Secrets in the Snow

by Michaela MacColl

  Eliza breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I wouldn’t know what to do without her.”

  “But the evidence is mounting against Jacques,” Jane reminded her. She carefully placed the cross and the locket in her skirt pocket. She would return them to Marie herself later.

  The porcelain clock that Eliza always traveled with chimed the ten o’clock hour. “It’s time for breakfast,” Jane said. “Are you coming down?” Since Eliza was still wearing a charming dressing gown, Jane doubted it.

  Eliza sat down at the vanity table and peered at the battered mirror. The spots on the glass marred her reflection. “I look terrible,” she said, taking a hairbrush to her short curls. “Henry cannot see me until I’ve done something about my face.”

  Jane marveled that Eliza could worry about her appearance when she had just learned that her husband had been murdered. But on the other hand, her life with the Comte had not been happy. Eliza, for all her faults, was no hypocrite.

  She didn’t see his body, Jane thought. If Eliza had seen what Jane had seen, she would not be so carefree.

  “Can you send Prudence up with some tea? I’m famished,” Eliza said over her shoulder as Jane left the room.

  Downstairs the breakfast table was empty save for James and Tom. Mrs. Austen was not feeling well.

  “Where is Henry?” Jane asked, hoping that he was outside watching Jacques.

  “He rode into Basingstoke,” James said. “I don’t know what errand he had that was so important that he had to go in this snow, but he left a few minutes past on horseback.”

  “Alone?” Jane asked. “Are the roads safe?”

  His mouth full of toast, James shook his head. Tom took it upon himself to explain. “Henry had Jacques harness a plow horse to a wagon, and Jacques is accompanying him. They’ll get through.”

  “Ah,” Jane said. She could guess why Henry had gone to Basingstoke. It was the quickest way to get a message to Edward. She had no doubt that Henry had his orders to send word of anything untoward. Even Edward and his spying friends would be surprised by this news!

  Jane was of two minds about Edward and his precious War Office. On the one hand, Jane could use his help if they were to keep the murder quiet, but it might make the War Office even more suspicious of Eliza. They might insist that a magistrate be called sooner rather than later.

  She ate quickly and then excused herself with the pretense that she needed to write. As she hoped, Tom soon joined her by the fire. “Don’t worry about Henry,” he said. “He has his pistol, and Jacques has no idea that we suspect him.”

  “I’m not worried,” Jane lied. “My brother can take care of himself, and it is a clever way to make his report to his superiors and still keep an eye on Jacques.”

  “Superiors?” Tom asked.

  “I forgot,” Jane snapped. “You don’t know that Henry was sent here to watch Eliza.”

  “Who sent him?”

  “My brother Edward is involved with the War Office. He told Henry to come here.”

  Tom shook his head in wonder. “I thought the Austens were just a simple country family with a charming daughter. But there are circles within circles of intrigue.”

  Jane rocked with laughter. “I assure you, under normal circumstances we are as dull as ditch-water. But Eliza brings drama with her wherever she goes.” She heard the envy in her voice.

  “You shouldn’t wish for excitement,” Tom said, placing his hand over hers. “Better to hope for a quiet marriage and a family and a pleasant life. My parents have that, and they are very happy.”

  “That’s true,” she agreed. She glanced down at his hand. It was a gentleman’s hand, soft from an academic life. But Jane could feel old calluses on his palms from his time on the farm. “My parents are content, too. If only they didn’t worry so about finances.”

  “I’m the eldest son of twelve,” Tom said with a chuckle. “Worrying about money comes as naturally to me as breathing.”

  “But now you have a wealthy patron and a career to follow,” Jane said. “How I envy men the ability to earn their own money.”

  “Perhaps one day you can make a tidy sum with your novels,” he suggested.

  Jane lifted her eyebrows. With the exception of her own family, most men disapproved of women writers. “Perhaps someday,” she said wistfully. “But even my stories cannot intrigue me as much as the adventure we are in the midst of now.”

  Tom put a finger to his lips. He went to the door and peered out. Satisfied that they were alone, he closed the door and returned. “What did your cousin say?”

  “She took the news remarkably well,” Jane said, unable to keep the censure out of her voice.

  “Did you expect her to be prostrated with grief?” Tom asked logically. “Her life is immeasurably easier if he stays dead.”

  Reluctantly, Jane agreed. “Eliza recognized the cross.” After she told Tom what she knew, he leapt to the same conclusion she had: It had to be Jacques.

  “I thought possibly Marie, especially when you said she knew about the Comte’s still being alive,” Tom said. “But the Comte tore that chain off his killer’s neck. If she still has hers, then it must be Jacques’ cross.”

  “Eliza doesn’t think that Jacques could murder anyone. She was adamant,” Jane said.

  “And if he did,” Tom mused, “why would he strike the Comte in the back two times with the first weapon and then again in the chest with a different weapon? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Jane stared into the fireplace. “No, it doesn’t,” she agreed.

  “I wish I had met this Comte, even once,” Tom said. “Tell me about him.”

  “I didn’t know him very well,” Jane protested. “Eliza married him when I was a child. I saw him but rarely. I didn’t even recognize him when he accosted my carriage that day.”

  “But you have met him several times in the past few days,” Tom argued. “Describe him to me as if he were one of your characters.”

  Jane straightened up in her chair, captivated by the challenge. She closed her eyes. “He was handsome and had a fine figure. You saw the cleft in his chin. His eyes were most unusual—a tawny yellow. His manners were charming, just roguish enough to be interesting.”

  “I am jealous of a dead man,” Tom murmured.

  “His dress was striking. His scarlet scarf was a flamboyant splash of color.”

  “Did you say scarlet?”

  She opened her eyes. “Yes. Why?”

  Tom pointed out the window. “Like the one that man is wearing?”

  An older man, wiry and leather-faced, was standing in the road, staring at the Austen house. He was dressed like a poor laborer except for the splash of scarlet around his neck.

  “That’s the Comte’s scarf!” Jane cried. “That man must have been at the church!”

  “He might be the killer,” Tom said.

  Without pausing, Jane jumped to her feet and raced outside.

  CHAPTER 20

  The truth rushed on her; and how she could have

  spoken at all, how she could even have breathed,

  was afterwards matter of wonder to herself.

  MANSFIELD PARK

  “Albert Jones!” Jane shouted after the fleeing man. “I know where you live, so you might as well stop!”

  As if she had jerked hard on a tether, the man stopped. He stood in the middle of the road, knee-deep in snow, and waited for her to catch up. “Miss Austen,” he said. “I didn’t know it was you.” He was dressed in a motley assortment of coats and vests and he hadn’t shaved in several days. Even in the crisp winter air, Jane could smell the odor wafting from his clothes.

  “You were staring at my house,” Jane said severely. “Who did you think it was?”

  Panting, Tom joined them. “Jane, are you a lunatic?”

  “Mr. Lefroy, let me introduce you to Mr. Albert Jones; he works on my father’s farm.”

  Tom gave Albert a quick nod. “How do you do?” Then, to Jane, “Don’t
ever do that again! How was I to know you knew him?”

  “Albert, where did you get that scarf?” Jane asked.

  His eyes darting from Jane to Tom and then to the ground, Albert muttered, “I found it.”

  “Where?” Tom asked. “And when?”

  “Last night. I found it by the side of the lane.”

  “The lane that leads to the church?” Jane asked.

  Nodding, he quickly unwrapped the scarf from his neck and tried to hand it to Jane. “I didn’t know it was yours, Miss Austen. Here you go.”

  Ignoring his gesture, Jane asked with urgency, “Exactly when did you find it?”

  “Just before dawn. The snow hadn’t stopped yet.”

  “What were you doing outside at that hour?” Tom asked suspiciously.

  “I was out for a walk?” Albert said hopefully.

  “You were poaching again, weren’t you?” Jane asked. He started to edge away as though he might bolt.

  “Poaching is illegal,” Tom said in a stern voice.

  “Stop being a lawyer for a moment,” Jane whispered. “You’ll frighten him and he won’t tell us anything.” Raising her voice, she said, “Albert, it’s all right. Poaching is the least of our concerns.”

  “I’m not surprised when you have unburied corpses in the graveyard,” Albert said and immediately looked as if he regretted it.

  “Albert, what did you see?” Jane asked kindly. “I promise you won’t get into trouble.”

  Albert examined her face for a moment; then he nodded. “I was out last night setting my traps. When the snow stops, the animals get confused. Good trapping then.” He paused. “The best rabbits are in the woods behind the church, so that’s where I was going. But when I got to the churchyard, there was someone there. A big man, with dark hair, carrying a lantern.” His voice trailed away.

  “What was he doing?” Jane prompted, dreading the answer.

  “He was killing a man,” Albert said in a low voice. “Stabbing him right through the heart! I hid behind a tree because I didn’t want to be next.”

  “A large man,” Tom repeated.

  “Did he stab the man in the front or the back?” Jane asked. She was rewarded with an admiring glance from Tom.

  “He was kneeling in the snow and plunged a knife into his chest,” Albert answered with relish.

  “Then what did he do?” Jane asked.

  “He looked around the clearing about the church. I tell you, I thought I was a dead man. But he wasn’t looking for me. He went up to that old yew tree and put something in that little hiding place.”

  Jane knew exactly what Albert was talking about. She asked, “Did you see what he was hiding?”

  “No.” Albert held up his hands to ward off danger. “And I don’t want to know!”

  “What happened then?” Tom asked.

  “He went into the church. A few minutes later he came back out. He was carrying a satchel.”

  “It was dark and snowy,” Tom said. “How could you see?”

  “I said he was carrying a lantern, didn’t I?” Albert said sulkily. “Then he went back to the parsonage.”

  “How do you know he came here?” Jane asked. “Did you follow him?”

  “Not likely.” Albert snorted. “I waited until he was out of sight and then went home by the lane myself. His footprints turned in at the parsonage’s gate.” He hesitated and scratched the stubble on his chin. “He dropped that scarf in the lane. I suppose he didn’t notice. I thought that since the chap was a murderer and a thief, I had just as much right to the scarf as he did.”

  Tom opened his mouth, no doubt to lecture Albert on the niceties of the law, but Jane forestalled him. “Albert, why did you come to the parsonage today?”

  “It’s my mother. I told her the story and she said I had to tell Reverend Austen what I knew.” He grimaced. “She won’t give me any peace until I do.”

  “Would you recognize the man if you saw him again?” Tom asked. “It was dark and snowy.”

  “I’d know him again,” Albert retorted.

  “Thank you, Albert,” Jane said. “You’ve been most helpful. My father is away, but we’ll take care of the situation. Now go home.”

  “And the magistrate will want to see you,” Tom warned, “so don’t go anywhere.”

  “Magistrate?” Albert yelped. “Telling Miss Austen was one thing, but I don’t want anything to do with the law.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t have a choice,” Jane said with sympathy.

  “Will I have to mention the reason I was out?”

  “Yes,” Tom said shortly.

  “Not at all,” Jane said at the same moment. Glaring at Tom, she said, “Albert, you can say you were out for a walk.”

  He tipped his cap and scurried away.

  Jane started walking purposefully back to the house. “I need my coat, Tom. Then we can go.”

  “Go where?” he asked.

  “To the yew tree. I daresay it will be the clue that solves this murder!”

  “Wait for me, Jane,” Tom complained, slipping in the snow. “Why do you walk so infernally fast?”

  Jane smiled, but did not slacken her stride.

  “Did he mean that enormous tree in front of the church?” Tom asked.

  “That tree is where we hide the key to the church. It’s such a long walk to the church, my father wanted to make sure that anyone with business there could get in.”

  “Who knows this secret?”

  With a sidelong glance, Jane grimaced. “Most everyone in the parish.”

  “So a stranger like Jacques wouldn’t know it was a common hiding place?”

  “No,” she confirmed.

  “His bad luck,” Tom said.

  Jane’s steps quickened. Her boots made no noise in the powdery snow. She could hear Tom breathing heavily behind her, trying to keep up. They reached the clearing and Jane pointed to the yew tree that towered over the church. Legend had it that the yew was seven centuries old, dating back to when the church was a medieval building, part house of worship, part fortress.

  There was a large knothole in the trunk, just above Jane’s head. Gingerly, she felt around in the hiding place with a gloved hand. She touched something metallic and cold. A round shape . . . no, it was long and narrow. She finally caught hold of it and drew out a pair of scissors. And not just any scissors: dressmaking scissors with long blades.

  “What did you find?” Tom asked from behind her.

  “Scissors,” she said, holding them up to the winter sun. Dark streaks marred the blades.

  “Is that . . .” he asked.

  “Blood? Yes, I think it may be,” she said. “I think we found the first weapon. Not two blows to the back, but one blow with two blades.” She was thinking furiously. “I think I know who killed the Comte,” she said. “But I don’t know why.”

  “Who?” Tom asked, mystified. “How can a pair of scissors tell you anything?”

  “I’ve seen these scissors before,” Jane said. “They belong to Marie.”

  “But she had her necklace. You said that you believed she was innocent.”

  “So I did,” Jane mused. Her thoughts were racing. Marie had a necklace. Was it the one she had worn before—or someone else’s?

  Eliza had said that her husband had given one to Marie’s husband and to his brother Jacques. What if Jacques had replaced her lost one with his? Jacques was Marie’s brother-in-law and uncle to her son. The boy. Marie’s boy.

  Suddenly the truth was blindingly clear to her. “I have to go back to the parsonage,” she said. She shoved the scissors at Tom. “Take these. The magistrate will want them.” She took off at a run.

  “But, Jane! Who did it?” Tom called.

  “I must go!” she shouted over her shoulder.

  Jane had never traversed the distance between the church and her home so quickly. Tom had no chance of keeping up with her, and she was glad for other reasons that she had left him behind. Unraveling this tangled skei
n of facts and motivations was exciting, as enjoyable as getting a bit of prose exactly right, and Jane didn’t want to share the moment with anyone.

  At the parsonage, she rushed in past her mother.

  “Jane, I think I have a rash!” Her mother’s plaintive voice followed her up the stairs.

  “Not now, Mother!” she called. Jane hurried to the sitting room she shared with her sister. Under her breath, she said, “Cassandra, I wish you were here right now.” But perhaps Cassandra had left the next best thing. Her sketchbooks were on a low shelf.

  Jane knelt on the floor and pulled out a handful of sketchbooks. After a moment, she found one from six years earlier and flipped through the pages. Familiar faces and scenes leapt off the paper, but not what she was looking for. She picked up an earlier sketchbook. “Ah,” she breathed.

  Cassandra’s clever pen had captured a perfect likeness of Eliza holding her two-year-old son, Hastings. But it was the image of the boy that most interested her.

  Unlike Eliza’s miniature, Cassandra’s likeness was an honest rendering. Jane pulled out Marie’s locket. She had noticed before that it was expensive. But what servant had a miniature portrait of her little boy? Only the most privileged sort of person could afford that.

  Jane compared Marie’s son, Daniel, with Hastings. Hastings’ eyes were not quite focused, but he and Daniel had the same tawny-colored eyes. Both boys had dimples in their chins that would one day expand to be clefts. It was unmistakable: Hastings and Daniel both resembled their father.

  “What are you doing, Jane?” Eliza’s voice made Jane start. “Is that one of Cassandra’s sketchbooks?”

  Jane scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry, Eliza.”

  “For what?” Eliza asked, her voice becoming thin and high-pitched.

  “Because you are going to have to find a new maid,” Jane said, her eyes fixed on Eliza’s face. “I think Marie killed Jean.”

  “That’s preposterous!” Eliza sputtered in astonishment. “She was grateful to him. He asked me to keep her as my maid even when she was with child. She would do anything for him.”

  There was no easy way to tell Eliza, so Jane steeled herself to just say it. “Jean was the father of Marie’s son.”