Bartholomew lumbered in, shaking rain from his hair. I bade him sit down and unwrap the book.
I showed both magistrates Fletcher's papers and explained the canal scheme and Middleton's part in it. I recalled the letter Middleton had sent Denis, implying he'd discovered who'd been sending him threatening letters and stating that he wanted to tell Denis something interesting. I speculated that Middleton might have been killed because he'd been about to tell James Denis about the canal swindle. Perhaps he'd wanted Denis to take over the scheme; perhaps he'd only wanted to win Denis' praise.
I finished my tale with Jeanne Lanier's departure and my belief that she needed to be found.
The two men, sitting side-by-side on the bench and looking much alike-rotund bodies and red faces-could not have had more dissimilar reactions.
Sir Montague's eyes glowed with interest, and he smiled, intrigued. The Sudbury magistrate frowned at me, white brows knitting over a bulbous nose.
"This Frenchwoman was ladybird to an upper-form student?" he growled. "Likely she tired of him and fled. Received a better offer."
"I see something a bit more sinister in it," Sir Montague countered. "I will put the word out about her."
I thought of Jeanne Lanier's pleasant smile, her shrewd eyes. I doubted she would debunk out a window and run to another lover. She'd finish her contract with Sutcliff and then calmly enter into a contract with another. She was a businesswoman.
It would be a pity if Jeanne Lanier were involved in the murders. She'd be arrested, no matter how pretty and charming she was. I had a brief, pleasant fantasy of myself convincing the magistrates that she was an innocent dupe, and her, in gratitude, taking up with me.
I smiled inwardly and let the fantasy go.
"What about the Romany?" Sir Montague asked.
The Sudbury magistrate looked annoyed. "What about him?"
I said quickly, "You certainly cannot pin the death of Fletcher on him, nor the assault on Grenville. Sebastian is young, and he is passionate, but these murders were not the work of passion. They were planned, from fear and greed."
"Greed can destroy so much," Sir Montague nodded.
"In this case, two men's lives," I said.
The Sudbury magistrate frowned at the both of us. "If I release the Romany, what do I tell the chief constable? That I have no one to pay for the murder of the groom? The Romany is likely guilty of something, anyway, even if not the murder."
"Would the chief constable rather hang the wrong man?" I asked.
Sir Montague nodded gravely. "He might, Captain, he just might."
"That is ludicrous."
Sir Montague agreed. I hated this.
"If you let him go," I repeated, "I will bring you the true culprit."
"You will mind your own business," the Sudbury magistrate snapped. "My constables are investigating this crime, and they will bring me the true culprit. I agree that the Romany cannot have killed Mr. Fletcher or stabbed your friend, but he could very well have killed Middleton, and that is final."
"He could not have," I said. "Middleton had been dead two hours before Sebastian returned to the stables at Sudbury. And he was gone all night before that. He has witnesses, about ten of them, to prove this."
"Romany witnesses," the magistrate growled. "Which are no witnesses at all."
I snatched up my hat. "I will bring you one. Not a Romany."
Sir Montague had sat through this exchange with a characteristic half-smile on his face. Now he looked at me in slight surprise.
I coldly wished them both good day. Bartholomew, who had remained silent, followed me. I left the book in Sir Montague's hands.
"What witness?" Bartholomew asked while he gave me a leg up to my horse.
"A very young one," I said.
Didius Ramsay was eating his dinner in the hall along with his fellow students when I returned. Rutledge was also prominently in his place at the head table, glaring fiercely at the boys eating below him. The atmosphere was subdued. The students focused on their plates, and the tutors pushed their food about in silence. None wanted Rutledge's growls directed at him.
I waited in the quad for dinner to finish, not in the mood to eat with Rutledge. Bartholomew brought me a bit of mutton, which I ate readily. My last meal seemed long ago and far away.
The boys filed out of the hall and toward their houses. The tutors followed, then Rutledge, who first glared at me then pretended to ignore me.
Of Ramsay, there was no sign.
"The little bugger, where is he?" I asked.
"There's a servants' door in the back of the hall. He might have ducked out there," Bartholomew volunteered. "Won't be a tick."
He jogged away, leaving me shivering. I wanted to go up to Grenville's chamber and look in on him, but I did not wish to lose Ramsay.
The porter sat on his bench by the gate, his chin on his chest. He came awake with a gasp as Bartholomew suddenly appeared on the other side of the gate and rattled the bars. Bartholomew's livery was soaked with rain and mud.
"He's scarpered, sir," Bartholomew called to me. "Cook says he ran through the kitchens and out the scullery."
I started for the gate. "Get after him. I will catch you up."
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.