'Shall I go with you, sir?' Bartholomew said, coming alert.
'No. Stay here, protect Grenville. He was stabbed because he saw Fletcher's murderer leaving Fairleigh. The murderer cannot be certain that Grenville did not see him, and he will try again. Marianne, you must remain here, as well. You will not be safe at the boarding house.'
'What about you?' she countered. 'Waltzing off to Sudbury all alone? For all the killer knows, Grenville has already told you his name, and he'll be waiting along a lonely stretch of road to gut you.'
'I have my walking stick,' I said. I hefted it in my hand. 'And I trust no one in this school, pupil or tutor, no matter how innocuous they seem.'
Marianne came to face me, hands on hips. 'Don't be a bloody fool, Lacey, you are not invulnerable. Take Bartholomew. To get to Grenville the murderer will have to come through me. I'll fight them just as hard as anyone.'
She cared for him. I saw in her eyes that today she had realized what she might lose.
I gave in. 'Very well. Come along, Bartholomew. And bring that book.'
I borrowed a horse to ride to Sudbury. Bartholomew chose to walk. He carried Fletcher's book under his arm, wrapped in a bit of canvas to keep it out of the rain.
As we rode, I mulled over ideas for catching the murderer. I had one excellent resource I could tap, though I cringed from it. Also, Rutledge would be an obstacle-a very loud, very stubborn obstacle.
When we arrived in Sudbury we discovered that the magistrate had gone to Hungerford to visit an important official who'd just arrived from London. The constable was a bit harried, having to deal with both Fletcher's murder and a farmer whose sheep had wandered onto a large landlord's holding and who complained that the landlord would not return them.
Bartholomew and I went on to Hungerford. Impatient, I let the horse trot ahead, while Bartholomew came behind, hunkering into the rain.
I found the magistrate at the inn on the High Street. The important official he visited was Sir Montague Harris.
I exhaled with relief when I saw Sir Montague. He beamed at me when I greeted him as though we were meeting to renew acquaintance over a pint of bitter. But he was an intelligent man and had already drawn conclusions from the Sudbury magistrate's description of matters today.
Bartholomew lumbered in, shaking rain from his hair. I bade him sit down and unwrap the book.
I showed both magistrates Fletcher's papers and explained the canal scheme and Middleton's part in it. I recalled the letter Middleton had sent Denis, implying he'd discovered who'd been sending him threatening letters and stating that he wanted to tell Denis something interesting. I speculated that Middleton might have been killed because he'd been about to tell James Denis about the canal swindle. Perhaps he'd wanted Denis to take over the scheme; perhaps he'd only wanted to win Denis' praise.
I finished my tale with Jeanne Lanier's departure and my belief that she needed to be found.
The two men, sitting side-by-side on the bench and looking much alike-rotund bodies and red faces-could not have had more dissimilar reactions.
Sir Montague's eyes glowed with interest, and he smiled, intrigued. The Sudbury magistrate frowned at me, white brows knitting over a bulbous nose.
'This Frenchwoman was ladybird to an upper-form student?' he growled. 'Likely she tired of him and fled. Received a better offer.'
'I see something a bit more sinister in it,' Sir Montague countered. 'I will put the word out about her.'
I thought of Jeanne Lanier's pleasant smile, her shrewd eyes. I doubted she would debunk out a window and run to another lover. She'd finish her contract with Sutcliff and then calmly enter into a contract with another. She was a businesswoman.
It would be a pity if Jeanne Lanier were involved in the murders. She'd be arrested, no matter how pretty and charming she was. I had a brief, pleasant fantasy of myself convincing the magistrates that she was an innocent dupe, and her, in gratitude, taking up with me.
I smiled inwardly and let the fantasy go.
'What about the Romany?' Sir Montague asked.
The Sudbury magistrate looked annoyed. 'What about him?'
I said quickly, 'You certainly cannot pin the death of Fletcher on him, nor the assault on Grenville. Sebastian is young, and he is passionate, but these murders were not the work of passion. They were planned, from fear and greed.'
'Greed can destroy so much,' Sir Montague nodded.
'In this case, two men's lives,' I said.
The Sudbury magistrate frowned at the both of us. 'If I release the Romany, what do I tell the chief constable? That I have no one to pay for the murder of the groom? The Romany is likely guilty of something, anyway, even if not the murder.'
'Would the chief constable rather hang the wrong man?' I asked.
Sir Montague nodded gravely. 'He might, Captain, he just might.'
'That is ludicrous.'
Sir Montague agreed. I hated this.
'If you let him go,' I repeated, 'I will bring you the true culprit.'
'You will mind your own business,' the Sudbury magistrate snapped. 'My constables are investigating this crime, and they will bring me the true culprit. I agree that the Romany cannot have killed Mr. Fletcher or stabbed your friend, but he could very well have killed Middleton, and that is final.'
'He could not have,' I said. 'Middleton had been dead two hours before Sebastian returned to the stables at Sudbury. And he was gone all night before that. He has witnesses, about ten of them, to prove this.'
'Romany witnesses,' the magistrate growled. 'Which are no witnesses at all.'
I snatched up my hat. 'I will bring you one. Not a Romany.'
Sir Montague had sat through this exchange with a characteristic half-smile on his face. Now he looked at me in slight surprise.
I coldly wished them both good day. Bartholomew, who had remained silent, followed me. I left the book in Sir Montague's hands.
'What witness?' Bartholomew asked while he gave me a leg up to my horse.
'A very young one,' I said.
Didius Ramsay was eating his dinner in the hall along with his fellow students when I returned. Rutledge was also prominently in his place at the head table, glaring fiercely at the boys eating below him. The atmosphere was subdued. The students focused on their plates, and the tutors pushed their food about in silence. None wanted Rutledge's growls directed at him.
I waited in the quad for dinner to finish, not in the mood to eat with Rutledge. Bartholomew brought me a bit of mutton, which I ate readily. My last meal seemed long ago and far away.
The boys filed out of the hall and toward their houses. The tutors followed, then Rutledge, who first glared at me then pretended to ignore me.
Of Ramsay, there was no sign.
'The little bugger, where is he?' I asked.
'There's a servants' door in the back of the hall. He might have ducked out there,' Bartholomew volunteered. 'Won't be a tick.'
He jogged away, leaving me shivering. I wanted to go up to Grenville's chamber and look in on him, but I did not wish to lose Ramsay.
The porter sat on his bench by the gate, his chin on his chest. He came awake with a gasp as Bartholomew suddenly appeared on the other side of the gate and rattled the bars. Bartholomew's livery was soaked with rain and mud.
'He's scarpered, sir,' Bartholomew called to me. 'Cook says he ran through the kitchens and out the scullery.'
I started for the gate. 'Get after him. I will catch you up.'
