“Mr. West is an artist,” Chute explained to his lordship, “and is staying at The Vyne on a matter of business. You will have heard of his father—Mr. Benjamin West.”
“But this is the greatest of pleasures!” Lord Bolton cried, rising to bow at Raphael West. “I consider that there is nothing to equal your father’s work in all of England—nay, on all the Continent! Did I not hear he is to be offered a knighthood?”
“My father would prefer a peerage,” West said coolly. “How may I serve you, Lord Bolton?”
“Miss Austen spoke of a drawing she discovered.”
“I have the fragment here,” West said, and offered it to the two men. “Pray treat it with care; it is weakened from the flames.”
Now the silence was palpable, and most uneasy. Chute whistled slowly under his breath, and Lord Bolton said, “I take it this is the deceased young lady?”
“That is a representation of Mary Gambier,” West said bitingly, “but it lacks the grace and dignity of the original entirely.”
Chute took it from Lord Bolton and set it gingerly on his writing table. “And you think this garish thing—tossed into the flames to be burnt—was done by Gage’s murderer?”
“It is an image of torture and suffering; nay, of sacrifice. I can only believe,” I said, “that once Lieutenant Gage was known to have been murdered—once the idea of an accident was dismissed—Mary Gambier’s life was forfeit. She could name her blackmailer. She knew that he had schemed for the Treaty. And he knew that she knew. It was merely a matter of time before he struck.”
Chute stared at me, his heavy brows knitted. “Who is this fiend?”
“One of your guests, sir,” I said quite calmly. “Or perhaps your brother. It might even be yourself—although I cannot think why you should kill for information the Lieutenant came to The Vyne expressly to show you.”
“Unless I were very clever,” Chute said slowly, “and meant to use that presumption of innocence to cast the blame on another in my household.” He pounded his fists on his writing table in sudden exasperation. “But it will not do, Miss Jane! Why should the fellow steal the Treaty at all? Of what possible use may it be to any but the principals involved?”
“I will answer that question,” Raphael West interjected—and in as concise terms as possible, related the Admiralty’s fear of a French spy.
“Do you mean to say, man,” Chute exploded when he had done, “that you entered my house under a pretext? That there is not to be a grand picture in Parliament, and that I have spent a tedious deal of time in posing, to no purpose at all?”
“I should never presume upon your kindness in such a way, sir,” West replied. “Nor should I misrepresent my father’s work so grossly. There is indeed to be a picture—and your poses shall form a part in it.”
Chute wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and studied West gloweringly. “Am I and my household suspected of treason?”
It was a bald question enough. A lesser man than West might have shied from it.
“Private communications between Lord Castlereagh and yourself, regarding provisions under negotiation at the Congress of Vienna, have, for some time now, been unaccountably known in Paris and Moscow,” he said. “The contents of your correspondence, which you believe known only to yourself, are read and debated throughout the Continent.”
“Then look to Castlereagh’s staff for your traitor!” Chute exploded. “You do not need to come to Hampshire in search of him.”
“I am afraid, sir,” West persisted quietly, “that we do. A man was lately taken up for stabbing another in a sailors’ tavern in Portsmouth; and when his pockets were turned out, he was found to have a letter written in French in one of them. When the Navy fellows examined it, they discovered it to be written in cypher—and sent it immediately to the Admiralty. There it was recognised as one of your communications to Castlereagh. And the alarm went up at the highest levels of Government.”
“Damn me,” Chute muttered. He passed his hands over his eyes. “I have been suspected. My honour and fitness for service questioned. Does Castlereagh himself believe me a traitor?”
“I cannot think so. But the disappearance of the Ghent Treaty, while at The Vyne—”
Chute groaned aloud. “How am I to prove my innocence?”
“That is for me to do,” West returned. “I may say that my first action upon learning of the Lieutenant’s death—before any idea of murder arose—was to question your kennel-master, Jobe. He confirmed for me, in complete innocence of my true purpose, that you had spent the interval of Gage’s death among your dogs—under not only Jobe’s eye, but two of his underlings’.”
This was news to me.
“Thank God for that.” Chute grimaced. “You will be suspecting L’Anglois next, as my secretary.”
“And as a man who professes a thorough knowledge of French,” I pointed out.
“His long years of service to the Comte d’Artois, however, make him an unlikely suspect,” West countered. “He is known among Government circles as an ardent Bourbon adherent.”
And he was in London when Mary Gambier died, I thought. I could not believe the two murders unconnected.
“I am relieved to hear you acknowledge it,” Chute said warmly. “I know no harm of Ben. It is true that he draws up my correspondence; but it is always I who seal and despatch it—and then, only by Express. Can it be possible that our system of publick messengers has been overturned by the Enemy?”
“You forget, sir, that the person who stole your intelligence also stole two lives,” I observed, “and we are agreed that the party must be an intimate of The Vyne.”
“Aye,” Chute retorted bitterly. “Explain that, Mr. West! The Admiralty sends you here, with grave suspicions they did not chuse to share with your host, and two of my guests are murdered! You have neither exposed nor thwarted your French spy—you have only brought violence to my household!”
“And none regrets that more than I,” he replied with a bow. “The traitor is at liberty to kill again. Which urges me to suggest that Miss Austen be conveyed from The Vyne as soon as possible.”
I started, and glared at him.
“Hey?” William Chute said.
“Having been foolish enough to find the wire that brought down Gage’s horse,” West supplied, “having insisted in publick that Miss Gambier’s death was murder—and having supplied evidence of blackmail to Lord Bolton—her fame will have spread all over the house. It will certainly have come to the ears of our murderer. Should she remain at The Vyne, Miss Austen’s life cannot be worth more than a few hours’ purchase.”
THE SIXTH DAY
19
THE GAMBIER WEAKNESS FOR GAMBLING
Friday, 30th December 1814
Steventon Parsonage
In vain did I protest that the very publicity attendant upon my actions must serve as the greatest safeguard. In vain did I suggest that by sharing my intelligence, I had inoculated both myself and others against the epidemic of violence. It does not do to be reasonable and sanguine—to trust in the weight of the Law—when the instincts of gentlemen have been roused.
Therefore I did not demur when James announced, upon Lord Bolton’s departure from The Vyne, that all the Austen party must quit the place for Steventon, if he was to have a hope of preparing his sermons for Sunday. To James’s surprize and discomfiture, William Chute did not attempt to dissuade him, but instantly offered the use of his coachman and carriage for the journey home. It had been agreed among the conspirators in the book room that Miss Gambier’s death was to be treated as an accident, and tho’ I had referred to murder in the hearing of Thomas-Vere and others sitting in the library, no further mention of the word was to be made. There was to be no inquest in Miss Gambier’s death, lest the murderer take fright and bolt.
Lady Gambier did not descend to bid us goodbye. Her nephew informed us that they awaited only Lord Bolton’s permission to depart The Vyne, so that they might carry his sister’s sa
d remains to Bath, where his widowed mother now resided. Jane Gambier—for such was her name—would be wild with grief at the loss of her daughter; she could not yet have received the news, which might arrive only with the body.
Edward Gambier looked decidedly ill this morning, and older than his twenty years. The gay clubman was fled. He pressed my hand most narrowly, and thanked me in broken accents for my kindness to his “poor sister.” He shook James-Edward’s hand with better energy, however, and said he should be happy to meet him again, if he was ever in Town—which must be the apogee of any sixteen-year-old schoolboy’s ambition. Thus our departure was not entirely without its notes of fondness and regret.
“You have been very sly, Jane,” Eliza Chute whispered as she kissed my cheek in the Staircase Hall. “I shall be much surprized if Raphael West is not paying his addresses to you before the week is out.”
She was mistaken, of course—I suspected that if Raphael West had a tendre for any among the intimates of The Vyne, it must have been Miss Gambier—there was a harshness in his voice when he spoke of her, that augured pain—but I merely shook my head at Eliza and climbed into our borrowed conveyance. Dusk had barely fallen before we were pulling up before the parsonage door, and Mary was exclaiming how very small everything looked to her, now she had been staying at The Vyne!
Owing to Eliza’s kindness, we had provisions enough in a hamper for a cold collation before the fire last evening, and after desultory conversation, carried ourselves off to bed. The spirits of the Austen party were a little lacking. Cassandra and I shivered our way out of our gowns—we had not bothered to change for dinner, in such a subdued environment—in a bedchamber quite barren of a fire. Mary, it seemed, had dismissed the servants for the duration of our stay with the Chute family, and they could not be got back again until morning. James had laid a fire in the parlour and banked another in the kitchen—but we should have to make do with our quilts for warmth until morning.
“It is a valuable lesson,” Cassandra observed through chattering teeth, “in the vanities of life—and the complaisance one may feel, on account of very little more than creature comforts—to have glimpsed the ease of a Great House like The Vyne, where so many labour for the indulgence of so few.”
“It is a lesson in parsimony,” I snapped, “and nothing more. You know we were never allowed to sleep cold as children, in this house!”
We determined that Jemima’s next gift, therefore, should be a fur tippet and muff I had fashioned from rabbit fur. Cassandra undertook to deliver them to Caroline’s garret room at dawn, as I had “the inquest to be thinking of.” The mere notion of setting one toe out of bed in the freezing hours of morning was so distasteful that I accepted her kindness without protest, and buried myself in quilts.
I slept fitfully, my limbs cramped, and awoke when Cassandra rose. I lay still in the heavy darkness, listening to the wind moan and cry at the bedchamber shutters, and endeavoured not to think of The Vyne. I ought to be thankful I was safely away from a household that had harboured a murderer. I ought to profit from distance, to consider my fellow-guests with ruthless clarity. But I thought of Raphael West instead.
I knew nothing of his true character. I could judge only that he possessed a keen mind and a penchant for guarding secrets that must make me chary with my trust. The regard I had begun to feel for him—the pleasure in his conversation and company—was rather a tribute to the friend I had lost some years ago. I valued independence of mind and engagement with the world—Lord Harold had taught me both. Of late, I had been too little doing things, too little abroad. I had allowed myself to retreat into the quiet of the countryside and the world of my novels, and had been content. A few days in the company of Raphael West had reminded me of that other life I had given up: one of conflict and risk, knowledge and power. Comrades and mortal enemies. West had reawakened emotions, in sum, that could only make me restless—and cloud my judgement. If I wished to expose the murderer of John Gage and Mary Gambier, I must push emotion aside—I must deny self. It was as well I was obliged to sleep in a miserably cold room, with the prospect of a similarly cold breakfast.
Feeling thoroughly blue-deviled, I reached for the clothes I had left upon a chair and donned them under the protection of the bedclothes. It was so frigid in the small bedchamber that I could see my breath, and ice coated the panes of the solitary window. Bracing myself for the Arctic currents swirling up my skirts and under my drawers, I got out of bed and broke the ice in the washstand. My cheeks ached where I splashed water on them.
Cassandra came down the passage. “Up already!” she exclaimed, “and dressed! I do not think I can bear it.” She hurled herself back under the bedclothes without removing her dressing gown.
I left her huddled there and descended to the kitchen. I was not too proud to take my breakfast with Cook—if she had returned—before the spit and fire.
I WAS IN MUCH better case two hours later, when William Chute’s carriage called for me on the way to Basingstoke. He had brought Raphael West with him. We would both be summoned to provide evidence at the inquest—“although you are not required to appear, Jane,” Chute said kindly, “if you have not the nerves for it. You may remain secluded in one of the Angel’s bedchambers, and give your evidence to the Coroner in private.”
I thanked the good man, but spared him the knowledge that an inquest was very small beer for a lady of my experience. I did not like William Chute to think me a vulgar jade. He had recovered from his shocks of the previous day, and our conversation with Lord Bolton, to affect an easy good humour during our lengthy journey—Basingstoke being all of nine miles northeast of Steventon. Indeed, The Vyne party had come well out of their way to escort me to the inquest, for Basingstoke is but three miles south of Sherborne St. John. I was acutely conscious of the kindness shewn me, and the inexpressible consideration in refusing to consign me to one of James’s carters or nags—and was fulsome in my thanks. Chute flushed red, and looked conscious, and turned the conversation swiftly to Miss Gambier.
“Now we are able to have a comfortable coze—mind that hot brick near your skirts, Miss Jane—I would be talking over the matter of this sad murder. What is your suspicion of Miss Gambier’s secret, and who in my household should be killing her for it?”
This was blunt speech indeed.
I turned my gaze to Mr. West.
He regarded me steadily and sombrely. “You are persuaded the crux of the matter is an illegitimate child?”
“It seems possible, does it not? Why else should that charade have been read out for all our consideration? It was intended to embarrass one of the company. Only Miss Gambier, after hastening to solve the riddle, refused to exhibit a sense of shame. She offered contempt instead. For that, I must applaud her.”
“But we cannot know that this putative child was hers,” Chute protested.
“No. And now that she is dead, we will have difficulty learning anything at all,” I agreed.
“Miss Austen and I know very little about the Gambiers,” West observed. “Perhaps you, sir, who are better acquainted with the family—”
Chute sighed. “I am barely acquainted with Edward and Mary. It is true I have known Louisa—Lady Gambier—and her sister, Jane, from the time they were born. Their father, Daniel Mathew, was brother to old General Sir Edward Mathew—he who was Governor of Bermuda, or some such.”
“Grenada,” I supplied. The island had been much spoken of in our household, when brother James was married to the General’s daughter, Anne.
“Exactly so. The General carried off the Duke of Ancaster’s daughter, and did very well for himself. His brother Daniel also set up as a gentleman—living, I presume, on his wife’s fortune. Daniel’s daughters, Louisa and Jane, were both plain as pikestaffs, but paraded as heiresses. Long in the tooth, I will add, when the Gambier brothers decided to offer for them. Louisa went off first, to James Gambier—the Admiral—and Jane second, to Samuel. He was Commissioner of the Navy Board when he
died last year—and ought to have left a tidy fortune to his children. But he had the Gambier weakness for gambling.”
“So his son told me,” I said. “Edward Gambier makes out that his prospects—and presumably, those of his late sister—are tied up completely in his uncle and aunt, who as you know are childless.”
“They are not the first couple to look for an heir among cousins,” Chute observed. He had done so himself.
Fortune, inheritance, debt—all may be grounds for murder, I reflected. “Edward Gambier declared quite frankly over Christmas dinner that he hoped his uncle had not got a by-blow somewhere, to cut him out of his hopes.”
Raphael West gave a whistle. “Did he, by God? I suspect young Gambier may have been living on his expectations this past year—and that he, too, inherited the Gambier weakness for gambling. He is too often seen at Watier’s.”9
“I suppose that is why he chuses to rusticate in the country now, and drink my port instead of his club’s,” Chute said thoughtfully. “Living on tick never answers. Despise the habit. It has been the ruin of better men than young Edward.”
“Lady Gambier must exert an awful power,” West mused. “For it is in her hands, is it not, if her nephew is to be saved from his creditors—or broken?”
“I believe she exerted that power freely over Mary Gambier,” I added. “Her ladyship made it very clear that she suspected an attachment between her niece and Lieutenant Gage—and could not approve the match.”
“Tho’ he is aide to her husband?” Chute enquired in disbelief.
“That would appear rather a detriment in Lady Gambier’s eyes,” I managed. “She does not admire the Navy.”
“Extraordinary.” Chute turned to West. “You believe Louisa hated poor Gage enough to set a trap for him with that wire? I should not have said she had so much spite in her.”
“I do not mean to say her ladyship murdered Lieutenant Gage,” I amended hastily. “But she certainly negatived his suit. Of course, if there was a child in the case—”
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