Bartholomew nodded and ran off. I had every faith that if anyone could catch one small boy, it would be Bartholomew.
Ignoring the gaping porter, I let myself out of the gate and walked as fast as I could after Bartholomew's retreating back. He was running, bounding over brush and clumps of grass in his path. I came along more slowly, my walking stick sinking into the mud.
Not surprisingly, Ramsay ran to the canal. Bartholomew sprinted after him. I saw Ramsay's small form dart off the towpath, and for a moment, I thought he would plunge into the canal. But he leapt to the top of the stone lock, balanced on the narrow parapet across the canal toward the pond and the lockkeeper's house.
Bartholomew climbed after him. I stifled a shout. Bartholomew was sure-footed, and I didn't want to startle him and have him topple into the lock. I would never traverse that path, so I waited on the near side, watching.
Ramsay ran for the lockkeeper's house. The lockkeeper came out, stared at him and Bartholomew and said, 'What the devil?'
Ramsay ran past him into his house, slammed the door. Bartholomew skidded to a halt before it. He rattled the door handle, then banged on the door.
I walked on down the towpath. The next bridge was about a hundred yards along. My leg hurting, I made the bridge, climbed it and crossed to the other side. The stretch of canal and the greenery around it was shrouded in mist, a lovely scene. I ignored the beauty and climbed down the other side of the bridge, making my way to the lockkeeper's house as quickly as I could.
By the time I arrived, Bartholomew and the lockkeeper had succeeded in breaking open the door. Didius Ramsay tried to run out past them. Bartholomew snatched him.
Ramsay wriggled and kicked, and Bartholomew lost his hold. Ramsay ran out of the house and straight at me. I spread my arms, trying to stop him. Ramsay dodged to the right. I sprang after him and grabbed. I came down on my bad leg and sent myself and Ramsay slithering down the wet grass to the canal.
A pair of powerful hands grabbed my legs just before I would have slid into the water. I seized Ramsay under the arms and hauled him back from the muddy bank.
Chapter Sixteen
It was a muddy, dripping, red-faced Didius Ramsay that I faced in the lockkeeper's house not long later.
The lockkeeper lived simply, in a flagstone kitchen with a stair leading to a loft. Ramsay sat on the settle near the fire, holding onto the seat, knuckles white. I took a stool opposite him. My clothes dripped water onto the stone floor, and a light steam began to rise from both of us.
'Ramsay,' I began.
The word galvanized him into speech. 'I did not kill him, sir, I swear I did not.'
'I know,' I said.
He stared at me, mouth open. The fire sparked and sent a tendril of smoke into the room.
'Freddy Sutcliff said… he said you'd blame me,' Ramsay stammered. 'He said I'd pay for it, that no one would believe me.'
I said calmly, 'You could not have killed Middleton. You are not tall enough.'
Ramsay gaped anew. The lockkeeper, who had fetched a kettle from the fire, now returned with mugs of coffee. He handed them to us, looking interested.
I sipped the coffee. It was bitter and thick and hot, and I was cold and exhausted. 'Middleton was a big man, used to fighting,' I said. 'He could have agreed to meet you by the canal, but if you'd tried to hurt him, he would have tossed you into the water and had done. The only way you could have cut his throat was if he were kneeling. And he was not.' I indicated the muddy patches on my own trousers. 'When I saw him in the lock, he had no mud on his knees. Depend upon it, he was standing, and a man cut him from behind.'
Ramsay's teeth chattered. 'Sutcliff said you'd blame me for Mr. Grenville. And that you'd kill me.'
'I know you did not hurt Grenville,' I said, keeping my voice steady. 'For the same reason. He was stabbed with a downward thrust. If you had stabbed with a downward thrust, the knife would have gone in much lower than it did.' I leaned forward, looked him in the eye. 'So you should rejoice, Mr. Ramsay, that you have not grown as much this year as you could have wished.'
He stared at me, as though still believing I'd snatch him up and drag him to the magistrate. He swallowed, and his face regained some color.
'How much have you been paying Sutcliff, Ramsay?' I asked.
Ramsay took a gulp of coffee, wiped his mouth. 'Oh, a good bit, sir. My allowance is high, and he knows it. He gouges me more than he does the other boys.'
I sat back, cradled the cup in my hands. 'So he has a nice blackmailing scheme here to supplement the tiny allowance his father gives him. I wondered how he managed to pay for his mistress; she did not seem to be a woman who came cheap. I imagine Sutcliff receives money from Timson about his cheroots, from some of the other boys about their various little vices.'
'The tutors, too, sir,' Ramsay said in a small, shamed voice.
'I do not doubt that. In a small place like this, I imagine that both pupils and tutors have secrets, great and small, that they wish to stay secret. Everyone knows that Rutledge is not a man to look the other way at vices, no matter how trivial.'
Ramsay looked relieved that I understood. 'Just as you say, sir.'
My anger rose to new heights. Doubtless a student who filched an extra slice of bread at dinner lived in as much fear of the sneering Sutcliff as did Tunbridge, the mathematics tutor, whom I suspected was having it off with his star pupil. If Sutcliff told Rutledge, both pupil or tutor would be banished, which meant that Tunbridge would never get another place and the student would be sent home in disgrace.
Poor Ramsay had paid over as well, I thought, though I could have told him that Rutledge would never banish him. His family was too wealthy. Likewise, Sutcliff was safe because of the vast amount of money his father donated to the Sudbury School.
I found it mildly ironic that the only straightforward person in the entire school, the only one immune to blackmail, was Rutledge himself. He was a tyrant, but he had no hidden vices. He was a man who lived his life in the open and be damned to anyone who did not like it.
'You all ought to have formed a league against Sutcliff,' I remarked. 'He was going over the wall to see a lover. I am certain Rutledge would have disapproved of that.'
Ramsay nodded. 'I thought of that. But there's no way around him, sir.'
'Especially as Sutcliff knew that you played all the pranks.'
Silence fell. Bartholomew stared in surprise, his coffee halfway to his lips. Ramsay sank further into the bench. 'How did you know, sir?'
'Because no one peached on you,' I said. 'If Sutcliff, or even Timson, had played the pranks, someone would have spoken up by now. But the boys like you, don't they? So they kept silent so you would not be punished.'
Ramsay stared at me. Bartholomew was still not happy. 'Are you saying, sir, that this lad here poisoned those other lads and set the fires? He needs a good strapping.'
'I agree with you,' I said, giving Ramsay a severe look.
'I would not have hurt anyone, not really,' Ramsay protested. 'I added purge to the port, only to make them sick. They'd never have died from it.'
'Bloody hell, Ramsay,' I said.
'I made sure the maids' chamber was empty before I set the rubbish alight. It only smoldered.'
I eyed him evenly. He looked ashamed, but I saw in his eyes a tiny bit of pride at his cleverness.
'My man is right,' I said, 'someone should take a strap to you. You seem a sound lad in other respects, Ramsay. Why on earth should you set rooms alight and write letters in blood? It is bizarre.'
'So the others wouldn't think I was like Sutcliff, sir.'
'Ah, I thought so. You told me before. You and Sutcliff come from the richest families of the school. You did not want anyone to think you and he were cut from the same cloth.'
