barge horses traversed with their guides. The canal widened as it curved to the east, shaded by cool trees, its banks shrouded in mist.
The pond that held the water for the lock lay on the west bank of the canal. I rode to it carefully, scanning the undergrowth for any disturbance. I found none. I likewise found nothing in the mud surrounding the pond, except tracks of deer and smaller creatures that had wandered here for a drink.
I suppose I wanted to find two distinct sets of footprints, the dead man's and the killer's, and broken bracken that designated a struggle. A fresh set of footprints leading back to the killer would have been most helpful as well.
A doctor had arrived by the time Bartholomew and I returned to the lock, looking rather nauseated as he stooped over the corpse. I wondered whether he was the sort of doctor who examined his patients from across the room, pronounced what was wrong with them without touching them, and then prescribed an expensive tonic and collected his fee.
The constable set the stable hands and the lockkeeper to scouring the brush and the canal for the knife. He and the doctor decided to wrap Middleton's body and have him taken to the parish church to be held for the coroner's examination. The constable declared his next task was to report to the magistrate and asked me, hesitantly, to break the news to Rutledge.
Rutledge had already heard by the time I returned. He glared at me in utter fury, a vein pulsing in his forehead, when I arrived in the front hall of the Head Master's house.
The prefect, Sutcliff, stood behind Rutledge, his face a mixture of consternation and interest. Fletcher and the mathematics tutor next to him did not bother to hide their curiosity.
'Tell the constable to arrest that gypsy,' Rutledge barked. 'Bloody thieves will murder us in our beds. Should not even be allowed to walk about. Middleton did a bad day's work hiring him, and he's paid for it. What are you standing there for, man? Go and have done.'
I noted a fleeting movement on the stairs high above, heard a faint gasp. I looked up without seeming to and saw who I thought I'd see, Rutledge's daughter, Belinda. She was twenty years old and kept house for her father, rarely leaving their chambers.
'There is no evidence that Sebastian killed him,' I pointed out. 'We have only a corpse with his throat cut, and not even the knife that did it.'
'I do not recall asking your opinion, Lacey. Either you go, or I send someone else.'
Rutledge turned on his heel and marched away, growling at a group of boys who had come to see what the fuss was about.
The constable did arrest Sebastian. I do not think the man would have dared had he confronted Sebastian alone. But in the stable yard, among the group of stable hands who did not much like Sebastian anyway, the constable lifted his chin and told the Romany to come with him.
Sebastian, for the first time since I'd met him, raised his voice. 'No. I did not do this.'
'Now then,' the constable replied, a bit nervously. 'Enough of that. Come with me.'
A look of abject panic spread over Sebastian's swarthy face. He tried to run. The stable hands caught him. Bartholomew started forward to help the stable hands seize Sebastian, but I grabbed his coat and hauled him back.
'No,' I said. 'Something is not right.'
Bartholomew looked at me in amazement. 'But he's Romany, sir. They're liars and thieves, everyone knows it.'
'That may be. But I do not think Sebastian killed Middleton.'
'No, sir?'
'Why should he?' I asked impatiently. 'Middleton showed kindness, and, I must say, good sense, in hiring him. Not many would hire one of the Roma.'
Bartholomew wrinkled his brow, trying to resolve my words with his prejudices.
'I cannot say why I think so,' I said. 'Perhaps I am foolish, perhaps I like Sebastian because the horses like him, I do not know. But Middleton being Denis' man puts a different complexion on things.'
Bartholomew nodded, somewhat dubiously.
Sebastian struggled, but he could not break free. He sent me a look of frozen terror. The appeal in his eyes moved me. I knew that if I tried to help him, I would set myself squarely against Rutledge, but at this point, I cared nothing for that.
Rutledge expected me to take up my duties as usual that day, just as he expected the tutors to continue with their lectures. A corpse in the canal should not, to his mind, interfere with the smooth running of the school.
My regular routine was to write letters for Rutledge after breakfast and before dinner. During this time, I read Rutledge's correspondence, answered what I could, and waited for him to dictate what he needed to answer himself. I also made his appointments, reminded him of upcoming events, and wrote formulaic letters on his behalf to people who had visited or been beneficial to the school.
We worked in a study that was a bright, surprisingly pleasant room, which occupied the end of a wing in the Head Master's house. Windows lined three walls, and paintings of landscapes filled the spaces between the windows. A portrait of a serene woman in a black riding habit and broad-brimmed hat hung over Rutledge's desk. “The late Mrs. Rutledge,” my employer had grunted when I'd asked her identity.
Mrs. Rutledge looked as though she'd been far more interesting than her husband. Dark, intelligent eyes above her long nose held good humor and comfort. I found myself looking into those eyes more than once when annoyed by Rutledge. I wondered how she had weathered living with him. Had she met his prickly personality with a fire of her own, or had he cowed her as much as he did his daughter?
Today, though Rutledge wanted to carry on as usual, he was more abrupt and angry than normal. He growled that I was too slow, my writing unclear, my manner offensive. Through it all I ground my teeth and answered him as it suited me. He had already learned that he could not cow me with his abruptness though he did not like this.
At last, Rutledge, too impatient to sit still, took himself off to harass his tutors. Left alone, I finished my work without interruption and found time to attend to my own correspondence.
I wrote first to Grenville, informing him of the murder and the unusual circumstances. I wrote curtly that I wished he'd apprised me of the true reason to send me down to Sudbury, keeping my sentences short and pointed. I knew I was rude, but my anger at his deception had not abated.
Next I wrote to James Denis. I had never written a letter to the man before, preferring to avoid him as much as possible. But I informed him briefly of the death of Middleton. I wondered what Denis would make of the news, or if he'd indeed had a hand in Middleton's death. If he had wanted Middleton dead, Denis would tell me. He did not bother to lie about his crimes.
I kept my letter short. I sanded it, folded it, and directed it to number 45, Curzon Street, Mayfair.
I had just laid it aside when the door to the room opened. I expected Rutledge, and so kept my eyes on my work, but when I heard no noise, I raised my head.
A young woman peered around the doorframe, her face anxious. Belinda Rutledge had the coloring of her mother, dark hair, dark eyes, and white skin. But while her mother's eyes held a challenge, Belinda's only ever looked timid.
I rose to my feet politely and made a small bow. 'Miss Rutledge, good morning. I am afraid your father is not here.'
She glanced once behind her, fear plain on her face, then she took a few steps into the room. 'Captain Lacey,' she whispered hurriedly, 'is it true that Sebastian-that the Romany stable lad-has been arrested?'
'Yes,' I confirmed.
Her face whitened. 'Why? He did not do it.' The words were spoken with conviction.
'Why do you say so?' I asked curiously.
'Because he would never have done such a thing.' She glanced behind her again. 'And, last night, Sebastian was… he was speaking to me. Near the canal.'
