“It was for this that I quitted The Larches on Monday,” Mr. Sothey broke in. “I could not be assured of my own safety, did I remain too long in the household. I learned of the Comte’s intended arrival from that selfsame courier you would mention, Mr. Austen—and I freely own, I prepared to depart. Mrs. Grey’s fury upon learning my intention, precipitated a public attack—”
“The whip, brought down upon your neck,” I murmured.
“—but even still, I cannot think she understood the extent of my subtle use of her. She believed me to the last, a poor idiot employed for her own devices; it was I, she thought, who had urged her husband to receive the Comte de Penfleur’s letter, begging that he should indemnify the Royal Navy’s ships—when, in fact, it was Mr. Pitt himself, who proposed the plan.”
“I should not like to be Grey,” my brother said suddenly, “does the Comte ever tumble to the truth of what occurred. We must hope, as you said, that he is yet in ignorance of the truth, or Grey’s life should not be worth a farthing.” His voice trailed away suddenly, and he stared fixedly at Emilious Finch-Hatton.
“Those were almost your exact words, Mr. Emilious.” I forced the gentleman to meet my gaze. “—That the Comte must be kept in ignorance a little longer. A Comte in doubt as to the state of the funds was all very well—but a Comte who knew the truth, that he had been betrayed by Mr. Grey and England, should stop at nothing! It was for that—the preservation of his ignorance—that Mrs. Grey was killed.”
There was a terrible pause—one filled with horrified implication, as we each of us glanced at the others around the table—and then Julian Sothey thrust himself to his feet.
“Sit down, boy,” Mr. Emilious charged him in a deadly tone. “I shall deal with this.” Then, in a calmer accent, he said: “As for Mr. Grey’s life—you may rest easy on that score. The Comte de Penfleur shall not stir from his rooms, without I learn of it; and Mr. Grey has been called by Mr. Pitt to London on a pretext, expressly for the preservation of his safety.”
“So even Grey is as yet in ignorance of the extent of his folly!” Neddie cried. “I can well comprehend it. What man could endure the knowledge that his colleagues and friends had murdered his wife, as a policy of statecraft!”
“Are you accusing me of murder, Mr. Austen? Consider well, before you do,” Mr. Emilious said sternly. “You cannot hope to prove such a claim; for tho’ present at the Canterbury Races, I was under the eye of my unimpeachable brother, and half a dozen others, for the whole of the proceedings.”
“But what of Mr. Sothey? Where was he, at the critical hour?”
The improver’s countenance assumed the perfect serenity I had last discerned at the Canterbury Races.
“My man will vouch for me.”
“Your man! Aye, I am sure he will vouch for anything. But I cannot be so certain he will be believed.”
“Come, come, Mr. Austen,” Mr. Emilious interrupted in a placating tone. “Is it not far more likely that the Comte de Penfleur murdered Mrs. Grey? I am certain, for my part, that he murdered Denys Collingforth.”
“On what grounds?” Neddie retorted, his brows knit.
“—Because he intended that Collingforth’s murder should look like the work of Mr. Grey, towards whom he has always harboured the most vengeful jealousy. The crime was committed on the very night the Comte knew Grey to be called away on business. Grey travelled alone; no one might vouch for his route; and the man Pembroke, if questioned, should be taught to accuse Grey as his paymaster. Pembroke undoubtedly sent the news of Collingforth’s presence in Deal to the master of The Larches; but I would warrant it was the Comte who received it.”
“You know a great deal too much about that man’s affairs,” Neddie observed.
“It is my duty to know everything that the Comte holds in contemplation, before he so much as conceives it,” Mr. Emilious flashed. “Arrest the man Pembroke, Mr. Justice Austen, and see if I have not told you rightly!”
There was a faint whimper, as of a small animal run to earth, and Anne Sharpe reached a trembling hand to my arm.
“What is it, my dear? Do you wish to seek your bed?”
She shook her head, and said in a voice so faint as to be almost inaudible, ‘1 have a duty of my own to perform, or all sleep shall be banished forever.” Then, more clearly, “You asked me whether I had ever had occasion to visit Mr. Sothey in the stables at The Larches. Did that question arise from a particular instance you know of, Miss Austen—or from a general suspicion of my behaviour?”
“A particular instance,” I replied. “A woman with raven-dark hair was seen riding out of The Larches’ stables, a few days before Mrs. Grey’s death.”
The governess rose unsteadily, as tho’ seized with a sickness, and backed slowly away from the table. Her hazel eyes were fixed on Julian Sothey, and the expression of horror in their depths must have filled even him with dread.
“Then it was you,” she whispered. “I thought that I had been dreaming—a trick of the light and my tortured brain. But I have seen it in memory again and again, wearying my thoughts like a child’s rhyming song! If you knew the nightmare I have lived in, Julian, you should have fled the country long since!”
“Anne—”
“Do you not know that I have observed you sit your horse an hundred times, during those happy days in Weymouth? Whether you chose to ride sidesaddle, and wear a long red gown, I should know your seat anywhere!”
—Did you see that grey-eyed jade, Neddie, spurring her mount for all she was worth ?
—I believe Mrs. Grey s eyes to be brown, Henry.
“Of course,” I said slowly. “Henry saw what we all did not. Your eyes are decidedly grey, Mr. Sothey—and the lady’s eyes were brown.”
“I could not believe it true,” Anne Sharpe burst out, “but I know now that I was not mistaken! It was you, Julian, who were astride Mrs. Grey’s horse in the final heat; and the lady herself was already dead at your hands!”
1 The Secret Funds were monies voted annually by Parliament, and set aside for the government’s use. No public inquiry as to their disposition was allowed; and while they were commonly used during the Napoleonic Wars for the payment of spies and the active sabotage of Bonaparte’s government, in past eras the Secret Funds had defrayed the debts of royal mistresses, or purchased votes in corrupt parliamentary elections.—Editor’s note.
2 Sothey is presumably speaking of the period around May 1803, when the Treaty of Amiens between England and France was broken.—Editor’s note.
3 Alan Schom refers to this remarkable instance of intergovernmental cooperation in Trafalgar: Countdown to Battle, 1803-1805, but the full story behind events is outlined for the first time here.—Editor’s note.
4 Finch-Hatton had early news of the troop pullout, something we may attribute to George Canning and his Secret Funds. As historian Alan Schom points out in Trafalgar: Countdown to Battle, 1803-1805, the French government’s bankruptcy forced Napoleon to abandon the invasion of England and turn east to Austria, where he believed an easy land campaign would replenish his coffers. His instincts were richly rewarded. The Austrian indemnity alone at the Treaty of Pressburg amounted to forty million francs.—Editor’s note.
26 August 1805, cont’d.
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT WAS TOO SWIFT FOR THOUGHT. Emilious Finch-Hatton leapt from his seat, and would have seized Anne Sharpe by the neck, had not Mr. Sothey been before him; she cried out, and cowered behind the spare form of the improver. Sothey contrived to hold Finch-Hatton at bay, while the latter muttered imprecations through his teeth.
“Fool! She’ll have your neck!”
“I care nothing for life, Finch-Hatton,” Sothey cried, “if I have not the love of this woman. Can you have understood me so little?”
“I have understood you not at all. I thought you a man of sense, of coldest calculation—not a weak-hearted fool, to be played upon by a girl!” Mr. Emilious wheeled away from his confederate and thrust a kitchen chair violently to
wards the wall. He seemed oblivious to the look of appalled fascination on my brother’s countenance; I, who had long understood what he was, could appear more sanguine.
“You must demand a vow of silence from her, Sothey,” he muttered. “Everything—your life, and possibly Grey’s— depends upon it!”
“Not to mention the spotlessness of your own reputation,” I observed from my position by the table. “I doubt that Miss Sharpe would willingly speak now of what she knows, did her grave yawn before her; but shall you demand a similar vow from ourselves, Mr. Finch-Hatton? Such a request might appear quite reasonable, to a spinster of advancing years, who wishes only to sit quiedy at home; but to a man in commission of the peace for the neighbourhood—! One of some standing, too, whose honour must be seen as embodied in his word. I should not like to depend upon such a vow, Mr. Finch-Hatton; but perhaps you shall choose the surest path, and make an end to us all. What does Mr. Sothey advise?”
Sothey simply gave me a long look; then he led Anne Sharpe back to her chair, with a gendeness usually reserved for the aged or the infirm. She went as a condemned woman goes to the block—mute, stiff, and lost to inner contemplation. Her hand, when I touched it, was deathly cold.
“While Mr. Emilious is considering the most proper means of ensuring our silence,” I said, “you might endeavour to satisfy my curiosity, Mr. Sothey. I perceive now that Mrs. Grey’s murder was the work of some days—the fruit of considerable planning. You were observed to enter the stable at The Larches, and emerge in the guise of a dark-haired woman mounted on horseback, a full two days before the lady’s death. I comprehend the necessity of preparation—it is one thing to gallop in pursuit of a pack, as one has been riding all one’s life; and quite another to attempt it sidesaddle, and in skirts.”
“I did not relish the prospect,” he replied. “But I thought it best to be prepared for every eventuality. And I was proved correct in the event. Mrs. Grey informed me at the race-meeting, that her husband had betrayed her; that her credit in France, and her every hope of a future life, was utterly in ruins; and she beseeched me to aid her in a desperate attempt—the kidnapping and torture of Valentine Grey. She thought to make him divulge the present whereabouts of the Spanish treasure promised to France. I loved Grey too well, and had worked too long in support of the funds’ diversion, to accede to such a request.”
“And when you refused, she struck you with her whip.”
“My negative produced a dreadful passion,” he agreed. “She was never a soul under perfect management I informed her that I could not be a party to so heinous a crime; there were others, no doubt, who would gladly accommodate her.”
“Such as Denys Collingforth.”
He averted his gaze.
“And so you determined, that for Grey’s sake and the sake of your … policy, that Mrs. Grey must die. Your careful preparation must be put into play. You waited for her in Collingforth’s coach; and when she entered it a litde before the final heat—under the observant eyes of the entire Austen party—you strangled her there, with her own hair-ribbon.”
“I wonder that you did not hear the struggle,” Neddie said.
I shrugged. “For all his slightness, Mr. Sothey moves with considerable grace—I should judge him a man of some strength.”
Emilious Finch-Hatton paced restlessly before the kitchen hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. Now, I thought—when the two men were engaged in the relation of their tale—now was the moment to seize and bind them. They had practically admitted to the crime of murder; and yet, Neddie did nothing. Could it be that he was hesitating? Or that he doubted of his ability to prove either man’s guilt?
And then I saw that his fingers had closed over a bread knife, and were sliding it by imperceptible degrees towards the edge of the table. I hurried myself into speech once more.
“I suppose, Mr. Sothey, that when the gruesome work was done, you put on Mrs. Grey’s habit over your own suit of clothes. You are slight enough to have managed it, and Mrs. Grey was a well-formed woman. You added, however, two items—a black wig and illusion veil, under the brim of the lady’s tricorn hat. How did you conceal them on your person, as you walked about the meeting-grounds?”
Sothey shrugged dismissively. “I wore, you may recollect, a prodigiously handsome hat, with a high circular crown. The wig and veil were concealed within, and devilish warm they made it, too.”
“Highly necessary, however, for the discouragement of the curious. But you did not mean to be under the observation of anyone very long. Arrayed in the scarlet riding habit, you quitted the chaise; retrieved Mrs. Grey’s black horse from her tyger; approached the rail and threw yourself into the heat. That, if I recollect, was ultimately your undoing—for Miss Sharpe observed you jump the rail, and understood the alteration that had taken place, however litde she might comprehend or explain it.”
“She cannot have the least notion of what she saw,” Mr. Emilious broke in wearily. “Your entire history, Miss Austen, is the most extraordinary fabrication of humbug and lies.”
I smiled at him faintly. “I thought it unlikely, sir, that Lord Harold Trowbridge should possess an intimate friend; but knowing you now a little, as I do, I comprehend the extent of my folly. You can never have been 6n terms of intimacy with that remarkable intellect, 3lhd yet fail to profit from his example. Accept, Mr. Finch-Hatton, that you have underestimated the Austens; and be satisfied.”
“With the filly Josephine triumphant,” my brother said to Julian Sothey, “all that remained was to accept the plate with a careless grace, and drive your phaeton precipitately out of the grounds. A mile down the Wingham road, you discarded the habit; but at the last, you thought better of the wig and veil. It would never do for them to be found; we should have seen in an instant that it was not Mrs. Grey, but an imposter, who had paraded about the grounds.”
“We never thought to wonder what had become of the lady’s hat,” I agreed. “That was very stupid of us. And what of Mr. Sothey’s own? The prodigiously expensive, high-crowned affair, so admirably suited to the concealment of a wig?”
“I tossed it from the far window of Collingforth’s chaise, before exiting from the near side, apparelled as Mrs. Grey,” he replied in a subdued tone. “It fell into the underbrush at the fringe of the race grounds—you will recall that the chaise was parked at the farthest extent of the carriages—and for all I know, it rests there still.”
“The fate of all things cherished and expensive,” I observed, “—to be lost at hazard, and well before their time. And once you had driven the phaeton along the Wingham road, I suppose your man was instructed to fetch you?”
“Of course not,” Sothey replied. “I walked back to the race grounds. To admit my valet to an intimate knowledge of my affairs should place me in the man’s power; and that is not how an agent of George Canning’s survives.”
“Nor, it would seem, does he survive by placing himself in a woman’s power; but that, we may suppose, you could not help. I comprehend it all, Mr. Sothey, except for one thing—why did you choose to implicate Denys Collingforth?”
“I had lived long enough at The Larches to believe Collingforth capable of anything, Miss Austen. He was a man driven by his passion for gaming, and by the pressures his resultant debts exacted; little as he loved Mrs. Grey, he was completely in her power, and should be the obvious instrument of revenge against her husband. I could not allow their conference to take place.”
“And, too, Collingforth’s chaise was one of the few bereft of an attendant party,” I mused. “Not so much as a groom was left to look after the horses. Yes, I see perfectly how it was. A fearful symmetry must dictate your choice.”
“I never believed he would be charged with murder,” Sothey protested. “The man might name an hundred witnesses to his conduct that day, and all of them at some distance from his chaise. I thought him in the clear.”
“Until my brother discovered his message in Mrs. Grey’s habit.”
“I had no notion she would keep it about her.”
I studied him keenly. “So you wrote that summons yourself?”
He bowed his head. “I had seen Collingforth’s hand a score of times—he was forever sending little missives, in acceptance of Mrs. Grey’s card-parties. It was a simple matter for an artist to affect his hand.”
“So simple, in fact, that even his wife was fooled. How unfortunate for Mr. Collingforth! Besieged on every side, he bolted from town, rather than face the coroner— and thus fell a second victim to your schemes. But why weight his body and throw him in the millpond? Should you not have been better served by an appearance of suicide, and a note to that effect, scrawled in his handwriting?”
Sothey’s eyes widened. ‘You cannot believe that I murdered Collingforthl—An innocent man! I was never more miserable than when I learned the result of the inquest, and never more relieved than when I was told that he had fled. I thought it a benediction of Heaven, that one man at least might escape the fate of the condemned.”
“And when you learned of his murder?”
Sothey threw his hands skyward in a gesture of utter helplessness, then let them fall without a word.
The improver’s protest had the ring of truth; but in such a case, who knew what might be believed? A jury of his peers should dismiss his claim without a second thought. The murder of Mrs. Grey would prove him capable of every infamy. And yet, what had he effected, against an avowed spy of the enemy, but a simple act of war? It was to Sothey, perhaps, that we owed the unsullied peace of the Kentish night, and the broken camps along the Channel. Such tangles were beyond my power of resolution; I knew only that I recoiled from the hand that could murder a woman from cold-blooded calculation, when I should not think twice about the death of an enemy soldier, in the heat of battle. There was a hypocrisy in this, that was hardly comfortable; and I read a similar confusion in my brother’s eyes.
“If you have quite done,” Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton said, “I believe that Sothey and I should take our leave.”
Jane and the Genius of the Place Page 32
