“Tuesday morning,” I interjected.
“Very well,” Mona said crossly. “You take my point, I hope. It is because of your … embroidering, your … penchant for the high dramatic … that Sir Harding may insist Lord Byron was at the Pavilion. Which is the very last place any of his friends should wish him to have been.”
“Why?” Caro demanded in a throbbing accent. “Why, Mona? Because they are determined to despise me, and my love for him? I am not ashamed of it! I am not ashamed of having felt that pure, elevating passion which …”
“Can you apprehend nothing, you wretched woman, but your own interest in this affair?” the Countess cried in exasperation. “It has nothing to do with you, Caro, excepting in that you have lied—and Byron shall certainly hang because of it!”
Lady Caroline’s gaze slid back, unseeing, to the windows. “I did not lie.”
There was a palpitating silence. Mona turned a puzzled look upon me, and lifted her shoulders in mute interrogation.
“I should never lie where Byron is concerned,” Caro murmured dreamily. “That should be to dishonour the sacred nature of our bond.”
I rose, and crossed to where she stood. “You insist upon his lordship’s having been here in the early hours of Tuesday morning?”
Caroline Lamb smiled at me, then—a faint, absent, half-crazed smile. “Of course he was,” she said. “Why do you think Catherine Twining ran away, all by herself, without the slightest escort? It was because he followed her here, of course—and the goosecap was terrified of him.”
Chapter 27 A Matter of Questions
FRIDAY, 14 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON, CONT.
“I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN SHE WOULD NOT LIE ABOUT anything to do with Byron—and that Scrope Davies should.” Mona spoke gloomily as we quitted Caro Lamb’s rooms. “Swithin said Davies would do anything to save his friend’s skin—stand buff was the revolting Eton-schoolboy phrase he used.”
We had persisted in talking with Caro Lamb for a quarter-hour after her flat declaration, in an attempt to shake her from her appalling ground, but she would have none of it—nor of us. Her narrative consisted of the following:
Of course Byron had quitted the Assembly at her appearance; he could not bear to see her dancing—particularly if the dance was a waltz, and as she recalled, a waltz was being struck up within minutes of her arrival. She had expected Byron to lie in wait for her, however—or for Catherine Twining, it made no odds—because he could not bear to allow Caro the triumph of driving him out of Society, and must always have the final word. By adopting Catherine—of whose existence Caro had known already from her spies, as Lady Oxford had not—she had ensured that Byron would follow them both. And indeed, his lordship had braved the Pavilion itself—where Prinny had never yet invited him, due to their mutual dislike—on the strength of his acquaintance with Lady Caroline. Byron merely informed the footmen who awaited the late return of the Regent’s guests that Lady Caro had pressed him to drink tea with her after the Assembly—and as Lady Caro had already brought Miss Twining up to her boudoir, the footmen assumed Byron was expected as well.
“Was it not brave of him?” she suggested in her habitually ardent tone. “But in truth, I believe he would brave anything when the desire to see me overtakes him. Tho’ he professes to hate my very existence, he cannot quite live without me, you know—he is continually answering my letters, and stealing away to see me, under the very nose of my repulsive mother-in-law, Lady Melbourne. I believe it is the challenge he enjoys, as well as the delicious deceit.”
I reflected that her ladyship understood the motives of her erstwhile lover very well; and decided to ignore, for the moment, Byron’s intentions on that evening. Of greater import were his actions, and the approximate times at which they had taken place.
“At what hour did his lordship put in an appearance?” I asked.
Lady Caroline shrugged. “I could not possibly tell you the time. Time is mutable; it expands or contracts depending on the degree of boredom one suffers; in Byron’s presence, it is precious—and horrifyingly fleet.”
Desdemona sighed. “Give over, Caro, do—this is important.”
Lady Caroline lifted her shoulders once more. She was still directing her speeches to the French windows.
“You quitted the Assembly at one o’clock in the morning, near as makes no odds,” I said. “Byron left the King’s Arms half an hour later, according to the publican’s assurances, which I myself received. His lordship is supposed to have reached Scrope Davies’s lodgings at a quarter to two—the same time at which Catherine Twining was observed by an undergroom to be crossing the Pavilion grounds alone. In order to credit your explanation, we must believe Mr. Davies to have lied—but recollect the evidence of his servants. Not all of them may be paid off, in a matter of murder.”
“You appear to have a higher regard for a menial’s sense of delicacy than I,” Caro told me, “but even if you will have them all be honest, I see no great difficulty. Recollect you are speaking of a publican’s clock, in stating the moment of Lord Byron’s departure.”
I stared at her in puzzlement an instant, until comprehension dawned. Mr. Tolliver’s clock should never run so true to the hour as the Regent’s great instrument above the stables, which should be calibrated with a precision unequaled anywhere but at Greenwich. Tho’ the King’s Arms clock be wound of necessity each day, it must lose time over the twenty-four hours, and was thus, as was common among publick-house instruments, generally set a quarter-hour ahead, so that guests might not miss their stage-coaches, nor Tolliver his hour of closing. When Lord Byron and Scrope Davies thought themselves to be quitting the Arms at half past one, they were undoubtedly doing so at a quarter past—or thereabouts. Miss Twining, however, had certainly quitted the Pavilion at a quarter to two. Nobody, at the inquest or thereafter, had considered of the customs obtaining among publick-house clocks.
“We have been very stupid,” Desdemona observed.
“I had assumed it to be a habit with you,” Caro replied distantly. “Take the statements of the servants, for example. Undoubtedly they were asked when their master and his guests returned home; and undoubtedly they told the time as they knew it—conceiving of the guest as being proved in the fact of George’s valet. Where George himself might be was none of their concern; it is not their place to know. I think the matter readily explains itself.”
Undoubtedly, we must speak with Scrope Davies, I thought despairingly; there remained his insistence that he had sat up drinking wine with Byron until three. I should have to employ Henry or Lord Swithin—who knew him best—in the task of wringing out the truth. But that was another interview; we were still confronting Lady Caroline.
“What occurred when Byron ascended to your boudoir?”
For the first time, her ladyship quitted the windows. She settled herself on a divan, crossing her legs beneath her and taking up a gentleman’s long clay smoking pipe, in which she proceeded to tamp a bit of tobacco. The Countess and I were forced to endure a tedious interval while Lady Caroline engaged in all the business of lighting this, and encouraging it to exude an acrid blue smoke, which she then deeply inhaled, closing her eyes with bliss as she did so—until the eyelids fluttered open once more, and the huge, light-coloured orbs settled upon me unerringly.
“He came to beg Catherine to hear him, of course—full of abject apology for having spirited her away a few days before; he had attempted much the same sort of interview at the Assembly, of course, but she would not attend. She begged me to save her from his clutches, and being no fool—having not the slightest interest in promoting the affaire—I made a show of hurling myself upon George so that she might reach the door in safety. The little idiot ran straight down the passage and out of the Pavilion, without a word to anybody—and nothing more was known of her until the maid screamed bloody murder, as I understand it, at the King’s Arms the following morning.”
“And Byron?” I asked steadily, tho’ I hated th
e indifference with which Caro spoke of Catherine’s murder.
She blew a cloud before replying. “He would have followed her, of course, until I observed that a man with his limp and a girl of her youth were decidedly ill-assorted. If he could not waltz with me, he should never race with Catherine—she should be safely tucked up in bed by the time he achieved Church Street.”
“Clever Caro,” Desdemona said acidly. “And so he stayed with you?”
“Of course. Once caught in my toils, he never has found the strength to break them. He loves me, you know—in defiance of all he says in publick or private, in defiance of his own reason.” She was suddenly serene as she lay upon the divan, an acolyte at a private altar. “He began by ranting against my passion—by warning me he was unsafe, and that if I could not cut him out of my heart it might end in tragedy for more than myself—but I assured him I had already lost everything of worth to a lady of my station. I am cut dead by my oldest acquaintance, called mad by my own family, and must look on as my husband’s dearest friends urge him to divorce. There is nothing more Byron may strip from me—no further tragedy I may know.”
Lady Oxford had been correct, I realized, when she described Caro Lamb as possessed of a brilliant understanding; it was unfortunate in the extreme that her intelligence had been incapable of subduing the wilder excesses of her emotions.
“And when his raging was done?” Desdemona persisted.
Caro’s eyes closed again. “George was very tired. He has been working quite hard at his verses, you know, and I fear the efforts of Genius exhaust him. He took a little wine. Put his head in my lap, and allowed me to stroke it. And then he began to recite his poem to me—The Giaour. It is quite fine; something quite out of the ordinary way. And to hear the words in George’s voice—” Her own throbbed. “I crave his voice, his touch, his look, as another might the transports of opium.”
I could well believe it; Caro spoke and moved as one still in the grip of phantasm. The man could summon a diabolic power; I had felt it myself. “We talked of the customs of the hareem for at least an hour,” she sighed. “We smoked”—she gestured here with the pipe—“and then he begged me to dress in my page’s clothes, so that he might conceive of his Leila in Turkish dress.”
“And this would have been … perhaps three o’clock?”
“Time, time!” she retorted petulantly. “I told you—when one is in the presence of Byron, time means nothing.”
“And then?”
“And then—there was nothing for it, I was dressed as a page and the idea of taking a boy excites George profoundly—we went to bed, of course.”
I had never in my life encountered anyone like Lady Caroline Lamb. Her frankness—her lack of embarrassment or shame—utterly silenced me; I could not summon a word. But Desdemona was otherwise; she had lived in Caro’s world from birth; as had been true of Lord Harold, there was nothing she could not hear or say without complete equanimity.
“Naturally Byron would admit to none of this at the inquest, for fear of being laughed at,” Mona said thoughtfully. “I see how it was. He has made such a publick parade of hating you—he could admit nothing so intimate without damage to his reputation. Very well—when did he leave you?”
Caro shrugged. Time, again. We were beyond saving.
“Was it light or dark, you tiresome girl?” Mona demanded.
“That lovely hour when the world entire is grey—and the birds commence their singing,” she said dreamily.
“We shall put it down as dawn.” I rose to leave. “Thank you, Lady Caroline, for your confidence. We are in your debt.”
“I should say, rather, that George is,” she returned quite calmly. “Provided he escapes the gibbet, of course. Perhaps you will nod to me now, Mona, when we pass each other in Hyde Park?”
“Perhaps, Lady Caroline.” And Desdemona curtseyed with quelling stile.
WHEN WE HAD BEEN RELEASED BY A FOOTMAN INTO THE courtyard sweep fronting the Pavilion, the Countess halted in her steps, and looked to me appealingly.
“This will utterly sink poor Jane Harley. First Catherine Twining—and now the impossible Caro Lamb. I declare, had I never known my beloved Charles—I should believe all men heartless.”
“Say rather they possess too much heart—it is fidelity that is lacking,” I returned. “But I am not convinced Lady Oxford must be told. The outcome shall depend upon our success or failure, Mona—for if we discover the true murderer, Byron need never stand trial. And if he does not come before the Assizes, Lady Caroline’s story may remain exactly that: one of the fantastic tales dreamt up in her bower.”
The Countess glanced at me narrowly. “You still believe him innocent?”
“If we are to believe Caro, then we must believe her wholly; we cannot pick and chuse which bits of evidence to credit. Therefore, if we accept that Byron was here, and left her at dawn, it is impossible for Byron to have drowned Catherine Twining—for she cannot still have been alive at such an hour as half-past five o’clock. She was killed within moments of leaving this place—else she should have achieved her home, and lived to dance at another Assembly. By dawn poor Catherine was already drowned and lashed into Byron’s hammock. She must have been carried to the Arms in the dead of night—when all the intimates of both Pavilion and publick house should be deemed to be sleeping.”
“Caro wasn’t sleeping,” Mona interjected darkly.
“The risk of being heard at dawn,” I persisted, “—or indeed, seen by a member of Tolliver’s household, as the culprit exited the tunnel in one bedchamber and thrust the body into Byron’s empty rooms next door—should be too great. It cannot have been Byron who did all this.”
“As you say.” Mona drew on her gloves. “Then who killed her, pray?”
At that moment, the great clock in the stable block’s tower to the west of us began to toll the hour; Catherine Twining’s service must be over, and it was already noon. The striking clock put me in mind of something I had nearly forgot.
“Mona,” I said, “all that we have discovered derives from what the magistrate and coroner neglected to ask. Do you not think that the key to this tragedy lies in how one puts the questions—and to whom?”
“Very well,” she sighed, “I shall rephrase mine. Pray, Jane—who killed Catherine Twining?”
“There was one other person abroad that night who may very well know. Are you incommoded by the smell of the stables, Countess?”
She drew herself up. “You forget. I have been accustomed to ride with the Quorn.”
“Ah—but can you converse with the undergroom?” I wondered, and walked purposefully towards the Regent’s sixty horses.
THERE WERE, OF COURSE, A DOZEN UNDERGROOMS, AND even two who bore the name of Jem; but we very quickly established which of these was cousin to my chambermaid, Betsy—by enquiring of the Regent’s Head Groom, a very august gentleman in buff and blue livery. We expressed nothing more than a desire to convey a message from one servant to another, and if the Head Groom thought it odd that two ladies, one of them in mourning, should embark on such a trivial errand, he was far too well-bred to say so.
We found Jem in a beautifully-appointed loose box which held a fine-boned mare and her foal—a filly but four days old. The undergroom was concocting a warm bran mash for the mare, and murmuring foolish nothings to the foal, who lay flat on her side lost in sleep, her fragile ribs rising and falling with every breath. The box was warm with the heat of the animals and the strong smell of them, overlaid with the sweetness of the straw bedding and the hay in the feeding racks. I have never been much of a horsewoman—a family lack, which may be put down to our straitened circumstances. My elder brothers hunted with the Vyne—our local pack in Hampshire—whenever our friends the Chutes were willing to mount them; but there was no gentle riding hack for my sister, Cassandra, or me. That does not mean, however, that I am afraid of horses, or do not enjoy being near them. I lacked Mona’s easy familiarity, however—she had no hesitation in lean
ing over the half-open door of the box, extending her gloved hand, and clucking softly to the mare—who stepped delicately over her sleeping foal and thrust a soft nose into Mona’s gloved hand.
“She hopes that I have brought her sugar,” Mona said, “but I am a rank cheat, you beauty, and have nothing to offer. What is her name, sirrah?”
“Rapunzel, on account o’ her long tail, my lady.” The undergroom lifted his hand to his forehead in respect, and stared at us.
Mona stroked the small Arab head. “And does she like to run?”
“Aye, but she’s no hunter. A neat little mount for a lady, when she’s not to foal. Granddaughter to Eclipse, she is—no better blood in the Kingdom.”
“I believe it. Pray—go on with your bran mash. We have no wish to disturb you at your work. I am the Countess of Swithin, and this is my friend, Miss Austen—who is acquainted with your cousin Betsy.”
The undergroom coloured, and dropped his gaze. “The lady’d be a guest over to the Castle?”
“I am—and was a friend to the young lady who met her death by drowning a few nights ago. Betsy said you spoke of her, at the inquest; I am glad to hear it. You have done a good deal towards apprehending a murderer.”
“Arrested Lord Byron, they did,” he said warily, and began stirring his bran with vigour.
“But you know that to be nonsense.”
Jem glanced up at me swiftly, but said nothing.
“You saw Lord Byron enter the Pavilion that evening?”
“Aye, and he did.”
“And then Miss Twining left it? When the clock chimed the three-quarters?”
He hesitated; it was probable he wondered what right we had to put such questions to him—but the habit of submitting to authority prevailed. With a slight grimace, he nodded.
“Was Lord Byron with her when she quitted the place?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did he pursue Miss Twining once she was gone?”
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