Free A Death at Fountains Abbey by Antonia Hodgson Page A

towards Sneaton. ‘Clear up this mess. And remove these men from my house. They should never have been brought inside.’
    He spun upon his heels and left, footsteps fading down the hall. No one mentioned the napkin.
    Simpson rose from his bow and shoved his hat on his head. ‘Tight-fisted bastard. Ten years I’ve slaved for him! D’you remember all the mud we had to cart away just to dig out the lake? Who else could have built his precious cascades? Don’t you dare say Robert Doe, Jack – don’t you dare. What’s that soft-pricked Southerner ever built? Follies. Fucking follies.’
    ‘His accounts are very neat.’
    Simpson opened his mouth to argue, then realised Sneaton was joking. ‘Piss off, Jack.’
    Sneaton gestured to Fred, who had sunk heavily against Sally’s shoulder. ‘Bring the cart around and take him to his quarters. Mr Aislabie will pay the doctor’s fees.’
    ‘Aye. He pays when it suits him,’ Simpson muttered. ‘What’s sixty pounds to him? He earns three thousand a quarter from rents alone, or near as makes no matter.’
    ‘That’s not true—’
    ‘Yes it is Jack, you bloody liar. You told me yourself five nights ago.’
    Sneaton closed his eyes. ‘Remind me not to drink with you again, John.’
    Simpson gave a triumphant smirk. ‘I know all there is to know about you, Jack Sneaton. And Red Lion Square . . . Maybe you should remember that.’
    Sneaton stared at him, shocked into silence.
    ‘Ahh, ignore us, Jack,’ Simpson sighed. ‘I didn’t mean nowt by it.’ He glanced at me, the only one close enough to have heard the threat. ‘How do. Who are you then?’
    Now there was a fair, Yorkshire greeting. ‘Thomas Hawkins. I’m here to—’
    ‘Half-Hanged Hawkins!’ Simpson barked out a laugh. ‘Heard you was coming. Bloody hell. Hanged at Tyburn. How’s your neck, sir. Still stretched?’
    I drew back. ‘I’ve no wish to speak of it.’
    ‘If wishes were fucks, the world would be full o’ bastards,’ he replied with a shrug.
    Sneaton had recovered his tongue. ‘Come over to the cottage tonight, John. We’ll work through your receipts together.’
    ‘Thanks, Jack,’ Simpson grinned. ‘I’m grateful to you.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back outside, whistling.
    Sally huffed at the fresh trail of muddy footprints.
    Fred’s chum, who had helped Sam to bind the splint, rose to his feet and stretched. He was a handsome fellow, about twenty years of age, with a dark complexion from working in the sun. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he addressed Sneaton, ‘is it true that Mr Simpson handed in his bill two weeks late?’
    Sneaton considered the younger man. ‘D’you enjoy working at Studley, Master Wattson?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Sneaton drew closer. Annunciated slowly. ‘Then remember who you are.’
    Wattson nodded rapidly. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
    Sneaton held Wattson’s gaze for a moment to be sure the message had been received. Then he left, following his master’s path towards the study. My bones ached to watch him, that mangled walk, the twist of a hip to propel him forwards.
    Some brief sound made me glance up at the minstrels’ gallery that overlooked the hall like a balcony at the theatre. A gentleman of middling years stood at the balustrade, a pale hand resting upon the rail. Metcalfe Robinson: Mr Aislabie’s nephew. He was dressed in his nightgown, head bare. He was staring directly where I stood, but it was as if I wasn’t there. His grey eyes were dull, his bristled jaw sagging as if he did not have the strength to lift it.
    ‘Mr Robinson?’ I waved a hand to break him from his trance. ‘May I speak with you? My name is Thomas Hawkins.’
    This jolted him so hard he had to snatch at the rail to steady himself. He stared at me in disbelieving horror, as if I were Hamlet’s father come to haunt him. ‘Impossible,’ he said, hoarsely – and backed away, vanishing into the shadows.

Chapter Six
    Lady Judith had been too