He also reported to me what the constable had discovered, that the knife that I had found in the brush had come from the kitchens of the school. The cook, a very fat woman of about fifty years, was most distraught. Knives, she'd snapped to Bartholomew, were very dear, and why did the Romany have to steal one from her kitchen?
The information was useful. Sebastian had never been allowed on the grounds outside the stables, and no one, Bartholomew said, had ever seen him near the kitchens. A point in Sebastian's favor if I could get Rutledge and the magistrate to believe it.
Bartholomew and I ate and talked, drank and rested through the long ride. By the time we reached London later that afternoon, the roast was a bone and the port gone.
Grenville had insisted I spend my visit to London in his house in Grosvenor Street. Bartholomew charged inside when we reached it early that afternoon, shouting orders to get rooms ready for me. To my discomfiture, the maids and footmen scurried about the place as though the Prince Regent had come to call.
Bartholomew took me to the huge guest room that I had used once before, unpacked my clothes, shined my boots, and told me that Anton, the chef, was creating a midday meal especially for me. I resigned myself to sleeping in a soft bed and eating fine food, though I felt a bit of a fool eating by myself in the palatial dining room while a maid and two footman hovered near to serve me.
After I thanked them and showered compliments on the chef, I at last persuaded the eager staff that I had to go out.
There was nothing for it but that I use Grenville's town coach, they said. This I did refuse, preferring to be inconspicuous on my errands. The servants looked bewildered, but Bartholomew assured them that I was investigating and needed to be cautious, and so they at last let me depart.
My first visit was to Sir Montague Harris in Whitechapel. Sir Montague, a man I'd helped earlier that spring with the affair of the Glass House, greeted me effusively. Sir Montague was rotund and had silver hair which he wore in an old-fashioned queue. I had written him, outlining the situation at the Sudbury School and keeping him informed of what I'd discovered. He began discussing things even as his servant bustled around to bring us coffee.
"A pretty problem," Sir Montague said, his eyes twinkling. "You will make yourself unpopular if you champion this Romany, you know."
"I am already unpopular," I said dryly. I accepted the coffee, sat down. "But I have found no connection between Sebastian and Middleton except that they worked together in the stables. The Roma's evidence shows that Sebastian was with his family on the barge when Middleton was getting himself killed. They could, of course, be covering up for him, I cannot deny that. Also, Sebastian swears he did not quarrel with Middleton."
"That quarrel seems odd to me," Sir Montague said. He sipped his coffee and dismissed his servant. "Only one of the stable hands heard it, no one else. If Sebastian is telling the truth, then either the stable hand Thomas Adams was mistaken, or Adams was lying, and why should he?"
"Unless Adams murdered Middleton and is attempting to thrust the blame onto Sebastian," I suggested. "Adams could have killed him, I suppose. The stable hands were fast asleep. Not one of them can confirm when Sebastian returned to the stables. Thomas Adams could easily have slipped out."
Sir Montague looked thoughtful. He leaned back in a chair whose wooden arms had spread to fit his bulk and whose seat sagged in a perfect U. "Or perhaps Sebastian and his people did not like that Middleton was in on a scheme to expand the canal. So they killed him." He looked at me, waiting to see what I made of that.
I shook my head. "An expanded canal system means the Roma could travel farther, though they'd have more tolls to pay. No, I can see no reason for Sebastian to hate Middleton, unless it was personal-for instance, if Middleton were impertinent to Miss Rutledge. But I have heard no evidence to this end. From all I gather, Middleton and those in the house rarely interacted."
"Ah, but Miss Rutledge came to the stables to ride. She managed to steal moments with Sebastian, did she not? Perhaps Middleton knew this, threatened to tell her father."
I sat back comfortably, thought this over. I liked talking to Sir Montague. He could steeple his fingers, put forth every argument, logical and illogical, and force me to counter them. He approached things without emotion, with only academic interest in a problem. I, who tended to approach everything with emotion, appreciated that he tried to make me think clearly.
"Sebastian seemed more bewildered by the man's death than satisfied," I said. "I never sensed that he had any anger toward Middleton; in fact, he was grateful to the man for letting him work in the stables."
"But you discovered that Sebastian was a liar."
"True. I am not happy with him for keeping the truth from me. I do not believe that he clearly understood what not being open right from the start would do to him, but I believe it is dawning on him now."
"The case against young Sebastian, then," Sir Montague said, "is that he and Middleton supposedly quarreled, perhaps about Miss Rutledge, Sebastian followed Middleton and killed him. He is young, he is fiery, he is Romany, and therefore, likely to be violent." He paused, studying the ceiling a moment. "However, if Miss Rutledge and Sebastian's family are both telling the truth, the timing is all wrong. Sebastian would not have had time to meet with Miss Rutledge, lure Middleton down the canal to the spot where you found the knife, kill him, get his corpse into a boat, row up the canal, deposit the corpse in the lock, row back down, get rid of the boat, wash himself and change his bloody clothes, and then meet with his family. Time would have had to stand still, or half a dozen people would have to be in on the lie. Possibly, yes; probably, no."
"You see that," I said. "The task is to get the country magistrate to see that. I did not want to involve Miss Rutledge, but it may be unavoidable."
"Unless you and I can decide what truly happened," Sir Montague said smoothly. "Which is why you are here, is it not?"
I admitted that it was. Sir Montague grinned at me. "Who else, then, would want to see Middleton dead?" he asked. "He worked for James Denis, then retired and became a groom at a boys' school in the country. A man like that could have murderous enemies from his past, of course, one of whom trailed him to the school."
"But surely a stranger would be noticed in a small place like Sudbury," I argued, remembering what Grenville had said about gossip in small towns. "Someone would mention a mysterious stranger who arrived, and then disappeared after the murder."
"Yes, mysterious strangers are always convenient. But alas, we do not have one in this case." He made a motion of dusting off his hands. "Therefore, we must look among the people of the nearby towns and the school. You describe them well, you know," he remarked, eyes merry. "Not in a way they'd find flattering, I'd imagine. Take Mr. Rutledge himself. Driven to run the school on the tightest discipline, a violent man in his own right."
I absently ran my thumb along the handle of my cup. "I have not ruled out Rutledge. If I can imagine anyone grabbing a large man like Middleton and slicing his throat, it is Rutledge. But as far as Rutledge's servants contend, Rutledge did not leave his bed that night."
"But you say that Rutledge grew angry and worried when you told him of the connection between Middleton and James Denis. Perhaps he knew of it already. Perhaps Rutledge feared Middleton for some reason-Middleton blackmailed him, Middleton was watching him for Denis-and Rutledge, in a panic, decided to do away with him."
"I will be asking James Denis if there is any connection," I said. "Denis professes that he is unhappy about Middleton's death."