Antonia Hodgson - A Death at Fountains Abbey

Sneaton scowled at him, scars puckering. ‘For heaven’s sake, what possible connection-’

‘My men han’t seen a farthing since Christmas! They’re tired and angry, Jack. Working for nowt – it’s bad for the humours. Dangerous bloody way to work.’

Sneaton huffed in exasperation. ‘And do your men know you handed in your quarter bill two weeks late ? And God’s truth, to call it a bill would be a jest. A pile of tattered receipts and a scrawl of unreadable names-’

‘I’m owed sixty pounds! I have to pay my men, my suppliers-’

‘Then show me receipts that tally. A clear list of the men you hired and the hours they worked.’

Simpson’s eyes popped in outrage. ‘Do you call me a liar, Jack? A thief?’

‘What is this damned racket?’ Aislabie shouted, marching across the hall like a general – the effect somewhat ruined by the napkin tucked into his cravat.

Simpson pulled off his hat and bowed low. ‘Your honour, sir.’

Aislabie glanced at Fred, and the pool of vomit. He pulled a face. ‘What happened here?’

‘An accident, Mr Aislabie, sir,’ Simpson answered, still in his bow, clutching his hat in his great fists.

‘I can see that. Have you been drinking?’

‘No, sir!’

Aislabie narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe Simpson, and to be fair I could smell the liquor on the stonemason’s breath from several paces away. The room waited for his honour’s decision. ‘This will be your last warning, Mr Simpson. If you cannot conduct your business in a respectable manner, I shall hire someone who can.’

Simpson dropped into an even deeper bow, head below his arse. ‘Yes, your honour. I’m obliged to you, sir.’

Aislabie gave a sharp nod, concluding business. He leaned towards Sneaton. ‘Clear up this mess. And remove these men from my house. They should never have been brought inside.’

He spun upon his heels and left, footsteps fading down the hall. No one mentioned the napkin.

Simpson rose from his bow and shoved his hat on his head. ‘Tight-fisted bastard. Ten years I’ve slaved for him! D’you remember all the mud we had to cart away just to dig out the lake? Who else could have built his precious cascades? Don’t you dare say Robert Doe, Jack – don’t you dare. What’s that soft-pricked Southerner ever built? Follies. Fucking follies.’

‘His accounts are very neat.’

Simpson opened his mouth to argue, then realised Sneaton was joking. ‘Piss off, Jack.’

Sneaton gestured to Fred, who had sunk heavily against Sally’s shoulder. ‘Bring the cart around and take him to his quarters. Mr Aislabie will pay the doctor’s fees.’

‘Aye. He pays when it suits him,’ Simpson muttered. ‘What’s sixty pounds to him? He earns three thousand a quarter from rents alone, or near as makes no matter.’

‘That’s not true-’

‘Yes it is Jack, you bloody liar. You told me yourself five nights ago.’

Sneaton closed his eyes. ‘Remind me not to drink with you again, John.’

Simpson gave a triumphant smirk. ‘I know all there is to know about you, Jack Sneaton. And Red Lion Square… Maybe you should remember that.’

Sneaton stared at him, shocked into silence.

‘Ahh, ignore us, Jack,’ Simpson sighed. ‘I didn’t mean nowt by it.’ He glanced at me, the only one close enough to have heard the threat. ‘How do. Who are you then?’

Now there was a fair, Yorkshire greeting. ‘Thomas Hawkins. I’m here to-’

‘Half-Hanged Hawkins!’ Simpson barked out a laugh. ‘Heard you was coming. Bloody hell. Hanged at Tyburn. How’s your neck, sir. Still stretched?’

I drew back. ‘I’ve no wish to speak of it.’

‘If wishes were fucks, the world would be full o’ bastards,’ he replied with a shrug.

Sneaton had recovered his tongue. ‘Come over to the cottage tonight, John. We’ll work through your receipts together.’

‘Thanks, Jack,’ Simpson grinned. ‘I’m grateful to you.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back outside, whistling.

Sally huffed at the fresh trail of muddy footprints.

Fred’s chum, who had helped Sam to bind the splint, rose to his feet and stretched. He was a handsome fellow, about twenty years of age, with a dark complexion from working in the sun. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he addressed Sneaton, ‘is it true that Mr Simpson handed in his bill two weeks late?’

Sneaton considered the younger man. ‘D’you enjoy working at Studley, Master Wattson?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sneaton drew closer. Annunciated slowly. ‘Then remember who you are.’

Wattson nodded rapidly. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Sneaton held Wattson’s gaze for a moment to be sure the message had been received. Then he left, following his master’s path towards the study. My bones ached to watch him, that mangled walk, the twist of a hip to propel him forwards.

Some brief sound made me glance up at the minstrels’ gallery that overlooked the hall like a balcony at the theatre. A gentleman of middling years stood at the balustrade, a pale hand resting upon the rail. Metcalfe Robinson: Mr Aislabie’s nephew. He was dressed in his nightgown, head bare. He was staring directly where I stood, but it was as if I wasn’t there. His grey eyes were dull, his bristled jaw sagging as if he did not have the strength to lift it.

‘Mr Robinson?’ I waved a hand to break him from his trance. ‘May I speak with you? My name is Thomas Hawkins.’

This jolted him so hard he had to snatch at the rail to steady himself. He stared at me in disbelieving horror, as if I were Hamlet’s father come to haunt him. ‘Impossible,’ he said, hoarsely – and backed away, vanishing into the shadows.

Lady Judith had been too optimistic about the weather. It was raining again, sweeping across the valley as if God were considering a second flood. No tour of the gardens today. A quiet part of me was relieved. There was something unsettling about Mrs Aislabie, something that sent a pulse through me, half attraction and half warning. She was playful, yes – but then cats play with mice sometimes, before they eat them.

I smoked a pipe, and took a solitary stroll about the ground floor. It was something of a maze, especially the connecting rooms directly behind the great hall. These I named the ‘horse rooms’, as the walls were covered in pictures of them, from portraits of individual animals to vast hunting scenes. What other purpose they served, I never discovered. I paused in front of a painting of the Ripon races. The riders were all women, wearing breeches. The plaque upon the frame read: Ladies’ Race, 1723, Ripon. Racing, gambling, and lady jockeys. I would have jumped into the painting if I could.

The east wing lay abandoned on this floor, although I did stumble across a fellow mending the cornices in one room, so perhaps the Aislabies had plans for it. At the back of the house I found the library again, a little-used music room, and a larger room for billiards.

The west wing appeared to be the favoured aspect. There was a snug little withdrawing room, filled with tempting armchairs and more recent family portraits, and then the long dining room. Mr Aislabie’s study sat at the front of the house. He had retired there with Mr Sneaton after dinner, presumably to buy up the rest of the county.

It might appear as though I were drifting aimlessly about the place, and I admit that is one of my preferred occupations. In this case, however, I was drifting with intent. I needed to memorise the rooms while it was still light, so that I could search them more closely in darkness.

Five days ago, I had been tasked by the queen to find a certain green ledger and bring it safely to London. The book had disappeared shortly after the collapse of the South Sea Company. It contained a list of over a hundred illustrious names, and the private details of their stockjobbing – when they had sold their shares and at what price, the exact profit they had made from each transaction. Hundreds of thousands of pounds, all neatly recorded.