“It explains the General’s determination to marry her off so early to Mr. Smalls,” Henry added. “What better safeguard against calumny than an aged clergyman?”
“What better inducement to a second elopement!” I cried. “No, Henry—the General understands nothing of women, and has been at every turn a fool. Did I not dislike him so thoroughly, I should be inclined to pity the man—so ham-fisted as he is. He even finds shame in Catherine’s murder—as tho’ she deserved it, through some moral lapse of her own. Could anything be more unjust?”
“For my part,” my brother replied, “I should like to strike General Twining.”
“And such are our ungenerous sentiments, on the very eve of his daughter’s funeral!” I mused. “Which puts me in mind of something—you must attend, as a representative of the family.”
Henry’s brows rose. “Indeed, Jane? I have this comfort: there can be no difficulty in procuring mourning.”
“I should not ask it of you,” I pleaded, “but that I cannot attend myself; you know it to be most improper. And I should dearly like an observant pair of eyes upon Mr. Hendred Smalls—he is to conduct the service.”
“Ah,” Henry said knowledgeably. “And at the cold collation that is certain to follow—not even the General could be so remiss in what is due to his daughter as to forgo the cold collation!—you would wish me to enquire as to the clergyman’s movements in the small hours of Tuesday morning. Say, between one and three o’clock?”
“Henry,” I sighed as I took a bite of cheese, “you are in every way a most excellent brother.”
THE PUBLICAN, MR. TOLLIVER, PRESUMING SO FAR ON HIS earlier conversation with Henry to approach our table, and beam in a kindly way at me—enquiring whether the ham was cured to my liking, and whether I should not wish for a glass of ratafia, as an aid to my digestion—I seized upon chance and professed myself entirely delighted with every aspect of the meal and the establishment. However modern the Castle’s conveniences, I assured him, it could offer nothing so comfortable or sound as the King’s Arms.
“Well, and it’s a home-like place enough, which I allus think the traveller appreciates,” Tolliver observed, gratified. “The lady has an appreciation, I take it, for fine old publick houses?”
“And posting-inns,” I added ingeniously. “I have made a little habit, I confess, of looking into every one I find, upon the various roads of England. The White Hart in Bath, for example, is the very soul of a posting-inn; and my brother and I were recently treated to a fine example in Guildford.”
“That’d be the White Lion, mebbe, or the Crown?”
“The Crown,” I agreed. “Mr. Spraggs, the proprietor, was most generous in showing us about the place.”
Tolliver took the hint, and despite a swell of custom—the hour being close on two o’clock—invited Henry and me to follow him through the principal rooms of the place, so that we might admire a quantity of ancient iron pots, pewter tankards, copper taps, oak settles, and stout barrels—all but the last, dating from Elizabeth’s time.
“For the Arms—it were called the Ship and Bottle then, before the Royals descended on Brighthelmston and we were forced, in deference, to make the change—in my old dad’s time, that were—has been the place for comfort and cheer, particularly along of the winter months, for time out of mind.”
“And you let rooms, I understand?”
Tolliver’s countenance lost a little in animation. “That we do—tho’ I’m considering whether I shall in future. Only the four bedchambers have we above-stairs, most of the gentry preferring the Old Ship or the Castle, if they’re not already in lodgings; and I don’t mind to say that with the goings-on of late, it’s hurt my reputation as an honest publican. You’d think, from what has been said, that the Arms was no better than a bawdy house! I thought we’d recovered from that indignity once the Regent grew too fat to stir out-of-doors—but there, you can never hope to serve the publick without suffering an injustice now and again. But Mrs. Tolliver feels it most acutely, I don’t mind saying—took to her bed these two days past, from a dislike of the gossip as is going around the town.”
“I am sure no impropriety can attach to your management of the house,” I said with sympathy, “or Mrs. Tolliver’s arrangements, either. It is not as tho’ you invited a brigand to carry that poor child’s body upstairs! And having seen Lord Byron quit the place—at such an unseasonable hour, too—you must have thought all business at an end for the evening.”
“Now, it’s odd you should mention it, ma’am,” Tolliver said, with one hand on the stair-rail. “For wracking my brains I have been, as to how that poor drowned girl was put in his lordship’s bed.”
A thrill of exultation stirred along my spine; at last we were coming to it!
“I allus keeps the doors unlocked and set a lad to wait up for folk, on Assembly nights—meaning Mondays and Thursdays—for the dancing will go on until all hours, and there’s no telling as when a lodger will want to seek his bed, nor an officer wish to wet his whistle, as the saying goes. So certain it is the doors was unbarred and the Ordinary rollicking with a number of hearties. But I’d turned in at eleven o’clock myself—and Mrs. Tolliver was that put out when his lordship decided, in the dead of night, that nothing would do but he must settle his accounts—and sent the boy to rouse me out of bed! He’s not to have a room from us again, Tolliver, she said, being fed to the brim with Lord Byron’s whimsical ways.”
“And, of course, the noise of packing would disturb the rest of your guests,” Henry said sympathetically, “who cannot have spoken kindly of it in the morning.”
“Jest the one other fellow upstairs there was,” Tolliver said. “Mr. Laidlaw, a gentleman down from Oxford, most interested in those bits of rock and sich you may find along the shore—here for his health and a spot of rock-hunting, he is, and not the sort to burn the oil of a midnight. A most quiet and respectable gentleman is Mr. Laidlaw. His bedchamber gives onto the stairs at the head of the passage—quite near the water closet, for he’s an elderly gentleman, is Mr. Laidlaw. Lord Byron being most insistent in the matter of quiet, for all he’s scribbling at his verses when he’s here, chose the room at the very end of the hall—quite pertickular when he first set eyes on the Arms. In April, that’d be, when he hired that yacht of old Benbow’s down’t the shingle. He’s kept it ever since, to be certain of having it whenever the notion to sail oversets him—a most whimsical gentleman, his lordship, as I said.”
Whimsical indeed, to demand quiet in a publick house, and chuse the haunt of cavalry officers for his writing-room. However, in Byron’s world the hubbub of the Arms—so different from the genteel drawing-rooms of his usual circle—might seem to promise anonymity. Until Caro Lamb appeared on the scene, and forced him to fly.
“Mr. Laidlaw, I suppose, did not mention a disturbance in the night—as tho’ a heavy load of baggage was carried past his door?”
“Mr. Laidlaw takes laudanum,” Tolliver replied heavily, “and sleeps with a green eyeshade, and his ears plugged up with beeswax. A dreadful light sleeper, Mr. Laidlaw is, and a martyr to it, in publick places—and so he never retires but with his precautions, as he calls ’em. It was the first thing I asked him, after poor Mary carried in the coffee to Lord Byron’s rooms—her meaning to lay the fire, not knowing as his lordship had quitted the place, her sleeping out at her mother’s. It was Mary found that unfortunate lady sewn up in the hammock, and she screamed so loud not even Mr. Laidlaw’s beeswax could preserve him. But he declared as he’d heard nothing—not even Lord Byron’s valet, packing up of his traps.”
“When does Mary lay the fires?”
“Around eight o’clock, on the mornings after Assemblies—the patrons preferring a bit of a lie-in, from being out so late.”
And Lord Byron, at eight o’clock, had been waving farewell to Scrope Davies in Church Street. It was probable, however, that Catherine’s body had arrived at its resting place hours earlier. There were still five hours, betw
een Byron’s seeking his bed and mounting his horse, when his lordship might have been anywhere—but was the publick house open to his use all that time?
“After his lordship quitted the place, with his dunnage, I am sure nothing would do for Mrs. Tolliver but to bar all the doors!” I told the landlord in amusement. “I should never risk a second disturbance to my sleep, having the considerable cares of a publick house to manage on the morrow.”
“That she did, ma’am, and was that full of wrath she even cleared the Ordinary—tho’ there was some as were disposed to give her lip about it. But, there, we’ve been and owned the Arms for donkey’s years—and nothing no officer of the 10th can say will ever discompose Mrs. Tolliver. She’s turned the Regent himself out of the premises, when he was but a stripling prince, and if Royalty must give way to Mrs. Tolliver, there’s not much else that shan’t.”
“Very proper,” Henry opined. “I admire her pluck. And so the doors were barred from the moment his lordship left—around half-past one, I think it was said at the Inquest. And you opened the house … at what hour?”
“Cock-crow,” Tolliver said promptly, “which is round about five o’clock in May; tho’ nobody’d come knocking at the back door—meaning such of the servants as sleeps out of the house, which is most of ’em—until six o’clock. I’m a fair man, for all I’m so pressed with custom, and don’t ask even them as works for me to be abroad afore daylight.”
“And yet,” I persisted, with an air of feminine bewilderment, “poor Miss Twining’s body materialised upstairs sometime between the hours of two and … let us say eight, despite the fact that the outer doors were barred!—For she was certainly seen alive in the grounds of the Pavilion at a quarter to two, and cannot have met her death any earlier. You did not detect a forcing of your doors, Mr. Tolliver, I presume?”
“No, ma’am.”
If my questions were beginning to appear too pointed, the good publican failed to take umbrage. He appeared as genuinely puzzled as I, regarding the murdered body in the bed.
“Might the kitchen doors have been left ajar?” I wondered. “A very daring and reckless murderer might be moved to take his chance—and carry Miss Twining’s shrouded form up the servants’ back stairs.”
“But Nance, the scullery maid, sleeps on a pallet next to the hearth,” Tolliver countered, “and the rogue should be forced to step over the girl to reach the stairs, even if she did neglect to bar the back door, which I doubt. Nobody could’ve mounted those stairs, without Nance screaming fit to bust, of ghosts and demons in the night. No, I’m afraid there’s only one way possible that corpse found its way into Lord Byron’s bed—and that’s from the use of the tunnel, what my old dad, God rest his soul, swore was filled in when the Prince established Mrs. Fitzherbert in her villa, and left off his rakehell ways.”
I stood rooted to the spot, unable even to risk a glance at my brother Henry. A tunnel? Good God!
“A tunnel,” Henry said flatly. “There is a tunnel leading into the Arms?”
“Long since filled in, as I thought, and never used in thirty year or more,” Tolliver rejoined. “It was Miss Austen’s word as made me think on it—materialised, she said, as if that unfortunate young lady’s remains jest floated up like a ghost! Many’s the time my brother and me used to frighten the folk upstairs, when we were young, with a clanging bit o’ chain and a sheet over our heads—jumping through the panel in the dead of night and howling so’s to turn the blood cold. Our dad had our hides for it, of course, but that never stopped Sam—he’s my brother, and saw worse every day in the Peninsula. A rifleman he is, now.”
“A panel,” I repeated, as tho’ possessed of a weak understanding.
Tolliver nodded. “Comes right out beside the chimney stack in the middle bedchamber, as is unused at present. You are welcome to look at it, if you like—having an interest in old publick houses, as you do, ma’am.”
He led my stupefied brother and myself immediately upstairs, Henry ducking to avoid collision with the low ceiling of the staircase. At the far end of the upper passage was a closed door—which must give on to Lord Byron’s old bedchamber. I should dearly love to have a look round it; but Tolliver turned immediately into a doorway on our left: one of the middle bedchambers, its fellow being across the hall.
A pleasant-enough room, low-ceilinged like the rest, coated in plain white plaster with two small windows offering a view of the Marine Pavilion. The wainscoting was oak, and reached halfway up the walls, with a frieze of sporting dolphins carved along its upper edge. In the middle of the wall to our left sat the hearth—which was narrower than those in the publick rooms below; the stack, however, must serve both storeys, and run from the cellars to the attics.
Tolliver winked at us, crossed to the panelling on the right-hand side of the chimney, and pressed one of the carved dolphins. An entire section of panelling swung outwards, like a servant’s door; narrow and not above four and a half feet in height—but an opening nonetheless.
“There,” he said. “The Regent’d never fit through it, now.”
“It was made for him?” Henry said.
“Aye, so he could come and go without the world observing him, whenever the need for a lightskirt or a dozen bottles of claret should take him and his disreputable friends. There was never anything like ’em for raking the night away—those Barrys—Cripplegate, Hellgate, and Newgate as they called ’em! And Sir John Lade, what married a Covent Garden doxy! And that George Hanger!—He’s the only one the Regent will keep by him, now.”
I stepped forward and gazed down; a winding stair descended into darkness.
“Is the whole of the publick house familiar with its existence?”
Tolliver slapped his thigh. “Not even my wife is aware! Have a fit of hysterics on the subject of burglars, Mrs. Tolliver would, if she knew there was a secret way inside the Arms. And as I said—my old dad insisted it’d been filled in long since. I haven’t given it a thought since I was a boy, and Sam ran off to take the King’s shilling.”
“You made no mention of it at the inquest,” I observed.
“Nobody asked,” Tolliver said simply.
It was true; not a word had been said about the means of placing a dead girl in a bed at the Arms. Both coroner and magistrate appeared indifferent to the matter.
Henry met my gaze. “Where does the tunnel lead, Tolliver?”
“Why, to the Pavilion, of course!” He beamed.[21]
Chapter 23 Where the Tunnel Led
THURSDAY, 13 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON, CONT.
“TOLLIVER,” MY BROTHER SAID, “YOU HAVE BEEN MOST generous with your time already, and I am loath to demand any more of it; but I do believe, in the interests of justice, that we ought to explore this tunnel—to ascertain, if nothing else, that it is indeed as yet unblocked for its entire length. The magistrate’s pursuit of Miss Twining’s murderer may depend upon it.”
I could have wished Henry had left Sir Harding Cross well out of our prospective adventure, for at the mention of the magistrate, the publican’s countenance underwent a change.
“I don’t know as the Regent will like to have all his little arrangements laid before the publick, like,” he said doubtfully. “It should not be seemly, to publish all that old business to the world.”
“Then say nothing of His Royal Highness’s use of the tunnel,” I suggested, “and make out that it was for the purpose of providing the publick house with access to the shingle … for … the ready unloading of goods brought round by the sea. Fish or …” I did not like to say smuggled brandy and claret, although that is what I was certainly thinking, having encountered such tunnels in coastal villages before. “The Pavilion was once a simple farmhouse, was it not?”
“Aye—belonged to Mr. Thomas Kemp, as is a great landowner hereabouts. But the tunnel was built well after his time.”
“That is a point that need not arise.”
“I don’t know,” Tolliver temporised. “I’m all
of a flutter—the gentleman and lady having taken me by surprize, as it were, and caught me up in the spirit of the hunt; but I did ought to consult with Mrs. Tolliver, perhaps, and consider what should be done.”
The result, I little doubted, should be the suppression of all evidence, from a desire to avoid any dispute with the Regent. Very well—if I must pay a call upon Sir Harding Cross and lay the information before him myself, I should do so—but nothing could induce me to turn my back on that tunnel, unexplored, while it yawned so tantalisingly before me now.
There was a quantity of tapers standing ready in a spill box on the mantel; I reached for several, and said to the publican, in as commanding a tone as I could muster, “Pray fetch a light, Mr. Tolliver, if you would be so good. I must and shall explore the cunning little tunnel—it shall add immeasurably to my collection of ancient publick houses!”
“To be sure!” Henry cried, all decided animation; and before two such ardent hearts, Tolliver’s better sense gave way. He fetched a candle from the hall, lit our tapers, and then took a step backwards. “I’ll ask you to wait for Young Bob,” he said firmly. “Dear as I’d love to trot down those steps along of you both, I hear the missus calling, and we’re that full to the gills with custom, on account of the race-meeting and the murder, that I’m wanted in the Ordinary. Bob’ll see you come to no harm; he’s a good fellow, and a rare one for rats.”
With which obscure and daunting remark, he went to the head of the main stairs and halloed, “You there! Young Bob! Up with ye this instant! Aye, Polly, I’m just coming—”
Young Bob appeared within moments, and having received his duty, glanced at the pair of us doubtfully, as if to say that there was no end to the oddities of London folk. He was anything but the boy I had expected—being grizzled and bent with years of labour in the publick house, hauling barrels and cans of hot water to the bath; he was called Young Bob, he explained, “on account of my grandfer, Old Bob, who’s that spritely at ninety-two, and may be found having his pint on the Steyne any morning in fair weather or foul.”
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