West had seated himself beside Cassandra, and was perusing her sketchbook. How unfortunate for Mary, that she had chosen to exclude herself from our company this evening—she who was so eager for the instruction of a Master!
As tho’ she had read my thoughts, my brother’s wife appeared that moment in the doorway of the Saloon, arrayed in her dressing gown (sadly limp from too-frequent wearing) and a lace cap, supported heavily by the arm of her son.
“Mary!” James said chidingly. “You should not have attempted such exertion. Are you sure, my dear, that it is wise?”
In a failing voice she begged him only to secure her a chair by the fire, and settled herself languishingly in it. James placed a cushion behind her back, and set about determining where the fire screen ought to be placed, to do her the most good.
“Should you like a cup of tea, Mary?” Eliza asked.
“It would maudle my insides at this time of night,” she mourned. “But perhaps a little ratafia can do no harm.”
The drink was procured, and the attention of the room searched for a new object of interest.
Cassandra, I observed, had wisely closed her sketching book.
“Well, Chute,” my brother exclaimed as he stood near his wife, absorbing the lion’s share of the warmth, “what did your search of the house disclose this afternoon? Have you secured the Lieutenant’s pilfered document—and determined that the notion of murder was only a hum?”
“I have not,” Chute said abruptly. He had returned to his preferred Christmas employment over the punch bowl, and was grating nutmeg into a quantity of rich cream beaten with eggs and brandy. “Eliza was good enough to look through the ladies’ effects, while I surveyed the gentlemen’s. A maid and a footman accompanied us both. The Roarks undertook to search the servants’ rooms, and several of our men went through the principal cupboards. We found nothing.”
“Surely, sir, you expected no more,” West observed quietly. “Whoever killed to secure the document, will have secured it in truth.”
My brother James snorted and looked pugnacious. He thrust his hands into the rear waist of his breeches, his coattails fanning behind him. “Poppycock! You found nothing because there is nothing to find! May we Austens be allowed to depart for Steventon on the morrow? You must own, Chute, that the sad tragedy has worked dangerously upon my wife. She should not be forced to remain. It is too injurious to her health.”
“Why should it have worked upon her?” Miss Gambier demanded, rising from her position by Lady Gambier’s side. “Of what personal interest can it be to Mrs. Austen, if John Gage is dead?”
“Sit down,” Lady Gambier hissed. She seized a fold of her niece’s gown as tho’ to force her submission. Miss Gambier twitched it impatiently from her aunt’s grasp and stepped towards Mary.
“Would you borrow the grief of those who loved him, with a view to making yourself interesting? You are nothing but a ghoul! I shall view your departure gladly, and bid you farewell with alacrity.”
“Miss Gambier!” James said forcefully. “You forget yourself. My wife has done nothing to merit such reproaches. She is a sensitive creature, a martyr to her nerves, and must feel the presence of the Deceased acutely. Had it been possible to bury him decently—but the necessity of retaining the corpse for the inquest—and all the embarrassment of a publick proceeding—the knowledge that she is, herself, tarred by this unfortunate brush—the idea of murder—”
He came to an uncertain halt. Miss Gambier stared at him with what I may only call contempt. Mary held a handkerchief to her face, as tho’ suppressing sobs. There was an uneasy silence.
“Forgive me,” Miss Gambier said. “I should not have spoken. I hardly know what I have said, indeed. Pray excuse me—I must retire.”
She quitted the room with dignity.
In the silence that followed her exit, I closed the pianoforte and rose from my bench. Music seemed the grossest offence in the face of such grief; and I found I longed for my bed. I began to make my adieux.
“But, Aunt,” James-Edward implored. “You cannot go upstairs so soon. You promised to give me a match at billiards!”
“So I did.” I raised my brows meaningfully at the boy; in his enthusiasm he might refer to “penny points,” and James was never one to look kindly upon gambling. “Let us go immediately, my dear, or I shall fall over from weariness.”
Thomas-Vere and Mr. Gambier joined us; and by the time we were done—and I had allowed James-Edward to beat me soundly—the Saloon was emptied of life. I urgently wished to consult with Raphael West, but I should have to wait for morning to do so.
CASSANDRA WAS STIRRING WHEN I returned this morning from the nursery wing.
“Did you succeed in your errand, Jane?”
“I did. Caroline said it was just what was wanted. She is a delightful child; but I begin to think that James’s anxiety is warranted. Not for Mary, mind—but for Caroline. She is afraid of murderers and ghosts. We would do well to remove to Steventon as soon as possible.”
“I cannot be easy myself,” Cassandra said, pushing herself upright against her pillows. The maid had already visited our room, and the fire was crackling merrily. She had left a tray of tea on a side table; I poured out a cup and handed it to my sister.
“Have you met the Lieutenant’s ghost, traversing The Vyne’s corridors?”
“Do not joke of such a thing, Jane. The poor young man was brutally cut down, in the prime of life, and with all his prospects—” She broke off, her eyes misting, and hurriedly sipped her tea. Cassandra lost her Tom Fowle at just such a young age, in what must be regarded as a sort of murder—for he was constrained to accompany his patron’s regiment to the West Indies, as clergyman, and died there of yellow fever. Two persons’ lives were blighted in Tom’s loss; and I had an idea of Mary Gambier’s future pain, in studying my sister’s face.
“I am sorry,” I said contritely. “I ought not to have said it. But you looked so strange!”
“Mr. West showed me the drawing you found yesterday,” she said quietly.
“While you were sitting together, last night?”
She nodded. “I suspect his interest in my work was in part a process of detection. He first ascertained, by scanning my sketches, that it was not my hand that had effected that crude depiction of Miss Gambier. Then he offered the drawing. He asked whether I knew who might have produced it. But I could not say. I confess, Jane, I found it a frightening thing. There is a suggestion, in its lines, of one not quite sane.”
“I thought as much myself.” I curled up beside her on the bed with my cup of tea. “I was reminded, at first, of the strong and violent lines of Mr. West’s own work—his gnarled trees and crude vagrants. But he denied it was his hand. He claimed to know the sketch had been done by a right-handed person—and that he favours the left.”
“I agree with him there.”
“Cassandra—we know that Mary is an adept with charcoal. But who else in this house may claim such a talent?”
“Thomas-Vere draws a little,” she said reluctantly. “But he has never allowed me to glance at his pictures. I suppose there are many who have been schooled in sketching—and yet are loathe to admit as much in publick.”
“That complicates matters.”
“But, Jane.” She set down her cup on the boulle dresser and regarded me earnestly. “You and Mr. West believe this thing has some significance—tho’ it was discarded in the fire, to be burnt. Does that not suggest that its maker repented of the garish scrawl, and wished it destroyed?”
“True. Why was it drawn in the first place, however? The image of a naked woman—a lady of our acquaintance—hanged on a cross? It is the third mystery I may place at Mary Gambier’s door. And that is at least two mysteries too many.”
“You refer to the charade,” Cassandra said. “And the sketch makes two. What is the third?”
I told her of the threatening conversation I had overlistened, the very dawn of Lieutenant Gage’s death.
“Must it be one or the other?” I mused. “May not the two motives be confused—or even intended to confuse?”
Cassandra straightened. “You mean—that Lieutenant Gage was killed for Mary’s sake, and the document stolen as a sort of diversion?”
I stared at her. “It is possible, I suppose.” Cassandra, naturally, knew nothing of French spies; but perhaps West’s preconceived notions had clouded his judgement. “In that case, Miss Gambier must know the killer. It ought to be the very same person who spoke so harshly to her, mere hours before the deed was done.”
What had the man offered as his parting shot?
Very well, madam. I will know how to act.
Was this the source of Mary Gambier’s guilt—that she had known it in her power to prevent John Gage’s death, and had withheld whatever his killer demanded?
A feeling of dread rose within me, from the pit of my stomach to the centre of my throat.
“Good God,” I whispered, and bolted to my feet. “The danger—”
“What is it, Jane?”
I stared at my sister wildly. “Mary Gambier has been living with the very person she believes murdered her lover. Dining, conversing, even sleeping under the same roof … when she owns the knowledge to have him hanged! Do you not see, Cassandra? Both of them know that she knows …”
17
THE WAGES OF SIN
Thursday, 29th December 1814
The Vyne, cont’d.
I dressed quickly, pinned up my hair—which reaches now past my knees—and pulled on a serviceable, if spinsterish, lace cap, to hide the haste with which I had completed my toilette. Cassandra was not far behind me, although she persisted in believing I exaggerated Miss Gambier’s risk. I tapped on that lady’s door immediately upon quitting my own, but received no answer.
And there I hesitated.
It was as yet only eight o’clock, and I supposed it possible Miss Gambier still slumbered—if indeed she had been restless in the night and upon her knees in the Chapel, as young Caroline thought.
“Does she answer?” Cassandra enquired.
I shook my head.
“Then leave her, Jane. Rest is what the grieving require.”
We descended to the breakfast-parlour. It was empty save for Mr. L’Anglois.
“You are returned from your errand to London, sir!” I cried.
“But a half-hour. I beg your pardon—I am only just come from the stables to the table, in all my dirt. I stopped only to apprise Mr. Chute of my return.” He rose and bowed to us both—and very cordially remained standing until we should be seated.
“How did you find the roads?” Cassandra ventured.
“Indifferent so far as Woking, ma’am, but when I reached Hounslow, I perceived a marked improvement. And my return was as nothing at all—the turnpike entirely clear!”
“James will be happy to know it.” Cassandra unfurled her napkin. “He is determined to depart The Vyne today.”
“We shall be sorry to lose you,” L’Anglois said with an earnest look. “And before you have had a chance to essay my sheet music, Miss Jane!”
“I played a little, last evening,” I admitted, “but not your polonaises. I did attempt to find you the morning of Lieutenant Gage’s death,” I added, with hasty improvisation, “but when I went in search of you after breakfast that day, I could not discover you.”
This was a gross untruth, naturally, but let us see what the gentleman produced by way of answer.
“You should not have troubled to do so,” L’Anglois said. “I assured you the music was yours for the asking—It ought to be played.”
“I made a noble attempt to find you. I glanced into the billiards room and the library. Seeing the door to Mr. Chute’s book room standing open, I even glanced in there—tho’ with what trepidation!”
This last was a second falsehood; I had spent the whole of the interval after breakfast on Tuesday in Eliza’s morning room; but I knew that L’Anglois’s employer, William Chute, had been in the stables—and so might risk the suggestion that the book room was empty. I was determined to drop any number of handkerchiefs merely to observe whether L’Anglois picked them up.
“I am sorry to know that you were put to so much trouble,” he said earnestly. “I shall secure the sheet music directly you are finished with breakfast, Miss Austen, so that you may practise when you chuse, in peace.”
A clever fellow, Benedict L’Anglois—and not to be readily drawn. Vexing, that he refused to confess where he had spent the morning of Lieutenant Gage’s death—but was it instructive? Did it confirm my suspicions—that a man lately employed by a Royal French household had deliberately buried himself in Hampshire, for an object far more important than the advancement of William Chute’s career?
Or did I refine upon a trifle?
The maid appeared, and poured out my tea. I ordered toast; my spirits were so unsettled I could not consider the steaming silver dishes arrayed on the sideboard. The question of Mary Gambier returned to worry me. To be asking after her when half the household were yet abed, was to look too particular; but I attempted a little subterfuge. When the maid had departed, I rose suddenly as tho’ I had forgot something I required, and went after her.
“Has anyone been into Miss Gambier’s room,” I asked her, “to lay the morning fire?”
“I cannot say, ma’am. Would you like me to ask?”
“Indeed. I must leave The Vyne today, and should like to say my farewells to Miss Gambier, but do not wish to disturb her if she is still sleeping.”
The maid dropped a curtsey and went into the serving wing without another word. I dawdled in the passage, aware of the sound of new voices in the parlour behind me; Edward Gambier and Raphael West had come down. Cassandra uttered a soft laugh at something that was said. One of the three men with whom she sat might be a murderer. I felt my heart accelerate.
The maid reappeared. “Lucy made up the fires this morning, ma’am, at half after six o’clock. She says that your sister was asleep, but you were not in your bed—and neither was Miss Gambier.”
I had been in the nursery wing. Where had Miss Gambier been? The Chapel? If so, she had descended by the Staircase Hall. I could swear that no footsteps had passed the nursery door whilst I sat with Caroline.
I returned to the breakfast-parlour. We should probably discover that Miss Gambier was still at prayer. Surely I refined too much!
“Nothing is to be done at the Congress without Castlereagh,” Mr. L’Anglois was saying. He turned with an air of condescension to my sister. “You will apprehend how vexatious we find this, Miss Austen, when I explain that Castlereagh is not only Foreign Secretary, but Leader of the House. In his absence, our poor Mr. Chute is buried in duties—which I fear he is not attending to as he ought. This affair of the Lieutenant has distracted him from his work.”
Cassandra had long been aware that Lord Castlereagh combined most of the vital services of Government in one brilliant frame; she was not to be deceived into believing William Chute his proxy; but she merely smiled at Benedict L’Anglois. To be continually underestimated is a woman’s lot.
“You are abroad early, Miss Austen,” Edward Gambier observed as he lifted the silver lids on the various dishes. The odour of kidneys assailed my nostrils. “Eager to be away, I expect—as we all are. Devilish flat in the country at the moment, tho’ Chute thinks it possible we may take a gun and a dog out, this morning. Will you hunt with us, West?”
“Gladly,” he said. His eyes drifted to mine. “Is it certain you are to depart, Miss Austen?”
“My brother James rules our party,” I replied, “and James is anxious to be gone. But, Mr. Gambier—surely your sister and Lady Gambier cannot be wishing to be away! Surely Miss
Gambier is fixed at The Vyne until the Lieutenant’s funeral rites are held.”
“I have not discussed the matter with Mary,” he said. “But Aunt would leave on the instant, if she could. I begin to think it would be a kindness to the rest of the party if I should get her la’ship away—she don’t always behave as she ought. Deuced high in the instep. Sets people’s backs up. Regular Tartar, Aunt Louisa!”
“Have you seen your sister this morning?” I asked. “I should like to take my leave of her. But when I knocked upon her door, there was no answer. Perhaps she is yet asleep.”
He shook his head. “I looked into her bedchamber before I came down—the room is empty. I expected to find her here, in fact—but if she’s already taken her breakfast, no doubt she’s gone to the Chapel.”
L’Anglois raised his head from his newspaper frowningly. “In the little time that I have been returned to The Vyne—perhaps three-quarters of an hour—I may say that Miss Gambier took no breakfast.”
Cassandra and I looked at each other.
“Should you like me to walk to the Chapel with you, Jane? I have quite finished.”
The maid had not yet appeared with my toast. “Why not?”
“I shall come with you,” L’Anglois said.
IN THE END, ANXIETY proved infectious. The entire breakfast party rose from their seats and hurried with me across the Staircase Hall and along the East Corridor. There is a native stillness to sacred places that dictates one step softly; I pushed open the door to the AnteChapel and crept inside.
Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas Page 15
