
I had examined the knife that I'd pulled from Grenville's chest. It was small and sharp, the kind a man might keep to pare apples with, and had nothing helpful on it like engraved initials or a name. It was a well-made knife, but not one of obvious expense-it was the kind anyone might possess. I would ask Matthias and Bartholomew to quiz their network of servants until they found out who in the school was missing a knife.
I sighed. Even that course of action felt ineffectual and slow. And the knife could easily have been stolen.
After a long time of silence, I became aware of sounds in the quad. The day had dawned, and boys were scurrying to chapel as usual, although they were somewhat subdued.
But over that I heard different sounds, a shout of alarm and Rutledge swearing freely.
I rose and went to the window in time to see Bartholomew hurry out the front door of Fairleigh. Rutledge barked a question at him, then pushed past Bartholomew to rush into Fairleigh.
I got to the door by the time Bartholomew had entered the Head Master's house and run up the stairs. He stood panting heavily on the threshold, his face flushed.
'Mr. Fletcher ain't going nowhere, sir,' he said. 'He's dead as a stone, sir.'
I ordered Matthias to stay with Grenville and let no one near him for any reason. Matthias took up his post at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, as immovable as a statue.
Bartholomew and I hastened together across the wet quad. Bartholomew breathlessly explained as we went what had happened.
'His door was locked when I arrived, sir, and he didn't answer. I decided I'd stand guard until he came out. Then a maid wanted in to stoke the fire, and I saw no harm in letting her. She had a key. She unlocked the door and went in, and then she started screaming. I went in after her and saw him, doubled up at his desk and dead.'
We entered Fairleigh. The house was smaller than the Head Master's but not much different in layout-a square hall surrounded by a staircase and doors that led into rooms and corridors.
Fletcher's room was on the second floor in a corner. Rutledge was already there, his face nearly purple with rage. The surgeon who had stitched up Grenville was leaning over Fletcher, who sat slumped against his desk as Bartholomew had described.
'No saving this one, I'm afraid,' the surgeon said.
He lifted Fletcher's head. A dark bruise circled his throat, and his tongue was thrust out, probing for air he could not find.
'Oh, God,' I said.
On the desk before him was a long piece of twine, coarse and utilitarian. It had several knots in it. I remembered seeing Fletcher hurrying about the school, carrying piles of books bound with such twine. It must have been lying, discarded, nearby, and the murderer had caught it up.
Rutledge, as usual, began shouting. 'I want everyone in the quad in ten minutes. Everyone-from the lowest pupil to the house masters. I will discover who did this if I have to beat each and every one of them.'
'Do you think that will work?' I asked.
'Nothing you have done has. A sound thrashing will solve more problems than all your so-called inquiries.'
He stomped away to put his plan in motion. Because he'd sacked me, I saw no reason to follow or to help. His blustering had not prevented the tragedies and would probably have no effect now.
I began looking about the room. Fletcher had led a Spartan existence, from all evidence. The room was mostly bare, the bed-hangings and furnishings plain. The bookcase that had housed his beloved books was empty, with a line of dust remaining where the books had not reached to the backs of the shelves. I ran my hands into the corners and under the lips of the shelves to see if anything important lingered there. I found nothing but more dust.
'Something here, sir,' Bartholomew said.
He was squatting before the fireplace hearth. I looked over his shoulder and saw a small knife with a blade about an inch long lying on the stones. The hilt was plain metal, with no decoration. A practical, workaday knife. Bartholomew lifted it. The tip was broken off, leaving a blunt end.
'That didn't kill anyone,' Bartholomew said.
'No,' I answered. 'But I wonder why it was dropped here.'
'Could be someone was trying to shave some kindling, and broke the tip.'
'Could be.' I took the knife from him and put it into my pocket.
I swept my gaze over the room again. Poor Fletcher sat in his chair, his right hand on his throat, as though he'd tried to clutch at the strand that choked him. His robe lay in a black puddle on a chair near him. Remembering something Fletcher had said before I'd gone to London, I lifted the robe and probed its lining.
I found what I hoped I'd find, a small book.
Bartholomew's brow wrinkled. 'I thought all his books were burned, sir.'
'Apparently, one escaped. Let us see, shall we?'
The book was nothing more than a Latin grammar, or so I thought. I laid it on the desk, turned over the leaves. At first I saw only pages and pages of noun declensions and verb conjugations. In the middle of the book, however, I began to find folded pieces of paper shoved between the pages, one or two pieces every four or five pages. I extracted a few and laid them on the desk.
My pulse quickened. 'The damned canals again,' I said, unsurprised.
'What was that, sir?'
'These are lists, Bartholomew. Lists of people who gave money to Mr. Fletcher to invest in a canal that would never exist. This is why Fletcher sometimes talked about leaving this existence behind and living like a king. He was swindling people, planning to retire well on the money of the gullible.' I touched the name Jonathan Lewis, the gentleman I'd met at the musicale. 'Including those he considered his friends.'
'Ought to be ashamed,' Bartholomew said.
I regarded Fletcher in half-sorrow, half-anger. 'Poor, stupid fool. Was he killed by someone he swindled? Or a fellow swindler?' I gathered the papers and slid them back into the book.
'And why did they cut Mr. Grenville?'
Bartholomew was angry. He and Matthias doted on Grenville, were proud to work for him, rather rubbed other footmen's noses in it that the pair had such a good place. They regarded Grenville as though he were something precious they owned.
'It's likely the murderer did not even know who he stabbed as he ran by,' I said. 'The killer heard Grenville
