Back in Grenville's room, I sat down to look over the papers I'd taken from Fletcher. Grenville had not woken from his stupor, and his pallid face bore a sheen of perspiration.
I knew I needed to sleep. My head buzzed and my vision was fuzzy, and I was still weak from the fever. But I could not bring myself to leave the room again.
I was as angry as Bartholomew. Whoever had hurt Grenville would not be safe from me.
I found much of interest in Fletcher's book and its secrets. The swindling scheme was much bigger than I'd thought. Fletcher had tapped his old school friends, which included many prominent men of London. Some were fathers or other relations of the boys of Sudbury.
I found contracts and letters of agreement and particulars on what percentage return the investors could expect to see. Middleton was named on the documents as a "surveyor," which explained the maps. One other person, not named, was referred to as a "banker."
Fletcher had received letters from investors asking eagerly when the canal would be started, finished, opened-when would the money come rolling in? There were letters from the more canny souls who began claiming that they'd found no evidence that a canal was even proposed, and what was Fletcher up to?
Fletcher must have been planning to disappear very soon.
I had another thought-what if Fletcher's books were burned not because of a malicious prank, but because the killer had been looking for this particular book with all its damning evidence?
The maps in Middleton's room were just that, maps. They meant nothing by themselves. But Fletcher's documents could not be ignored. He'd fraudulently taken money from gullible people and promised them rainbows.
Bartholomew brought me coffee and told me to go to bed, but I still would not leave. I knew Bartholomew and Matthias would stand over Grenville like faithful watchdogs, but I could not bear the thought that something might happen to him while I slept. I feared the killer would not chance that Grenville had not seen who'd struck the blow. The murderer had made certain that Fletcher and Middleton had not told tales; he might make certain Grenville did not, either.
The coffee cup crashing to the floor woke me. Paper slithered to the carpet to soak up the black liquid.
"Sir?" Bartholomew hung over me.
"I'm all right." I passed my hand through my hair. My eyes were aching and sandy. "I'll take a walk around the quad, clear my head."
Bartholomew helped me to my feet. Matthias dozed in a chair near Grenville's bed. Grenville lay unmoving and wan.
"Watch over him," I said in a low voice. "Do not let anyone into this room for any reason, not Rutledge, not a maid. You and your brother take care of him yourselves, do you understand?"
Bartholomew gave me a grim nod. He understood quite well.
The noon hour struck as I left the house. Outside it had warmed somewhat, and the rain had thickened. The air braced me. Despite all the tragedy, the spring day still smelled clean and refreshing.
I walked heavily across the quad, my stick tapping the stones. Boys drifted into and out of the houses, wandering to lessons, to their rooms, to whatever task they'd been set on. They were rather subdued-a murder and a near-murder so close to home was exciting but frightening.
I heard a commotion by the gate and headed that way. The porter was arguing with a person outside who did not want to listen.
"Madam," I heard the porter say in a pained voice
Timson came sauntering toward me from the gate, a grin on his face. "I say, Captain, your bit of muslin is asking to see you."
I started. "My what?"
Timson just smirked and winked, so I hurried on.
"Lacey!" a woman cried.
Marianne Simmons held onto the bars of the gate, her white skirts rain-soaked and blotched with mud.
"What are you doing here?" I asked her.
"I need to speak to you. Tell this lummox to let me in."
"Now look here, you- " the porter began.
"Never mind," I said quietly. "Let her in."
The porter gave me an exasperated look. "Women are not allowed, sir. Particularly not women like her."
"Oh, that is nice," Marianne sneered.
"Baiting him will not help you, Marianne. Let her in," I told the porter. "I will let Rutledge berate me later."
The porter's face darkened, but he opened the gate. Marianne stuck her tongue out at him as she sailed inside.
Timson and a few other boys stared at Marianne's thin dress in great enjoyment. Timson let out a wolf-whistle.
"Mind your manners," I told them. In the relative privacy of the middle of the quad, I turned Marianne to face me.
"What is it?"
She pulled her silk shawl closer about her shoulders and shivered. From the worry in Marianne's eyes, I knew she'd already heard that Grenville had been hurt. The news must have spread quickly through the village and thence to Hungerford.
What she told me, however, I was not expecting.
"Jeanne Lanier's run away," she said.
Chapter Fifteen
I looked at Marianne in surprise. "Oh, she has, has she?"
"Indeed, she has." Her gaze slid from mine to the windows surrounding us. "Tell me the truth, Lacey. Is he all right?"
"He is alive," I said.
When she looked back at me, her eyes were wet. "For how long?"
I could only shake my head. Grenville could heal or die. The blade could have torn him up inside in ways we could not know. I could only hope that the cut was clean, and that his body would heal itself.
"Will you let me see him?" she asked.
I started to answer, then I spied Sutcliff coming out of Fairleigh. He saw Marianne, recognized her, and froze.
"Mr. Sutcliff," I called.
He hesitated then at last came toward us, his expression wary.
"Hello, Mr. Sutcliff," Marianne said, with forced cheerfulness. "I came to tell you that your ladybird's done a bunk."
Sutcliff's face went white. "What?"
"I said your ladybird's done a bunk. Cleared out this morning without a word to Mrs. Albright."
Sutcliff stared at her in pure anger. Marianne smiled. No woman could give a man a more scornful smile than could Marianne Simmons. "Gave you a start, did it?" she asked. "I take it this news is unexpected?"
Sutcliff's face reddened, and he raised his hand to strike her. "Impertinent whore."
I caught his arm. "Keep a civil tongue," I said, "or I'll thrash you worse than Fletcher ever did."
His lip curled. "Unhand me. You do not know your place."
Marianne gave a sharp laugh. "He knows better than you. He is a gentleman. Your father is a trumped-up clerk."
Sutcliff tried to hit her again. Marianne hid behind me.
"Marianne, be quiet," I said sternly. "Mr. Sutcliff, go away."
I pushed him off. He glared at me, then he turned on his heel and marched back into Fairleigh.
I faced Marianne. "I'll take you to see Grenville, but you must keep quiet. Provoking the students will not help."
She made a face at the door Sutcliff had just slammed. "He puts my back up. He swaggers around like he's something, while Grenville is worth fifty of him." Her voice faltered.
"I agree. But keep your thoughts to yourself, or I will not be able to stop Rutledge having you bodily removed. Do not speak again until we reach Grenville's chamber, agreed?"
She started to answer, then closed her lips and nodded.
Good. For now.
I took her by the arm and led her into the Head Master's house. Boys stared. Tunbridge tried to stop me. I gave the mathematics tutor a look that sent him scuttling away and took Marianne up the stairs.
Bartholomew and Matthias had locked the door. When I knocked, Bartholomew opened the door a crack and peered out with one blue eye. He saw me, opened the door wider. He eyed Marianne askance, but I pulled her inside and shut the door.