A Death at Fountains Abbey by Antonia Hodgson

said.
    ‘The servants?’
    ‘Everyone.’
    ‘Why are they worried about him?’
    A shrug.
    ‘Should I be worried about Metcalfe?’
    Another shrug.
    I remembered the note I’d taken from the library, covered in Metcalfe’s blotched and frantic scrawl. I pulled it from my jacket to compare it more carefully, but I could see at once that it didn’t match. It was too jagged, and he dipped his quill too often, the ink heavy on the page.
    ‘We should go downstairs,’ I said. ‘The family will be gathering in the drawing room.’
    Sam shrank back, as if I’d just threatened him with a blade. Or a bath.
    ‘I’ve told them you’re my ward. A gentleman’s son, if you can imagine such a thing. I know it seems unlikely, but we must brazen it out. Everyone will be much too polite to question it.’ I pointed at his shoes and stockings. ‘Come along. The best houses don’t allow you to eat barefoot I’m afraid.’
    He frowned. Cards, conversation. Cutlery. ‘When do we hunt for the ledger?’
    ‘Later. Aislabie thinks I’m here to help him. We must dissemble, a little.’
    ‘But we’ll leave, once we’ve found it? We’ll go home ?’
    I hesitated. Home was the Cocked Pistol on Russell Street. A collection of rooms above a disreputable print shop. I couldn’t promise him a bed there, not without Kitty’s consent. ‘We’ll go straight back to London.’
    Sam’s face crumpled. I had side-stepped the promise, and he knew it.
    ‘Put your shoes on,’ I said, touching his arm. ‘And tie up your hair. You look positively savage.’

Chapter Seven
    My arrival at Studley Hall had caused a stir in the neighbourhood, and Mr Aislabie was forced to entertain several unexpected guests that evening. Everyone was eager to meet the celebrated Half-Hanged Hawkins – save for the elusive Metcalfe, sequestered in his rooms. A woman of middling years clasped my hand and told me – tears spilling down her cheeks – that I was a miracle, a miracle . I am not sure I ever caught her name, only that she was a neighbour of the Aislabies and had just returned from London herself. ‘I’m afraid I missed your hanging. I’d promised to visit my sister in Greenwich and she is most fastidious about her engagements. Can you forgive me?’
    ‘This once, madam.’
    ‘London is a vastly wicked place,’ she said, squeezing my hand. ‘I miss it dreadfully.’
    The vicar of Kirkby Malzeard had ridden several miles on very bad roads to inform me that God had spared my life as a sign of His mercy, and that I must now dedicate myself to His Glory. By coincidence, the church roof at Kirkby was in urgent need of repair. Was it true that I had recently come into a fortune through marriage? I was rescued by Mr Gatteker, the physician, pulling me away by the elbow. He was eager to learn more about the physical effects of my hanging. ‘I hear there are certain spontaneous bodily eruptions , when the rope tightens.’ He leaned closer, and whispered hotly in my ear. ‘Venereal spasms.’
    I drew back a pace. ‘How’s your patient, sir?’
    ‘Tolerable. Haven’t killed him yet.’ Mr Gatteker had been summoned from Ripon to examine Fred’s broken leg. He was a genial fellow of near forty, his eyes small but very bright behind a pair of round spectacles. Unlike most doctors I’d met he appeared to be in excellent health, if a little stretched about the middle. He stole two glasses of wine from a passing tray. ‘Your brother splinted the leg with commendable proficiency.’
    I glanced across the drawing room at Sam, back pressed to the wall as if he might like to sink through it. ‘He’s not my brother.’
    ‘Is he not? You’d best inform him of that disappointing news, sir. He’s been telling the world that you are.’ Gatteker took a deep, contented swig of claret, watching me over the rim. His expression was mild, but searching. ‘Not brothers. But there’s a bond, I think? If that is not too presumptuous of me.’
    ‘Who is that