Jane and The Wandering Eye jam-3

by Stephanie Barron

  “How melancholy to consider of it!”

  “Age will advance upon one,” Madam observed with a sigh, “though I must remark that Her Grace seems to keep its deprivations at bay! How very well she looks, to be sure! And the Conynghams appear to have survived their early loss. Mrs. Siddons had the raising of them, I believe. They were of an age to be thrown together with her children — she possesses no less than five, like myself — and I cannot think but that they do her credit.”

  “With such a rearing, it should be marvellous indeed did the Conynghams abhor the stage.”

  “They were bred to the boards, as they say in theatrical circles. Miss Conyngham was educated in France, in company with the Miss Siddonses; and her brother, Hugh, was sent to the same college as the Kemble gentlemen patronised — a religious school somewhere in Flanders.[12] Mr. Conyngham would be about the same age as Mr. Charles Kemble, the Siddons girls’ uncle, and both are Papists, you know.”

  “I was not aware,” I replied. “And do the Conynghams look to the Siddons family to patronise their careers? Mr. John Philip Kemble is presently the manager of Covent Garden, I believe — and might do much for his friends.”

  “There has been a little coolness in their relations, it seems,” said Madam Lefroy, “owing to an unfortunate love affair. Hugh Conyngham was excessively attached to the younger Miss Siddons, and thought to have married her; but the lady turned her affections elsewhere, and he has not yet got over the disappointment. However, she was of a sickly constitution, and passed away some years since.”

  “How tragic!”

  Our exchange was broken by the clang of a gong — we turned as one, and perceived once more the Dowager.

  Her Grace had got rid of the offending White Harlequin somewhere, and now leaned on her cane at the head of the drawing-room, as if on the point of speech. Lady Desdemona, seeming quite recovered in spirits, stood once again by her grandmother’s side. At the Dowager’s other hand was Henry VIII — or the actor Hugh Conyngham — possessed of his usual dignity. The entire rout fell silent.

  “Dear guests and fellow devotees of the theatre,” Eugenie said, the faintest suggestion of France in her guttural tone and tender way with consonants, “the artistes of the Theatre Royal have honoured us tonight with their presence. It is my noble office to present the celebrated Mr. Hugh Conyngham, who will speak a short passage from Macbeth for our enjoyment. Mr. Conyngham.”

  “Your Grace,” the gentleman replied, with the most elegant sweep of his hand, and the deepest of bows, “I am honoured to be of service.” And with that simple acknowledgement, he fixed his gaze upon the decorative plaster of the ceiling, his aspect at once become sorrowful, brooding, contemplative, and tortured by turns.

  My heart, I confess, gave way to a painful beating; I felt the impertinent blood rise swiftly to my cheeks; and was glad for the support of a chair. Macbeth, as Conyngham plays him, is the very soul of tragedy; and I am but too susceptible to its power.

  “If it were done,” HE BEGAN, IN THE HUSHED TONE AND SLOW pace appropriate to murderous thought, turning before our eyes like a cage’d tiger—

  “when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well

  It were done quickly. If th’ assassination

  Could trammel up the consequence, and catch

  With his surcease, success; that but this blow—”

  (Here, a swiftly upraised hand, a clenching fist, the agony of indecision in his aspect.)

  “Might be the be-all and the end-all here,

  But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,

  We’ld jump the life to come. But in these cases

  We still have judgment here, that we but teach

  Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return

  To plague th’ inventor. This even-handed justice

  Commends th’ ingredience of our poison’d chalice

  To our own lips. He’s here in double trust:

  First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,”

  (The nobility of his consciousness! The foulness of his thought!)

  “Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,

  Who should against his murtherer shut the door,

  Not bear the knife myself Besides, this Duncan

  Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been

  So clear in his great office, that his virtues

  Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongu’d, against

  The deep damnation of his taking-off;

  And pity, like a naked new-born babe,

  Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubim, hors’d

  Upon the sightless couriers of the air,

  Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,

  That tears shall drown the wind.”

  (A long declining wail, as though uttered from within a tomb.)

  “I have no spur

  To prick the sides of my intent, but only

  Vaulting ambition, which o’verleaps itself,

  And falls on th’ other—”

  The last words, whispered and yet utterly distinct, came like the gentle slip of leaves from a November bough; and his lips had scarcely ceased to move, when the applause that was his due rang forth in strenuous tumult. Every throat swelled with praise, and the madness of cheering all but blotted out Hugh Conyngham’s gentler thanks. The actor’s brilliant eye, and the fever of his cheek, spoke with firmer eloquence, however; and I read in his looks a grateful understanding. For such an one, as yet so young in the life of the stage — for he can be but thirty — to take his place among the Garricks and the Kembles, if only in the estimation as yet of Bath, must seem like glory, indeed.

  The cheering did not cease; the clapping hands acquired a measured beat; and it seemed as though Hugh Conyngham must bow to the desire of the guests, and speak on — when the tenor of the hoarsest cries declined by an octave, and gained a sudden accent of horror and dismay. The acutest attention o’erspread the actor’s face; the crowd’s mood changed as perceptibly as though an icy draught had blown out the blazing fire — and I turned, to perceive a stumbling knot of bodies caught in an anteroom doorway.

  “I fear some part of the Duchess’s acquaintance are but too disguised in truth,”[13] I said to Anne Lefroy. “We had best make our adieux, and summon the chairs, before this rout turns to a riot.”

  “Nonsense. It is nothing but a bit of theatre — the stabbing of Duncan, I suspect.” She stepped towards the anteroom with the others, and protesting, I followed.

  Craning on tip-toe, the better to discern the man who had stolen Hugh Conyngham’s scene, I comprehended a small salon to one side of the massive drawing-room, done up in Prussian blue picked out with gold. Its double doors were thrown wide and obscured by a press of bodies. The late Duke’s reception room? — Or perhaps a study? But all such observations were fleeting, for my eyes were fixed on one alone — the mettlesome Knight, my erstwhile dance partner. He strained in the grip of two stout fellows, and his reddened countenance worked in horror.

  At his feet lay the White Harlequin.

  The face still wore its mask, but behind the lozenge of velvet the eyes were sightless and staring. Blood pooled slowly on the Duchess’s Savonnerie carpet, as though the man called Portal had wished to exchange his white-patterned stuff for the rival Harlequin’s red.

  I raised one hand to my lips to stifle a scream, and with the other, gripped Madam Lefroy’s arm. She tensed beneath my fingers.

  A woman brushed past me with a flash of black curls, and fell in supplication at the Harlequin’s feet. The Medusa, Maria Conyngham. With shaking fingers she snatched at the dead man’s mask. “Richard! Oh, Richard!”

  The voice of a bereaved mother, or an abandoned wife — the soul of a woman destroyed by grief. The crowd parted to admit Hugh Conyngham to the hushed circle, and he knelt at his sister’s side.

  “Dead!” she cried, and fell weeping on his breast.

  “Kinny?”

  The voice, clear and sweet as a child’s, was t
he Lady Desdemona’s. She stood just behind Hugh Conyngham, on the edge of the crowd. The pallor of her face was extreme. But in her composure and the intensity of her dark grey eyes I saw something of the fierce Trowbridge will. Without even a look for the murdered Harlequin, she crossed to the Knight.

  “Kinny, what have you done?”

  “Nothing, Mona! I swear it! I found him just as you see!”

  “Then show me what is in your hand!”

  Her brother started, and released the thing, which fell clattering to the parquet floor — a bloody knife, chased in gold, as curved and deadly as a scimitar.

  Chapter 2

  Wilberforce Elliot Pays a Call

  12 December 1804, cont.

  THE UPROAR OF THE ASSEMBLED GUESTS WAS SWIFT AND sudden. The Dowager Duchess of Wilborough screamed, the Knight was wrestled into a chair, and not a few of the guests made swiftly for the door — being disinclined, one supposes, to a meeting with the constables that evening, and all the tedium it should require.

  For my part, I had not the slightest hesitation in remaining. The murder of the White Harlequin had rendered Lord Harold’s business irrelevant; but he should assuredly be summoned now from London, and my observation of all in the Wilborough household should be as gold. My thoughts were suddenly diverted, however, by Anne Lefroy’s seeking a chair, her pallor extreme. Madam can never rely upon a physical courage in the face of blood, and I feared she should faint. Where were Henry and Eliza? A swift glance for a tower of birds’ nests and ship models — and I waved my sister to my side.

  “Do you look to Madam Lefroy,” I enjoined, “while I attend to the murder.”

  “But of course.” Eliza was all efficiency. “Henry! A glass of water, if you please — or better yet, brandy! And quickly!”

  I returned to the anteroom doorway, and there found the Knight in the midst of an outburst.

  “But do observe the open window! I assure you, whoever committed this dreadful deed has jumped to the paving below! Quickly, Jenkins — to the street, or he shall escape us entirely!”

  The man Jenkins hesitated, bewildered, and glanced to the Dowager Duchess.

  “Go, go — and take Samuel with you!” she urged him. The footman dashed for the stairs.

  The massive Moor, his face blackened with burnt cork and his turban formed of a lady’s cashmere shawl, pushed his way to the fore of the pitiful scene.

  “My name is Gibbs,” he said, “and I have the honour to act as Her Grace’s physician. I must be permitted to examine the gentleman.”

  “It is Mr. Richard Portal,” Maria Conyngham told the doctor. She was weeping still, but struggled for composure. “He is our company’s manager. Your physick will avail him nothing, however. The knife blade found his heart.”

  “Hush now, Maria,” her brother said, and drew her to his bosom.

  Dr. Gibbs dismissed the pair with a glance and bent to the unfortunate Portal. He felt of his wrists and neck, then laid an ear to the blood-soaked breast. And at last, with surprising gentleness, the physician removed the black velvet mask.

  All evidence of the Harlequin’s former gaiety was fled. The expression of agonised horror that still gripped his countenance was distressing in the extreme. Richard Portal was revealed as a not unattractive gentleman, but well past his first youth; his brown hair was touched with grey, and his complexion reddened by exposure or drink. Dr. Gibbs closed the staring eyes, and arranged the lifeless limbs in an attitude of dignity; and then he turned to look at the Dowager.

  Eugenie was huddled on a blue and gold settee. Lady Desdemona stood at her side.

  “A constable should be summoned, Your Grace,” Dr. Gibbs said quietly. “Elliot, the magistrate, is to be preferred, of course — but at this hour—”

  As though conjured by his words, a bronze clock on the mantel began to chime. It had just gone two.

  “I did not kill him, Gibbs,” the Knight burst out, straining in his captors’ grip. “You must believe me! I did not do this thing!”

  “Be quiet, Simon.” The Dowager Duchess’s voice was weary. “You must save your words for the magistrate, my dear.” Gripping the knobbed head of her cane, she rose a trifle unsteadily, patted Lady Desdemona’s hand, and progressed towards the doorway. Her gaze she kept studiously averted from the dead man on the carpet. The hushed crowd of guests parted like a tide to permit her passage, then closed again around her.

  “Your Grace,” Dr. Gibbs called after Eugenie in a commanding voice. “Your Grace, I must beg your indulgence. Would you have the body removed?”

  The Duchess halted in her stride, but did not turn. “Leave him, Gibbs,” she replied. “Mr. Elliot will wish to view everything precisely as it was found. Later we may consider what is due to Mr. Portal — but for the nonce, I must summon the constables and despatch a letter to the magistrate’s residence. Are you acquainted with the direction?”

  “I am, Your Grace,” Dr. Gibbs replied. “Mr. Elliot resides in Rivers Street.”

  “Very well. I shall write to him directly. But I must beg that no one depart this house until the constable or Mr. Elliot arrive.”

  The doors closed behind the Duchess — and that part of the assembled masquerade, that had not fled at the first instance of blood, commenced a dispirited milling about the drawing-room. I surveyed the ranks hastily, and could find no trace of Madam Lefroy’s acquaintance, the Red Harlequin, or of the bearded Pierrot who had conversed at such length with Maria Conyngham. Some fifty guests arrayed in motley nonetheless remained. Most eyes were careful to avoid the pathetic figure felled upon the exquisite carpet, or the group of actors despondent at its feet; and Dr. Gibbs was so good as to summon a footman, and request some bed linen, for the composure of the body.

  “Jane.” Madam Lefroy raised a shaking hand to my arm. “I must leave this place at once. At once! I cannot bear the pall of death! I find in it a terrible presentiment!”

  “More brandy, Henry,” Eliza said tersely, “and perhaps some smelling salts. Enquire of Lady Desdemona.”

  My brother hastened away, and I knelt to Madam Lefroy.

  “Dear friend,” I said softly, “you must rally, I fear. Indeed you must. For we none of us may quit the household until the constables have come. At the first opportunity, I assure you, we shall summon a chaise and attend you home.”

  She closed her eyes and gripped my fingers painfully.

  FOR THE CONSTABLES’ ARRIVAL WAS REQUIRED PERHAPS A quarter-hour, the streets being all but deserted at that time of night. At the approach to Laura Place, however, the party encountered some difficulty — the way being blocked by an assemblage of chairmen in attendance upon the rout, and expectant of any amount of custom when it should be concluded. The news that a murder had occurred within, was incapable of deterring these hardy souls, who had braved a night of snow and considerable cold in pursuit of pence; and it was with a clamour of indignation, and the most vociferous protests, that they suffered the constables to clear them from the stoop.

  I observed all this from the vantage of a drawing-room window, having grown intolerably weary of turning about the overheated room in attendance upon the Law. If Simon, Marquis of Kinsfell, was to be credited — for such, I had learned, was the Knight’s full title — then the chairmen must have observed the murderer in the act of leaping from the anteroom window. The prospect of that apartment gave out onto Laura Place, in company with the window at which I now stood. It should be a simple matter to question the fellows assembled below—

  But I had only to entertain the thought, before it was superseded by another. Had the chairmen observed a figure to exit the Dowager’s window in considerable stealth, should not they have given chase? One had only to shout out “Thief!” in any street of the city, and a crowd of willing pursuers was sure to form, intent upon the rewards of capture. But no hue or cry had arisen from below — and thus a faint seed of doubt regarding Lord Kinsfell must form itself in my heart.

  A sudden hush brought my gaze around
from the window — the constables were arrived, two grizzled elders more accustomed to calling out the watch than attending a murder among the Quality — and with them, Mr. Wilberforce Elliot.

  He was a large and shambling man, got up in a wine-coloured frock coat, much stained, and a soiled shirt. His neckcloth was barely equal to the corpulence of his neck, and in being forced into service, had so impeded the flow of air to his lungs, that his countenance was brilliantly red and overlaid with moisture. But Wilberforce Elliot was an imposing figure, nonetheless, in that room arrayed for frivolity — a figure that stunned the assemblage to a devout and listening stillness.

  “Your Grace,” the magistrate said, as he doffed his hat and bowed. A clubbed hank of black hair, thick and dirty as a bear’s, tumbled over one shoulder. “Your humble servant.”

  “Mr. Elliot,” the Dowager Duchess replied. “You are very good to venture out at such an hour.”

  “It is nothing, Your Grace — I had not yet sought my bed. May I be permitted to view the body?”

  Eugenie inclined her head, and gestured towards the anteroom. After an instant’s hesitation, and the briefest survey of the appalled onlookers, Mr. Elliot made his ponderous way to the dead man’s side.

  I let fall the window drape, and joined my party at a little remove from the anteroom itself, but affording an excellent prospect of the interior through the opened connecting doors.

  “What a devil of a man to intrude upon the Dowager’s misery,” my sister Eliza whispered. “He might be Pantagruel from the Comédie Française! But I suppose the Duchess is familiar with such characters of old.”

  “Eliza!” Henry muttered fiercely in his wife’s ear. “I have told you that oaths cannot become a lady!”

  With a sigh and a grunt, Mr. Elliot forced his bulk to a creaking posture by Mr. Portal’s head. A quick twitch of the covering linen; a shrewd appraisal; and a forefinger bluntly probed at the dead man’s chest.