Today, however, I found him smoking tobacco in a pipe—a practice so little usual with him, that the reek of it forced me backwards upon the very doorstep.
In front of him, on the desk, sat a gun: made of chased silver and burnished wood—rosewood, at a guess—with a sinuously curving butt. It was a handsome thing, probably from one of the finest craftsmen of the art. I searched my mind for the name of such an one. Manton. That was it! Gunsmith to the nobility. Purveyor, in former days, to one Lord Harold Trowbridge.
“Jane,” Edward acknowledged, and took a draw on his pipe.
“The constables have found the pistol, I see.” I endeavoured to make my voice steady and light.
“So they have. Should you like to see it?”
I approached the desk. Edward did not shift his position, nor touch the thing; he merely reclined in his chair, one leg crossed over his knee, idly smoking. His eyes were narrowed; he was staring not at me, but at some phantom in the middle distance.
It was difficult to conceive that such a beautiful object—so lovingly made, so dearly purchased, and housed, no doubt, in a velvet-lined box with its mate—should exist solely for the purpose of making a fool of its owner. For what else may a duelling pistol accomplish? I do not speak of honour. I heard enough of such folly from my friend the Rogue’s lips to know how deep tragedy may cut at men’s souls; how the notion of honour—its defence, its hasty outrage—eats at their complacency, their confidence, their whole position in the World. I have known dear friends destroyed by a chance word, when in their cups, and sent flying in terror from the only life they have known; I have heard of good men who died, all on account of that useless word—honour. And its agency? This bandbox trinket, bought at breathless expence, from a man who understood the engineering of death—Manton.
“You will observe the wood is damp,” Edward said, “from lying out in the churchyard all night. A sad thing—such a treasure should be more nobly treated.”
“Have you learnt anything from it?”
“—Who fired it, or left it to be found on the grave, you would mean?” Edward set down his pipe. I do not think I had seen his features set so harshly in many years—not since his beloved Elizabeth’s death. “The pistol cannot tell us what occurred on the night of the wedding ball, to be sure. But it may scream the identity of its owner. Manton is careful to engrave his guns with the name, or initials, of the purchaser.”
I stared at him wordlessly, and felt my heart begin to pound.
“This one,” Edward offered, almost as an afterthought, “appears to belong to James Wildman. Do you think, Jane, that our friend and neighbour has killed a man?”
1 Jane refers obliquely here to a period in Southampton, when her late friend Lord Harold Trowbridge taught her to fire a dueling pistol. The episode is recounted in the volume of her detective memoirs entitled Jane and the Ghosts of Netley. —Editor’s note.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Call of Condolence
“There are two roads, one death, the other shame.
These are your choices.”
GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “THE PHYSICIAN’S TALE”
22 OCTOBER 1813, CONT.
“OF COURSE I DO NOT BELIEVE MR. WILDMAN CAPABLE of murder!” I retorted. “And I should be very much surprized, Edward, to learn that you do.”
He lifted his brows. “As Mr. Knight, whose lands run alongside Chilham’s, divided by the ancient Pilgrim’s Way—as a friend who knows and esteems Wildman’s whole family—as one who has watched young James himself grow from boy to man—I must declare it impossible. As First Magistrate, however, in possession of a gun responsible for the death of Curzon Fiske …”
“You must weigh the possible guilt or innocence of every person within ten miles of the Pilgrim’s Way,” I concluded quietly. “I quite take your point. But James Wildman—! I cannot conceive of so elderly a gentleman toiling along the Pilgrim’s Way over the Downs in the dead of night. He must be nearly seventy if he is a day, and prostrate with gout!”
Edward’s brow furrowed at this. “It was young James, and not his father, that I had in mind,” he said gently. “Observe the initials.”
I bent over the gun. There, chased in the silver, was an intricate monogram of a large W, flanked with a J and a B.
“The father is James, as is his son—but the son claims as his middle name Beckford,” my brother explained.
I wrinkled my nose at monograms. “I cannot conceive of a person less likely to provoke a quarrel, or more completely in control of his own temper, than young James Wildman. Indeed, he is the very last person I should expect of killing a man in a fit of rage!”
“But this was not a crime of passion, Jane,” my brother rebuked me. “Surely you must see that. Fiske was despatched by one who appointed the hour and place of his killing; one who conducted himself with a cool calculation throughout. Young Wildman is entirely capable of a premeditated act; and I should judge he possesses enough courage to undertake even murder, if circumstances so compelled him.”
“Circumstances! They should have to be quite extraordinary, for Wildman to risk so much—”
“That is understood. But Fiske’s reappearance in this country—Fiske alive when he was thought to be dead—is extraordinary enough.” Edward rose abruptly from his chair. “I must ride to Chilham Castle without delay, and enquire of James where he keeps his pistols, and the habits that attend his use of them. The inquest is set for tomorrow morning, Jane. It would be as well to be apprised of certain facts before the event, lest the wrong fellow be clapped summarily in chains.”
“You would not gaol a man on mere suspicion, surely?”
“No.” He gave me a level gaze. “But Bredloe’s panel might. I am required to submit to the coroner’s judgement, my dear—and that judgement, in our awkward English fashion, derives from the inquest’s panel of good men and true. I should like to be able to influence the panel’s conclusions—I should like them to return a judgement of Murder by Person or Persons Unknown, if I can manage it, and thereby purchase myself an interval for the conduct of our researches—but to that end I am forced to interrogate most of my neighbours in a limited amount of time.”
“Our researches?” I demanded.
“You should be invaluable in conversing with the ladies of the household—particularly Mrs. Thane, and Mrs. MacCallister. I must assume that unhappy lady is returned from her illfated honeymoon. Will you ride with me, Jane?”
I DID NOT REALLY RIDE WITH MY BROTHER, OF COURSE. I have never been an accomplished horsewoman, but on the rare occasions I find myself mounted sidesaddle on a sweet-mouthed little mare, it is invariably at Godmersham, where the whole world is on such easy terms with Edward’s stables that I should feel absurdly dowdy in refusing to ride. I do not at present possess a riding habit, however—the one Elizabeth once pressed upon me being long since outworn and outmoded—and I did not like to appear at Chilham Castle arrayed in a manner that must do my brother little credit. I proposed, therefore, that Fanny and I should take out Young Edward’s tilbury, so that Fanny might practice her driving; and her father should ride beside us as escort.
In truth, Fanny requires neither instruction nor much practice in driving, being a pretty enough whip and fully inclined to drive herself about the Kentish countryside whenever opportunity offers; but the present scheme allowed my niece to indulge one of her chief delights—instructing me in the art—and we had not proceeded a hundred paces up the country lane in the direction of the crossroad for Chilham, before she was placing the ribbons confidently in my hands.
There is nothing to equal the sensation of holding two narrow strips of leather while, at the nether end, the mouth of a horse fights one for mastery. Clutch too tightly on the reins, and the poor animal will throw its head up, eyes rolling, as tho’ one fully intended to break its neck; allow the reins to lie slack in the palm, and the beast will seize the bit between its teeth and career off down the road with every intention of overturning the vehic
le and casting horse and driver both to ruin. Fanny is adept enough to drive two-in-hand, a feat I have not been so brave as to attempt; today we had but the single horse before the tilbury, and trotted along at a jaunty pace I felt myself almost equal to maintaining.
“You look very well, Jane!” Edward cried, “and in that new bonnet with the curled ostrich plume, quite dashing, indeed!”
“The road bends a little just ahead, Aunt, as you will perceive,” Fanny murmured with commendable calm. “You will wish to ease back a trifle on the left rein, and guide Rowan’s head around.”
I accomplished this feat, my heart pounding in my mouth as the tilbury tipped slightly to one side, terrified lest the equipage lose all purchase on the bend and roll without warning. But Rowan, if the truth be known, is better able to find his way than I am to guide him—and the good horse made me appear to greater advantage than I deserved.
“I should not like to be put to the test of a truly fresh animal,” I muttered to Fanny. “When I recollect the pair of smart goers the Countess of Swithin was wont to drive, and before a perch phaeton, too—”
“She sounds to be what George would call top of the trees,” Fanny observed comfortably.
“She hunts with the Quorn.”
“Ah. There you are—we cannot hope for such daring in Kent. It would not be tolerated by your Jupiter Finch-Hattons, you know. No gentleman of the neighbourhood should like to think the ladies more Corinthian than himself.”
Some thought of the probable retort the late Lord Harold Trowbridge’s niece, Desdemona, Countess Swithin, should offer this paltry complaisance brought a smile to my lips; but I did not accuse Fanny of poor-spiritedness. For one thing, I was too intent upon controlling my horse; and for another, I knew full well that the manners obtaining among countesses of the ton would never do for a Miss Knight of Godmersham. Fanny judged the tolerance of her society to a hairsbreadth, and should never be accused of overstepping its limits.
Such, of course, had not been the experience of one Adelaide Thane Fiske MacCallister—and I reflected, as I returned the ribbons to Fanny’s capable hands, that therein lay a question: Had Adelaide acquired so many surnames—so many changes of station and fortune in her brief four-and-twenty years—because of her willingness to flout convention, or in despite of it?
Endeavour to learn what her relationship has been with James Wildman, Edward had urged in a lowered tone as he handed me up into the tilbury. I must ask her about the tamarind seeds, of course, and what her movements were after the ball was done at Chilham that night—but you, Jane, have the whole of her life to discover.
The whole of her life. I wished I did not feel so daunted by the task; I am accredited a subtle conversationalist, I own, and am not unperceptive regarding the motives of much of the human race—but I dislike playing the busybody, and Adelaide MacCallister had no reason to confide anything to a stranger. Her family was all about her, did she require a confessor. To urge her conversation at such a time must be repugnant to any right-thinking person’s sentiments. I should be forced to contrive.
It seemed but a moment more, and we were trotting up the broad sweep that led to the Castle. Fanny pulled up her horse, and a footman ran from the hall to Rowan’s head, while another stood ready to help us down. I heard Edward call carelessly as he swung from the saddle, “Is your young master at home, Twitch?” and the Wildman family’s butler, a rather stout figure in black, scraped a bow.
“Mr. James is at home, sir, as is Mr. Wildman, but I must enquire whether they are receiving visitors. The household is a trifle … discomposed.”
“I’m here as First Magistrate, Twitch,” Edward said gently, “not as a neighbour paying a call. Please convey my apologies to your master and his son, and beg that they receive me on business that may not be delayed.”
“And the ladies, sir?”
Edward’s eyes drifted over me and Fanny.
“We had intended to pay a call upon Mrs. Wildman, but if that is inconvenient, pray do not disturb her,” Fanny said impulsively. “We are quite happy to send in our cards, and drive home. It is a lovely day for an airing, after all.”
I had not expected my niece to wilt before the manners of an imposing upper servant, and was momentarily exasperated with her. But I reflected that even so pert a creature as Miss Eliza Bennet should have done the same, upon arriving at Pemberley, had she been aware that Mr. Darcy was already in residence—and that perhaps some explanation might be found for Fanny’s unwillingness to thrust herself into the Chilham household.
“Twitch,” said a voice from the doorway, “why do you leave our visitors dawdling on the sweep, when they ought already to have been announced? Step lively, you fool!”
I glanced towards the entry, and saw a formidable figure: iron-haired, thin-lipped, her eyes dark and imperious as Cleopatra’s.
“Yes, Mrs. Thane,” Twitch answered woodenly, and led us into the Castle.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Delicate Interrogation
This cunning world would keep me forever in fear,
Unless I worked this hard at keeping things clear.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “THE SHIPMAN’S TALE”
22 OCTOBER 1813, CONT.
IT IS ONLY NOW THAT WE ARE RETURNED HOME, AND I AM established in a comfortable chair before the library fire with a shawl draped over my chilled feet, that I may reflect a little on the strangeness of the atmosphere at Chilham Castle today. I have been somewhat acquainted with the household and family in past years, and have reckoned them to be a fine, high-spirited, handsome collection of people, without much seriousness in their heads or purpose in life; a family that enjoys giving pleasure to others as much as to themselves, and which has been marked out neither for great distinction nor hideous misfortune.
Mr. James Wildman amassed his wealth in trade—through the management of a vast sugar plantation in Jamaica, owned by one Mr. William Beckford. Mr. Beckford is grown infamous in the Polite World, I understand, for having seduced at a tender age the son and heir of an earl—and for being forced to flee the country with his wife in the wake of the subsequent scandal. To us Austens, however, he figures merely as cousin to our own Miss Beckford of Chawton, who until this past spring lived at the Great House with all the Middletons. How small is the world between Hampshire and Kent, to be sure!1
William Beckford is known far beyond England, however, for a connoisseur, a collector of art, a musician who once studied under no less a master than Mozart, and as the author of the horrid novel Vathek. It is Beckford’s name that young James Beckford Wildman claims—Beckford having stood as the boy’s godfather. We may assume the choice of both name and patron to signify gratitude on Mr. Wildman Senior’s part, rather than any approbation of William Beckford’s tastes or habits. The amassing of a considerable fortune must be said to sweep all prudish reserve aside—and Mr. Wildman owed his present comfort entirely to Beckford’s Jamaican plantation. He managed the Quebec Estate, as the plantation was known, so well, in fact—and Beckford proved so profligate in his building and furnishing of his absurd pile at Fonthill Abbey—that Wildman was presently able to relieve his illustrious employer’s straitened circumstances, by purchasing the plantation outright; and at a very good price, if rumour is believed.
The revenues from Jamaican sugar proved so lucrative, that Mr. Wildman was gradually able to put enough by to purchase Chilham Castle when his son was but four years old. The Wildman income is thought to be in the neighbourhood of twenty thousand a year. (If only another such Prize might be secured on the Marriage Mart for my own dear creation, Caroline Bingley! But Chilham is no Pemberley, alas.)
The Castle is far older than its present owner’s claims to gentility, having been built in the early seventeenth century on the ruins of a medieval motte and bailey. Set on high ground, and facing the little village of Chilham, it is a pleasant façade in the Italian Renaissance stile, much improved in recent years by Jamaican profits. The building curves in a polygon
shape, with the last link missing—establishing an inner courtyard flanked by the horseshoe of the house. All the principal rooms are to the rear, facing some twenty acres of gardens that fall away in gradual terraces below; Capability Brown had the original draughting of it, tho’ later hands have struggled gamely to mar his work.
Today, however, the air of Chilham Castle verged on the tragic, with a fillip of the sinister. Even the sunshine that was wont to stream through its leaded windows had fled hurriedly to more hospitable roofs; wind sighed in the lofty eaves; and had a ghoul commenced howling in the best Gothick manner I should not have been surprized. I must impute such a change to the influence of the Thane family.
We followed Mrs. Thane into the Great Hall, where she turned abruptly at the foot of the sweeping Jacobean staircase. She was arrayed entirely in black crepe, of an outworn mode that suggested it had been purchased in respect of her late husband’s passing; a mourning brooch of jet was fastened upon her bosom. Was so much magnificence meant to honour a son-in-law she had refused entirely to acknowledge while living?
“You are Mr. Knight, I collect—a near neighbour,” she pronounced. “And you are Miss Knight?”
Fanny curtseyed.
“And that person is Miss … Austen, is it? The poor relation? You are Mr. Knight’s spinster sister, I believe?”
Shock very nearly left me speechless. “One of them, ma’am.”
“Both unmarried? What a sadly unprosperous family! I recollect your face from the ball, of course, and must regret that we were not then introduced; I was but briefly in attendance, as my ill-health will not permit me to indulge in protracted dissipations.”
The wedding of her daughter, a protracted dissipation.
The basilisk stare turned on Fanny. “You, however, I could hardly fail to notice. You danced several dances with my son.”
From the haughtiness of the lady’s tone, we must assume she regarded Fanny’s waltzing with as much disapprobation as John Plumptre—but from an entirely different cause. Mrs. Thane might have been a monarch, and Fanny an unlettered girl from a distant village, whose pretensions in seducing the prince must be ruthlessly suppressed. I bridled on my niece’s behalf, but no words were necessary—for Edward stepped forward, his countenance set.
Jane and the Canterbury Tale Page 10
