Free A Death at Fountains Abbey by Antonia Hodgson

spend hours poring over books of human anatomy, or sketching the connection of bone and muscle, or dissecting rats with a precise flick of his knife. Why Kitty refused to travel with him was a mystery.
    ‘Excellent work, Sam. Very neat.’
    ‘Connie.’
    It took me a moment to remember Consuela, the old woman with the cloud of white hair who lived with Sam’s family on Phoenix Street. She had brought me back from the brink of death a few weeks ago, after I’d been forced to jump into the freezing Thames. I took from Sam’s reply – two syllables! inarguable progress! – that he had watched Connie make a splint, doubtless on more than one occasion. Sam’s father was a gang captain and perhaps the most dangerous villain in London. How many times had one of his men stumbled into the den with a black eye, or a broken jaw, or a knife wound? Quite an education for a young boy.
    Sally, the young maid I had spoken to earlier, arrived with a blanket. She wrapped it about the man’s shoulders, then handed him a bottle of laudanum. ‘Here you are, Fred. Borrowed this from Mr Robinson. You’ll feel sick at first, but it’ll pass.’
    He took a long swig, and grimaced. ‘Hurts like bloody murder.’
    ‘Lucky,’ Sam said. He ran his finger along the injured leg. ‘Fibula. Clean break.’
    ‘Fortunate indeed.’ Sneaton limped over, wooden peg putt-putt ing along the stone floor. ‘If the bone breaks through the skin, your only remedy’s amputation. Most men die from the shock.’
    Fred began to heave.
    ‘Or putrefaction,’ Sam added. ‘Nasty.’
    ‘Deep breaths, Fred,’ Sally said.
    Fred opened his mouth, then vomited on the oilcloth.
    ‘That was your fault,’ Sally scolded Sam.
    Sam blinked, not understanding.
    Simpson, the master stonemason, strode across the room to join us, leaving a trail of muddy bootprints in his wake. His face was coated in grey stone dust, streaked with sweat. He was shorter than me by several inches but very solid, with a bull’s neck and strong fists, the knuckles grazed and torn from his work. He reminded me of William Acton, the head keeper of the Marshalsea gaol. Not a pleasant thought. ‘This is what happens when you don’t pay the men, Sneaton,’ he snarled.
    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