"Did Sebastian stop at the lock, look in it, or anything?"
"No. Just walked toward the stables. He walked fast, like he wanted to get as far from the canal as quick as he could."
I exhaled slowly. Megan was an observant woman. Only she had seen the shadow skulking about the lockkeeper's house. And with that slender thread, I'd concluded that she'd seen the prankster, not the murderer. The murderer had no reason to stay near the lock; indeed, he'd want to be elsewhere as quickly as possible. That left the prankster, up to no good, fearing to be caught. Timson I'd dismissed as being too cocky. Ramsay, on the other hand, as Fletcher had once told me, walked about with an air of innocence. Ramsay, who had friends in both houses. Ramsay, who'd easily climbed a tree, snake in hand, unseen and unnoticed.
"You might have told the magistrate all this," I said. "And saved Sebastian much trouble."
Ramsay frowned. "Didn't Sebastian tell him?"
"No. Sebastian was foolishly trying to save another from scandal. Besides, a magistrate is not quick to believe a Romany, no matter what he says."
Ramsay conceded this. "But could Sebastian not have killed the groom, anyway? Earlier?"
"Perhaps. Indeed, several people could have killed the groom that night-Sutcliff, Sebastian, the stable man, Thomas Adams, who probably invented that argument, and you." I turned to the lockkeeper.
The big man blinked in astonishment. "Me, sir?"
"You are the correct height and build. You could have overpowered Middleton and cut his throat. We have only your word that you heard no one come to the lock that night. And who would be better placed to dispose of a body in the canal?"
The lockkeeper's rather florid face slowly drained of color. "Why should I kill 'im? Never knew 'im."
I made a placating gesture. "Do not worry, I do not believe that you did. I said only that you could have." I turned back to Ramsay. "Would you be willing to tell a magistrate what you just told me?"
"The magistrate would not listen to me. Not in Sudbury. He pays Sutcliff, too."
I closed my eyes briefly. Damn Sutcliff. "Another magistrate has arrived, a friend of mine, from London. He would be most interested in what you have to say."
Ramsay eyed me doubtfully but nodded.
Bartholomew regarded Ramsay in curiosity. "What does the magistrate pay Sutcliff for?"
"He has two wives," Ramsay said promptly. "One here and one in London."
"Good Lord," I said. "Well, Sutcliff did not exactly keep that secret, did he? The magistrate should demand his money back."
Ramsay shrugged. "Sutcliff didn't tell me. I found out the same as he did. I was with Sutcliff in London when we met the magistrate's London wife."
Much later that afternoon, Bartholomew and I walked home from Sudbury on the towpath. The rain had ceased and a bit of blue sky shone between the clouds. Spring flowers poked yellow heads from the clumps of grass beside the path.
Ramsay had told his tale to Sir Montague. The Sudbury magistrate, the one calmly practicing bigamy, had remained doubtful. I let Ramsay go after that and left it to Sir Montague to argue with the other man. I even whispered the magistrate's secret into Sir Montague's ear. Sadly, I was not above a little blackmail myself.
"Little bleeders," Bartholomew muttered. "Poisoning each other, blackmailing each other. Goes to show what happens when you try to get above yourself, doesn't it?"
"Greed, fear, and ambition can be a terrible combination," I remarked.
Bartholomew scowled. "They think people will regard them as gentlemen because they've got buckets of money."
"And many will, Bartholomew."
"That ain't right, sir. Mr. Grenville, now, he's a gentleman through and through and always will be, even were all his money to go away. You too, sir."
"You flatter me."
He shook his head, his blue eyes sincere. "No, sir, it's the truth. You're more a gentleman living in your two rooms above a bake shop than Mr. Sutcliff ever will be in a gilded palace. Don't matter how many gold plates he has, he'll never have what you have. He'll always be the son of a banker's clerk."
Marianne had said much the same thing. The Rothschilds had copious amounts of money and power, but they would never be received in many houses of the ton. And yet, banker's clerks were beginning to rule the world.
"Me mam has the right of it," Bartholomew continued. "If you keep to your place and be your very best in it, you'll know happiness. You try to move outside, you'll never fit in, no matter how much money you have. You try, you'll just get misery."
The philosophy of a nineteen-year-old, I thought cynically. Bartholomew's place at present was footman to one of the wealthiest and most generous men in England. He might not be talking about keeping to one's place so complacently if he worked for a miserly gentleman who enjoyed beating his servants.
I understood Sutcliff's need to blackmail, however. I thought of his rather shabby suits and his willingness to take handouts. His father, as wealthy as he was, kept Sutcliff in straits, for whatever his reasons. Sutcliff, the scheming little devil, had to find some way to supply himself with the missed money.
Sutcliff had gone so far as to convince Ramsay that he would be accused of the murder and forced him to pay for silence. It was Sutcliff who needed the strapping.
We reached Grenville's chamber, and Matthias let us in, looking tense and drawn. Grenville was unchanged. Marianne sat by the bed, watching him.
I suggested both brothers take a nap, but they refused. "One of us stays," Bartholomew said. "In case they try again, like you said."
I could not argue. Having one of the footmen close by in a fight would be a good idea. Bartholomew suggested I be the one for the nap, but I could not bring myself to leave the chamber again. Bartholomew brought me soup and ale from the kitchen, and I settled myself in a wing chair with a blanket over my legs. I ate without much tasting the food, then made myself lie back and close my eyes.
Exhaustion coupled with overtiring my leg sent me to sleep. I barely heard Bartholomew take away the tray.
I slept hard, drifting in and out of dreams. I dreamed of Jonathan Lewis standing in Lady Breckenridge's parlor, drawling about his novels. I dreamed that Grenville stood by my side, his satirical smile on his face, listening to him. The dream changed, and I thought Louisa stroked my hair, her lemon perfume touching me as she soothed me in her sitting room.
I dreamed of Lady Breckenridge, wreathed in cigarillo smoke, as she said acidly, "Good God, Lacey, can you not stand on your own?"
I dreamed of my boyhood, and my father thrashing me so hard that I'd had to crawl away to my bed. Lady Breckenridge's voice sounded again. "He's dead and gone, Lacey. He cannot hurt you any longer."
But he could still hurt me. Things could crawl at you out of the dark and hurt you again and again. The past did not always stay dead.
I opened my eyes with a start. Darkness had fallen. Someone had lit candles on the mantel, and they flickered feebly in the greater light from the fire. Matthias slumped in a chair across the room, snoring loudly.
Marianne was holding Grenville's hand again. His eyes were open, and he looked calmly back at her.
Chapter Seventeen
I wanted to leap from my chair, but my aching limbs would not let me move.
Grenville's dark eyes were half-closed, his lashes black points against his white skin. He did not see that I was awake; he saw only Marianne. "Good Lord," he whispered to her. "It's you."
"So you are alive, then," she returned.
"I seem to be." His voice was too weak. He tried to turn his head, grunted with the effort. "Am I in London?"
"Berkshire," Marianne said.
"Why are you here?"