Jane and His Lordship's Legacy

by Stephanie Barron

  I smiled at him faintly and set down my pen. “I am sure you will be, Edward. —In particular by those of us whose lives you have directly altered, through the generosity of your heart. But if you wish to impress your Chawton neighbours with your goodness, there is one gesture of benevolence you might immediately make. You might visit Mr. John-Knight Hinton at the Alton gaol.”

  My brother’s colour changed. “That pup?”

  “He is fully five-and-thirty years old. And he is at present embroiled in considerable difficulty. The appearance of magnanimity such a visit must offer the surrounding country should do you much good in publick opinion.”

  “I should not like to meddle in Prowting’s province.”

  “You are Squire; Mr. Prowting is not. And it might behoove us to hear Hinton’s version of the story. I have wondered, of late, if Catherine Prowting is entirely to be trusted.”

  “Good Lord, Jane—how can you talk so?” my brother returned impatiently. “Recollect the fact of the footprint—the boot mark in the cellar. Prowting told me of it himself!”

  “True—but what if it was left there some time ago? I believe Catherine Prowting carries a tendre for Julian Thrace, and might do much to shield him. What if she did not in fact recognise the man near the pond that night to be Mr. Hinton—but his rival for her affections?”

  Neddie whistled beneath his breath. “We ought to tax her for the truth.”

  “She is likely to plead the head-ache, and retire to her bedchamber in an attitude of misery. We shall get no more from Catherine, Neddie; we must try the man she has accused.” I sealed my sheet of paper with wax and wrote Major Charles Spence, Stonings, Sherborne St. John on the reverse. “Should you like to walk with me into Alton? I might post my letter—and we might take in the gaol on your way to the George. The constable is likely to prove no more particular about the disruption of his Sunday than we.”

  My brother stared at me with narrowed eyes. “Do you know, Jane—I believe you possess more wit beneath that linen cap than any of the rest of us?”

  “Avarice, Neddie,” I reminded him. “Do not be wishing for what is beyond your God-given merits; for that way lies ruin, as Mr. Papillon has assured us.”

  THERE WERE FOUR CELLS NO BIGGER THAN A CLUTCH OF loose horse-boxes in the Alton gaol—for indeed the building had once been a stable, and the constable yard an accommodation for grooms, until the passion for local justice caused an alteration. I had visited gaols before—alone, when the occasion required it, and with Edward at Canterbury, in his capacity as magistrate; they held no terrors for me.

  “Mr. Austen to see ye, sir,” his gaoler called as he opened the oak door of the box with a heavy iron key. “No tricks, now, as we’re prepared for anything you might offer.”

  John-Knight Hinton was lying in the straw of his prison, in clear disregard for the state of his clothes; the Hoby boots were dulled with dust, and he had not shaved since his arrival two days before. The physical dereliction of the gentleman was a sign of his oppression of spirits; and I confess my heart sank as I observed him.

  He was master enough of himself to rise to his feet and reach for the coat he had discarded on the wooden bench that served as both seat and bed; he donned this article before deigning to notice us, as tho’ we were servants that must await his pleasure. Then, having adjusted his cravat and shirtsleeves with careful dignity, he met my brother’s impervious gaze, and bowed.

  “Mr. Austen. To what do I owe this signal attention?”

  “To a sincere desire to be of what help I may in your present trouble.”

  Hinton’s lip curled. “I should be grateful, I suppose; but I fear I must decline your offer. I cannot believe any help of yours should improve my circumstances.”

  “I am uninterested in gratitude,” my brother replied quickly. “Understand, Hinton, I neither expect nor wish for it.”

  “Are you come, then, to triumph over me?”

  Neddie deliberately removed his hat and gloves. “I am come to learn the truth.”

  “Your sister”—Hinton inclined his head with sneering civility in my direction—“professes to know it already.”

  “My sister is well aware there may be various constructions placed upon a person’s behaviour. It is to her insistence you owe our visit today.”

  “Really?” He stared at us with mock incredulity. “Miss Austen no longer has confidence in the power of a footprint?”

  Pup, Edward had called him; and he was certainly a graceless one. I struggled to maintain at least the appearance of civility.

  “Mr. Hinton, do you apprehend the gravity of your circumstances?” I enquired.

  “—That I might hang for a murder I did not commit? Yes, Miss Austen, I think I understand that much.”

  “And have you heard that another person has lately died by violence—and the man believed responsible has fled the country?”

  Jack Hinton’s expression changed. The sneer—which I now recognised to have been born of a desperate defiance—drained from his face, to be replaced by a look of surprise and dawning hope. “I hear nothing in this beastly place. Not even my sister has come near me. What has occurred?”

  “Lady Imogen Vansittart was killed while riding horseback yesterday morning. The horse was tampered with. Her acquaintance, Mr. Thrace, rode off in panic when the worst was discovered—and has not yet been found.”

  “Thrace!” he muttered in a goaded tone. “It would be he, of course. Life was quite different in this village before that gentleman came into Hampshire, Miss Austen.”

  “I can well believe that your own prospects changed as a result of his appearance.”

  Hinton glanced at me searchingly. “You know that Catherine Prowting betrayed me to her father?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was a time when she did not treat me with such coldness.”

  “Are you suggesting,” my brother broke in, “that Miss Prowting lied about what she saw last Saturday night?”

  “No.” Hinton shook his head deliberately. “I will only say that she was too ready to believe me Shafto French’s enemy, in part because of the talk circulated by that person. Thrace is rather freer in his conversation to young ladies than I should be.”

  “He told Catherine that you had pursued French’s wife?”

  Hinton laughed. “As indeed I had. Years ago—before she was married. It was a common enough flirtation in a country town: the idle gentleman just down from Oxford, with little to do of a summer’s morn, and the pretty young maid all too often underfoot. Jemima cannot have been more than sixteen at the time, and I was but six-and-twenty. We had practically been reared together, recollect.”

  “And you were in a position of power over her,” I added smoothly. “Being dependant upon your household for her wages, Jemima could hardly refuse to accept your attentions. Until your sister dismissed her for impropriety.”

  A hot flush rose in his cheeks. “I did not ruin the girl then or later. Nor did I get her with child under French’s very nose. But Thrace would say anything to cut out a rival—and so he styled himself in Miss Prowting’s eyes. The silly little fool believes herself in love with him—a man who will never honour her affections as he ought! Thrace is to be an earl one day—he told me so himself. He will never ally himself with the daughter of a provincial nobody, however many times he consents to take dinner at Prowting’s table.”

  “I am sure you are right. But Mr. Thrace’s actions suggest an intimacy with Shafto French’s history. Was he at all acquainted with the man?”

  “He had met him in the course of the repairs undertaken at the Earl of Holbrook’s estate—Stonings, at Sherborne St. John. He affected to enjoy French’s rough humour and easy ways. I do not think Thrace has lived all his life in the most select society, whatever his present affectations may suggest. I think he was rather more intimate with his labourers than you or I should be. Certainly he undertook to drink with Shafto French of an evening, at the Alton publick houses. I more th
an once observed him there.”

  Blood money, Jemima French had said; and it was the heir as would pay… . Shafto French had spoken more freely than he ought of his wife’s adventures in the Hinton household; had Julian Thrace disclosed his private affairs under the influence of drink, and ruthlessly silenced his confidant when the man turned blackmailer?

  “Will you not tell us what really occurred on Saturday the first of July, Mr. Hinton?” Edward asked quietly. “For however disappointed in Miss Prowting’s affections, you cannot wish to throw your life away on her rival’s account. I am sure you cannot.”

  Hinton glanced at my brother, weighing the odds of silence and disclosure. Speech won out.

  “I cannot tell you how French died. I can say only what happened after.”

  “Very well.”

  He began to pace restlessly about the cell, his boots kicking up a cloud of dust and straw, his hands shoved into his breeches’ pockets. “I had gone out to the prizefight at Box Hill—”

  “Are they still held there?” Neddie interrupted. “I once recall taking in a mill on my return from Winchester, having left the boys at school. Belcher won his match. Who did you see?”

  “It was said the Game Chicken would show, but in the end he did not, and we were forced to observe a Basingstoke lad by the name of Crabbe,” Hinton returned dispiritedly. “I had travelled a considerable distance in the hope of seeing Pearce, and was disappointed.2 I went out to join my friends on Friday, the day before—”

  “Your friends?”

  “The Wilsons, of Hay House, Great Bookham. Hay Wilson and I were at Oxford together.”

  “Of course. And you were staying at Hay House itself? Pray continue.”

  “As I said, I went out on the Friday and the mill was to be held at noon Saturday. We were at the Box Hill ground near seven hours—”

  “How many rounds did the boy Crabbe go?”

  Hinton’s expressionless eyes suddenly lit up. “Nearly nineteen, if you’ll credit it, but in the end he could not be brought up to scratch.”

  “Who was his opponent?”

  “John Gully.”

  Neddie whistled in deep appreciation; I felt myself to be increasingly beyond my depth.

  “And so, the fight done,” my brother said, “you retired to Great Bookham for high revel—and only after several hours’ eating, drinking, and conversing of the fight to your mutual satisfaction sought your road home. You must have left Surrey rather late, Hinton. I wonder you did not remain the night with your friend Mr. Wilson.”

  “I had promised my sister I would not travel on the Sunday,” he replied in a sulky tone. “She is most attentive to such things; it is the influence of our late father, who was once—”

  “—the incumbent of the Chawton living,” Edward agreed with remarkable ease. This reminder of his status—of the fact that it should be Edward who must dispose of the living when next St. Nicholas’s came vacant, at Mr. Papillon’s demise—restored Mr. Hinton to all his former dislike. No amount of shared enthusiasm for the sport of boxing could do away with his resentment of the Squire.

  “You made your way back to Chawton,” Edward suggested helpfully, “arriving just barely after midnight, and thus travelling on Sunday, but it is to be hoped in a manner your sister should not discover, being sound asleep in her bed.”

  Hinton swallowed with difficulty. “As you say. I rode into Chawton from the south, and found the Street entirely deserted. I was very sleepy, and little disposed to notice much—but the moon was high, and my horse shied at something in the road as I approached the pond. I glanced down, and supposed it to be a man. Naturally, I dismounted.”

  “And saw that it was Shafto French?” I enquired.

  There was a pause. Hinton did not quite meet my gaze. “It was French. He was dead.”

  “You are sure of that?” Edward asked.

  He nodded. “His body was wet from his waist to his head, and his eyes were open and staring. There was no response when I slapped his cheeks, no pulse in his throat.”

  “You did not think to give a shout? To summon help?”

  “Mr. Austen—” The spiritless eyes came up to my brother’s own. “I have said that I was sleepy. In truth, I was a bit foxed.”

  “I can easily imagine,” Edward said drily. “What would be a boxing match, without Blue Ruin?”3

  “Exactly so. I was not thinking entirely clearly. I had stumbled on a dead man, and one whom I had everywhere heard was intending to challenge me. —A man I was believed to have wronged. He lay dead at my feet. For an instant, the wildest imaginings coursed through my head. I saw myself accused—disbelieved—thrown into gaol …”

  “… for a murder you did not commit,” I finished. He was rather prescient, our Mr. Hinton; for it had all occurred exactly as he had foreseen.

  “I would have sprung upon my horse and galloped for home as tho’ all the imps of Hell were at my back,” Hinton said in a low voice, “but for that wretched gin. I was pretty well top-heavy at that point, I may as well own, and was gripped of a sudden with the most extraordinary idea.”

  “You thought to make a fool of one enemy,” Neddie suggested grimly, “by making away with another. You determined to place the body of Shafto French in the house intended for the Squire’s family, and thus bring discomfiture upon us all.”

  Hinton nodded with painful difficulty. “It sounds mad when you put it that way—”

  “On the contrary. It makes perfect sense, to a man disguised by spirits. You might have thrown a charge of murder on the Austen household.”

  “I believe I thought only of embarrassing the Squire. I dragged French by the heels towards the cottage—”

  “Had you already provided yourself with a key for the purpose, knowing beforehand that you should stumble over the body on your way from Box Hill?” I asked.

  “The door was not locked on the Saturday,” he returned simply. “One of Dyer’s men—French himself, perhaps—must have neglected to secure it when work was called that afternoon.”

  “But it was locked when I arrived the following Tuesday!”

  “—Then young Bill Dyer performed the office when he completed his job that Monday, and chose to say nothing about the neglect to his father.”

  “When all the talk of murder arose,” my brother interjected, “the builder saw a further virtue in silence. Mr. Dyer and his son are fortunate that the coroner did not chuse to interrogate them harshly about the keys.”

  “Be that as it may,” Mr. Hinton continued, “I found the door to the cottage unlocked. I placed French’s body in the cellar and congratulated myself on my wicked genius. It should be quite the welcome, I thought, for a party of ladies too high in the instep for Chawton. And in the event—I was proved right.”

  I could not felicitate him on his triumph.

  “When I awoke the next day, with an aching head, and recalled what I had done—I must confess to considerable trepidation. I was prevented from returning to the cottage immediately, due to my sister’s Sabbath conventions—but stole out as soon as it was dark on Monday, and attempted to right the wrong. I found the door, as I have described, locked.”

  “And decided that silence should be your best policy,” my brother concluded grimly. “I perfectly understand, Mr. Hinton, tho’ I cannot approve what you did.”

  Edward rose and reached for his hat.

  “I must offer you my apology, Miss Austen,” Hinton said in a correct but exceedingly cold voice; and bowed.

  I curtseyed in return, recognising his haughtiness for what it was—the discomfort of a man who knew himself to be in the wrong, and must disguise it at all cost, or die of mortification.

  “I hope, Mr. Hinton, that you will consider yourself revenged upon me,” Edward said with all the candour he might have reserved for one of his sons, “—and that in future we may endeavour to be better friends. For my part, I intend to intercede on your behalf with Mr. Prowting. He has merely to consult with Mr. Hay Wilson
regarding the hour of your departure from Great Bookham, in order to ascertain the probable length of your journey on the road—and place you happily beyond suspicion. I cannot think it wise to keep you here in the Alton gaol.”

  “What of Thrace?”

  Edward drew on his gloves. “I no more know than you, Hinton. He may be even now in the act of crossing the Channel to freedom—or caught in the snare of Mr. Prowting’s Law. But I think we can safely assume it was he who forced French’s head beneath the waters of Chawton Pond. The only question remaining to answer is—”

  “—Why?” I concluded.

  Chapter 21

  The Faithful Wife

  9 July 1809, cont.

  ~

  “AND WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR NEIGHBOUR NOW, Edward?” I demanded as we made our way up the Alton High Street in the direction of the George. “A nice, savoury fellow by way of a clergyman’s son. And he wishes to be Squire of Chawton!”

  “As I said: an ill-conditioned pup, for all he is five-and-thirty. But there is no real harm in him, Jane.”

  “And no real good either.”

  Edward laughed. “I have an idea of the Hinton household as it must once have been: a collection of over-fond sisters and half-sisters; a young boy sent away to school and disliking it as much as any boy could; indulged at his term leave, and petted by the women of the family long after such attention should be necessary; intended, like his father, for the Church. Only young Mr. Hinton has no taste for Holy Orders: He wishes to cut a dash, to be top of the trees as the young bloods would put it; up to snuff, awake upon every suit; a cock of the game. In short: a sporting man of the first stare. Instead, he is a shabby-genteel country gentleman with too little blunt and no opportunity for display—no means to set up his stable or hunt in style; no independent estate other than the Lodge his father left him; and to add insult to injury, the daughter of the most established gentleman in the village spurns his suit for a Bond Street Beau of no family and dubious character. I cannot wonder Hinton took to playing pranks better suited to a boy half his age.”