“Did you say … Philip?” I stammered. “Was there not … another Barrett of that name?”
The Master of Ceremonies’s rich murmur dropped even lower. “The Viscount’s uncle, I believe. Present Earl’s younger brother, killed in an affair of honour. Derwentwater never speaks of him, I understand.”
“Of course,” I murmured. Because the Earl’s brother had eloped with Catherine Twining’s mother.
Could it be possible the dashing young Captain had unknowingly courted the daughter of General Twining—whose pistols had put paid to his uncle’s life? Or, as seemed more probable, had he deliberately cultivated the connexion under the General’s very nose? And had the General observed it, and known the Captain for his persecutor? Was it for this reason—one he might hesitate to disclose to his daughter—he had quitted the Assembly early? But if fearful of the Captain’s knowledge and influence—why had General Twining not carried his daughter home with him? It was a decided puzzle.
And then a more sinister thought entered my head, conjured by Lady Oxford’s ominous phrase. A revenge tragedy. Good God—what if the Captain had merely bided his time, until the child of his family’s enemy had been alone and defenceless? What if he had followed Catherine from the Assembly that night, and awaited her release from the Pavilion, only to spirit her off to her watery death? He was, after all, a soldier—accustomed to killing through years of hard campaigning. Was that the same, however, as deliberately drowning a young girl?
And could he have known of the tunnel from the Pavilion?
Having known of it, and determining to use it, was but a simple step; to throw all suspicion on Lord Byron, whom the Captain apparently held cheap, should make a lark of murder.
“Jane,” Mona said to me, “are you quite well? You look faint.”
“It is nothing, I assure you. Merely that Mr. Forth’s descriptions—so exact in every detail—bring the whole of Monday evening before my mind; and I confess the impressions must make any friend of Miss Twining’s rather low. Do not regard it, I beg. Mr. Forth has been everything that is patient and kind, and has been wishing me at the far end of the earth this quarter-hour, I am sure. I shall not trespass longer upon your time, sir.”
“It was a pleasure, ma’am,” he said with regal condescension; and offered me a final bow.
Mona and I curtseyed; I observed a mamma and daughter hovering near the French doors in the hope of being noticed by the Master and put in the way of introductions for the dance; and made good my escape. I should dearly have loved to have heard Mr. Forth’s assessment of their dress, however—for his calculation of the cost of their trimmings should, I am sure, have been entirely exact.
Italian lace, twelve shillings the yard, purchased on the cheap at Pantheon Bazaar …
“If you should like a glimpse of the fascinating Captain,” Mona muttered in my ear, “I believe he is even now in the card room—playing at whist with Lord Byron.”
“Mona,” I said, “General Twining killed the Captain’s uncle in a duel.”
“I know,” she calmly replied. “I have been acquainted with Derwentwater from my cradle; he very nearly offered for me when his first wife, Lady Sarah as was, went off in childbirth—but I have never believed in second attachments. And a wise decision it was—the Master is correct in saying he hunts too much.”
“But were you at all acquainted with the younger brother?”
“Philip? Naturally. He was a rakehell if ever I knew one. But an elopement—I cannot think why he thought it necessary! Such affaires never end well.”
“But do you not think it exceedingly odd that his nephew should be dancing with General Twining’s daughter?”
“Well—she was excessively pretty,” Mona said blandly. “Recollect that I was present at the ball, Jane; I observed the Captain and Miss Twining dance; but I did not find anything particular to remark in it. Else I should have told you the whole.”
I could have shaken the Countess for her imperturbability. “Nothing particular—even when the Assembly was concluded with Catherine’s murder? And I suppose you see nothing untoward in the Captain’s playing at whist with a man he despises?”
She gazed at me, bewildered. “But men are always gambling with those they despise! It lends spice to the winnings!”
“Exactly,” I returned, in my driest manner. “Lead me to the Captain, Mona, if you please.”
Chapter 26 Damning Testimony
THURSDAY, 13 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON, CONT.
THE OVERWHELMING FIRST IMPRESSION OF CAPTAIN Viscount Morley was his remarkable beauty; the second, must be of his relative youth. The former I had expected; the latter took me by surprize.
He was a golden lad, with eyes of cornflower blue; a slim and sinewy figure, whose whipcord body suggested the hunting field—or the cavalry ring. The social excesses of the 10th Hussars were made much of, owing to their patronage by the Prince and the breathless breeding of their officers; but the 10th was also a disciplined, honed, and formidable fighting machine tempered by hard campaigning in the Peninsula—where this boy had conducted himself with “gallantry.” I knew full well what that meant—he had cut his way with a sabre, on horseback, through rank upon rank of the French; and he had come out unscathed at the other side. Seen from the rear in his regimentals, the Captain appeared compact, spare, and efficient—one glance at his face, however, which was suggestive of the angel, and any girl of fifteen should be lost.
He rose from the card table as Mona approached; bowed with charm and correctness as she forced my acquaintance upon him; and remained standing, to Lord Byron’s impatience, until we should have passed on. I met those limpid blue eyes only once, before demanding of myself how I could possibly have imagined such a boy capable of murder. He could not be above four-and-twenty years of age. That he should find Catherine’s face and form alluring must be natural; that he should then ruthlessly force her head beneath the waves, impossible.
But the questions must be asked—and I alone should ask them. How to effect a tête-à-tête?
“My luck is out, Mona,” Lord Byron said with a scowl, throwing down his cards. His pale countenance bore a restless, feverish look, and his fingers played with the stem of his wineglass, which was only half-full. “Morley’s a deep one; he has had the best of me tonight. I must summon my Runner and make for home.”
The Captain gathered up the cards—coolly pocketed the winnings—and said, “I imagine your mind is engaged on greater matters than whist, Byron. You are writing a poem, are you not? To the memory of your Leila? But then—you are always writing a poem to someone. The ladies who have figured in your verse are legion. Only one, however, has suffered mortally from the honour.”
Byron’s countenance flushed, as tho’ all the wine in his veins had roared angrily to the surface, and his glittering look fixed upon the Captain. I felt, with a sense of shock, all the violence of passion that emanated from the man; it attracted far more powerfully than it repelled.
“She shall live long in my verse, Morley,” he growled, “when you are already rotted in your grave!”
“No doubt,” the Captain returned, “—if you are permitted time enough to finish your poem. I thought you exceedingly brave to show your face at the Assembly tonight—and should have feared for your very life on your return home. But you relieve my mind; I had forgot the fact of the Runner.”
Did I detect a menace in these words, so carelessly spoken? But Byron was no longer attending to the Captain; his ire was fleeting. He rose unsteadily to his feet and demanded of Mona, like a weary child, “Where is Davies? And where has Jane got to?”
I flushed as he uttered my name, but he referred, of course, to Lady Oxford. I did not exist for Lord Byron this evening, and was woman enough to feel a pang. The greater writer than he, however, overcame it.
“I believe she is in the ballroom, observing the dancing,” Desdemona faltered. “George—are you unwell? Shall I summon Swithin?”
But Lor
d Byron’s smouldering gaze had fixed on three men who were advancing across the card room towards our party. They were not dressed for a ball, and their countenances were stolid and unreadable. Constables at the beck and call of Sir Harding Cross, and I did not mistake.
“George Gordon, Lord Byron?” the chief of the three intoned.
“That is my name,” his lordship replied; “but I did not give you leave to make free with it.” And he snapped his fingers beneath the constable’s nose.
The fellow’s countenance did not alter; he might have been confronting a mad dog, run loose on the shingle. “It is my duty,” he said, “to arrest you, sir, on the charge of murder.”
At which his lordship knocked the poor fellow down.
THE ASSEMBLY ROOMS FELL SILENT AS BYRON WAS dragged away—all of Brighton horrified, as it seemed, by the sudden plummet of its favoured comet. The moment his lordship’s black head disappeared from the main staircase, however, the orchestra struck up a tune—the old chestnut, “Lady o’ the Timmer Lands.” A few couples moved hesitantly to the floor, and soon the scene was one of gaiety; Lady Oxford did not faint, but continued talking with deliberate animation to Sir John and the man named Hodge; and I found my brother Henry hastening towards me from the supper room. The Earl of Swithin was hard on his heels.
Mona pulled at Swithin’s sleeve with urgency. “Do something, Charles! They cannot simply throw Byron in gaol!”
“It may be the safest place for him, Mona,” her husband replied grimly.
“Is the whole town so opposed to the notion of innocence?”
“The Regent is—and that must be enough for the magistrate. I have been talking with Old HardCross.” The Earl’s eyes flicked dispassionately towards my brother. “The intelligence the magistrate received this afternoon, of a tunnel leading from the Marine Pavilion to the King’s Arms—or, not to put too fine a point upon it, from the Regent’s home to a place of murder—has animated His Royal Highness as nothing else should. He is demanding a swift period to the Twining business. Sir Harding assures me that nothing shall equal his efforts to set the Prince’s mind at ease; and therefore, it is to be hoped Byron will hang for the corpse found in his rooms, and there is to be an end of it.”
“But that is unjust!” Mona cried. “That is … that is criminal, Charles!”
“I am mortified,” Henry said in a low voice. “To think that Byron’s liberty is denied him—that his very life might be laid at my door—when my only object in speaking with the magistrate was the achievement of justice!”
“I believe we should collect our party and return home,” the Earl said gently. “We can do nothing more here.”
“Where have they taken him?” I asked.
“To Brighton Camp. He is to be held under the armed guard of the Regent’s own—the 10th Hussars.”
My eyes drifted across the room, and observed Captain Viscount Morley, his military helmet hiding his golden curls, slipping neatly out of the room.
I could not think a barracks the safest gaol for Byron.
FRIDAY, 14 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON
I HAD BEEN DRESSED ONLY A QUARTER-HOUR THIS MORNING, and was taking tea and toast in the private parlour set aside for Henry’s and my use, when the Countess of Swithin sent up her card—followed hard on its heels by the Countess herself.
“We must corner her,” Desdemona cried as she sailed into the room, a perfect picture in straw-coloured linen trimmed in dull rose, “and make her tell us what she knows.”
“Who?”
“Caro Lamb, of course!” She drew off her bonnet and gloves, and set about prosaically pouring herself a cup of tea. “You cannot think how low poor Jane Harley is become. She is certain Byron will hang, and is torn between a jealous desire to see him do so—born of her discovery of his passion for Miss Twining—and outright despair at the World’s Loss. She persists in believing him a genius, tho’ the rest of us are inclined to consider him out of his wits.” Mona took a sip of scalding tea, and grimaced.
“Swithin went this morning to appeal to Old HardCross for the setting of bail, and the release of his lordship into our own household—bail to be paid by Swithin, of course—but Sir Harding refused. He had the sheer effrontery to say that he regards Byron as excessively dangerous, on account of his knocking down that constable last evening; and in the next breath, told Swithin that he now believes Caro Lamb’s testimony at the inquest!—For you will recall she claimed Byron spent the remainder of the night at the Pavilion, in her arms, and not at Scrope Davies’s at all. Anybody in Brighton might know her for a liar—except, it would seem, Sir Harding Cross.”
“I am sure she offered her testimony then with the intention of protecting Lord Byron—by swearing to his presence, and offering an alibi, when he might have been anywhere,” I said thoughtfully. “The discovery of the tunnel leading out of the Pavilion, however, has secured the noose around his lordship’s neck. Sir Harding need look no further. Miss Twining’s body is believed to have found its way to Byron’s rooms at the Arms through the cunning tunnel that commences in the Regent’s wine cellars; Lady Caroline swears Byron was at the Pavilion during the critical hours of the murder and disposal of Miss Twining’s body—and therefore, Lord Byron shall be found guilty of having drowned the girl he passionately loved. Nobody seems to give a ha’porth of interest in why he should be moved to do so, however.”
“What I chiefly wish to know,” Mona retorted, “is what Caroline was doing Monday night—or Tuesday morning, whichever you will—when she claims to have been making passionate love to his lordship! She has never said why she parted from Miss Twining in that churlish way. Even a Ponsonby born and bred should never behave so ill as to send a child of fifteen alone out into the night. I believe the lady prevaricates. I smell deceit in Caro Lamb at fifty paces, and I am determined to know the whole.”
“You intend to summon her to Marine Parade?”
“Not at all!” Mona set her cup on its saucer with an audible ring. “We shall beard her ladyship in her bower! Do you not believe the answer to the entire affair lies within the Pavilion itself?”
“I do. It is the last place Miss Twining was seen, and whence her body was certainly conveyed to the Arms. That cannot have happened without someone—guest or servant—noting a disturbance. I have been working upon my brother to use his influence with Lord Moira, in order to gain some entry there. For myself, I should dearly like to meet with George Hanger again.”
Mona look startled. “I cannot think why! Odious man. And his teeth are wooden. But you need no other entrée when I am with you, my dear—let us go at once, if you have quite finished your breakfast!”
I had quite finished my breakfast. It remained only to scrawl a hurried note to Henry, who had—at my behest—presented himself in full mourning dress at Catherine Twining’s funeral. The service was even now commencing, at the small chapel belonging to the 10th Hussars, so beloved of the Twining family; and Mr. Hendred Smalls should be presiding. It was not the service he had anticipated enjoying with young Catherine—and I wondered how he should get through it without breaking down entirely. But I must await Henry’s account. I put on my bonnet—and was away with Mona on the instant.
“I WISH THAT I WERE DEAD,” LADY CAROLINE OFFERED IN a thread-like whisper.
The sentiment should not be unexpected in one who has tumbled from a powerful young horse to the hard ground of the Downs, and sustained a considerable bruising, if not a cracked rib or two; but Lady Caroline exhibited no evidence of physical injury from her escapade at the race-meeting two days previous, and appeared already to have forgot the sad despatching of the black colt.
“—Drowned, preferably, as the Other was,” she persisted. “I tried to allow the waters to o’erwhelm me, as he sailed on, indifferent—but I was cheated of Death. O, to be dying!”
“—or at the very least, declining,” Mona returned cordially. “On the whole, I think you should prefer declining, my dear—I really do. I
t is less absolute than death, and therefore offers greater scope for the imagination—one might persist in one’s decline, with periodic episodes of rallying—one might alternately raise and dash the hopes of such gentlemen as place wagers on these things at White’s, from week to week. Whereas with death, you know, the curtain is rung down quite definitely on your drama.”
“Catherine Twining is dead, and all the world can talk of nothing but her,” Caro said petulantly; “Catherine Twining is Leila, and George is forever writing verses to her! I wish I were dead.”
“I should like to slap you.” Mona’s tone was all bored indignation. “You have only to hurl yourself into the sea, you ghoulish creature, without Swithin there to save you, to make an end of it. But tell us what we wish to know, first. You might then be comforted in your final moments, in the knowledge that you have been the salvation of Lord Byron. We shall promise to tell everyone so.”
Caro Lamb turned doe eyes, brimful of tragedy, upon the Countess. “You are excessively unkind. Why do you hate me so, Mona? Why does the entire world hate me? Is it because I was fortunate enough to have been loved by him?”
We were perched on a scattering of uncomfortable chairs, done in the Chinese stile with hard wooden backs, intended to suggest bamboo, in a small saloon that faced a prettyish wilderness running down to the shingle. It was a bright morning, and a stiff wind tossed the branches of the trees; Lady Caroline had adopted a pose by the French windows, and kept her profile turned firmly to best advantage.
“Not at all,” Mona replied cheerfully. “I expect it is because you are so tiresome, Caro. Now, you will have heard that his lordship has been taken to Brighton Camp, where he is held under armed guard, pending the next sitting of the Assizes—which in this part of the world are to be in two weeks’ time. The magistrate, Sir Harding Cross, has told Swithin that he should not have taken his lordship up, but for your testimony—your insistence at the inquest, Caro, that his lordship was in your rooms for the better part of Monday night.”
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