come out of the Head Master's house and simply lashed out.'
Bartholomew's brow clouded. 'Mr. Grenville ought not to have been there. He should have called Matthias.'
'I know. But likely he thought that the person would get away if he took the trouble. I'd have done the same, simply gone down to catch the culprit myself.'
'But you know how to defend yourself, sir. He doesn't. He's too trusting by half, too sure of his own good luck.'
'I know,' I said glumly.
Bartholomew balled his fists. 'When I find out who did this, I will murder him myself.'
'You will have to queue up behind me.'
Bartholomew simply stood there, looking morose.
I found nothing more interesting in the room than the book and its contents and the broken knife. I found little personal at all in the room, and no other letters or papers.
I finished and led Bartholomew out, Fletcher's book under my arm. I hated to leave Fletcher alone, but perhaps that was best for him. Let him sit in peace.
I removed the key from the inside of the door, closed the door, and locked it from the outside. I left the key in the keyhole, and then Bartholomew and I departed.
Rutledge had the entire school assembled in the quad under the gentle March rain. Bartholomew and I skirted the crowd and made for the Head Master's house. Sutcliff stood at Rutledge's side, looking sullen and half- asleep. Several of the boys craned to watch us, rather spoiling the effect of Rutledge's diatribe.
Back in Grenville's room, I sat down to look over the papers I'd taken from Fletcher. Grenville had not woken from his stupor, and his pallid face bore a sheen of perspiration.
I knew I needed to sleep. My head buzzed and my vision was fuzzy, and I was still weak from the fever. But I could not bring myself to leave the room again.
I was as angry as Bartholomew. Whoever had hurt Grenville would not be safe from me.
I found much of interest in Fletcher's book and its secrets. The swindling scheme was much bigger than I'd thought. Fletcher had tapped his old school friends, which included many prominent men of London. Some were fathers or other relations of the boys of Sudbury.
I found contracts and letters of agreement and particulars on what percentage return the investors could expect to see. Middleton was named on the documents as a 'surveyor,' which explained the maps. One other person, not named, was referred to as a 'banker.'
Fletcher had received letters from investors asking eagerly when the canal would be started, finished, opened-when would the money come rolling in? There were letters from the more canny souls who began claiming that they'd found no evidence that a canal was even proposed, and what was Fletcher up to?
Fletcher must have been planning to disappear very soon.
I had another thought-what if Fletcher's books were burned not because of a malicious prank, but because the killer had been looking for this particular book with all its damning evidence?
The maps in Middleton's room were just that, maps. They meant nothing by themselves. But Fletcher's documents could not be ignored. He'd fraudulently taken money from gullible people and promised them rainbows.
Bartholomew brought me coffee and told me to go to bed, but I still would not leave. I knew Bartholomew and Matthias would stand over Grenville like faithful watchdogs, but I could not bear the thought that something might happen to him while I slept. I feared the killer would not chance that Grenville had not seen who'd struck the blow. The murderer had made certain that Fletcher and Middleton had not told tales; he might make certain Grenville did not, either.
The coffee cup crashing to the floor woke me. Paper slithered to the carpet to soak up the black liquid.
'Sir?' Bartholomew hung over me.
'I'm all right.' I passed my hand through my hair. My eyes were aching and sandy. 'I'll take a walk around the quad, clear my head.'
Bartholomew helped me to my feet. Matthias dozed in a chair near Grenville's bed. Grenville lay unmoving and wan.
'Watch over him,' I said in a low voice. 'Do not let anyone into this room for any reason, not Rutledge, not a maid. You and your brother take care of him yourselves, do you understand?'
Bartholomew gave me a grim nod. He understood quite well.
The noon hour struck as I left the house. Outside it had warmed somewhat, and the rain had thickened. The air braced me. Despite all the tragedy, the spring day still smelled clean and refreshing.
I walked heavily across the quad, my stick tapping the stones. Boys drifted into and out of the houses, wandering to lessons, to their rooms, to whatever task they'd been set on. They were rather subdued-a murder and a near-murder so close to home was exciting but frightening.
I heard a commotion by the gate and headed that way. The porter was arguing with a person outside who did not want to listen.
'Madam,' I heard the porter say in a pained voice
Timson came sauntering toward me from the gate, a grin on his face. 'I say, Captain, your bit of muslin is asking to see you.'
I started. 'My what?'
Timson just smirked and winked, so I hurried on.
'Lacey!' a woman cried.
Marianne Simmons held onto the bars of the gate, her white skirts rain-soaked and blotched with mud.
'What are you doing here?' I asked her.
'I need to speak to you. Tell this lummox to let me in.'
'Now look here, you- ' the porter began.
'Never mind,' I said quietly. 'Let her in.'
The porter gave me an exasperated look. 'Women are not allowed, sir. Particularly not women like her.'
'Oh, that is nice,' Marianne sneered.
'Baiting him will not help you, Marianne. Let her in,' I told the porter. 'I will let Rutledge berate me later.'
The porter's face darkened, but he opened the gate. Marianne stuck her tongue out at him as she sailed inside.
Timson and a few other boys stared at Marianne's thin dress in great enjoyment. Timson let out a wolf- whistle.
'Mind your manners,' I told them. In the relative privacy of the middle of the quad, I turned Marianne to face me.
'What is it?'
She pulled her silk shawl closer about her shoulders and shivered. From the worry in Marianne's eyes, I knew she'd already heard that Grenville had been hurt. The news must have spread quickly through the village and thence to Hungerford.
What she told me, however, I was not expecting.
'Jeanne Lanier's run away,' she said.
Chapter Fifteen
I looked at Marianne in surprise. 'Oh, she has, has she?'
'Indeed, she has.' Her gaze slid from mine to the windows surrounding us. 'Tell me the truth, Lacey. Is he all right?'
'He is alive,' I said.
When she looked back at me, her eyes were wet. 'For how long?'
