The Sudbury School Murders by Ashley Gardner

over
London."
    "He is that famous," I answered. "Rutledge
went to school with him."
    "S'truth! Must have been a dashed odd school,
then, to turn out Mr. Grenville and the headmaster."
    "It is a dashed odd school," I remarked.
"It's called Eton."
    He did not smile at my feeble joke. "As you
say, sir."
    I let it go. "Why does Timson rag on you,
Ramsay? I've seen him. Looks a perfectly ordinary little devil to
me, no better or worse than you."
    Ramsay shrugged, unembarrassed. "Because my
father is wealthy. Timson and his mates think I will buy my way to
prefect, like Sutcliff. Not bloody likely. Sir."
    "Did Sutcliff buy his way to prefect?"
    "His father did. Sutcliff will have all his
father's money once his father turns up trumps. Sutcliff reminds us
every day."
    "I see. A braggart."
    "An awful one, sir." Ramsay reached in,
snatched the topmost cake. "Thank you, sir. Sorry about the
snake."
    "No harm done." I snapped the box shut. "But
no more of them."
    Ramsay shook his head, clutching his precious
pastry. "No, sir. I'll spread the word. You're not to be
touched."
     
     
    * * * * *

Chapter Five
     
    The next morning, I received a letter from
James Denis. He briefly thanked me for telling him of Middleton's
death. He also asked that I furnish him with the complete details
of the inquest and anything I discovered about the murder. He
stressed that it was most important. "Middleton sent me several
letters about the dangers there. Guard yourself."
    I viewed the last sentences with surprise and
some mild annoyance. I agreed with Denis that danger lurked here,
and that blaming Sebastian for Middleton's death was not the right
solution. But I wished Denis had been clearer about what dangers
Middleton had hinted and who I was to guard against.
    I tossed his letter aside and opened one from
Grenville. Grenville professed amazement at the murder and asserted
he wanted to come down as soon as he could get away. He was
distracted at the moment, he said, by the disappearance of Marianne
Simmons.
    I stopped, brows rising. Marianne had lived
upstairs from me in London for the first year or so I'd lived in
rooms above a bake shop. She was an actress by trade, making her
living treading the boards at Drury Lane. With her golden curls and
childlike face, she also lived by enticing foolish gentlemen to
give her more money than they should.
    Grenville himself had given her money; in
total, thirty gold guineas, though I tried to tell him not to waste
his coin. A few months ago, Grenville had taken Marianne from
Grimpen Lane and deposited her in a gilded cage on Clarges Street,
a fine Mayfair address. He'd given her every luxury, but she'd
chafed at her confinement and had amused herself by torturing
him.
    Now, it seemed, she'd broken out of the cage
and flown. Grenville wrote of it in terse sentences. She had
disappeared a few days before. He had searched, but had not found
her. He had decided to hire a Bow Street Runner.
    I blew out my breath, picked up a pen, and
prepared to write back that he should not do such a damn fool
thing.
    I hesitated. It was not my business. I was
not terribly worried for Marianne's safety; she had often vanished
from her rooms for weeks at a time and returned without any harm
done. If Grenville hired a Runner to drag Marianne home, she would
simply leave again and find a more clever way of escaping. This was
a game he could not win.
    Why he was so adamant on keeping her
confined, I could not understand. Grenville was usually the most
rational of gentlemen, but where Marianne was concerned, he had
certainly lost his head.
    I turned his letter over and wrote on the
back, "Let her go. It can only do you harm if you find her. Your
motives are the best, I know, but you cannot bind her if she does
not want to be bound."
    I knew Grenville would not want to read those
words or heed them, but I wrote them for what it was worth.
    As I sealed the letter, I remembered
something that I'd pushed to the back of my mind. A few days