Jane and the Stillroom Maid

by Stephanie Barron

  Being momentarily torn between the most sublime gratification, at the thought of himself as the object of general admiration and pity within his parish—and the gravest anxiety for his noble patron’s good opinion—my cousin very nearly lost his way. I steered him gently back from the turning into Water Street, and said, “Just here, Mr. Cooper, I believe we shall find Mr. Hemming.”

  A painted sign in a prosperous shade of bottle green announced the premises to all of Derbyshire: George Hemming Esquire, Solicitor at the Bar. Mr. Cooper begged us to precede him onto the doorstep, then did the honour of the brass doorknocker; it made a hollow, echoing sound, as though the offices burrowed deep.

  “There is your cavern, Cassandra,” I murmured, “and mind you make the most of it.”

  The door swung open to reveal a tall, thin heron of a fellow arrayed in rusty suiting and a well-worn collar. He clutched a quill in one hand; the fingertips of the other were stained dark blue. His head was bare and balding; his eyes were of a watery brown; what hair he possessed was already grey. Mr. Hemming’s clerk. He had spent all his life apprenticed to the Law, and should carry ink-stained fingers to his coffin because of it.

  “No appointments today,” he said firmly, and made as though to shut the door.

  I put out my hand and grasped the handle. “But we are not here on business, Mr. …”

  “Bartles,” he replied. “Joseph Bartles, Mr. Hemming’s chief clerk. Mr. Hemming is not at leisure at present.”

  “George has spoken so very highly of you,” my sister Cassandra put in warmly, to Mr. Cooper’s astonishment.

  “‘I should be nowhere at all without Mr. Bartles,’ he said, only Monday evening. ‘Mr. Bartles is the man I depend upon’—isn’t that right, Jane?”

  “Oh—yes, yes, indeed,” I replied, with an eye for the clerk. His ancient chest had visibly swelled with pride. “I do not know where our excellent friend George would be without you. How well I recall Mr. Hemming’s words, as we all drove towards the Dale only yesterday: ‘So dependable in every respect! So entirely worthy of trust! If I have earned some small measure of success, it must all be laid to Bartles’s account!’”

  “I do not recall—” my cousin began, in tones of the greatest disapprobation.

  “—You were asleep, Edward, you always are. We shan’t be a moment, Mr. Bartles. Is Mr. Hemming within?”

  “Certainly, miss,” Bartles replied, and drew wide the door.

  We were ushered to a bare little anteroom, where the scriveners’ desks stood bleakly in a wash of sunlight; a young man was arranged behind one, his face pale and his brow furrowed as he shifted from foot to foot. Unlike Mr. Bartles, this fellow’s collar points were enormous and his neckcloth elaborately tied; they quite prohibited him from lowering his chin over his work, so that he was forced to peer down his nose at the foolscap before him, in a manner that I wondered did not drive him mad.

  “If you will please to wait,” Mr. Bartles said formally, and bowed to my cousin. “The name again, sir?”

  “Edward Cooper.”

  “And the Miss Austens,” Cassandra added with a brilliant smile.

  “Good God, Edward, whatever are you doing here?” exclaimed George Hemming from the doorway of an inner chamber. “I’m most deucedly pressed this morning. I cannot possibly spare a moment—”

  “I think perhaps you must, sir.” I moved towards him swiftly, and Cassandra followed. “Sir James Villiers paid us a most delightful call last evening, and your company was sorely missed. You should have added so much to the general tone of conversation—to the brilliance of the party! Do you not wish to hear what the Justice had to say, on the subject of angling?”

  Mr. Hemming hesitated; he glanced from ourselves to his two clerks, who were attempting to overlisten the conversation without appearing to do so; and then the cast of his countenance changed.

  “How delightful to see you again, Miss Jane Austen,” he said. “I can certainly spare a quarter-hour for any news you might bring.”

  We filed through the doorway and found ourselves in a comfortable room, with a broad mahogany desk and a quantity of volumes bound in leather, a decanter of spirits, and a painting in oils of a gentleman from the last century. Two chairs were pushed back against the wall; but Mr. Hemming made no gesture towards them, and I preferred to stand in any case.

  The solicitor surveyed us with a tight and uneasy smile. “I had not looked for such a visit,” he observed, “but I must assume that circumstances urge it. You are come, Edward, about this business of the maid?”

  “Indeed, I hardly know why we are come, George—unless it be that my cousin Jane insisted upon it,” Mr. Cooper replied. “I am sure that the demands of your work are many, and if the ladies disturbed you in this extraordinary application, I must beg leave to apologise.”

  Mr. Hemming leaned against the edge of his desk, his fingers gripping the wood painfully. But his countenance and his voice were all that was easy. “Miss Jane Austen would interrogate Mr. Hemming. From what I know of Miss Jane Austen, I should have looked for the honour. Very well, my dear lady—how would you be satisfied?”

  “We are to appear before the Coroner’s Inquest tomorrow, Mr. Hemming, as no doubt you must yourself. My past experience of similar authority has taught me that honesty before a panel invariably saves a good deal of trouble.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and peered at me with amusement. “And have you a good deal of such experience, Miss Jane Austen?”

  “Enough,” I replied succinctly, “to apprehend that you lied, Mr. Hemming, when you failed to identify the corpse above Miller’s Dale as being that of Tess Arnold—a young woman with whom, I understand, you have been acquainted for most of her life.”

  He went pale, and clutched convulsively at the desk; then thrust himself to his feet. “I could not know what I saw in Miller’s Dale. In such a scene of horror, who should not be confused? The girl’s clothes—the savage wounds to her body—I barely spared a moment to study the face. I was as astonished as yourselves to learn last evening that she was not the gentleman she appeared, and a complete stranger.”

  “Then why did you behave so oddly at the time? I distinctly recall every word and action. You appeared distracted and oppressed in your manner; you insisted that Deceased must be a traveller like ourselves, and undoubtedly from Buxton. And when we prevailed upon you to return with us to Bakewell, you washed your hands of the affair—‘Devil take the consequences,’ I believe you said. There was nothing of confusion in all this, Mr. Hemming, but rather a measure of conscious deceit.”

  “That is absurd!” he burst out.

  “Sir James Villiers does not appear to think so,” I replied. “And we may presume that he has no reason to prevaricate, when he suggests you were acquainted with the maid for years.”

  “I have never denied that. I merely failed to recognise the girl in death.”

  “But I would put it to you, sir, that you did—and that the fear her murder occasioned arose from some other cause, than merely horror at her wounds.”

  “Jane!” my cousin cried, aghast. “How can you be so shameless! Mr. Hemming has given us his word as a gentleman!”

  George Hemming stared at me, his features working; then he turned away, and put his face in his hands.

  “Would you care to offer an explanation for your extraordinary behaviour, sir, before Mr. Tivey requires it of you?” I pressed.

  “I cannot see that I owe any young lady so wholly unconnected with me as yourself, the slightest word in regard to the matter,” the solicitor said bleakly. “Whatever I may then have felt and done, stands between me and my God.”

  “Very well, George,” said Mr. Cooper hurriedly. He turned towards the door. “We shall not disturb you further.”

  “I can think of only two explanations,” I persisted, my eyes on Mr. Hemming’s face. “That in recognising the maid, you guessed at the hand of the murderer, and were so wretchedly anxious on his account, that you
sought to throw the entire affair into Buxton, a district far from the maid’s home.”

  “Not at all!”

  “Or, that you played a role yourself in Tess Arnold’s death, and carried us into Miller’s Dale yesterday with the design of establishing yourself creditably in the minds of the chief witnesses to her discovery!”

  “Jane!” my cousin cried again. “You have said quite enough!”

  “In either eventuality, you cannot have thought very clearly, Mr. Hemming. We were bound to remark your singular conduct, and to discover that you knew quite well who the young ‘gentleman’ was. We must find your appearance of guilt and dismay peculiar in the extreme. If Mr. Tivey enquires as to your reaction, Mr. Hemming—what exactly are we to say?”

  The solicitor did not reply. His pallor was dreadful, and sweat had broken out upon his forehead. Cassandra stared from Mr. Hemming to myself with an expression of the most intense anxiety; even my cousin looked all his consternation.

  “If you know anything at all, Mr. Hemming, regarding the maid’s death, you would do well to disclose it,” I advised. “There can be no loyalty so deep as to permit of such a crime. If you will not speak to us, in the privacy of your chambers—then pray determine to speak on the morrow, before the eyes of God and the Law! I beg of you, sir, do not perjure yourself then.”

  “Forgive me, Madam—but I believe that I am the solicitor in this company,” Mr. Hemming managed with a ghastly smile. “And now if you will excuse me—I have an appointment that cannot wait. I must ride to Penfolds Hall today, and offer my client Mr. Danforth what counsel I may.”

  “Charles Danforth?” my cousin enquired. “I suppose he is greatly disturbed by this dreadful affair.”

  “As you would be, too, my good Cooper,” the solicitor replied grimly, “if all your neighbours were calling you murderer and fiend. Miss Jane Austen had better counsel what she may of Truth in Danforth’s ear.”

  “DO YOU BELIEVE THAT MR. HEMMING FEARS FOR HIS client, Jane?” Cassandra mused as we made our way back towards The Rutland Arms, “and that an immediate suspicion of Charles Danforth’s guilt urged him to profess ignorance of the maid’s identity?”

  “It is possible, I suppose—”

  “It is utterly impossible,” my cousin broke in, with remarkable heat. “George Hemming is a highly respectable man! He holds the trust of a considerable number of the Great! He is a gentleman of reputation and no little decency—”

  “And his behaviour is in every way calculated to ruin him,” I replied. “Do you believe it likely, Cassandra, that the loyalty of a solicitor to a client should extend so far as perjury?”

  “As to that—he has not exactly perjured himself as yet,” she replied. “He has only offered falsehoods to his friends. We must await the outcome of the Inquest, and then observe how far Mr. Hemming’s allegiance—or his guilt—shall drive him.”

  “Guilt! Perjury!” cried Mr. Cooper in consternation. “When I consider the abominable fashion in which you have served my esteemed friend, Jane, I cannot find it in me to regret that we shall leave this place as soon as may be!”

  “There must be something greater at issue,” I told my sister; “something more personal than allegiance to a client, or even a valued friend. A man should not compromise his honour so lightly.”

  “You have disgraced me before one of my oldest fellows,” Mr. Cooper continued hotly, “and you have conducted yourself in a manner that must lay you open to accusations of vulgarity and impertinence.”

  “I cannot think that Mr. Tivey is the sort to treat a gentleman’s honour with respect,” observed Cassandra thoughtfully. Her gaze was arrested by a scene played out at the foot of Matlock Street, some hundred feet distant: a crowd of common folk, both men and women, were gathered before the town’s well. A single figure was mounted on the well-head; even at this distance I could discern the massive forearms, the darkly-knit brows. Michael Tivey would harangue his fellows about the vicious propensities of the Masonic lodge. To what purpose? Had he named Charles Danforth the maid’s murderer? What cause had Tivey to so hound a gentleman, when nothing could yet be known of Tess Arnold’s enemies, or the reasons for her death? And with so strong a conviction towards the guilt of another—how could Tivey remain, in conscience, Coroner for the Inquest?

  “But why I should find your behaviour astonishing now,” my cousin cried, “is worthy of question. You have never comported yourself with the modest humility becoming to one of your sex and station, Jane. I may only count myself fortunate that I did not chuse to throw you in the way of Sir George Mumps, my esteemed patron, who must find you unlike his idea of a gently-bred female in every particular.”

  “My dear Cousin!” Cassandra cried, in a shocked accent. “Consider the violence of your expressions, before it is too late! Our dear Jane has operated from the best intentions in the world.”

  “She is an insufferable busybody,” my cousin retorted, “and will never get a husband if she does not mend her ways. George Hemming seemed so disposed to admire her, too—I thought it very promising that he carried her with us for the angling party. And now it will all come to naught. When I consider of the chances you have thrown away, Jane, I despair of the future of matrimony!”

  For a Sour Humour on the Stomach

  ake an ounce of fine white chalk and three-quarters of an ounce of finest white sugar, and rub them to a powder. Add to these two drams of powder of gum Arabick; when all these are well rubbed together, add to a quart of water in a large bottle and shake it up. The dose is a large spoonful at a time.

  —From the Stillroom Book

  of Tess Arnold,

  Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire, 1802–1806

  Chapter 6

  The Curse of the Damned

  Thursday

  28 August 1806

  ∼

  “AND THA’ DETERMINED TO WALK UP INTO THE HILLS above Miller’s Dale, Miss Austen, quite alone and with no other object than healthful exercise? Was that entirely wise?”

  Mr. Tivey, the blacksmith-cum-surgeon-cum-coroner of Bakewell, threw me a stern look as he posed this question before his empanelled jury of twelve men; but I was not the sort of lady to suffer a diminution of composure on his account.

  “As to the wisdom of my course, Mr. Tivey, I cannot say—but it is customary to walk through the dales of Derbyshire while embarked on a pleasure tour of the county. Thousands of ladies, I am sure, have done so before this.”

  “Tha’ did not expect, then, to encounter Deceased in the course of thy rambles?”

  “If you would enquire whether I mounted the path with Deceased as my object—then no, sir, I did not. The discovery of the maid’s body came as quite a shock.”

  “Could Tha’ describe for the jury thy actions upon first perceiving Deceased?”

  I looked at the Coroner’s panel assembled on their benches. A stalwart lot—small farmers and landowners by the looks of them, and careful to preserve their countenances free of expression.

  “A murder of crows first attracted my interest,” I replied, “and upon attaining the place where the corpse was laid, I perceived that the person was quite dead.”

  “How did Deceased lie?”

  “At the foot of a crag, some distance upwards along the path.”

  “And how did the body appear?”

  He offered the question easily enough; but I could not avoid a hesitation—an indrawn breath—a desire to drop my eyes. Thoughts of the most distressing nature would obtrude.

  “Miss Austen?”

  I lifted my gaze to meet Mr. Tivey’s. “It appeared to be the corpse of a young gentleman, savagely murdered. A lead ball had lodged in the center of the forehead; and the bowels had been quite cut out, as had the person’s tongue. A great welter of blood had stained the corpse’s clothes and the surrounding rocks.”

  “Would Tha’ judge the blood to have been freshly-spilt?”

  “I cannot say. It appeared quite congealed and dried.”

  �
��Did Tha’ touch the body in anyway?”

  “I did not, sir.”

  “Did Tha’ observe the marks of a horse, or perhaps of another person, anywhere on the path?”

  “I did not, sir.”

  “Pray describe for us the condition of the ground.”

  “It was quite dry and dusty, as should not be unusual in August; the path was hard-packed, and the grasses withered.”

  “So Tha’ should have been unlikely to discern either the marks of Deceased’s passage, or those of any other person in the vicinity?”

  “I cannot say. Certainly I did not discern such marks.”

  “Did Deceased appear to have discarded any belongings? A trunk or a bundle of some sort?”

  “Not that I could discover.”

  Mr. Tivey peered at me from under his brows. “Very well. Miss Austen, what did Tha’ next do?”

  “I ran back along the path in search of aid. I summoned the gentlemen of my party—Mr. George Hemming of Bakewell, and my cousin Mr. Edward Cooper, who were fishing along the Wye—and urged them to make all possible haste towards the crag, and the unfortunate person lying there.”

  “Very well, Miss Austen. Tha’ may retire.”

  I rose from the witness chair and made my way back through the assembled throng in the Snake and Hind’s main room. The eyes of the curious roamed over my person; but I was accustomed to impertinence—it could not be avoided in the course of an Inquest. I was no longer an anonymous pleasure-seeker bent upon a summer of idleness; I was a local Sensation. I found a seat at the rear of the room, and prepared to observe all that ensued.

  “Mr. George Hemming!”

  Mr. Tivey’s voice rang through the chamber, but no answering shuffle of feet prepared to meet it. I craned my head in search of the solicitor’s form. Mr. Hemming, I felt certain, was not in the Snake and Hind; but was such a lapse of duty possible? Had he unaccountably avoided the Inquest?

  A stab of doubt, akin to the warning note that had sounded in my brain at Miller’s Dale, coursed through my blood. Mr. Hemming was not to be suspected of murder. He was too much the gentleman, and too much my cousin’s old friend. Besides, there had been a gentleness in all his ways—an ease of manner—that was utterly at variance with violence. That ease had fled instantly once the maid’s body was discovered. Why was the solicitor determined to act as one burdened by guilt?