Antonia Hodgson - A Death at Fountains Abbey

Aislabie grunted, as if that settled the matter.

‘I believe you have just recently come into a fortune yourself, Mr Hawkins,’ Sneaton said gruffly, with such an obvious urge to change the subject, it was almost comical. I must have looked perplexed, because he added, ‘from your wife?’

Ah, yes. The imaginary Mrs Hawkins. Kitty had inherited a large sum from Samuel Fleet, Sam’s uncle, and my old cellmate from the Marshalsea, along with his print shop, and an extravagantly broad collection of obscene literature. This fortune was in part the reason we had not yet married. Kitty feared I would gamble it all away which, to be fair, was a distinct possibility. She also feared I would grow bored and abandon her, or – God help us both – turn dull and respectable and never leave. In short, she had very little confidence in my better qualities, and far too much knowledge of my worst.

‘John inherited a fortune from me when we married,’ Lady Judith said, pouring another glass of wine. ‘Fifteen years in April.’ She raised her glass, prompting her husband to return the toast.

‘True.’ He winked at her. ‘Fifteen years of quiet, dutiful obedience. On my part.’

Lady Judith snorted with laughter.

I thought of Mrs Fairwood’s admission, that she had expected to loathe John Aislabie, but found she could not. He may have abused his power and robbed the nation, and yet… it was clear that he loved his wife. I worked out the years in my head. Anne had died twenty-seven years ago, leaving him with three young children. It would have been advisable to marry again, and swiftly. Instead he had waited thirteen years, until he met Judith. Which suggested that he had loved his first wife too – very much.

Sneaton had turned the conversation to the building project next to the house. John Simpson, their master stonemason, had submitted a fresh letter of complaint concerning his bill.

Aislabie rolled his eyes. ‘I would have you speak with him again, Sneaton. I will not pay a bill that does not tally. Tell him if he cannot supply us with the proper details, we shall hire Robert Doe to complete the job.’ He snatched at his glass and took a long draught. ‘I’m mightily tired of the whole wretched business. I’m quite tempted to abandon it.’

‘Oh, John – patience!’ Lady Judith scolded. ‘You know you will love the stables when they are done.’

Stables? The conversation continued about me as I puzzled over her meaning. The foundations for the new building suggested it would be twice the size of Studley Hall. But as Sneaton spoke of the stalls, and the grooms’ quarters, I began to realise my mistake. The men labouring outside were not constructing a grand new home for the Aislabies. They were building a grand new home for the Aislabies’ horses .

‘How many do you keep?’ I asked, astonished.

‘Twenty,’ Aislabie replied. ‘Have Simpson send in his bill again, Sneaton. The books must tally before the next quarter-’

‘ Twenty horses ?’

‘Racehorses,’ Aislabie corrected. ‘The rest will remain in the old stables.’

Twenty racehorses. My God, the cost! ‘I thought it was your new home, sir.’

Aislabie was amused. ‘No, indeed. I shall build a grand palace down by the lake when the gardens are complete. Or else I shall buy Fountains Hall and the abbey, if I can persuade Mr Messenger to part with it.’

‘Mr Messenger is our closest neighbour,’ Lady Judith explained. ‘Ill-tempered, fat little thing. We are not on friendly terms.’

Aislabie muttered something under his breath. I caught the word papist.

The servants were bringing in a fresh course when we heard a commotion at the front of the house, and then a scream – the deep howl of a man in agonising pain. Sneaton rose in alarm, holding on to the table for balance. A moment later Bagby entered the room. There was a distinct lack of concern on his face. ‘An accident, your honour,’ he drawled. ‘One of Simpson’s men.’

‘Another one,’ Aislabie tutted.

‘How bad?’ Sneaton asked.

‘His leg’s broken,’ Bagby replied, flatly.

Sneaton cursed under his breath. ‘Did you see a wound? Was the bone sticking out?’

Bagby looked disgusted. ‘I did not enquire, sir.’

Aislabie waved at the servants to set down the dishes. ‘Send for Mr Gatteker,’ he told Sneaton. ‘I’ll pay the fee.’

Bagby bowed to me. His features were bland, but counterweighted by a startlingly expressive face. At rest, it settled upon purse-lipped disapproval. Now he had ratcheted it to bulge-eyed indignation. ‘Your boy’s put himself in charge, sir . Ordering us all about.’

He led me through the house to the great hall, where a small crowd had gathered around the injured man. He had been carried inside on a stretch of oilcloth. His face was grey with shock, but he was sitting upright, which I took to be a good sign.

Sam had fixed a splint around the broken leg from the ankle to just above the knee, and was binding it with strips of linen. One of Simpson’s men held the splint in place. The linen was blotched with dried bloodstains, and I realised this was the sheeting used to cover the butchered deer. Better to use ruined sheets than waste fresh ones, I supposed, though it looked somewhat ghoulish.

I knelt down by the injured man’s feet and watched Sam work. He must have moved the bone back into alignment before setting the splint. My stomach clenched at the thought. No wonder we’d heard screaming.

Sam had confessed to me once that he should like to be a surgeon one day – not through any particular desire to help the sick, but because of his fascination with the mechanical properties of the body. He would spend hours poring over books of human anatomy, or sketching the connection of bone and muscle, or dissecting rats with a precise flick of his knife. Why Kitty refused to travel with him was a mystery.

‘Excellent work, Sam. Very neat.’

‘Connie.’

It took me a moment to remember Consuela, the old woman with the cloud of white hair who lived with Sam’s family on Phoenix Street. She had brought me back from the brink of death a few weeks ago, after I’d been forced to jump into the freezing Thames. I took from Sam’s reply – two syllables! inarguable progress! – that he had watched Connie make a splint, doubtless on more than one occasion. Sam’s father was a gang captain and perhaps the most dangerous villain in London. How many times had one of his men stumbled into the den with a black eye, or a broken jaw, or a knife wound? Quite an education for a young boy.

Sally, the young maid I had spoken to earlier, arrived with a blanket. She wrapped it about the man’s shoulders, then handed him a bottle of laudanum. ‘Here you are, Fred. Borrowed this from Mr Robinson. You’ll feel sick at first, but it’ll pass.’

He took a long swig, and grimaced. ‘Hurts like bloody murder.’

‘Lucky,’ Sam said. He ran his finger along the injured leg. ‘Fibula. Clean break.’

‘Fortunate indeed.’ Sneaton limped over, wooden peg putt-putt ing along the stone floor. ‘If the bone breaks through the skin, your only remedy’s amputation. Most men die from the shock.’

Fred began to heave.

‘Or putrefaction,’ Sam added. ‘Nasty.’

‘Deep breaths, Fred,’ Sally said.

Fred opened his mouth, then vomited on the oilcloth.

‘That was your fault,’ Sally scolded Sam.

Sam blinked, not understanding.

Simpson, the master stonemason, strode across the room to join us, leaving a trail of muddy bootprints in his wake. His face was coated in grey stone dust, streaked with sweat. He was shorter than me by several inches but very solid, with a bull’s neck and strong fists, the knuckles grazed and torn from his work. He reminded me of William Acton, the head keeper of the Marshalsea gaol. Not a pleasant thought. ‘This is what happens when you don’t pay the men, Sneaton,’ he snarled.