Jane and the Genius of the Place

by Stephanie Barron

  “Mr. Sothey, I believe, was your consultant?”

  He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You are acquainted with Sothey?”

  “A litde. We dined with him last evening, at Eastwell Park. The Finch-Hattons are old friends.”

  “And what did you think of him?”

  I hesitated. His tone imparted nothing of his own opinion. “I thought him a man of understanding and wide knowledge of the world, possessed of considerable taste. But I can judge no further; his character wants openness, and of deeper qualities I could form no opinion.”

  “Reserve must be natural in a fellow whose every expectation was blasted by an unworthy father,” Mr. Grey observed. “I must assure you that Julian Sothey is the very best of men, Miss Austen. I esteem him as a friend, naturally; but as a man of education and honour, I can place none other before him. If there is anything of real beauty to be found at present in The Larches, I am sure it is due entirely to Mr. So they.”

  “Then you are fortunate, indeed, sir.” That I managed a reply at all was remarkable; my thoughts were in a state of discomposure. I had suspected that Mr. Grey should despise Julian So they as his wife’s paramour; but this heartfelt testimonial must blast my assumptions. “You have been acquainted with Mr. Sothey for some time, I collect?”

  “No, indeed. His family and mine moved in very different circles. I might have had the purchase of his father’s notes at one time or another, but any ties of a social nature were not to be thought of.”1

  “Was Mr. Sothey’s father so very depraved?”

  Grey smiled grimly. “I am too familiar with the more common forms of depravity, Miss Austen, to be a sober judge of it in others. Let us simply say that the Earl had offended deeply, among those whom it is not wise to offend, and placed himself outside the pale of good ton”

  “I see. His son, however, is not so abandoned.”

  “His son possesses such an amiable temper, as must endear him to everyone.” This was said without the slightest hint of irony, as might be natural in a cuckold; and again, I found cause for wonder.

  “Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton certainly makes Mr. Sothey her protege,” I said. “I suppose you formed an acquaintance with the gentleman in just such an household.”

  Mr. Grey hesitated, as tho’ debating how much might be said. “I first met Sothey through a mutual friend, Miss Austen—Mr. George Canning, a present member of Government. No doubt you will have heard of him.”

  Quite recently in fact, I thought in silence; and blessed my brother Henry. “Mr. Canning! He is a great enthusiast for exotic plants, I believe?”

  Grey’s careworn features lightened. “And something of an authority on landscape design. We share a love of the obscure and the exotic, Miss Austen—and Canning has directed me in the trial of many specimens rare in this northern clime. When I expressed a wish of cultivating the American azalea, it was he who commended Sothey as my greatest friend. I have never found occasion to regret the acquaintance.”

  “I should have liked to have seen the azaleas in their season,” I said.

  “You, too, are an admirer of the exotic?” my companion enquired seriously.

  I coloured, and passed off the question with a laugh. “Not at all, I assure you. I merely find pleasure in the English landscape, sir, and all its myriad beauties.”

  “Then perhaps you may be so fortunate as to return to Kent in April, when my azaleas are at their finest flowering.” He secured my hand within his arm, and led me firmly from the temple’s steps. “But now, I fear, we must relieve Mrs. Austen’s anxiety; the hour grows late, and her husband will be every moment expecting her.”

  We descended once more by the hillside path, and found that Lizzy was already come in search of us. I was glad of her company on the return to the house; her elegant remarks were a foil for silence. Reflection, however, availed me nothing. I was plagued with questions on every side, for which experience could provide no answer.

  “So GREY CAN BE CHARMING WHEN HE CHOOSES,” NED-die said thoughtfully, when the dinner things had been cleared away and we had assembled in the library. Henry had taken up the London Times; Lizzy was established over the teapot; and I had begun to pick desultorily at my work. Neddie, however, was restless; he paced before the empty hearth like a man who badly wanted occupation. Had he been of a reading turn, I should have instandy recommended Werther. It is remarkable how much service even a dissatisfying book might render— tho’ not, perhaps, in the manner its author intended.

  “How did you like him, Jane?” he enquired, coming to a halt by my chair.

  “Very much. He is not a man to recommend himself on first meeting, perhaps—but one whose character rewards with more persistent application. He was gracious in conversation and frank in his remarks; there was neither haughtiness nor vulgarity to despise in his manners. I cannot believe him capable of a conscious deceit; but even had I witnessed nothing of the scene in the saloon, I should suspect him to be familiar with violence. He is ruthless in matters of principle, I should think, and in the safeguarding of his own concerns.”

  “This is a formidable picture, indeed!” Neddie cried. “How, then, Jane, do you account for his ingenuous belief in Sothey’s character?”

  During the course of our return to Godmersham, I had conveyed the substance of my conversation with Grey. “Either Mr. Grey is more adept at dissimulation than I should give him credit for being, or he knew nothing of Mr. Sothey’s dalliance with his wife.”

  “We have only Mr. Brett’s malicious tongue to credit for the idea, after all,” Neddie mused.

  “Then why the whip against the neck, in the middle of the Canterbury Races?” Lizzy protested.

  I shrugged. “Perhaps the lady was surfeited with the American azalea. But I admit, Neddie, that I cannot make the matter out at all. I must learn more of Mr. Sothey, before I mayjudge righdy.”

  “And you, Lizzy?” my brother enquired, turning to his wife. “How did you find Mr. Grey?”

  “I liked him well enough,” she said languidly, “for another woman’s husband. He is too lacking in drollery and wit for my taste; but his coat was very well made, and the gloss on his Hessians unexceptionable.”

  “Henry?”

  My brother glanced up from his newspaper and frowned at us all. “To the praise of unexceptionable Hessians, what may I possibly add?”

  “Very litde, of course,” Lizzy rejoined smoothly, “your own being incapable of comparison. No man who persists in valeting himself, can expect to rival Mr. Grey. Henry must take as his example my brother, Mr. Bridges— who has driven himself to the brink of ruin, in pursuit of a well-polished boot. I have quite lost count of the number of men Edward has engaged to dress him, or the various formulas of blacking and champagne, assured to bring his leathers to a mirror-brightness. It is not the most noble of callings, perhaps; but as a means of passing time, it may serve as well as any other.”

  “Enough of Henry’s boots,” I cried. “You delight in teasing us, Neddie. You know very well that we are all agog to learn how Mr. Grey received the news of Collingforth’s murder. Did he betray any prior consciousness? Is it likely he was privy to the deed?”

  “As to that—” My brother’s eyebrow lifted satirically. “Mr. Grey had the poor taste to congratulate me on the unfortunate fellow’s death, and said that he was very well pleased with the swiftness of English justice. He then offered me a brandy, despite the heat of the afternoon—as tho’ we had accomplished nothing more dreadful than the blooding of a fox.”

  “And how did you answer him?”

  “I refused the brandy, of course.” Neddie threw himself into his favourite chair, not far from the open French windows, and raked one hand through his hair. “But truth to tell, Jane, I felt deuced uncomfortable. Grey’s complaisance surpassed everything; he was as easy as tho’ the wretched business were entirely resolved, despite the questions that must arise to torment one. I pointed out that Collingforth’s guilt was in no wise proved—that th
e complications of the chaise and the timing of his wife’s death could not be gainsaid, and urged Grey to be less sanguine. But he replied that he had no doubt that Collingforth was responsible, and had found his just deserts at the end of a knife.”

  “And the Comte de Penfleur?”

  “He served himself the brandy without recourse to Grey.”

  “Neddie!”

  “I observed his hand to tremble as he unstoppered the decanter. I should say that the Comte was greatly put out. He surmised that the matter would be concluded with Collingforth’s murder, and the truth of Mrs. Grey’s end remain forever uncertain.”

  “He is determined in his belief that Grey was responsible,” I said, “tho’ he is loath to accuse him direcdy.”

  “Ah! Not so loath as you assume,” Neddie cried with satisfaction. “Now we come to the intriguing part—the scenes enacted with the gentlemen in private.”

  We gazed at him expectantly. Even Henry set aside his paper.

  “I was treated first to an interview with Valentine Grey. He was most uncomfortable, when it came to the point; and told me that he believed his information to be entirely de trop, now that Collingforth was dead; but in the interest of justice, he could do no more than his duty. What he would tell me must grossly expose his wife; indeed, the discoveries he had recendy made had quite astonished even himself, who must be thoroughly acquainted with her character—”

  “Hah!” Lizzy snorted. “As tho’ any man might comprehend the nature of his wife.”

  “—but he had found occasion, in recent days, for a thorough review of her possessions and correspondence.”

  “Naturally,” I murmured. “A man of greater courage (or less), should have burned the whole without the briefest glimpse. Mr. Grey is at last revealed as pitiably human! He has probed the wound, and rubbed salt in its depths.”

  “Well?” Lizzy enquired impatiently. “And what did he find?”

  Like a conjurer, Neddie produced a sheaf of folded rag from within his coat, and presented it with a flourish. His wife visibly recoiled.

  “That is her private correspondence? Her husband actually displayed it to you? But how despicable!”

  “It is entirely in French,” Neddie replied without a pause, “and, I am assured, entirely from the Comte de Penfleur. It was to prevent the letters from falling into that gentleman’s hands that Mr. Grey undertook to read them at all. And what he discovered distressed and confounded him.”

  “Then they were lovers,” I said.

  “Not in the least,” Neddie replied. “Or if they bore one another any affection, the letters betray little sign. They were partners, Jane, in a very grave collusion—the securing of information regarding the movement of troops along the Kentish coast, for the edification of His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon Buonaparte.”

  Henry slapped one hand excitedly against his thigh.

  “—Or so Mr. Grey was forced to conclude, after reading these letters,” Neddie added. “He tells me that they are filled with Penfleur’s instructions regarding the management of Mrs. Grey’s friends—Captain Woodford and Lady Forbes being at the head of the list, and your brother, Mr. Bridges, Lizzy, trailing doubtfully at the end.”

  “Edward?” she cried incredulously. “What might Edward possibly have known, that should be of interest to Buonaparte?”

  “A very great deal. His friend Woodford, you know, was in the habit of confiding snippets of intelligence to his most intimate friends, that should never have left he officers’ mess; and Mr. Bridges must naturally have been the recipient of these. What Woodford might, in a moment of caution, hesitate to impart to Mrs. Grey, his friend had no compunction in relating. I imagine his being privy to the Army’s secrets must have greatly increased Mr. Bridges’s sense of importance.”

  Lizzy drew breath sharply, and looked the most indignant I had ever seen her. “Fool,” she muttered, “he will be the undoing of us all.”

  “Lady Forbes, for her part, is a silly litde gossip who should have delighted in communicating her husband’s schemes,” Henry observed quickly, as tho’ to divert Lizzy’s attention.

  “—Such as the intended troop movement next week between Chatham and Deal,” I added, as comprehension dawned. “All of Kent is in an uproar regarding the disruption of the pheasant-shooting; and Major-General Lord Forbes was quite put out at the report’s circulation. Captain Woodford himself cautioned me against speaking too freely.”

  “I suppose Mrs. Grey’s fascinating card-parties were a means of securing information?” Henry said.

  “At first,” Neddie conceded. “But I have an idea that over time, the gaming debts were themselves a useful tool. They secured Mrs. Grey’s hold on her unwilling friends. As the possessor of any number of vowels, she might choose to extend her debtors’ credit, or even forgive a sum entirely—for a small consideration.”

  “How brilliant!” I muttered. “And yet, how dangerous in the extreme. She ran a severe risk, did any of her victims determine to be free of her.”

  “It is possible that the lady was subtle enough, that few among them comprehended what she was about. But perhaps one at least perceived her object.”

  “Denys Collingforth,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  I rose, and commenced to turn the length of the room in considerable perturbation of spirit. “But if Collingforth resisted the lady’s power, and threatened to expose her, should not Mrs. Grey have done the murder, rather than end a victim?”

  Neddie observed me in silence, his own expression guarded. I puzzled it out still further, and then wheeled to face him. “Do you credit Grey’s suggestion that he knew nothing of his wife’s activity? Or are the letters all a subterfuge, to place his enemy the Comte in the gravest peril of his life, and clear his own concerns from every stain of treason?”

  “That is exactly what I cannot determine,” my brother replied grimly. From the cast of his countenance I knew that I had spoken aloud his governing obsession. “It was to that end—the illumination of Grey’s character— that I solicited the opinion of each of you, regarding the man. I cannot make him out at all. Another fellow, upon learning that Collingforth was dead, should have left the matter of his wife’s espionage for the grave to swallow— should have burned the evidence at midnight, and rejoiced in the vagaries of Fortune.”

  “Unless he feared the Comte’s power, in ways we have yet to discover, and thought to place his head in a noose,” Lizzy observed. “Did Grey urge you to arrest the Frenchman?”

  “He did not. I told him forthrighdy that I could not, in all conscience, place charges on the force of accusation alone; I must peruse the correspondence myself, and form a judgement independent of Grey’s. He accepted as much.”

  “Mr. Grey is a careful man.”

  “I did promise, however, to have the Comte watched.”

  “Penfleur had departed already for Dover?” I enquired.

  “His carriage was at the door, when at length I emerged from Grey’s study; and it was then that the Comte drew me aside, to urge me most passionately to pursue justice in Mrs. Grey’s cause. He had reason to believe that Mr. Grey was involved in a very deep game, regarding a delicate situation of international finance; that his arrangements—which reached from the Americas to Spain and Amsterdam—might reasonably be construed as treasonous; and that it was not inconceivable his beloved Francoise had discovered the whole. Mr. Grey had never borne his wife the slightest affection, and when forced to the point, had secured his empire and his reputation through the murder of his wife.”

  Henry whisded. “That’s playing the matter very close, indeed. The Comte de Penfleur is a cool fellow.”

  “Or a very desperate one,” Lizzy retorted calmly. “It is possible, Neddie, to form a simple idea of how the murders were effected. Let us suppose that matters fell out as Mr. Grey has suggested. Denys Collingforth was pressed for what he knew, and pressed by his creditors; he grew tired of living in thrall to Mrs. Grey, and formed a pact wit
h his friend Everett—a shady character, by all accounts—to support him in a dangerous act. He lured the lady to his chaise at the race-meeting with the letter discovered in her riding habit, and informed her of his intention to expose her; when she defied him, he drove out along the Wingham road after the race and killed her. He neglected, however, to discover his letter on her person, and simply disposed of the riding habit entirely as a safeguard against discovery. The Comte de Penfleur arrived the following day, thwarted in his hopes of an elopement and insecure in his liberty. He would have known, from Mrs. Grey’s letters, that CoUingforth—in whose carriage her murdered body was discovered—was the least docile of her charges. The Comte undertook to buy intelligence of CoUingforth’s movements, while diverting attention from his own nefarious doings, by suggesting to the Justice that Mr. Grey was the murderer. The cardsharper, Pembroke, reported Collingforth’s presence in Deal to the Comte; the Comte despatched his minions (or killed CoUingforth himself; the point is immaterial); and poor Collingforth’s silence was purchased at the cost of his life.”

  We regarded her with some wonder. As a theory, it was not entirely without merit.

  “But why return Mrs. Grey’s body to the race-meeting grounds, and risk the gravest complications?” I protested. “Why not leave her in her phaeton on the Wingham road?”

  “Because he had secured his friend Everett’s word as to his absence from the chaise throughout the racing,” Lizzy said calmly, “and could not be secure if her body were discovered elsewhere. CoUingforth hoped, perhaps, that the incongruity should linger in our minds, and prove his best security of innocence.”

  “Admirable!” Neddie cried. “Upon my word, I am ready to accede to it myself!”

  “Excepting,” Henry broke in, “for the considerable weight that may lie behind the Comte’s words.”