Jane and the Genius of the Place jam-4

by Stephanie Barron

  “You did say it was so!” she insisted, “you said it was John Butcher. I heard the whole myself, while I was in the kitchen and Cook was in the yard. If you had gone for the pudding, Dordie, you would know it all, too.”

  “And why were you gone for pudding while Cook was in the yard?” asked Miss Sharpe — suddenly stern and much the pinker for it. “It is the accepted practise to take your pudding at meals, Miss Eliza, and not behind Cook's back.”

  Both culprits fell silent, their eyes on the ground. It was thus for Fanny to seize the triumphant moment.

  “Of course the story is true,” she said scornfully, “tho' neither John Butcher nor Samuel Joiner were within a mile of the race-meeting. I saw it all, Edward, and if you will come into the schoolroom, I shall tell you how it was.”

  The others fell back in awed silence — and little Eliza burst into tears.

  “Come along, children,” I said in exasperation. “We shall both tell you the tale. And afterwards, George, perhaps we may have a game of shuttlecock. But you must be very quiet — for your mamma and Miss Sharpe are indisposed.”

  I smiled at the governess, and bustled the children upstairs. But when I turned at the landing to glance at Anne Sharpe, she still stood with one hand on the rail, her thoughts quite fled and her pallor extreme.

  MY DEAREST CASSANDRA, I WROTE, AS I SAT SOME HOURS later at my dressing table, in the solitary splendour of the Yellow Room — and then I hesitated, pen poised for the collection of my thoughts. The hour was late and the house entirely wrapped in slumber. I had opened a window against the still heat of the August night, and my candle's flame dipped and staggered with every stirring of the air. Something there was that hovered over Godmersham — a gathering of violence above my head, that stiffened the very draperies and turned the midnight light to sulphur. Relief might come with the rain— and afterwards, a little sleep; but until the storm should break, I must seek comfort in composition.

  When I am parted from my dearest sister by the vicissitudes of Fate or the beguilements of pleasure, it is my inveterate custom to relate the particulars of each day in a newsy, comfortable letter. Two such women, of advancing years and modest society, may generally have very little of importance to communicate; but the habit of conversation, long deferred by absence, will find relief in the written word. A great deal of nothing, therefore, has flown back and forth between Goodnestone Farm and Godmersham Park during the interval of Cassandra's visit to Lady Bridges. I may attest to a voluminous correspondence, regarding such little matters as the progress of young Edward's cold; my continued improvement at the game of shutdecock; the opinion of Mr. Hall, the elegant London hairdresser, as to the best arrangement of my coiffure and several good jokes regarding Henry's infatuation with his lamentable horse.

  But this evening I had matters of a far graver nature to relate, although some part of Mrs. Grey's sad history must already be known to Cassandra — for Mr. Edward Bridges, who could hardly be ignorant of it, should have borne the intelligence to the Farm before me. My sister must as yet be denied the full history of the lady's tragic end, however, for my brothers returned from the race grounds very late this evening, and the details of their grim work were imparted only to myself — Lizzy and the children having already retired.

  You will know, I am sure, of the horrible events that occurred at our race-meeting, I wrote at last.

  I have hastened this letter in the knowledge that you must be suffering under the gravest anxiety for the safety and well-being of all our dear family — but be assured that we are all perfectly well. Miss Sharpe, the governess, was taken ill at the sight of the corpse; but Lizzy and I were hardly tempted to the dramatic, and even Fanny comported herself with admirable coolness. Our brother Neddie was decision and probity itself; he was admirably supported by Henry, and bids fair to conduct the business with despatch. There are further particulars in the matter, however, that will affect those very near to you: Mr. Edward Bridges, his friend Captain Woodford, and, of course, our dear friend Harriot, who must feel for the welfare of both. I thought it wisest to apprise you of matters — and will trust to your discretion in this, as in all things.

  Neddie suspected at first that Mrs. Grey's murder might have been spurred by a hatred for the French, she being a citizen of the Empire, a fact that hardly smoothed her entry into Kentish society. Had she been killed along the road and left to the chance discovery of a passerby, that notion might have served admirably; but her being found in Mr. Denys Collingforth's chaise — a fact you will have learned already, in company with most of Kent — must entangle the affair considerably.

  Mrs. Grey was seen to depart the race grounds a full hour before her corpse was discovered, quite palpably in the middle of it! Our brother Henry succeeded in locating Mrs. Grey's lost phaeton only two miles along the road to Wingham — her matched greys had been tethered to a tree, and were standing quite docilely at the verge, enjoying the shade. How she came to be torn from her equipage, and returned to the race grounds, is the greatest mystery; the disappearance of her riding habit is another. Neddie has employed a team of local men to search the hedgerows near the phaeton's stand, quite convinced that the scarlet gown was discarded in the underbrush.

  Collingforth himself cannot account for the dead woman's presence in his chaise; he was remarked himself to have been distant from it for the better part of the morning, and only returned with the object of departing. He seemed ready to regard the affair as the work of his enemies, and named Mr. Bridges and Captain Woodford as the persons most likely to be accountable for it! You may imagine the sensation this caused in more than one breast; but Neddie bore with the insult admirably, as is his wont, and the uneasy moment passed.

  Our brother is too assiduous to discard the political motive, however, merely because another, and more attractive one, presents itself. But Neddie has owned that it is possible that Mrs. Grey's killer— whatever his motive for her death — would wish the world to believe Collingforth responsible. So deep a purpose must argue against the random work of an enemy of the French; and Neddie is forced to the conclusion that he must probe the stuff of Mrs. Grey's life, to learn the reason for her death. The burden must give rise to anxiety. A gentleman less disposed to invade the privacy of a lady cannot be found in all of England!

  But to continue—

  Neddie enquired narrowly as to Mr. Collingforth's movements — heard the corroboration of his friends — and after a protracted interval, in which he debated the most proper course, enjoined the gentleman to remain in the neighbourhood for the present. The unfortunate Collingforth was then sent home in the charge of his intimate acquaintance, Mr. Everett — a gentleman quite unknown to Kent — while his grisly chaise Neddie retained for a time, to allow of a thorough inspection.

  Within the body of the carriage, our brother found little of moment; neither Mrs. Grey's habit, nor a hint as to the identity of her murderer. One gold button from the habit, however, had worked its way between the seat cushions. There it might have lain forever, and forever unremarked, had Neddie not exerted himself to search the interior fully. The presence of the thing must prove suggestive: Are we to conclude that Mrs. Grey was stripped of her clothing in the chaise itself?

  Provocative as this gilt trophy might be, however, it is as nothing to those Henry retrieved from Mrs. Grey's phaeton. And now I approach the heart of the matter, Cassandra, and must urge you again to discretion.

  The contents were few, and readily observable to the eye — a lap robe against the dust; a hamper of provisions, quite empty; the gold plate presented by the sweepstakes officials; several posies bestowed by the more gallant among her acquaintance; and a novel in the French language.

  Henry, of course, seized upon the novel — and proclaimed it to be of a scandalous sort, such as only his wife, Eliza, might scruple to entertain. It is called La Nouvelle Heloise, and I believe is rather shocking — however, the book can be no more surprising than what it was found to conceal. For tucked b
etween two leaves of the volume, Cassandra, was a letter.

  Even Neddie's cursory French was equal to the seizing of its meaning. He perused it once — checked several phrases with Henry — and retained the original for further consideration. Mrs. Grey, it seemed, had conducted a correspondence with a gentleman not her husband — and had formed a plan of elopement intended for this very night. The two were to meet at Pegwell Bay, where a boat was to bear them to France. What remains at issue, my dear Cassandra, is the identity of the amorous gentleman. For no signature was appended to the missive. Might it have been from Collingforth, himself? — And the lady's purpose divined by a jealous rival, who killed her and placed the blame upon her lover? Mr. Bridges, perhaps, or Captain Woodford? (The latter notion must strike everyone but Denys Collingforth as absurd.)

  Or were Mrs. Grey's intentions betrayed to her deluded husband? Mr. Valentine Grey was from home this week; but perhaps a timely warning, anonymous or otherwise, drew him back to Kent in an outrage of feeling. It should not be unusual for a man to work his vengeance upon his wife, and charge her lover with the murder.

  Denys Collingforth, however, did not comport himself like a lover. Nothing of anguish was in his looks as he contemplated the ravaged corpse of Mrs. Grey. If anything, he appeared the reverse of all that a lover should be. So why deposit the body in his chaise? Or, in the final consideration, was the letter in the novel merely a subterfuge of Mrs. Grey's cicisbeo, who intended her end rather than her escape?[12]

  The latter seems hardly likely. A disgruntled lover should rather have strangled the lady on the strand at Pegwell in the dark of night, than in the midst of a race-meeting. The letter, for the nonce, must be merely suggestive. It tells us only that one among her friends believed her unhappy enough with her marriage and Kent, to entertain the notion of flight.

  Neddie has determined, as you may comprehend, to examine the husband acutely. Mr. Valentine Grey was sent for by express, and is expected at The Larches every moment.

  HERE I PAUSED IN MY LETTER TO CASSANDRA, AND SAW again in memory my brother's weary face. It was after ten o'clock when he and Henry returned from the race grounds, and we had the comfortable library entirely to ourselves. Henry threw himself onto a sofa and yawned hugely; Neddie stood in thought by his desk. I had determined not to plague them with questions, being content myself to rest a few moments in my favourite room.

  The library, with its five tables, two fireplaces, countless volumes, and eight-and-twenty chairs, is in the newest part of the great house. The first Mr. Thomas Knight added two wings, east and west, nearly thirty years previous; and tho' the entire family is wont to live in the generous space, summer or winter, spurning the chilly grandeur of the more formal drawing-rooms, it sometimes happens that I command the library in splendid solitude. This is a richness not to be carelessly forsworn; for in a house that boasts the frequent presence of nine children — their number increasing with a stupefying regularity — solitude and peace are luxuries dearly bought. But my brother's goodness admits of few limits; he comprehends my need for daily reflection, and the delight I take in the house's privacies; and shoos his numerous progeny to the garden when “Aunt Jane requires her rest.”

  “And so you are not abed.” Neddie swung round and peered at me from his place by the unlit hearth. “I am glad of it, Jane. I should soon drive poor Henry mad with my mutterings; he has borne with them too long today.”

  “Not a bit of it.” Henry eased off his top boots with a sigh. It should not be remarkable if the feet were swollen, after hours of imprisonment in such fashionable footgear. “I shall be all attention to the despicable business, once I have heard from Jane how the Commodore does.”

  “He was sold to the knacker not three minutes before your return,” I told him with conscious cruelty, “and I doubt he shall make a better meat than he has a race-meeting.”

  “For shame! The lad was merely weighted too heavily. And he does not like the dust. Give the Commodore a splendid wet muck and he will tear the course to blazes. But truly, Jane — you saw he was looked after?”

  I sighed. “A bucket of oats and an hour's rubbing-down. Your groom would hardly do less; I believe he led the nag at a walk the full seven miles between the meeting-grounds and Godmersham, Henry. You have no cause for fear.”

  “Not for fear, perhaps,” Neddie observed, as he flung himself into a chair, “but his concern nonetheless does our brother credit. Yours is a most forgiving nature, Henry; you lose your fortune and mine in backing the beast, and yet are anxious to know whether it ate its dinner well. Were I disposed to transgress and disappoint, I should wish to fall into your hands. I might then be assured of a gende reckoning.”

  “Unlike the unfortunate Mrs. Grey,” Henry observed. “She certainly met with more brutal treatment.”

  Neddie regarded him quizzically. “You incline, then, to the theory of a husband pushed past endurance?”

  “I incline to nothing,” he protested. “She might as readily have been strangled by a broken gamester, mad with backing the wrong horse!”

  “Better to have strangled the Commodore, then,” I murmured.

  Neddie bent his gaze upon me. “What say you, Jane, to Henry's notion?”

  “I may say nothing, until I command a greater knowledge of the particulars. Why should you believe Mr. Grey the culprit? Was not he far from the scene, in London?”

  Neddie laughed abruptly. “She is as sober as a judge, our sister! If it is particulars you fancy, Jane, then you shall have them. I could not suffer you to remain in ignorance, when all the world will soon be talking of the matter.”

  He rang for wine, and when it had been brought, consumed a little in silence. It was Henry who related the history of the perch phaeton, its scandalous novel, and the letter it contained; and when he had done, I puzzled a moment over the matter.

  “Like you, Henry, I cannot incline towards one theory or another,” I declared at last. “We must attempt to ascertain whether Mr. Valentine Grey was indeed in London at the moment of his wife's end — and whether he had reason to suspect a dangerous entanglement with The Unknown. It would not go amiss, either, could we put a name to the lady's lover. But until such things are laid plain, it must all be conjecture. And injurious conjecture at that.”

  “So we thought as well,” Neddie said from his corner. “And having concluded our inspection of the phaeton, despatched the greys to their stable under the watchful eye of the tyger, and charged the Canterbury constabulary with the safekeeping of the carriage — Henry and I proceeded to pay a call upon The Larches.”

  “The Greys' estate? No wonder, then, that you were so long detained!”

  “Indeed. We have tramped through half the neighbourhood in pursuit of justice, and found not a hint of it within fifteen miles of the coast. It has all fled to London, I suppose, out of a terror of French cavalry.”

  “And did you discover Mr. Grey in savage looks, with pistols at the ready and his housekeeper for hostage, intent upon the defiance of the Law?”

  “Hardly. Imagine our surprise, my dear sister, to find Grey as absent as foretold, and the house in possession of strangers.”

  “Strangers?” I echoed, intrigued.

  “Perhaps that is not the correct word,” Henry broke in hastily. “But they certainly could not be considered as forming a part of the household.”

  “Enough of riddles!” I set down my wineglass with decision. “I am not young Fanny, to be diverted at a word.”

  “Can not you guess whom we found in the saloon, rifling the dead woman's desk for all they were worth?” Neddie's eyes glinted with something too acute to be called amusement.

  “I cannot,” I retorted helplessly. “I never heard of Mrs. Grey until this morning, and cannot hope to name her intimates.”

  “Captain Woodford and Edward Bridges,” Henry said apologetically, “and both of them much the worse for wine.”

  “Good God!” I cried; and then, “How can you look so roguish, Neddie
? Think what this must mean for Lizzy, if Mr. Bridges's name should be linked in scandal to Mrs. Grey's! And Captain Woodford, too — of whom Harriot has such hopes! It does not bear thinking of.”

  “I believe it is my Lizzy who has hopes of the gallant Captain,” he amended. “Harriot's feelings, like those of any modest young lady, must be presently in doubt. I cannot be expected to consider of Harriot, if she will not consider of herself.”

  “Pray, pray, be sensible, Neddie!”

  “You disappoint me, Jane,” my brother replied drily. “You do not show the proper relish for intrigue. I had expected more, from Henry's account of your doings in Bath last winter. I thought you quite enslaved to a dangerous excitement.”

  If I threw Henry an evil look, and received an air of insouciance in return, I may perhaps be forgiven.

  “Captain Woodford we may explain,” I managed eventually. “I understand that he has been on terms of intimacy with Mr. Grey from boyhood, and might naturally wish to be present when the gentleman returned. Perhaps he hoped to shield his friend from the full weight of such terrible news. And Mr. Bridges might merely have accompanied him.”

  “Tho' they travelled in separate equipages, and seemed distinctly out of charity with one another.”

  This must give me pause.

  “Captain Woodford would have it that they had come to condole with Mr. Grey,” Henry threw in, “tho' he could tell us nothing about that gentleman's movements, or when he was expected from London. And poor Mr. Bridges was decidedly red-faced and mumchance — either from the effects of wine or the ruin of his hopes, for I know him to have backed the Commodore to a shocking extent. At first he suggested he would condole with Grey as well, until Captain Woodford abused him to his face for a blackguard and a liar. It would have ended in Bridges calling the Captain out, had Neddie not intervened.”[13]

  “How very singular,” I said slowly. “Captain Woodford and Mr. Bridges, to have had a falling-out. They seemed the best of fellows, when last I had the pleasure of conversing with them.”