“Very well,” I replied, purposely ignoring the cant language that should have won a stinging rebuke from his father. “Sixteen points, sirs, a penny per point. Mr. Chute and I shall give you and Mr. Gambier two points to start, as a handicap.”
This was a notable bit of bravado on my part, but no matter; if James-Edward and his partner beat us soundly in a matter of moments, I should have more time to interrogate Thomas-Vere. But in the event, we were smartly matched. Mr. Gambier was a proficient, as befit a languorous gentleman who spent his hours in the clubs of Pall Mall and the country houses of the Great. His fingers were steady, his shots deft. James-Edward betrayed all the excitement inevitable in a Winchester schoolboy, and was prone to slashing his cue across the green surface like a swordsman. His ball was rather more apt to leap in the air and land on his opponent’s toe, than find a pocket. Happily, I had chosen to wear my half-boots of jean that morning, and was thus impervious.
I was a careful and deliberate player. What I lacked in dash, I more than made up for in accuracy. Thomas-Vere, however, was a flamboyant soul. He pirouetted about the table like an opera dancer, deploying his cue behind his back. If the essence of a man is revealed in his play, then Thomas-Vere was a gambler: he never hesitated on the brink of risk. Sometimes his shots went wide; but more often than not they went home. This naturally underlined his native complaisance.
“Our luck is in, Miss Austen,” he confided as we approached our turn, four points in advance of our opponents. “Observe, callow fellows, as I carom both cue ball and object!”
He contorted himself into a human knot, the better to achieve the necessary attitude, and thrust his cue home. Our ball struck the red one, then skittered towards the table’s bank, missing our enemy’s cue ball by a hair.
I eyed the result resignedly. “I believe, Mr. Chute,” I said, “that I prefer skill to luck. Winning, sirs!” And I shot our ball off theirs, into the pocket.
“Ho-hey!” Thomas-Vere cried, and applauded with his long, white hands.
Edward Gambier bowed. “Honoured, ma’am, to lose to so pretty a player.”
“I have not got any pennies at present, Aunt,” James-Edward stammered, “but perhaps I may meet my obligations in a few days’ time.” It was customary to give the children their Christmas Boxes—small gifts of loose coins—on Twelfth Night. I might have told my nephew to think no more of his pennies—but that should have shamed him before Mr. Gambier, who was obviously a favourite.
I curtseyed to James-Edward, therefore. “I shall accept your vowels, sir—and request the honour of a second match, when you may win your own back again.”5
James-Edward flushed. “With pleasure. We shall have to play tonight, Aunt, for Papa says we are to leave tomorrow.”
“Impossible!” Thomas-Vere cried. “How is The Vyne to endure the remainder of the season, without the Austens to give it spice?”
“You must secure Mr. West as your billiards partner,” I replied. “Tho’ he seems a most elusive gentleman. You could not find him yesterday, as I recall—when you quit the morning room.”
“Aye,” Thomas-Vere said, and his gaiety fled at the memory. “I soon gave up the search, however, once the groom knocked upon the door. Poor Gage!”
“You chanced to be crossing the Staircase Hall, I suppose, when the groom appeared?”
“Not directly,” Thomas-Vere replied. “I had looked into this room, thinking West might be with you, Gambier—”
“And I told you I thought he was about his sketching of your brother, in the book room,” Gambier replied.
“Of course. The poses, for the Parliamentary picture.” I felt a curious sense of relief. Naturally Raphael West had been occupied yesterday morning after Lieutenant Gage’s departure—he would wish to conclude his job of work and be away from The Vyne.
“But it was all a hum,” Thomas-Vere said petulantly, “for when I hurried up to the library, neither he nor William was there. William was down at the kennels, as the groom told us but a few moments later. It was when I descended once more that I found Roark standing agape at the front door, all the cold blowing in, and the groom with his hand on the gelding’s reins.”
He was correct, of course. Chute had walked up from the direction of the kennels; I had forgot. I had forgot Raphael West’s own words, as well, as we stood together in the snow.
“He mentioned something to me about having been in the Oak Gallery. That is just beyond the book room, is it not? Perhaps he intended to sketch—found Mr. Chute absent—and wandered into the Gallery itself,” I suggested.
The Oak Gallery is a long, many-windowed passage lined with portraits and pictures. It runs the full width of the house along the west side, and is accessible only from the book room and the Chutes’ bedchambers, which are at the rear of the house. These are the former Royal bedchambers, and the Oak Gallery similarly dates from Henry VIII’s time. I had not looked into it during this visit to The Vyne, because Chute and his secretary were forever closeted in the book room, discouraging my entry—but I may attest that the Gallery is one of the most remarkable remnants of early-sixteenth-century architecture extant in England. It is lined from floor to ceiling with linenfold panelling, carved with various noble arms. Seven mahogany benches march down the centre, covered in leather, so that the interested aesthete might pause and rest while surveying the paintings. I could easily comprehend Raphael West lingering in such a room, his sketchbook in hand.
“I do not think West was entirely honest, then,” Mr. Gambier volunteered in his bluff way, “tho’ I cannot think what it matters, where he was. But when I saw him, just after breakfast, he was in the Chapel—speaking to my sister.”
4 From Jane’s language, she is describing English billiards, which employed two white cue balls and a single red object ball. A winning game employed the two cue balls; the player scored two points by pocketing the opponent’s ball. In a losing game, the player scored by caroming off the opponent’s ball and pocketing his own. Carombole play combined both techniques with a third—the object ball. To score, players must carom off both the opponent’s cue ball and the object ball. By 1800, the three forms of play were generally combined to form English billiards.—Editor’s note.
5 “Vowels” were I.O.Us—in the form of the debtor’s initials, signed to an acknowledgment of the debt.—Editor’s note.
13
SUSPECTS
Wednesday, 28th December 1814
The Vyne, cont’d.
Lord Bolton disappointed his more ardent admirers by declining Eliza Chute’s offer of refreshment. He asked to view Lieutenant Gage’s body—which was by now decently laid out on a bier in the Chapel, awaiting its coffin from Sherborne St. John—and then departed in the direction of the stables. There, I presume, he examined the gelding’s knees, which had suffered from the cutting impact of the wire. As a gentleman long accustomed to horses, he profited, I am sure, by the latter inspection far more than the former. Broken necks cannot often have come in his way.
Lord Bolton then called for his carriage and made his adieux. He went away looking anxious and harassed, perhaps as a result of Mary’s begging him to “remember me to your sweet lady, and pray accept my sincerest wishes for her health and happiness.” As her ladyship was hourly in expectation of her fifth child, Lord Bolton undoubtedly felt his place was at home rather than in Eliza’s Saloon, where a nuncheon had been laid out—but James’s earnest entreaty that he “honour us with your excellent horsemanship when next we ride to hounds” must have sped him on his road. The Great dislike above all things to be toad-eaten.
“You have put the fat into the fire, and no mistake, Miss Jane,” was all William Chute would say as he helped himself to stewed pig’s feet and—joy beyond imagining for Mrs. Austen!—cold brawn. “I should have liked to have avoided an inquest, with the Treaty gone missing, but Bolton feels it would not do. One must consider the wire you found. To call Gage’s death Misadventure is hardly honest, whatever concerns of State
might argue; and so Bolton believes we must empanel a jury, and present the evidence.”
“When is it to be, sir?”
“In two days’ time,” he replied. “But stay a little, and I shall explain.”
It was evident from the disposition of our party about the Saloon that his lordship’s visit, and the close conversation in the book room, were of general interest. All but Benedict L’Anglois and Miss Gambier were present; and presumably her formidable aunt would relate the particulars to her. We sat in groups of twos and threes. I settled by Cassandra, and we were soon joined by Thomas-Vere, who seemed to regard us as in some wise his property while at The Vyne. All of us had plates laden with good things: cheese biscuits and stewed plums; slices of ham and radishes; cold tongue and suet pudding. William Chute appeared in our corner with a decanter of Madeira. I thanked him, my face upturned to his, and felt a sudden prickle of consciousness along the back of my neck. Raphael West was regarding me with his usual penetrating gaze. He stood on the opposite side of the Saloon, next to Eliza and James. With a word of apology, he left them, and crossed to our corner.
“Mr. Chute,” he said with a bow.
“Mr. West.” Our host inclined his head. “I suppose you are wanting some stronger stuff than Madeira, eh? A glass of claret, perhaps?”
“Thank you, no. I merely wished to learn what determination you reached with Lord Bolton, as to the inquest.”
“We are all on tenterhooks, Will,” Thomas-Vere said archly. “The vulgar whiff of a publick enquiry must excite the interest of each of us. Do not be keeping your business close to your vest, I beg.”
William Chute glanced about the Saloon. As if aware of his roving eye, everyone but Lady Gambier turned to him expectantly. She maintained an aloof self-sufficiency; I now knew that for a pose.
“There is the figure for your sketchbook,” I murmured to Raphael West. “That appearance of indifference is an art won only by decades of study. You would do well to capture it.”
“I prefer the engaged mind to the retiring one,” he replied. He let his notebook fall open at his knee; to my astonishment I observed a sketch of myself—crouched over the knot of wire I had discovered in the snow. I looked up at him swiftly and would have spoken, but William Chute forestalled me.
“You all must know that I have been speaking to Lord Bolton this morning regarding an inquest on Lieutenant Gage’s death,” he said to the room. “We are agreed that it is more than probable the Lieutenant did not die by accident, as was assumed.”
There was the briefest of silences. Then, “Good God, man!” my brother James cried. “You cannot mean he killed himself?”
“No,” Chute agreed. “I should think that most unlikely.”
“You mean,” said a clear, low voice from the doorway, “that Jack was murdered.”
All our heads turned as one. Miss Gambier stood there, her face white as paper.
“Nonsense,” Lady Gambier said crisply. She rose from her retired position and stared coldly at her niece. “Do not be making a cake of yourself, Mary. If you cannot master your worse nature and appear in publick with the composure required of a lady, you would do well to remain in your room.”
I saw Eliza shift uneasily and raise one hand, as if to stop the unfeeling words. Edward Gambier took one step towards his aunt, his brows knit in anger. But anything he might have said was forestalled by the Master of The Vyne.
“That is exactly what I meant, my dear,” William Chute assured Miss Gambier, as tho’ her ladyship had never spoken. “Will you not join us? A glass of Madeira would do you good.”
“Thank you, sir.” Without the slightest notice of her ladyship, Miss Gambier glided towards a chair Raphael West held out for her. “I should like a glass of wine.”
While her host fetched one, James began to bluster. “But this must be nonsense, Chute! Or at the very least—a grievous mistake. It is impossible for Lieutenant Gage to have been murdered. Why, the tracks of his horse never reached the road!”
So James, too, had noticed that fact.
William Chute pressed the glass of Madeira into Mary Gambier’s hand. “You are correct, Austen. Gage’s horse did not leave The Vyne park. Which makes the matter much more personal—and dictates clearly that I may take no hand in the investigation myself. That is why I have sought advice of Lord Bolton. He has elected to notify the Coroner in Basingstoke. He hopes to have a jury empanelled the day after tomorrow—Friday. Your sister will have to give evidence.”
“My sister?” James looked about the Saloon wildly. “I take it you would refer to Jane. I cannot allow it, Chute. To be appearing in a vulgar proceeding such as this—”
“Vulgar?” I said mildly. “When Lord Bolton is the mover?”
“Do you expect him to attend?” Mary asked. “With perhaps Lady Bolton?”
“Do not be ridiculous, my dear,” James said sternly. “Her ladyship is about to be confined. Do not be giving countenance to Jane’s deplorable thirst for publicity. You know full well how she contrives to involve herself in other people’s murders, with no greater object than the achievement of Justice—which had far better be left to Divine Providence!”
Raphael West leaned close to my ear. “Do you, indeed? How very intriguing.”
“Mr. West will also appear,” Chute said, “as I must, myself. Miss Austen will be in excellent hands, James; I shall take prodigious care of her, and carry her to Basingstoke Friday morning.”
“But, sir,” Edward Gambier broke in, “what is it all about? From your remarks, I understand you to mean that someone belonging to The Vyne killed poor Jack. I must suppose you to suspect one of the servants. But why should any of them commit murder? They cannot have known Gage from Adam.”
“I do not suspect my servants.” Chute’s countenance was bleak. “They have all been with me for years—generations, in some cases. Besides, they were at liberty on the day of Gage’s arrival—St. Stephen’s Day—and were probably too foxed on rum punch to have roused themselves early the following morning. No, I do not suspect the servants.”
There was a sharp and deadly silence.
“He suspects his family and friends,” Thomas-Vere drawled.
Mary uttered a shrill shriek.
“How very charitable of you, Will!” the clergyman continued, with false mirth. “So refreshingly apt in this Christmas season, when peace and goodwill walk among men. If one of us is to be gaoled and hanged, may we at least know why? As our good Gambier enquired—why should any of us kill Gage, whom we barely knew from Adam?”
“The document he brought from Ghent has been stolen,” Chute said abruptly. “It was a delicate paper; he was to have delivered it to the Admiralty, and from thence to Parliament. You see why I must take the Lieutenant’s death as a matter of the most serious moment. He died in the execution of his duty, on business for the Crown.” Lady Gambier thrust aside her embroidery and walked in her stateliest fashion to the Saloon door. “Tricks and stratagems,” she said coldly. “I do not believe a word of it. The man fell from his horse and died; you will discover this paper of yours in the spring, when the snow melts. In the meantime, the Gambiers shall not remain to be insulted at The Vyne. We shall quit this unhappy house tomorrow.”
“I cannot allow it, my lady,” Chute said quietly.
She stopped dead in the doorway. “What did you say?”
“I cannot allow you, or your niece or nephew, to leave. None of your whereabouts at the time of the murder may be corroborated.” William Chute, I gathered, had also been asking questions—probably of his servants. “Indeed, I must insist that you remain under our roof at present, until the inquest, at least, shall be over.”
“How dare you, sir!” Lady Gambier blazed. “What is this impertinence? Shall I find my things searched, for a murder weapon?”
“Not for the weapon—Miss Austen has already discovered that.” He inclined his head in my direction; Miss Gambier glanced at me swiftly. “But all my guests’ rooms are even no
w being searched. Only the gravest necessity should prompt such an outrage, and I am deeply conscious of the injury I do to all of you—but I have ordered the housemaids and footmen to go through the belongings of every person at The Vyne. The stolen paper must be hidden somewhere, and if it may be secured, a great deal of future unpleasantness may be avoided.”
“I suggest you search the hearths, then, as well,” Raphael West interjected. “We cannot exclude the possibility that the paper in question has been burnt; and if so, some evidence might remain.”
“But why destroy what one would kill to obtain?” Mary Gambier cried. “It does not make sense!”
“Which is certainly why none of us will put up with such impertinence,” Lady Gambier hissed.
“I cannot agree with you, Aunt,” Mr. Gambier unexpectedly said. “If all within The Vyne’s walls are to be guilty until proved innocent, it is not for us to be excepted. I shall remain, Mr. Chute, and willingly, until you have put a name to Jack’s murderer.”
“Then you are a fool,” his aunt declared. She had turned, at last, in her place in the doorway. “Do you not know what may come of this, Edward? —The injuries that may be visited upon all your family—for the sake of a common sailor?”
“Now it is you who are speaking nonsense,” he returned stoutly.
She stared at him an instant in fury, then swept out of the room.
A LITTLE FLURRY OF wonder and hasty conversation ensued among the remainder of the guests. Thomas-Vere secured his brother’s attention by the simple expedient of grasping the collar of his jacket, and talking at him in a modulated form of his usual high-pitched cackle. My mother said prosaically, “It must be impossible, I suppose, for Jane to go in publick without exciting the attention of the violent. I am very sorry for it,” and my brother James’s wife chose that moment to fall from her seat in a dramatic and entirely fictitious swoon.
James so far forgot himself in the excitement of the moment as to dash the contents of his Madeira glass in his wife’s face, which succeeded in rousing both her consciousness and her wrath. She had donned a white muslin gown this morning—far too youthful for her years, and too paltry for the winter’s chill—and it was now thoroughly stained with the caramel-coloured wine. Her sputtering only increased the confusion. Eliza called for hartshorn; her husband muttered, “Well, well. Mrs. James. You must always be enacting a Cheltenham tragedy.” Miss Gambier looked on with scorn.
Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas: Being a Jane Austen Mystery Page 12
