Jane and the Man of the Cloth jam-2

by Stephanie Barron

  A faint shaft of sunlight fell from a slit placed high in the wall to my back; and as my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, I discerned the darker shape against the stone that must be Sidmouth"s form. A manacle was clasped about each ankle, and bolted to the wall so that he was denied a range of movement, though his arms as yet were free. I took a step towards him.

  “What possible reason can you have, for so exposing yourself to the opprobrium of Lyme society, in seeking me here?” the master of High Down continued easily.

  “I have brought you some victuals,” I said, laying the basket at his feet, and sinking low myself. I dared not sit, for fear of the state of the straw, but rocked about on my ankles. “But I will not deny, Mr. Sidmouth, that this food is as a mere pretext, for gaining entry enough to speak with you. I am come on a matter of some urgency.”

  “A welcome change,” he rejoined drily, “since all urgency, I fear, has fled from my days. It is extraordinary, is it not, Miss Austen, how the perception of time will shift, according to the measure of one's duties? In having none to perform, I find myself equipped with so much time, that I might effect a revolution in men's affairs, did I but have the freedom — for I pass a year in every day, or so it seems.”

  “And yet the days still pass,” I said crossly, “and the number you command grows short. I myself have but five minutes. We must not waste them in philosophy, sir. But your talk of revolution does inspire a thought — not of war and tumult, but its alternative — a world of reason and order, however imperfect it might have been. Mr.Sidmouth, I have been turning over in my mind a welter of conflicting thoughts — for I have heard such varied accounts of your business, as confuse me exceedingly. Some would have you a smuggler, the very Reverend, in fact; while others would call you simply a rogue. Much time and penetration on my part has gone to find the meaning of the business. But T believe that I have.”

  “Then pray enlighten me, Miss Austen, for I am told that a few sentences will suffice to sum up the matter.” I could not discern his expression; but I caught the flash of white teeth, and the glitter of his eyes, and imagined him smiling sardonically. “It seems that Captain Fielding was in love with my cousin, and that I grew so enraged at her indifference to me, that I killed the man. What better resolution could there be?”

  “I must pay you the compliment, sir, of believing you more the master of your energies than such a construction will allow. That conclusion to the sad affair pays no attention to the presence of a white flower near Captain Fielding's body — a white lily, more to the point — nor does it incorporate the death of Bill Tibbit, hanged on the end of the Cobb, with another such bloom at his feet. When I discovered that Tibbit had run a ship aground — and that a number of Frenchmen had died as a result — I knew at last the nature of the Grange's trade.”

  I paused, to allow my words their full effect. “You have been smuggling Frenchmen between England and France, have you not? And Royalist Frenchmen, I would assume from the foundered ship's name and the speaking symbol of the fleur-de-lys. But such men are unlikely to find a happy reception on their native shores, now Buonaparte is emperor. Indeed, I cannot imagine them to be returning with anything like his health and safety in mind. Are you a trader in assassins, Mr. Sidmouth?”

  There was an astonished silence; and then Geoffrey Sidmouth's chains rattled. I felt cool fingers slip over my own, and drew a startled breath.

  “How come you to know so much?” he asked quietly.

  “You have been hardly as secretive, or as careful, as you might have thought,” I replied. “The mooring ring at the end of the Cobb bears the marks of green paint, from the skiff you keep on Charmouth beach; in the act of erecting a scaffold, the boat must have brushed against the stone and the ring, and left its tell-tale sign. I am further assured of this, from having viewed the boat itself, in a later walk upon the shingle.”

  “Many people own such a boat, and might paint it green; and the marks of wear be everywhere upon its surface.”

  “Do you deny that you own such a boat?”

  After a grudging instant, he said, “I do not. You have been well-informed, Miss Austen.”

  I shrugged. “It must be impossible to employ so many men, upon so precarious a business, without some of them tending to talk. And the grounding of your ship last spring — for which I understand Bill Tibbit paid with his life — has turned the emotion of the townsfolk against him, and made them more likely to air their grievances, out of a mixture of injury and pride.”

  “The Royal Belle was a heavy loss.” Sidmouth paused, as if uncertain how much to say. “As a result of Tibbit's treachery, seven men aboard it died; and all of them true-hearted and brave, and my dearest friends.”

  “There are five Tibbit children who must feel a similar desolation,” I replied.

  A silence fell between us, and in the distance I heard the voice of Gordy Trimble, skylarking in sunlight. I looked down at my gloved hand, and saw Sidmouth's fingers still upon it; but a curious heaviness had taken hold of me, in knowing him to be guilty beyond the faintest doubt. I had held out hope for his goodness so long; and though I knew Tibbit's hanging to be a form of retribution — a life taken for so many lives unjustly lost — I could not shake the chill that had overcome my body. There was Captain Fielding to consider. How many deaths were necessary, in payment for blood already spilled?

  “I am thankful for this, at least,” I said, faltering. “I thought you likely to hang unjustly — and the weight of it should have haunted me all the days of my life. But I will be reconciled the better, in knowing that Tibbit's blood is indeed on your hands — and on Percival Fielding's as well, for having paid the man to ground the ship. But I cannot understand what should have urged the Captain to such a ruthless act! Did he believe you to traffic in nothing more than contraband?”

  “I cannot say.” Sidmouth's voice was heavy, and his fingers slid away from my own. “I did not know for a certainty that he was behind the fellow Tibbit — but your stating it now must be the fruit of further knowledge.”

  “And so you killed him, though you doubted his complicity?” I was all horrified amazement, and my shock must have throbbed in my voice.

  “I, killed Percival Fielding? But I never killed the Captain, however little love I bore the mincing scoundrel!”

  “But, indeed, you must have!”

  “Indeed, I did not!”

  “But the horseshoes — the white flower—”

  “I must assure you solemnly, Miss Austen, that I was standing for the better part of the night some six miles distant, on Puncknowle hill, awaiting the signal of a ship most anxiously desired, which failed, however, to appear! And that Mr. Dagliesh was with me, from the direst necessity, and will vouch for my presence the entirety of the night Captain Fielding was murdered.”

  A memory of the scene I had witnessed on Charmouth beach, the very night afier Fielding's killing, flashed before my eyes.

  “The boat that landed the following night — with the wounded man — it was for this that you waited?”

  “How come you to know of it?”

  “I was a witness to its arrival.”

  “But how?” Sidmouth's voice was hoarse.

  “You must know of the cavern, on the Charmouth shingle. I had hidden myself in its depths, the better to observe unmolested the movements on the beach — for after your arrest at the hands of Mr. Dobbin that morning, I felt I had to probe the truth of matters more. For lie seemed little inclined to do it.”

  “The cavern—” Sidmouth hesitated. “You explored its fullest extent?”

  “You would mean the tunnel? You knew, then, of its existence, and its end point in Captain Fielding's garden?”

  “I did. In point of fact, the tunnel predates the Captain's tenancy of that house, it having been built for another gentleman more inclined to clandestine trade, who has since fled these parts, Miss Austen. You will understand that the Gentlemen of the Night have long held sway about this coast �
�� some hundred years, in fact — and Fielding's house is at least as old. He may have prettied the place a bit with his wilderness temple, and bits of antique statuary, but the way carved through the cliffs was not his enterprise to claim.”

  “And yet,” I mused, “he may have employed it for just such a clandestine purpose. I found the storeroom filled with what appeared to be contraband goods, a fact that has much puzzled me.”

  Sidmouth's laugh was short. “Since Fielding styled himself a prop of the law, you would mean, and affected to be so much in the Customs man's confidence? But tell me this, Miss Austen. How do you think that Fielding supported his customary style? On a Naval pension?”

  “I assumed him wealthy from the seizure of prizes,”[75] I replied. “You would ascribe it to smuggling?”

  “Not smuggling. No. I believe Fielding to have become wealthy through the consideration of others, more benevolent to his circumstances. For certain Gentlemen of the Night, a small expression of gratitude for silences kept, and discovery averted — a cask of the finest Darjeeling, let us say, or a barrel of French brandy — might seem a gift well-placed.”

  “Bribery,” I said slowly. “It has a certain aptness. We may assume him to have sold what he could not consume himself, and thus been in a way to supplement his income.”

  There was a smallish pause, as I mulled over the Captain's duplicitous character.

  “The cavern I understand; but how came you to discover the tunnel at all?” Sidmouth enquired.

  “In following two men within its depths.” I was deliberately vague; I should not like to admit to Sidmouth now that I had expected Dick and Eb to be making for the Grange. “I felt sure their business was suspect, and thought to discover its nature in pursuing them. In the event, I found only what bewildered me. I must conclude now that they sought to retrieve some tribute previously given to Fielding — for they canvassed the storeroom with thoroughness. But their activity was for naught; they quitted the place in some disappointment.”

  The master of High Down did not bother to express his astonishment on this point; he had done with such effusions. I had no longer the power to surprise him. “And did they, too, witness the landing of the boat?” he asked, in some concern.

  I shook my head. ‘They appeared on the shingle after your curious skiff.”

  “It was La Gascogne, the boat you saw once on the very beach; and it bore my cousin Philippe — Mademoiselle LeFevre's brother.”

  “The one who serves Napoleon?”

  “The one who served Napoleon — as a spy for the Royalist cause — and nearly gave his young life as a result. If there can be any consolation for myself at such a time, it is in learning from Seraphine that the boy will survive. Had he not been encamped in Boulogne, with the forces readying the Monster's invasion of England, he should never have escaped when finally he was discovered. But escape he did, if gravely wounded; and though the boat was delayed by storm, it landed successfully a day later— in Charmouth rather than off the Chesnil bank. Dagliesh at least was present, though I could not be.”

  I drew a tremulous breath; such turbulence as this man endured! Such passion, for a cause so beyond himself! And to end, now, with the end of a rope — but he had accepted such a possibility, undoubtedly, when first he undertook to commerce in the unseating of emperors, however upstart.

  I sat back on my heels. “But if you did not kill Captain Fielding — who, then, fired the deadly ball?”

  Sidmouth shook his head. “I do not know. I have expended a world of thought upon the subject — for the Captain's murderer took great pains to incriminate me utterly. It betrays a certain knowledge of my household, and my particular habits, that cannot but be troubling, as well as a desire to see great harm devolve upon myself.”

  There was a knock upon the door. “Yer five minutes be ten, Miss Austen! Out wit’ ye!”

  “Another moment only, pray, Mr. Trimble!” I called, and turned swiftly to Geoffrey Sidmouth. “It pains me to broach so intimate a subject, and which cannot but be painful to you; but I must voice my darkest thoughts and have done. Is it possible — can you find it in your heart to believe — that Seraphine might have done the murder in your very absence?”

  “Seraphine? That is preposterous!”

  “I do not mean to say she should have killed the Captain from a desire to incriminate yourself,” I said hurriedly, over his words of protest. “She may have happened upon him of a sudden, and feared a renewal of those events that proved so disturbing to her, but a few weeks before; and so fired upon him, in a belief she acted in self-defence, and then fled the scene. At such a moment she was unlikely to think of the horseshoes.”

  “But the lily,” Sidmouth rejoined. “It should be no one's custom to travel abroad at midnight in possession of such a flower.”

  “Perhaps she bore it with her, on some errand to one of your Royalist men hidden about the countryside, and only laid it near the Captain in the thought that he was behind the grounding of the Royal Belle, indeed.”

  “I suppose that such a case is possible,” Sidmouth said slowly. “For it is difficult to account for the horseshoes otherwise. You make a very convincing argument, Miss Austen.” He raised his head, and I perceived again the glitter of his eyes. “I wish it might be less so. But it is of no matter. I have taken on myself the burden of that death; and perhaps it is only justice that I should stand for Seraphine, as someone else has undoubtedly stood for me, in the matter of Bill Tibbit.”

  “Bill Tibbit's death shall never be pursued,” I said dismissively. “It will be ascribed to a feud of the fisherfolk, and left to lie. Mr. Dobbin, the justice, will only exert himself in a matter of quality — such as the Captain's. I understand, now, the agony of Seraphine's mind, in the very midst of the inquest. You had a suspicion of the truth, did you not, and so urged her to keep silent?”

  “I had no notion — indeed, I wished her only to say nothing of where I had been, or Dagliesh either, the night of Fielding's death, from anxiety that all our plans should be o'erthrown. But upon reflection, I find it not unlikely that events should have occurred as you have said. Seraphine had reason enough to hate the Captain, and fear his appearance on a lonely road.”

  “What did occur between them?” I enquired curiously.

  Another knock from Mr. Trimble.

  “I shall be with you directly! I pause only for my basket!” I called.

  “I see no reason to deny you the intelligence,” Sidmouth said, “from knowing I may depend upon your complete discretion.”

  “I was told that Fielding recovered the lady after she suffered a fall from her horse, and was attempting to carry her to the Grange, when he was overtaken by Mr. Crawford's equipage.”

  A flash of teeth that betokened a grim smile.

  “He had drawn her out to the road itself, with a falsely written message — a plea for help from one of our Royalists, hidden in the Pinny,” Sidmouth said. “A drawing of a white lily was sent with the note; and it arranged to meet in a lonely spot not far from the Grange, in the early hours of the morning, when the moon should have set.” He paused to draw breath.

  “You have seen that road at night; you know full well how little aid might be found, did one suffer a mishap. When Seraphine arrived, Fielding was waiting; and she knew him to be attempting her discovery. She fled from him, and was upon the point of escape, when his horse overtook her own — and he dealt her such a severe blow to the head with his whip handle, that she fell unconscious from her mount's back. It is solely by the grace of God she avoided a more severe injury still.”

  “But what can have been his purpose?’” I cried.

  “We think it probable he wished to detain her some time, in an effort to win that intelligence from her, that should be so deadly to our cause.”

  “But why? What reason can Fielding have had, to so disturb your activity? He was an officer of the Royal Navy! Should not the downfall of Napoleon be in the interest of all who claim a part in that nob
le institution?”

  “All, who are not presently dependent upon the Monster's purse,’” Sidmouth replied grimly. “I have believed Captain Fielding a spy of the French for many years; but it was only in recent months that he allowed himself to show his hand, in his attempts to discover my methods. He styled himself an agent of the Revenue men, as he took care that all of Lyme should know; but his treachery had as its object far more than Free Trade. It has ended with his life.”

  Mr. Trimble could no longer be thwarted; and I made as if to go, my aching ankles almost numb from the conditions to which I had subjected them. I could not but think that I should never see Geoffrey Sidmouth again, and emotion would rise; but I hurriedly removed the bread and cheese and apples from the basket, and placed it over my arm, and was on the point of turning away, in despair of ever making an audible adieu; when Sidmouth's hand closed over my own, as tightly as a vise.

  “To have you leave without a word will tear the very heart from my body,” he said harshly. “However little approbation you accord my actions — despicable, unjust as they may seem — do not deny me the gentleness of your pity! One word of farewell, for God's sake, to a man whose fate is so uncertain!”

  I stared at him wordlessly, all but overcome; and in an instant, he had pulled me down beside him in a crushing embrace, made more awkward by the presence of his chains. I felt myself enmeshed in iron, and closed my eyes against the force of it, until I felt his lips move warmly over my own.

  “Must you surely die, then?” I said brokenly.

  “It seems I must,” he replied, in some bitterness of spirit, “—unless it be that chaos reign, and fire cover the earth, and these bonds be loosed by hands more powerful than my own. But do not cry, dear Jane! Perhaps we shall meet again — be it only beyond the grave!”

  I felt the sharp prick of tears to my eyelids, and thrust myself to my feet, unwilling and unable to linger more. At the gaol's entry,? turned for one last glimpse of Geoffrey Sidmouth.