Jane and The Wandering Eye jam-3

by Stephanie Barron

  “Yes, miss. In the Reverend’s chair.”

  I hastened upstairs to my visitor’s relief, and found none other than Lord Harold Trowbridge, standing erect and silent before the window, his back turned to the room. My poor father gazed at him helplessly, while my mother — in full flood upon the subject of actors and their pugilism — ran on unabated.

  “Sir!” I burst out. “This is indeed an honour!”

  He turned, one eyebrow raised, and bowed. “Miss Austen. The honour is entirely mine.”

  The gravity of his tone might have impressed me less, had it not been wed to an equal command of countenance. Lord Harold was in no mood for civilities or folly — and I determined upon the removal of my mother from the room as swiftly as convention might allow.

  “Jane, my dear,” my father said, “your mother and I have been expecting you this half-hour, as we assured Lord Harold. What can have occasioned so protracted an absence?”

  “Only a Pump Room acquaintance of Eliza’s, Father,” I replied, my eyes on the Gentleman Rogue. “And a general buzz of gossip concerning a new arrival. The Earl of Swithin has come to Bath. Only fancy!”

  “The Earl of Swithin? And what is the Earl of Swithin to us, pray? Come, come, Mrs. Austen.” My father rose slowly from a stiff-backed chair at some remove from the fire—not his usual seat. “If we are to have a whiff of air before Cook sets the dinner bell to ringing, we must away!”

  “I am certain we have not time enough,” my mother objected, “and that I shall catch a chill. Moreover, the gloom is not prepossessing. We shall stumble over ourselves, in attempting the pavement.”

  “That is always the way with December, my dear, but I must have my exercise. Mr. Bowen is most insistent.”

  At this, my mother submitted, for my father’s health has been indifferent of late, to our great anxiety, and the surgeon — Mr. Bowen — is punctilious on the matter of a daily airing.

  Lord Harold bowed to them both, and I heard the sitting-room door click behind them with palpable relief.

  “These are comfortable lodgings,” he said, with a glance about the room.

  “Indeed. Although a trifle damp — in the kitchen and offices particularly.”[32]

  “You have been here how long?”

  “A few months only — since our return from Lyme.”

  “Ah, yes. Lyme.” The barest suggestion of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “It is in my power to inform you, Miss Austen, that our friends reached America in safety. They have taken up residence in the state of New York.”

  A rush of feeling welled suddenly within me, and as swiftly died away. Geoffrey Sidmouth and his cousins might as well be on the moon, for any likelihood I should ever have of seeing them again.[33]

  “That is excellent news, indeed,” I managed, and felt my cheeks to burn.

  “But you cannot rejoice in it as you might,” Lord Harold said gently, “having occasion to regret the acquaintance — or perhaps, the gentleman. I comprehend.”

  I averted my eyes in some embarrassment. “Will you not sit down, sir?”

  “No — I thank you. I have been sitting already too long today.”

  “You journeyed from London.”

  “As swiftly as a coach-and-four might carry me. I am arrived but a few hours.” He clasped his hands behind his back and turned from the window to the fire. Lord Harold might always have been called a well-made man — he is tall enough, with the leanness born of exercise, and a shrewdness of countenance that becomes the more engaging the longer one is acquainted with it. His silver locks are worn as negligently as the scar from a sabre cut that travels across one cheek, and though he commands fully five-and-forty years of age, the youthfulness of his demeanour has always cast the sum into doubt. But as I studied his lordship’s form, dark against the blazing hearth, I perceived a subtle transformation. If it were possible for a man to age a twelvemonth in but a quarter of that time, then Lord Harold had assuredly done so.

  Since our last meeting — on the rainswept Charmouth shingle of a September dawn — the Gentleman Rogue had acquired a weary set to his shoulders, and his aquiline features were drawn with something akin to pain. His lordship’s hooded grey eyes, though cold and unblinking when in contemplation of evil, were wont to brim with amusement as well; but now they seemed quite devoid of emotion altogether. These subtle changes might be ascribed, I supposed, to the distress occasioned by his nephew Kinsfell’s misadventures. There was a severity in Lord Harold’s looks, however, that called to mind the ascetic — or the penitent. It was as though his lordship nursed a private grief, or suffered from infinite regret. As I surveyed him thus, he reached for the irons and prodded viciously at the fire — a betrayal of the unease within. A restless distraction held him in its grip; the evident desire to be doing something. I must not presume upon his patience with trifling pleasantries; the greatest despatch was in order. I seated myself upon the settee.

  “If you have spared an hour to pay this call, sir,” I began, “I can only assume it is with a view to learning what I might tell you of events in Laura Place last evening. But let me first offer my heartfelt expression of concern for your family, and the terrible misfortunes they have endured.”

  A smile flickered briefly over the narrow face. “My thanks, Miss Austen. I have indeed come to your door in the hopes of learning something to my nephew’s advantage. I know you too well to fear that any part of this unfortunate affair is likely to have escaped your attention. But first — you must tell me. Is it true? Is Swithin indeed come to Bath?”

  “I regret to say that I have not the pleasure of acquaintance with his lordship. But if he travels in style, with the device of a snarling tiger upon his ebony coach—”

  “He does. You have seen him yourself?”

  “I have seen a tall, well-made man with fair hair and a haughty expression on his noble brow, a gentleman of taste and a decided air of refinement, to whom every eye in the room is turned as a matter of course. He is accustomed, I should judge, to the power of doing as he likes; and employs it frequently.”

  “That is the man,” Lord Harold said with satisfaction. “But how has Swithin learned so swiftly of our misfortune? And what does he mean by coming here? He abhors Bath. There is nothing to interest him in this quarter. Except—” The silver head bent slightly in thought, and after an instant, Lord Harold wheeled around. “He means to bring my niece to a stand.”

  “Does he? And will he achieve it?”

  “I cannot undertake to say. But there is no man like Swithin for forcing a point. My niece, Lady Desdemona, has gone so far as to reject him; she has thwarted his ambition; she has spit in his eye, and all the world has seen it. He is not the sort of man to take such behaviour lightly. He means to break her.”

  The casual grimness of his tone caused my heart to sink.

  “But you will not allow it!” I rejoined stoutly. “You must be seen to object.”

  “I object to everything that appears as undue influence over those I hold most dear. Rest assured, Miss Austen — I would not have Mona thrown away.” He settled himself in my father’s chair and gazed broodingly into the flames. “Now let us have the entire history. Tell me all you know.”

  And so I launched into the neatest summary of the Duchess’s rout that I could manage, a summary entirely free of conjecture or surmise. And when I had done, Lord Harold was silent for several moments together.

  “You have no notion as to the cause of the dispute between my nephew and Mr. Portal?” he enquired at last.

  “None. Although I assumed it was the result of some insult, in word or action. Lord Kinsfell referred to Portal as a blackguard, I believe.”

  “That might cover all manner of offence — from cheating at cards to coarseness towards a lady. I shall have to force the admission from Simon myself — though it will prove a piece of work.”

  “Cannot Lady Desdemona enlighten you?”

  “Alas, it is impossible. She merely attempt
ed to part the two, when their behaviour grew too reckless, and was served with some very rough treatment herself, I understand.”

  “Mr. Portal’s behaviour did seem to offend her. She quitted the room in tears. But I cannot believe her distress the cause of a murderous attack on the part of Lord Kinsfell, as Mr. Elliot fain would do.”

  “But consider the oddity of the attack!” Lord Harold countered. “If any desired the end of Richard Portal, why not draw the knife in the darkness of a random alley? There are an hundred places where such a deed might be done — the foetid rooms of a public house, or the shadow of Westgate Buildings, or the banks of the Avon itself.[34] Why choose a duchess’s drawingroom? — Unless the knife was drawn in a moment, on the spur of anger and drink. I begin to see it as Mr. Wilberforce Elliot might; and should have taken up my nephew without a second thought.”

  “But if Portal was murdered with deliberation — and with deliberation in the Duchess’s household — then the killer must find a purpose in publicity,” I observed. “He may mean your nephew to take the blame. Or he may hope, Lord Harold, that your niece will suffer in the knowledge of her favourite’s end.”

  There was a silence. “Lord Swithin,” Trowbridge said.

  “The thought has occurred to me.”

  “You think him so consumed by jealousy and pique, Miss Austen, as to plan his rival’s murder? And under Mona’s very nose?”

  “Is the notion so incredible?”

  “He was far from Bath.”

  “And he is the sort of man who might summon a legion to do his bidding — from any distance this side of the sea!”

  “But would he resort to murder?” Lord Harold rejoined. “I cannot believe it. It is far more in Swithin’s style to call a rival out — and cripple him for life. A masked stabbing would not be at all the thing.”

  “And yet,” I persisted, “I observed him today at the Pump Room, barely a quarter-hour after his arrival, already in conference with Hugh Conyngham.”

  “The actor? I comprehend, now, Swithin’s early intelligence of the murder. I did not know his lordship claimed acquaintance among the company of the Theatre Royal.”

  “The Earl was most intent upon his conversation with Conyngham — and I overheard a little of it. It seems that the actor was charged with a duty towards Lord Swithin, concerning the retrieval of some letters. The Earl was quite put out at Conyngham’s failure to fulfil his commission — and declared he was within a handsbreadth to the gallows! Singular words, are they not?”

  Lord Harold sat very still. Firelight flickered off his sharp features. “And what would you say, Miss Austen — was Lady Desdemona in love with Mr. Portal? Enough to occasion Swithin’s alarm?”

  “In love? I confess I cannot tell! She consented to dance with him gladly enough — but I did not remark any particular sign of affection. Had you enquired of Maria Conyngham …” I hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “She appeared as destroyed by Portal’s death as any woman might possibly be.”

  “I see. That is, perhaps, no more than I should have expected. I had understood her to be attached to the man. A motive for murder, perhaps, did he turn his affections elsewhere.”

  To Lady Desdemona, for example. “Does Her Grace know nothing of your niece’s regard for Mr. Portal?”

  Lord Harold shook his head. “My mother considered the manager an acquaintance of long standing. She had no idea of a presumption to Desdemona’s hand. Of far greater import, in Her Grace’s estimation, was the friendship Portal so recently formed with my nephew”

  “But I thought Lord Kinsfell held Portal in contempt!”

  “Thus ends many an unequal friendship.”

  “So this public display of poor feeling was quite out of the ordinary way.”

  Lord Harold rose and began to pace before the fire. “As was the manager’s violent end. I propose we consider of events in a rational manner. It is possible to divine a jealous motive for both Swithin and Miss Conyngham to commit this murder — a motive that depends upon my niece’s affections. Others may exist, for parties unknown. But how was the deed effected?”

  “At least two possibilities are open to us, my lord. Firstly, that Richard Portal was stabbed by a person who fled through the anteroom window.”

  Lord Harold shook his head. “It is a precipitous fall.”

  “Agreed. But I have been turning over the matter in my mind. Were there a conveyance beneath the window — a common waggon, and filled with hay — might not an intruder leap from house to street, and suffer nothing in the fall?”

  “If the waggon were allowed to stand but a little, and to look unremarkable in its delay.”

  “An altercation with the chairmen, perhaps, who rendered Laura Place all but impassable that night, in attendance upon the Duchess’s guests. The constable did not enquire whether a carter had come to the point of fisticuffs. He merely asked if any had observed a cloaked figure leap from the window.”

  “That is true. I will enquire among the various stands of chairmen in the city. But you mentioned two possibilities, Miss Austen — pray continue.”

  “Portal’s murderer may have vanished through the anteroom passage, and left the window ajar as a ruse. He had only to return, then, to the drawing-room, and discover the body in company with the rest of us.”

  “Then the murderer might be anyone. There were an hundred guests last night, I believe.”

  “But some dozens fled before the constables’ arrival, and of those who remained, but a few are worthy of consideration. I would posit, my lord, that the murderer might be found among the company of the Theatre Royal — or among the intimates of the Conynghams.”

  “How is such an assertion possible?”

  “Have you considered the nature of the killing? A stabbing, and in the midst of Hugh Conyngham’s declamation from Macbeth, describing the same? It bears a sinister aspect. ’If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well / It were done quickly …’”

  “So my mother is willing to believe,” Lord Harold admitted, with the ghost of amusement. “She found in the scene a grisly example of life in the imitation of art; and such things must always impress her, who has confused them these seventy years.”

  “The speech may have served as signal, to a henchman among the guests; and thus we have only to study the players for the penetration of the affair.”

  “But is Mr. Elliot, the magistrate, likely to agree?” Lord Harold mused. “What think you of Mr. Elliot, by the by?”

  “I found Mr. Elliot a disturbing blend of parts. He is burdened with an unfortunate want of tact, and a superfluity of wit; he is disgusting in his manners and person — but his mind is shrewd enough. I would judge him to be lazy, and amoral, and devoid of even the faintest degree of respect for the peerage; and I would watch him within an inch of his life. Your nephew’s may depend upon it.”

  Lord Harold’s brows lifted satirically. “Harsh counsel, my dear Miss Austen — but not, I think, formed of the thin air of conjecture, nor motivated by untoward malice. I know your penetration of old. No charlatan may deceive, nor sycophant charm, your wits from out your head. Little of a human nature eludes your admirable penetration. Indeed, to solicit your opinion of the man has been almost my first object in calling at Green Park Buildings. I shall approach Mr. Elliot with the utmost circumspection, and thank you for your pains to set me on my guard.”

  I considered of the Gentleman Rogue and the bearish magistrate, and concluded that despite their apparent differences, Lord Harold and Mr. Elliot might well deal famously with one another. They should each delight in the game of confusing and astounding the other. “You are as yet unacquainted with the magistrate, I perceive?”

  Lord Harold inclined his head. “I regret that I have not yet had the pleasure — though I might have forced myself upon his attention this morning. Mr. Elliot was within the household upon my arrival, engaged in an examination of Lord Kinsfell’s private papers. He thinks to find some si
gn of guilt, I suppose, amidst a drawer of unpaid bills.”

  “And your opinion of his intentions towards the Marquis?”

  Lord Harold shrugged. “I have formed none to disagree with yours in any respect; but I pay no very great attention to magistrates in general. Mr. Elliot’s task is simple: He does not need to discover Portal’s murderer, but only to make a case against my nephew. If the truth is to be found, it is unlikely to be at Mr. Elliot’s undertaking.”[35]

  “Have you seen Lord Kinsfell, my lord?” I might almost have looked upon the Marquis himself, I thought, in gazing at his uncle; but for the differences of age, the two were remarkably alike in form and countenance. When last I saw Lord Kinsfell, however — borne away to gaol in all the inelegant discomfort of his Knight’s apparel — the outrage of his sensibilities was writ full upon his face. Lord Harold, I surmised, should never betray a like emotion, even were he kneeling before the block in London Tower. His lordship wore inscrutability as other men might their court dress, assuming it when occasion demanded.

  “I went directly to the gaol upon my arrival in Bath,” he replied. “Simon will not remain there long — the inquest is to be held on Friday, the conclusion of which must be beyond question; and he will then be conveyed to Ilchester, to await the Assizes.”

  An inquest. But of course. I knew too much of the painful rectitude of coroners’ juries to believe them capable of imagination regarding events. Once such simple men as the coroner should summon were told that Lord Kinsfell was found standing over Mr. Portal’s body with a knife in his hand, they must return a verdict of wilful murder against him.

  “And how are the Marquis’s spirits?”

  “Too low, I fear. He was much sunk in melancholy and despair, and was arrayed, as yet, in the garb of a knight. My first object upon returning to Laura Place, was to charge a servant with an exchange of clothes.” Lord Harold turned abruptly to his greatcoat, and fished among its pockets. “And now we come to the chief of this murder’s oddities, Miss Austen. Pray attend to what I am about to show you.”

  He drew forth a small object wrapped in brown paper, and laid it in my lap. “Open it, if you please.”