Read Online A Death at Fountains Abbey by Antonia Hodgson - Free Book Online Page B

– very much.
    Sneaton had turned the conversation to the building project next to the house. John Simpson, their master stonemason, had submitted a fresh letter of complaint concerning his bill.
    Aislabie rolled his eyes. ‘I would have you speak with him again, Sneaton. I will not pay a bill that does not tally. Tell him if he cannot supply us with the proper details, we shall hire Robert Doe to complete the job.’ He snatched at his glass and took a long draught. ‘I’m mightily tired of the whole wretched business. I’m quite tempted to abandon it.’
    ‘Oh, John – patience!’ Lady Judith scolded. ‘You know you will love the stables when they are done.’
    Stables? The conversation continued about me as I puzzled over her meaning. The foundations for the new building suggested it would be twice the size of Studley Hall. But as Sneaton spoke of the stalls, and the grooms’ quarters, I began to realise my mistake. The men labouring outside were not constructing a grand new home for the Aislabies. They were building a grand new home for the Aislabies’ horses .
    ‘How many do you keep?’ I asked, astonished.
    ‘Twenty,’ Aislabie replied. ‘Have Simpson send in his bill again, Sneaton. The books must tally before the next quarter—’
    ‘ Twenty horses ?’
    ‘Racehorses,’ Aislabie corrected. ‘The rest will remain in the old stables.’
    Twenty racehorses. My God, the cost! ‘I thought it was your new home, sir.’
    Aislabie was amused. ‘No, indeed. I shall build a grand palace down by the lake when the gardens are complete. Or else I shall buy Fountains Hall and the abbey, if I can persuade Mr Messenger to part with it.’
    ‘Mr Messenger is our closest neighbour,’ Lady Judith explained. ‘Ill-tempered, fat little thing. We are not on friendly terms.’
    Aislabie muttered something under his breath. I caught the word papist.
    The servants were bringing in a fresh course when we heard a commotion at the front of the house, and then a scream – the deep howl of a man in agonising pain. Sneaton rose in alarm, holding on to the table for balance. A moment later Bagby entered the room. There was a distinct lack of concern on his face. ‘An accident, your honour,’ he drawled. ‘One of Simpson’s men.’
    ‘Another one,’ Aislabie tutted.
    ‘How bad?’ Sneaton asked.
    ‘His leg’s broken,’ Bagby replied, flatly.
    Sneaton cursed under his breath. ‘Did you see a wound? Was the bone sticking out?’
    Bagby looked disgusted. ‘I did not enquire, sir.’
    Aislabie waved at the servants to set down the dishes. ‘Send for Mr Gatteker,’ he told Sneaton. ‘I’ll pay the fee.’
    Bagby bowed to me. His features were bland, but counterweighted by a startlingly expressive face. At rest, it settled upon purse-lipped disapproval. Now he had ratcheted it to bulge-eyed indignation. ‘Your boy’s put himself in charge, sir . Ordering us all about.’
    He led me through the house to the great hall, where a small crowd had gathered around the injured man. He had been carried inside on a stretch of oilcloth. His face was grey with shock, but he was sitting upright, which I took to be a good sign.
    Sam had fixed a splint around the broken leg from the ankle to just above the knee, and was binding it with strips of linen. One of Simpson’s men held the splint in place. The linen was blotched with dried bloodstains, and I realised this was the sheeting used to cover the butchered deer. Better to use ruined sheets than waste fresh ones, I supposed, though it looked somewhat ghoulish.
    I knelt down by the injured man’s feet and watched Sam work. He must have moved the bone back into alignment before setting the splint. My stomach clenched at the thought. No wonder we’d heard screaming.
    Sam had confessed to me once that he should like to be a surgeon one day – not through any particular desire to help the sick, but because of his fascination with the mechanical properties of the body. He would