“But what can James’s pistol have been doing in St. Lawrence churchyard, in Heaven’s name?” Mrs. Wildman reverted, in a bewildered tone.
“Well may you ask, Joanna. Well may you ask.” A strangely triumphant smile broke on Mrs. Thane’s countenance. “I have an idea the Magistrate shall be most pressing on that point.”
“Whatever are you about, Augusta?” Mrs. Wildman demanded. “You look positively in alt!”
“Perhaps it is a natural elevation of feeling, Joanna, at the reflection that sinners may cast no stones!”
“Sinners?” Mrs. Wildman repeated blankly.
“There shall be no more talk of Adelaide creeping from her marriage bed in the dead of night, once James is clapped in irons!”
Mrs. Wildman emitted a sharp scream, and flung her hands to her breast, with a look of such terror on her visage that I quite felt for the silly woman; her daughter Louisa hastened to her aid with a vinaigrette, which I must imagine was often employed for the purpose of regulating her mother’s spirits. And there, too, was Thane.
“Dear Cousin Joanna, I fear you are overset,” he observed with solicitude. “Pray allow me to escort you upstairs.”
“Never mind playing off your airs, Julian,” Louisa said crossly. “I shall convey Mamma.”
She was supported in this by her sister; and the three Wildman ladies quitted the room in high dudgeon—and probably a measure of relief.
Fanny rose from her chair and curtseyed to the Thanes. “Indeed, you have been very kind—but Miss Austen and I must take our leave.”
“Before your father’s business is concluded?” Adelaide enquired. “My husband is even now in his hands, Miss Knight. I collect it is the coroner’s assumption that poor Andrew somehow discovered the existence of his rival, and killed him in a passion of jealousy.”
“Do sit down, Miss Knight,” Julian urged. “I should never forgive myself if you were to leave us, while the issue of Andrew’s fate still hung in suspense.”
Fanny looked to me in bewilderment. She had not the slightest idea whether to be firm, and beg that the tilbury be brought round, or to linger at the request of the Thanes. She had no notion her father wished me to learn what I could of the interesting grouping now before us. Theirs was the strangest complex of frankness, on the one hand, and determined suppression on the other, that I had ever witnessed in a family; and I wondered whether the casual boldness of both children was the sole weapon available to combat so repressive a parent.
Mindful of Edward, I determined to adopt a similar bluntness and decide Fanny’s quandary. I retained my chair, and smiled warmly at Adelaide MacCallister.
“Whatever the coroner may have suggested, my brother shall weigh against all that he observes and is told. He must pursue the obvious—and forgive me, Mrs. MacCallister, but in such a case as this, your husband must be possessed of the most obvious motive—but Edward is hardly a simple man, and as magistrate he is aware that murder may be a complex business.”
“Indeed?” the bride said. “Then I may begin to hope.”
Julian Thane emitted a short bark of laughter. “Hope! Tell me, Addie—in which direction does hope lie? Must we hope that James shot Curzon? Or his father, our excellent Cousin Wildman? Would you rather I had done it, perhaps? Or even … Mamma?”
“Julian!” hissed Mrs. Thane.
He thrust himself out of his chair and began to pace before the fire like a caged animal. Fanny, I observed, had flushed becomingly and her eyes glittered as she watched his progress; Thane’s energies were palpable in the room, a current that ensnared and compelled. He was unlike any young man she had yet encountered in Kent, and knowing too much of rogues myself, I sympathised with her fascination.
“Do not be a fool, Mamma,” he muttered. “If James’s pistol fired the killing ball, then some one in this household employed it. We must all be suspect until the murderer is discovered.”
“Nonsense,” she said quellingly. “It is as Joanna says—a footpad did away with Fiske, and stole the gun from Chilham first.”
Thane stopped his revolutions upon the hearth and stared at her in disbelief. “Good God, Mamma! Do you wilfully cultivate the credulous?”
The lady shrugged defiantly. “I do not see why my explanation should be any worse than another. Indeed, I regard it as the truth.”
“Perhaps that is because you are not in possession of all the facts,” I interposed quietly, before she could respond. “There is the matter of the tamarind seed, for example.”
A pause followed these simple words, a pause so profound it was as tho’ air and light had left the room, paralysing all within it except myself.
I glanced from one Thane to another, conscious of Fanny’s confused hesitation beside me. “It was a silken pouch of tamarind seeds Curzon Fiske delivered to this house on the night of your wedding, was it not, Mrs. MacCallister?”
“How do you … we cannot know it was Curzon who …”
“I advise you most strongly, Adelaide, to say nothing further to this woman,” Mrs. Thane spat out. Her suspension of breath had subsided; her gaunt face was livid with fury. “Despicable presumption! She is no better than her brother’s spy! I must beg you to leave us at once, Miss Austen!”
Fanny rose, and with a swift bob was halfway to the door when Julian Thane reached her, and clasped her wrist.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t go—yet. Your aunt interests me strangely.” He shot me a look. “What are you talking of, with your tamarind seeds? I know nothing of them, tho’ my sister and parent obviously do.”
“Were you not present when the footman presented a gift to Mrs. MacCallister, in a silken pouch, in the midst of the ball? He had received it of a stranger—a common enough looking fellow, I believe he said—at the Castle’s front door.”
“When was this?” Thane demanded.
“During Andrew’s toast,” Adelaide supplied faintly.
“Ah. I was from the ballroom at the time—and returned only as the glasses were raised. A silken pouch, you say?”
“Inside was a collection of largish brown beans,” I explained. “Or so I thought them to be. Mrs. MacCallister received them with little pleasure.”
Thane crossed to Adelaide, and stared at her broodingly. “You told me nothing of this.”
“I thought it irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant, Addie! Fiske sends you his calling card—”
“Enough, Julian!” Mrs. Thane bellowed.
“It was only later,” I persisted, “when we discovered a similar bean in Mr. Fiske’s pocket, that the coroner explained to me what it was.”
“Curzon had a tamarind seed in his pocket?” Adelaide repeated. “I suppose it slipped from the pouch. It must have been he, then, who stood at the Castle’s door. Oh, Julian!” She covered her face with her hands. “Only consider of it! Standing alone and friendless in the dark, while his wife wedded another!”
“The seed did not slip from the pouch,” I said.
Adelaide lifted her head from her hands and stared at me. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Because it was twisted inside the note that summoned him to his death,” I explained. “A sort of token—perhaps that he might put faith in his murderer?”
Her dark eyes were wide and pitiful in her pale face, all hint of gaiety vanished; and her brother, for the moment, was deprived of speech.
Our interrogation had reached this interesting point, when Andrew MacCallister entered the room.
1 Gentlemen, in Austen’s day, came of age at twenty-one. —Editor’s note.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Choice of Pistols
For he was not long home from another war:
Forgiveness for sin was what a pilgrim sought.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “GENERAL PROLOGUE”
22 OCTOBER 1813, CONT.
“FORGIVE ME, ADELAIDE,” THE CAPTAIN SAID AS HE HESITATED in the doorway. “I did not know you entertained guests.”
“It
is only the Magistrate’s daughter, Miss Knight, and her aunt, Miss Austen,” his bride returned. “They accompanied Mr. Knight on his business.”
“I see.” MacCallister’s voice and expression were heavy; gone was the joy I had read in his countenance at his wedding. His gaze drifted from Adelaide to her brother, and fixed upon Julian Thane’s face; with a flicker of his sandy eyelashes he said abruptly, “The Magistrate wishes to see you again, Julian—there having been a variance in our accounts. I am sorry for it.”
“Our accounts?” Colour rose in Thane’s face, and to my surprize, his eyes slid towards Fanny. “What would you mean, Andrew?”
“Merely that I told Knight the truth as I knew it—and I collect that you did not.”
Thane stiffened as tho’ a glove had been flung in his face. “Do you call me a liar?”
“Of course not.” MacCallister walked wearily into the room and took up a position behind Adelaide’s chair, his hands resting on her shoulders. She glanced up at him searchingly, but said nothing. “A liar utters falsehoods. You said nothing at all.”
“I do not pretend to understand you,” Thane returned, on his dignity.
“You withheld certain facts, Julian. I urge you to disclose them now. Mr. Knight is waiting. He holds all our fates in his hands.”
There was a silence; then, without another word or look, Thane strode to the drawing-room door and quitted the room.
MacCallister sighed. “Pray present me to your acquaintance, Adelaide.”
“They were about to take their leave,” interjected her mother acidly.
“Tho’ Mr. Knight is as yet engaged?”
“Andrew,” his wife said intently, “what did you mean, just now? About Julian?”
He glanced down at her. “Present me to your acquaintance, Adelaide. I should prefer Julian to speak for himself, once he determines to do it.”
I observed her delicate throat to constrict, as she swallowed her fear with effort, and returned her gaze to ourselves. “Miss Knight—Miss Austen—may I present my husband, Captain MacCallister, to your acquaintance?”
Fanny and I rose, and curtseyed as MacCallister bowed.
“You were our guests at the wedding ball, I know,” he said, “but with such a crush of people—there may have been as many as two hundred in the room—I cannot pretend to have retained the names of most of my well-wishers. Let us say that we renew our acquaintance—and I shall undertake to greet you both with greater civility in future.”
“You are very good,” I said. “I do not believe there is one bridegroom in ten who may discern an individual from the mass of those at his wedding celebration!”
“And now I fear we must take our leave,” Fanny said firmly. “If you would be so good as to summon a footman, Captain MacCallister, I will request my tilbury to be brought round.”
“Hah! Drive yourself, do you?” Mrs. Thane queried. “It is of a piece with the general stile of Knight effrontery; you did not accompany your father at all, but brought yourselves, from a desire to gossip and feed on our troubles! Spiteful girl! I shall take care that my son wastes no more of his notice on you!”
Fanny flushed; her lips parted in indignation, but it was Captain MacCallister who answered his mother-in-law.
“Julian may have little enough liberty in the immediate future, once he has sworn his testimony at the inquest.”
“What do you mean, Andrew?” Adelaide demanded. “What are all these hints and warnings?” She slipped from under his protective hands, and rose to face him.
He stared at her gravely. “Julian did not spend Wednesday night in blameless sleep, Addie. Nor did I. I bear responsibility for entangling your brother in this affair—and must beg your pardon.”
Adelaide’s looks were ghastly, her beauty a mocking skull.
“Andrew—”
“I do not know the countryside hereabouts so well as Julian; he has been cantering over these Downs forever. I asked him, therefore, to ride with me down the old Pilgrim’s Way that divides your cousin’s estate from Mr. Knight’s. There is a side-path from the Pilgrim’s Way that leads to St. Lawrence churchyard. We achieved it at about half-past two on Thursday morning.” The Captain’s voice dropped. “We met with your late husband, Addie—and gave the blackguard all the money we could pool between us, to be gone from England by daybreak.”
It should surprize no one that at these words, Adelaide MacCallister fainted.
I HAD JUST SUCCEEDED IN WRITING AN ACCOUNT OF THE morning’s events, from a hope of understanding them better, when my brother Edward strode into the library and made directly for the decanters set out on a side table. He tossed back a mouthful of brandy, then topped up his glass with an absorbed expression on his countenance; tho’ he did not appear to be in an ill-humour, I did not like to pelter him with questions just yet. I allowed him an interval for stirring the fire, and frowning into the flames, and swallowing another draught of his restorative drink; and once he had thrown himself into the chair opposite, I regarded him quietly, until he should chuse to speak.
Silence is a restful quality in a woman, one few women may command.
“Fanny manage the tilbury all right, without my escort?” he asked.
“Perfectly well, I assure you.”
The brandy glass sat idly between his palms, half empty. He sighed, as tho’ very well pleased to be in his own home again. “Rowan’s a well-mannered tit; he’d never run away with the girl. I bought him from James Wildman last spring, did you know that?—one of his three-year-olds.”
“You were always an excellent judge of horseflesh, Edward.”
“Yes. But of men, Jane?” He thrust himself from the chair and tossed off the brandy, then stood with his boot on the fender and stared unblinking into the heat of the fire. “Do you know what a galling trick it was, to be welcomed as a friend into my neighbour’s book room, only to demand of him where his son keeps a brace of duelling pistols, and whether one is at present missing?”
“I am sure it was painful and repugnant to you,” I answered quietly, “but I am even more certain that Mr. Wildman understood it to be your duty.”
“Duty!” Edward retorted with loathing. “Yes, and I suppose I must call it my duty to hang one of my friends before very long.”
“Not that—but to find justice for Curzon Fiske, perhaps.” Edward was silent a moment.
I studied his profile and felt it safe to venture a question. “What did Mr. Wildman say, when you enquired of James’s pistol?”
“He laughed, and said the guns were forever lying about—because James has a penchant for shooting at targets in the most unlikely places. When he is up in London, he may commonly be found at Manton’s Shooting Gallery, culping wafers; but when in Kent, is reduced to snuffing candle-flames at thirty paces on the terrace, and has not been unknown to nick playing cards affixed to the billiard-room walls.”
“So Mr. Thane intimated.”
My brother glanced at me swiftly. “I forgot. While I was insulting one of my oldest friends, you were about your own researches.”
“I suspect that what I learnt is merely a corollary to your intelligence. But with regard to the pistol—it appears that anyone in the household might have taken and employed it, if James is so careless of his weapons as his intimates claim.”
“Exactly so. What an unpleasant construction we are forced to draw! —For whoever stole the gun must have known it should be recognised as James Wildman’s, and must have intended, therefore, to throw suspicion of murder on the young man. The son and heir of Chilham Castle—where presumably the murderer was a guest, Jane. Such effrontery!”
“Decidedly bad ton,” I soothed, “but I do not see why you should deplore a murderer’s poor taste, Edward. Surely few virtues may be expected in one who would shoot a man in cold blood?”
He could not suppress a snort of laughter at this appalling truth; perhaps the brandy had succeeded in warming him.
“But tell me,” I urged. “How went you
r interview with Captain MacCallister and Mr. Thane? For Fanny and I could not linger to learn the particulars; with Mrs. MacCallister in a faint and her mother in a fury, we had all we could do to take our leave from the Captain, and tool the horse towards home. Fanny was exceedingly anxious, Edward—I believe she admires that young gentleman more than I should have suspected from the strength of a few dances—”
“The waltz,” my brother interjected gloomily. “I should never have allowed it.”
“Fiddle! What did MacCallister mean, by saying that he and Thane met with Fiske and paid him a considerable sum to leave the country?”
“Mean? Surely it is readily understood? That roll of banknotes we discovered in the man’s coat—nearly five hundred pounds, Jane!—came entirely from MacCallister and Thane; and they are agreed in having presented it to Fiske somewhere between the hours of two and three o’clock in the morning. From something the young buck said, I suspect Thane won most of James Wildman’s quarterly allowance at whist a few nights since, and turned it over to the Captain when need demanded.”
“But do they admit to shooting him?”
“They deny it, when questioned separately or together. Neither will implicate the other to save himself; neither admits to having taken Wildman’s pistol; and both claim to have thought themselves relieved of a damned nuisance, in having paid Fiske to disappear.”
“And they swear they returned to Chilham Castle together?”
“Categorically.”
“Then who killed the man?” I demanded indignantly.
“That is what I have still to discover! I must persist in making myself odious to the entire neighbourhood, particularly the Wildman family, until the affair is sorted—and I relish the business not at all.”
“It seems unlikely that some other should have met with Fiske in exactly that spot, Edward—and in possession of Wildman’s pistol—and killed him,” I pointed out reluctantly.
My brother sighed. “I cannot pretend to always know truth when I see it, Jane, but I do not think MacCallister or Thane dissembled when they spoke to me this afternoon.”
Jane and the Canterbury Tale Page 12
