“Thane did not tell you all, at his first interview,” I reminded him, “and I have another reason for suspecting his veracity. He pretended to know nothing of the tamarind seed, or the note establishing the hour and place of meeting. Yet if he went with MacCallister—”
“The Captain, too, knew nothing of any note in Fiske’s pocket,” Edward said. “When I raised the tamarind seed, he recollected his wife’s receipt of the curious silk purse—but said it played no part in his errand during the wee hours. I was forced to the odious task of requiring each gentleman to provide me a sample of his penmanship—and would swear that neither resembles the fist on the scrap of paper we found.”
“Then how did the Captain and Thane know where to find Curzon Fiske?”
“MacCallister’s batman was the agent of their early morning gallop across the Downs.” Edward turned from the fender and stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, staring at the pattern in the Turkey carpet. “He is a good enough fellow by the name of Bootle, frank and loyal to a fault. He serves the Captain as a sort of valet, or general factotum—and I gather has been with him some years. At any rate, when Bootle brought up a can of hot water at half-past midnight, when MacCallister was preparing to retire, the Captain noticed that his man’s eye had been blackened in a fight. When he questioned Bootle why he had engaged in fisticuffs on the night of his master’s wedding, the batman informed the Captain that he had been compelled to defend the Missus’s virtue.”
I raised my brows at this.
“A stranger had been loitering in the Castle’s stableyard earlier in the day, asking for MacCallister’s groom, and as Bootle also fulfills that function for the Captain, the summons eventually found its way to his ears. Bootle met the fellow, was charged with a missive for the Captain which he promptly forgot to deliver in all the bustle of the wedding—and resumed his usual duties. It was only when he returned to the stables that evening to see to the Captain’s horses that he recalled the incident, and the note he still bore in his pocket. He offered a chance remark to one of the grooms—that the stranger puzzled him exceedingly, as having been dressed like a labourer, but possessed of the Quality’s accent; and the groom said confidently that the stranger was none other than the Missus’s real husband—that Mr. Curzon, what married her first.”
“And so the batman knocked the groom down?”
“He did. Or as Bootle should put it, he offered him a bit of the home-brewed. It is a pity we did not carry Gabriel in our train today, Jane—he might have profited from an interval in the stables, in hearing the entire story recounted in lurid detail. I doubt not it grows hourly in the retelling.”
Gabriel was Edward’s chief groom, and often rode up behind Fanny when she tooled the ribbons of her tilbury; but not, however, when Edward himself rode escort.
“Strange, that a Castle groom should have recognised Fiske when James Wildman did not.”
“James saw only a corpse yesterday morning—and probably averted his eyes as swiftly as possible. The groom, remember, heard Fiske speak—and a voice may do much to recall a face to memory, which a beard might obscure.”
I moved to the decanters myself, and poured out a glass of sherry. “What did MacCallister do then?”
“He demanded the note from Bootle, of course!”
“—Which established the meeting place on the Pilgrim’s Way?”
“Exactly.” Edward smiled. “MacCallister burnt the note, I am afraid—which is unfortunate. It might have proved useful at the inquest. But he did not wish it to fall into his wife’s hands. He suspected she should recognise the fist, and suffer anxiety. His whole object appears to have been to sustain her illusion that Fiske was long since dead in Ceylon—it appears never to have been his object to disclose the truth. You may imagine the agitation with which he met Adelaide, in his marriage bed.”
“—And left her, an hour or so later. Poor man! It seems a cruel way to be served on his wedding night. I imagine Fiske derived no little pleasure from thoroughly cutting up his rival’s peace.” I raised my eyes to my brother’s. “Does MacCallister say that Fiske demanded payment in his missive?”
“No. Money appears to have been the Captain’s own idea, one Thane seconded. From a better knowledge of Fiske, it was Thane’s conviction that he would invariably stand in need of funds, and should be likely to agree to anything in return for them.”
I set down my sherry glass, and met my brother’s gaze squarely. “But what if Thane and MacCallister are lying, Edward? The possibility must be faced. Men who promise to vanish on the strength of five hundred pounds, are rather more likely than not to reappear once the blunt is spent—and demand a thousand pounds the next time! We are talking of blackmail, after all, for the preservation of a lady’s reputation. What if our soldier and his second determined that an easier method of payment should be made? As a military man, the Captain is accustomed to cunning adversaries; he was canny enough not to take the meeting in solitude. And so brought his second—a man who knew the ground, and has a reputation for being an excellent shot.”
“I must consider the whole story from that aspect, of course,” Edward admitted. “I must regard it as possible truth—or a passel of lies.”
We contemplated the hearth together, our thoughts roving across uncertain ground. The flames were settling after a merry burn; and in their depths I conjured a little of the possible scene: Two young men, burdened with their hideous knowledge and the desire to protect Adelaide, riding some two miles along the Pilgrim’s Way in the dead of night in expectation of a dangerous man. They should have been fools to set out unarmed. And the thought occurred: Perhaps it was an actual Meeting, as a gentleman would understand it—a duel of honour at twenty paces, measured off by moonlight. But then I shook my head. There were the scorch marks on Fiske’s coat to consider. They had not been made at twenty paces.
“Our conjectures do not hold together. Consider, Edward: MacCallister is attached to Wellington’s staff; he has survived the Peninsular campaigns, where so many came to grief; surely the man owns a pistol of his own?”
Edward glanced at me. “Indeed he must. He should have no need of James Wildman’s.”
“Nor of placing Wildman’s pistol for any to find, in the middle of St. Lawrence churchyard; that is a wanton act of effrontery I cannot believe MacCallister or Thane capable of. No—I am inclined to believe that it was money indeed, not lead balls, that MacCallister and Thane delivered that night. But if so—who sent Curzon Fiske the note wrapped around a tamarind seed?”
“Whoever killed him, I imagine.” Edward reached for the brandy decanter. “A killer who hates young James Wildman enough to see him hanged.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Revelations of an Inquest
He had a ready summoner at hand,
No rascal craftier in this British land,
For he’d created a skilful net of spies,
Who watched for him as they roamed (procurement eyes).
GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “THE FRIAR’S TALE”
SATURDAY, 23 OCTOBER 1813
I PREVAILED UPON MY BROTHER TO ALLOW ME TO ATTEND the inquest, tho’ he assured me there must be no occasion for me to give evidence. Others—my nephews among them—had first discovered the dead man, and borne him into the house; Mr. George Moore had identified the corpse as Curzon Fiske. The coroner himself had examined the body before empanelling his jury. In sum, the evidence must have been a tidy parcel, neatly disposed of—but for the testimony that should inevitably be sworn, concerning Captain MacCallister’s nocturnal ride.
That Edward was uneasy in his present rôle as magistrate, I discerned from the moment of entering his equipage. What he most wished from the Coroner’s Panel was indecision; a want of verdict should buy Edward time. He was determined to take care with his researches before condemning any of his acquaintance for murder—but the panel would probably be less nice, and more hasty, in their judgement. How to prevent those clear-eyed fellows from fixing too re
adily upon Captain MacCallister was Edward’s ticklish problem.
All discourse on the subject was impeded, however, by the fact that George Moore rode with us. The quarrel with Stephen Lushington might have put the Back Bencher to flight; but it was not for Mr. George Moore, celebrated ecclesiastic, to withdraw from Godmersham. A full ten days he had fixed for his visit, and a full ten days he should remain, however unsuitable the present circumstances might prove for his entertainment. He could not regard my attendance at the inquest with approbation, and as his disgust took the form of a sober lecture on the proper place of ladies in the Divine Scheme for England and the world, I was out of all charity with him. Edward, too, seemed little inclined to support the pomposities of his old friend. He spent the better part of the eight-mile journey in gazing out the carriage window, lost in thought.
The inquest was to be at ten o’clock, in the publick room of the Little Inn, an ancient tavern that sits in Sun Street, hard by Canterbury Cathedral. The affair of Curzon Fiske’s death had achieved no very great publicity in the town, the murder having occurred but lately and in the country. I was not surprized, therefore, to see faces I recognised lining the benches arranged before the coroner, magistrate, and panel. Mr. Wildman was there, and his son James Beckford, as well as their guests the MacCallisters, and Julian Thane. Mrs. Thane, to my astonishment, was absent—she must have been laid low with a stomach complaint, to have denied herself the pleasure of abusing Canterbury’s worthiest citizens.
Of the few strangers, I suspected some were relations and friends of the empanelled jury, come to observe their honourable service. Adelaide MacCallister and I were the only ladies present.
George Moore consented, at least, to share my bench—tho’ from the expression on his countenance, he preferred to let no one suspect we were acquainted. He nodded distantly to Adelaide, who was arrayed in unbride-like black; if she acknowledged this pious salute, or her former acquaintance with Moore, I could not say; a veil disguised her features.
Julian Thane, with his rogue’s dark curl falling negligently over his brow, exerted himself enough to cross the room and greet us. I offered my hand—how often may I expect a handsome young rake to kiss it in future?—and he bent low with a grin.
“I trust you are well, Miss Austen?”
“Perfectly, I assure you.”
“The atmosphere of an inquest agrees with you?”
“I am not so missish as to faint, sir, from an excessive exposure to the Law.”
“Miss Knight, however, declined the pleasure.”
“Miss Knight had a prior engagement—she was to ride today with Mr. John Plumptre, I believe.”
Mr. John Plumptre, met with a similar intelligence regarding his fellow man, should have darkened and turned away with a glower; but Julian Thane merely pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “And I had hoped her to be an undiscovered flower, blooming in retirement. Such a sad romp as Miss Knight turns out to be! Invariably in request, throughout the neighbourhood! I shall have to challenge her to a course of jumps when I am next at leisure—there is a prime hunter in Wildman’s stables ideally suited to a lady. And I have no doubt Miss Knight shall prove pluck to the backbone.”
He bowed and returned to his sister. Just so does Defiance meet the threat of Damnation.
Andrew MacCallister, for his part, looked as cool and grim as tho’ he rode into battle. He wore his dress uniform, of the 7th Light Dragoons, and must impress even the ignorant with his appearance of command.
There was a bustle to the rear; I turned, and observed Edward and Dr. Bredloe, who made their way up the centre aisle; and behind them came the panel of men who should decide how Curzon Fiske died.
They were an assortment of tradesmen and farmers from the surrounding environs—but whether knowledgeable or ignorant, malicious or kindly-disposed, who could say? A collection of strangers, for the most part, bound by a single duty; individuals forced to work in harness for the space of the proceeding. And I was reminded, of a sudden, of the Canterbury Tales—that collection of Chaucer’s Pilgrims, unknown to one another until their meeting in a tavern, bound for the space of their journey by the stories they chose to tell. If one could but hear the thoughts of these twelve men, as they weighed what Dr. Bredloe and Edward might say! Of a sudden I felt anxious, as I had not felt before; the security of an Adelaide MacCallister or her Captain, even of a Julian Thane, seemed too important to hand over unconditionally to these unknowns.
Dr. Bredloe convened the proceeding in his driest manner. The panel’s first duty was to view the corpse, which lay in a closet to one side of the publick room; having submitted to the task, they returned to their benches in a subdued fashion, and were allowed a moment to collect themselves. Dr. Bredloe stated that Deceased’s wife, Mrs. Adelaide Fiske, had identified the corpse as her husband; he must have required her to do so, before ever the inquest began. I felt George Moore stiffen beside me; he had expected to testify to Fiske’s identity, and indeed, had attended the inquest for no other purpose. Was he indignant at having his rôle usurped? Or relieved? Some profound emotion had turned him rigid. I fancied it had more to do with Adelaide, than himself; and wondered very much if he still carried a tendre for her, after seven years.
But my nephew Edward was recounting the discovery of the body by the party of gentlemen and their beaters; he looked very young as he stood before the coroner, conscious of his father’s eyes upon him. Dr. Bredloe thanked the boy, and allowed him to stand down; then addressed the state of the corpse, the nature of the wound, and the probable manner in which it had been received. The constable next displayed the pistol, and James Beckford Wildman was called upon to identify it as his own, in a voice that trembled only slightly.
Naturally, a murmur went up at this from the assembled audience; there were some in the crowd, curious onlookers, who knew nothing of facts that all at Chilham must have mastered. Edward gazed steadily at young James, and asked him in a clear voice when he had last seen his pistol.
“I cannot say with any certainty, Your Honour. I know it to have been in my possession on Tuesday last, when I engaged in some target shooting; I later cleaned the gun, and replaced it with its companion, in its case; but as the case is left in my father’s gun room, where any might find it, I cannot tell when it disappeared.”
“But you did not, yourself, take the gun out for the purpose of firing it at Curzon Fiske the following night, or early Thursday morning?”
Young Wildman paled, but his chin lifted a little and his gaze did not falter. “I did not, Your Honour.”
“You have heard Constable Blewett say that it was found on a tombstone in St. Lawrence churchyard?”
“I have. I do not know how it came there.”
“Mr. Wildman, were you at all acquainted with Curzon Fiske?”
“He was the husband of my second cousin, and as such, was often entertained at our home. He left the Kingdom some three years ago, however, for India, and we believed that he had died out there.”
“When did you receive word of Mr. Fiske’s death?”
“Some eighteen months since—in April of last year.”
“And you received no subsequent word of his survival? You did not expect to find him on the Pilgrim’s Way Thursday morning?”
“I did not—and indeed, Fiske was so altered, I should never have recognised him.”
Dr. Bredloe intervened at this point, with a polite smile for Edward. “Tell me, Mr. Wildman—how would ye describe your relations with Mr. Fiske when he was alive, and living in England?”
For the first time, James Wildman’s eyes dropped; he seemed, for an instant, uncertain what he should say. Then he shrugged slightly, and a wistful smile flickered across his lips. “I had barely achieved my majority when Curzon quitted Kent for the last time. As a boy, I thought him quite the most engaging fellow I had ever met—Top o’the Trees, a Go Amongst the Goes. He cut such a dash, you understand, that he was a great favourite with all of us when we were yo
ung.”
“So you parted on terms of cordiality?”
Wildman hesitated; and almost imperceptibly, his gaze slid towards myself.
Impossible. He could have no reason for staring at me.
And then I understood: it was George Moore’s counsel he sought.
Moore was rigid, again, beside me, and his gloved hands were clenched in his lap. Did I imagine it? Or did he shake his head ever so slightly as James Wildman studied his countenance?
“We parted on terms of complete indifference,” Wildman answered woodenly.
“No quarrel?” Dr. Bredloe persisted. “No reason to hate the man, when you discovered he was back in Kent?”
“I did not discover him back in Kent. I discovered his corpse,” the young man said evenly.
Dr. Bredloe studied Wildman for an uncomfortable and inscrutable instant; then released him to his father.
THERE WAS A PAUSE IN THE PROCEEDINGS AT THIS POINT, so that the jury might partake of refreshment; the panel were led into a separate parlour for this interval, while the rest of us rose and stretched our limbs.
“Pray make my apologies to Mr. Knight,” George Moore said abruptly as he quitted our bench. “I have an errand that cannot wait, in the Cathedral Close. I believe I have seen enough of the deplorable business here; I shall return in an hour’s time, in the hope that it shall be concluded, and that we might all return to Godmersham together.”
I curtseyed to the clergyman without a word; he lifted his hat; and I was left to wonder what had so discomposed him—or what trial he believed himself to have survived.
The final wager, a voice whispered in my brain; the fatal game of whist, on the night before Fiske fled to India three years ago. What had been the stakes? And what the outcome? Why the charge of cheating, left unanswered? George Moore was determined, certainly, that James Wildman should give no hint of the discord that had divided Fiske from his oldest acquaintance.
Dr. Bredloe opened the parlour door, and the panel filed once more to their seats, presumably refreshed.
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