Jane and the Genius of the Place

by Stephanie Barron

  9 August 1805, cont’d.

  FOR THE COMPLETION OF SEVEN MILES OF INDIFFERENT road to Godmersham, was required nearly two hours. Pratt will never allow the horses to travel at speed, from a horror of dust in an open carriage; and our progress in the present instance was decidedly impeded by the wealth of traffic on every side—most of it hastening from the race-meeting in equal perturbation of spirit. A happier party might have passed the journey in conversation, but Lizzy’s thoughts were quite absent, Miss Sharpe’s pallor was extreme, and Fanny was nodding in sleep before a quarter of the distance was achieved. We dawdled along between the high Kentish hedgerows while the sun declined into the hills, as silent as though our excellent Pratt conveyed an empty carriage.

  From his unwillingness to address the subject, I believed it likely that my brother should arrest Mr. Denys Collingforth. In truth, I could not blame him; a shrewder man than Neddie would hesitate to discharge so obvious a malefactor. But I could not be easy in the determination of Collingforth’s guilt. He was an unpalatable rogue, without question; he had spoken roughly of the murdered woman, and looked all his hate in his harsh features; and his carriage had borne the grisly burden of Mrs. Grey’s corpse. But Collingforth should be a simpleton, indeed, to discover a body in his own chaise. Had he pursued Mrs. Grey along the Wingham road with murder as his object, he should better have abandoned her in a ditch along with her habit, than returned her to the world’s sight. It looked very much as tho’ someone else wished Collingforth to hang for the murder—and had arranged events to his liking.

  But how had the corpse been conveyed to within the chaise? True, it had been divested of the red habit, and might have drawn less notice—if a corpse clad only in a shift, in broad daylight, could be said to look unremarkable. I did not think it likely, however, that Mrs. Grey had been brought to the chaise while yet alive, en deshabille, and strangled within it. Too little time had elapsed between her departure from the meeting-grounds and the discovery of her body, for the effecting of such a kidnapping; perhaps an hour, all told. Moreover, I had heard not a whimper of the poor lady’s struggles, and our barouche had sat less than a hundred feet from Gollingforth’s chaise. The tumult of a race might have covered the deed—but all of Canterbury knew the lady to have been alive and victorious for some time after the final heat

  Revolve the matter of Mrs. Grey as I might, I could in no way account for her end, without the chaise itself having been removed. Upon reflection, I could not vouch for its presence behind our own equipage throughout the period in question—from Mrs. Grey’s departure, until Collingforth had thrown open the carriage door. But who might have stolen the chaise for such an intricate purpose? And would there have been time enough to manage the business? It depended, I supposed, on the distance Mrs. Grey’s team had already travelled, and where along the Wingham road she had been overtaken.

  I should have considered of this earlier, and charged Neddie with examining the ground beneath the chaise’s wheels. Some mark of hurried movement might have been discerned—

  I sighed aloud, and Pratt glanced over his shoulder.

  “It’s not long now, miss. That be the turning for Chilham, as you’ll know.”

  Chilham—where I had danced on occasion at the modest little Assembly Rooms, and pined in my youth for Mr. Taylor’s beautiful dark eyes. He bestowed them upon another young lady more in keeping with his station—his irrepressible cousin, Charlotte—and the two have passed the remarkable family feature to yet another generation. I had called only last week at Bifrons Park, and found all the Taylors thriving.

  As I wandered thus among the byways of my youth, the road dipped and swung along an embankment—the hedgerows parted—and we were presented with a fine sweep of country. All the beauty of Godmersham broke suddenly upon me. I suspended thought and sat back in the seat cushions, refreshed immediately by the serenity of the scene.

  My brother’s principal estate, a fine modern building of rosy brick, nestles like a jewel between two saddles of the downs. Every line of the house as it rises from its deer park—the copses where pheasant thrive, and hares burrow—the enclosed kitchen gardens, and the noble avenue of limes we call Bentigh, that leads sweetly along the river to the old Norman church of St. Nicolas—all must proclaim to passersby, that here lives an English gendeman.

  I have known Godmersham from the first days of Neddie’s removal here, some ten years ago. I have been privileged to linger within its comforting walls for months at a time, and I regard the place as in some measure my home—and one I must quit always with regret. My own style of living is determined by the scant provision I bring to it; there is a constraint in relative poverty that weighs upon the soul and renders the mind weary. At Godmersham I am always free of penury’s burdens, and the interval must be embraced with relief. To leave the place is to be cast out a litde from Heaven.

  As I considered the relative nature of peace and privilege, Pratt snapped the reins over the horses’ backs, and the barouche rolled easily towards the turning for the park. Vivid green hills rose behind the house, shimmering and unvaried as velvet. Here and there a clump of trees broke the evenness of the landscape, rendering both hillside and clump more absolute in their disparity the one to the other. It was a style of beauty first brought to prominence in the last century—a paean to Naturalism, and quite in keeping with my sensibilities.

  The Stour murmured a winding course through the meadow, and along its banks the willows trailed, restless in the slightest air. Swallows darted and swooped over our heads as we achieved the turning for the lodge, carriage wheels complaining at the paving’s treatment, and litde Fanny stirred and sighed. The slanting light of late August splashed gilt over her cheek—and over stone bridge, mown field, and rosy brick—as it turned the air to honey.

  The whole was a scene of such measured beauty, in fact, that the horror of death seemed impossible, and the very notion of murder, absurd.

  “Are we home, Jane?” Lizzy enquired, rousing herself. “It cannot be too soon. How Neddie must feel the burden of his duty, on such a day!”

  “How happy you must be,” I returned impulsively, “to call these fields and hills your home! What richness, in the dull routine of a country life! Is there anything to compare with the peace and beauty of Kent?”

  “The dust is intolerable,” Lizzy observed, as we pulled up at the door. “I am sure I shall have the headache.”

  Her conviction bore fruit at the house’s very entry, and so, calling for her excellent maid, Sayce, my sister was borne away to her room. The rest of us were not to be released without a trial, however—for shouting and josding in their hurry to be seen, the young Austens tumbled down the steps from the nursery. They had been left behind at the day’s outing, as being either too junior or too indisposed—for litde Edward was troubled with a persistent cold, which refused to yield to all that the apothecary could advise. The others showed a dangerous inclination towards the same ailment, and with the commencement of their Michaelmas term looming, the older boys could not be too careful.1 Lizzy had listened to the impassioned arguments of her children the previous night at bedtime. She had consulted with Mr. Green. And in the end, only Fanny—who might suffer a cold the autumn entire, and yet be schooled at home by Miss Sharpe—was permitted the treat of watching the Commodore run.

  “Sharpie! Auntjane!” the children cried in a tumult. “Is it true? Was a lady murdered at the races, and is Father to find it all out?”

  “Edward,” I said briskly—for Miss Sharpe appeared, if anything, worse for her journey than she had at its outset— “Miss Sharpe is greatly fatigued. Pray let her pass, and do not be plaguing her with your questions.”

  Anne Sharpe looked all her thanks, and pressed a hand to her brow. She had been more overpowered by events than any of us. I concluded that she suffered a headache more severe than Lizzy’s direst imaginings, and ordered her to bed.

  “I am a litde fatigued,” she admitted. “Perhaps a short interval—
before the children require their suppers—”

  “Sackree will see to the bread and milk,” I told her firmly. “Pray lie down for a while, Miss Sharpe. You look decidedly unwell.”

  “I must believe it to be the shock,” she said feebly. “That woman—”

  “So it is true!” Edward shouted triumphantly.

  I sank down on the bottom step and set my elegant top hat by my side. “Wherever did you hear such a tale, Edward?”

  “He had it from Cook,” said his brother George, hopping up and down on one foot, “—who had it from John Butcher, who met a man with the news on his way from the races.”

  “It was not John Butcher, but Samuel Joiner had the news, and fomet the man in the road,” young Elizabeth, a stout girl of five, broke in hotly.

  “That is what I said,” George retorted. “But—”

  “Do not pinch your brother, Eliza,” I attempted.

  “You did wo say it was so!” she insisted, “you said it was John Butcher. I heard the whole myself, while I was in the kitchen and Cook was in the yard. If you had gone for the pudding, Dordie, you would know it all, too.”

  “And why were you gone for pudding while Cook was in the yard?” asked Miss Sharpe—suddenly stern and much the pinker for it. “It is the accepted practise to take your pudding at meals, Miss Eliza, and not behind Cook’s back.”

  Both culprits fell silent, their eyes on the ground. It was thus for Fanny to seize the triumphant moment.

  “Of course the story is true,” she said scornfully, “tho’ neither John Butcher nor Samuel Joiner were within a mile of the race-meeting. I saw it all, Edward, and if you will come into the schoolroom, I shall tell you how it was.”

  The others fell back in awed silence—and little Eliza burst into tears.

  “Come along, children,” I said in exasperation. “We shall both tell you the tale. And afterwards, George, perhaps we may have a game of shutdecock. But you must be very quiet—for your mamma and Miss Sharpe are indisposed.”

  I smiled at the governess, and busded the children upstairs. But when I turned at the landing to glance at Anne Sharpe, she still stood with one hand on the rail, her thoughts quite fled and her pallor extreme.

  MY DEAREST CASSANDRA, I WROTE, AS I SAT SOME HOURS later at my dressing table, in the solitary splendour of the Yellow Room—and then I hesitated, pen poised for the collection of my thoughts. The hour was late and the house entirely wrapped in slumber. I had opened a window against the still heat of the August night, and my candle’s flame dipped and staggered with every stirring of the air. Something there was that hovered over Godmersham—a gathering of violence above my head, that stiffened the very draperies and turned the midnight light to sulphur. Relief might come with the rain— and afterwards, a litde sleep; but until the storm should break, I must seek comfort in composition.

  When I am parted from my dearest sister by the vicissitudes of Fate or the beguilements of pleasure, it is my inveterate custom to relate the particulars of each day in a newsy, comfortable letter. Two such women, of advancing years and modest society, may generally have very little of importance to communicate; but the habit of conversation, long deferred by absence, will find relief in the written word. A great deal of nothing, therefore, has flown back and forth between Goodnestone Farm and Godmersham Park during the interval of Cassandra’s visit to Lady Bridges. I may attest to a voluminous correspondence, regarding such litde matters as the progress of young Edward’s cold; my continued improvement at the game of shutdecock; the opinion of Mr. Hall, the elegant London hairdresser, as to the best arrangement of my coiffure and several good jokes regarding Henry’s infatuation with his lamentable horse.

  But this evening I had matters of a far graver nature to relate, although some part of Mrs. Grey’s sad history must already be known to Cassandra—for Mr. Edward Bridges, who could hardly be ignorant of it, should have borne the intelligence to the Farm before me. My sister must as yet be denied the full history of the lady’s tragic end, however, for my brothers returned from the race grounds very late this evening, and the details of their grim work were imparted only to myself—Lizzy and the children having already retired.

  You will know, I am sure, of the horrible events that occurred at our race-meeting, I wrote at last.

  I have hastened this letter in the knowledge that you must be suffering under the gravest anxiety for the safety and well-being of all our dear family— but be assured that we are all perfecdy well. Miss Sharpe, the governess, was taken ill at the sight of the corpse; but Lizzy and I were hardly tempted to the dramatic, and even Fanny comported herself with admirable coolness. Our brother Neddie was decision and probity itself; he was admirably supported by Henry, and bids fair to conduct the business with despatch. There are further particulars in the matter, however, that will affect those very near to you: Mr. Edward Bridges, his friend Captain Woodford, and, of course, our dear friend Harriot, who must feel for the welfare of both. I thought it wisest to apprise you of matters—and will trust to your discretion in this, as in all things.

  Neddie suspected at first that Mrs. Grey’s murder might have been spurred by a hatred for the French, she being a citizen of the Empire, a fact that hardly smoothed her entry into Kentish society. Had she been killed along the road and left to the chance discovery of a passerby, that notion might have served admirably; but her being found in Mr. Denys Collingforth’s chaise—a fact you will have learned already, in company with most of Kent—must entangle the affair considerably.

  Mrs. Grey was seen to depart the race grounds a full hour before her corpse was discovered, quite palpably in the middle of it! Our brother Henry succeeded in locating Mrs. Grey’s lost phaeton only two miles along the road to Wingham—her matched greys had been tethered to a tree, and were standing quite docilely at the verge, enjoying the shade. How she came to be torn from her equipage, and returned to the race grounds, is the greatest mystery; the disappearance of her riding habit is another. Neddie has employed a team of local men to search the hedgerows near the phaeton’s stand, quite convinced that the scarlet gown was discarded in the underbrush.

  Collingforth himself cannot account for the dead woman’s presence in his chaise; he was remarked himself to have been distant from it for the better part of the morning, and only returned with the object of departing. He seemed ready to regard the affair as the work of his enemies, and named Mr. Bridges and Captain Woodford as the persons most likely to be accountable for it! You may imagine the sensation this caused in more than one breast; but Neddie bore with the insult admirably, as is his wont, and the uneasy moment passed.

  Our brother is too assiduous to discard the political motive, however, merely because another, and more attractive one, presents itself. But Neddie has owned that it is possible that Mrs. Grey’s killer— whatever his motive for her death—would wish the world to believe Collingforth responsible. So deep a purpose must argue against the random work of an enemy of the French; and Neddie is forced to the conclusion that he must probe the stuff of Mrs. Grey’s life, to learn the reason for her death. The burden must give rise to anxiety. A gentleman less disposed to invade the privacy of a lady cannot be found in all of England!

  But to continue—

  Neddie enquired narrowly as to Mr. Collingforth’s movements—heard the corroboration of his friends—and after a protracted interval, in which he debated the most proper course, enjoined the gendeman to remain in the neighbourhood for the present. The unfortunate Collingforth was then sent home in the charge of his intimate acquaintance, Mr. Everett—a gendeman quite unknown to Kent—while his grisly chaise Neddie retained for a time, to allow of a thorough inspection.

  Within the body of the carriage, our brother found litde of moment; neither Mrs. Grey’s habit, nor a hint as to the identity of her murderer. One gold button from the habit, however, had worked its way between the seat cushions. There it might have lain forever, and forever unremarked, had Neddie not exerted himself to search th
e interior fully. The presence of the thing must prove suggestive: Are we to conclude that Mrs. Grey was stripped of her clothing in the chaise itself?

  Provocative as this gilt trophy might be, however, it is as nothing to those Henry retrieved from Mrs. Grey’s phaeton. And now I approach the heart of the matter, Cassandra, and must urge you again to discretion.

  The contents were few, and readily observable to the eye—a lap robe against the dust; a hamper of provisions, quite empty; the gold plate presented by the sweepstakes officials; several posies bestowed by the more gallant among her acquaintance; and a novel in the French language.

  Henry, of course, seized upon the novel—and proclaimed it to be of a scandalous sort, such as only his wife, Eliza, might scruple to entertain. It is called La Nouvelle Heloise, and I believe is rather shocking— however, the book can be no more surprising than what it was found to conceal. For tucked between two leaves of the volume, Cassandra, was a letter.

  Even Neddie’s cursory French was equal to the seizing of its meaning. He perused it once—checked several phrases with Henry—and retained the original for further consideration. Mrs. Grey, it seemed, had conducted a correspondence with a gendeman not her husband—and had formed a plan of elopement intended for this very night. The two were to meet at Pegwell Bay, where a boat was to bear them to France. What remains at issue, my dear Cassandra, is the identity of the amorous gentleman. For no signature was appended to the missive. Might it have been from Collingforth, himself?—And the lady’s purpose divined by a jealous rival, who killed her and placed the blame upon her lover? Mr. Bridges, perhaps, or Captain Woodford? (The latter notion must strike everyone but Denys Collingforth as absurd.)

  Or were Mrs. Grey’s intentions betrayed to her deluded husband? Mr. Valentine Grey was from home this week; but perhaps a timely warning, anonymous or otherwise, drew him back to Kent in an outrage of feeling. It should not be unusual for a man to work his vengeance upon his wife, and charge her lover with the murder.