Jane and the Canterbury Tale

by Stephanie Barron

  “James?” Jupiter replied incredulously. “Attract enemies? I should say not! James, who was never an Out-and-Outer, nor Top-’o-the-Trees, much less a Rake-shame or a Loose Screw! No, no—he’s far too good ton for anyone to come the ugly with James!”

  “In other words—if I apprehend your cant correctly—Mr. Wildman’s character and way of life are far too unobjectionable to excite either the envy or the hatred that a nonpareil of Fashion, or a reprehensible scoundrel, should certainly inspire.”

  “That’s it,” Jupiter said gratefully. “Hasn’t an enemy in the world, our James.”

  “And yet, someone deliberately left his pistol at a scene of murder. How is it that a man without enemies is positioned so neatly for the scaffold, Mr. Finch-Hatton?”

  Fanny snorted, an indecorous sound that might have been a swallowed giggle. Tho’ she was the sort who spoke most often only when she was spoken to—particularly among gentlemen, whom she had been trained foolishly to regard as leaders to be followed, rather than small boys to be led—she did appreciate a deft exchange of views, and the occasional triumph of her aunt.

  “Does leave one in a coil, don’t it?” Jupiter agreed affably. “Nasty, slippery articles, facts.”

  “I believe the coil might be cut, however, did we consider of the relations between Curzon Fiske and James Wildman,” I suggested. “Mr. Wildman insists he was in happy ignorance of Fiske’s survival, when that unfortunate man found his way to Chilham last Wednesday; and as Fiske was unknown in England for fully three years—we must cast our minds back to that fatal night, when James Wildman admits to having last seen Fiske: The night the gentleman was forced to flee the Kingdom. There was a game of whist played that evening, I believe? For odiously high stakes? And you were present, were you not, Mr. Finch-Hatton?”

  Jupiter stopped short on the path. He studied me through narrowed eyes. “I was,” he said tersely, “but if you may tell me how you got wind of such a devilish affair, I’d be much obliged to you, ma’am. I should like to have it out with the bounder who saw fit to share what should never have reached a lady’s ears!”

  “It was Fanny who told me of it,” I replied.

  “Aunt Jane!” Fanny cried in outrage.

  “Do not attempt to deny it! We must disabuse Mr. Finch-Hatton of his misapprehension, my dear—that the whist game is in some wise a closely-guarded secret—for if you know of it, Fanny, we may be assured that most of Kent does, as well.”

  “Damme,” Jupiter muttered, and lopped a thistle from its stalk with a single murderous stroke of his cane.

  AS WE LABOURED UP THE PITCH OF THE DOWNS, AND THE weak Autumn light was gradually blotted out by cloud, I succeeded in dragging intelligence most unwillingly from Jupiter’s disapproving mind. To relate the essentials of what he termed “a dashed smoky business” to two unmarried ladies obviously offended his notions of decorum. The discovery that he actually possessed such nice sensibilities so raised Jupiter in Fanny’s estimation, that by the end of his recital the two were conversing quite animatedly.

  “We were all at Chilham Castle for a visit that November, one of James’s sisters—never can tell one from the other—being on the point of coming out, and the Wildmans thinking to show her off round Kent before the London Season began, just to see how the chit took. Neither of ’em ever did take, come to that,” Jupiter added thoughtfully, “but can’t blame James’s mamma for trying! I mean to say—two such antidotes on her hands, and the eldest of ’em past praying for! In any event, there was a dress party. —Believe you were indisposed, Miss Fanny. Accounts for you not being one of the party.”

  “All the children had scarlet fever,” my niece murmured, “and naturally I could not carry contagion into Louisa’s coming-out party.”

  “We’d just dined—twenty couple or so, m’mother and sister and m’father in attendance, along with the Moores and the Plumptres and I know not who else—”

  “Mr. Lushington and his wife, perhaps?” I prompted.

  “Aye,” Jupiter said darkly, “and that chit of theirs, Mary-Ann, who’s forever setting her cap at James, for all she’s not yet fifteen.”

  “Is she, indeed?” Fanny enquired with interest. “I had thought her still in the schoolroom!”

  “Ought to have been, that night—what Lushington was thinking, bringing a child no more than twelve to dinner, I should have liked to have asked him—but that’s neither here nor there.” Jupiter stabbed his stick into the soft earth with every step. “As I say, we were coming out of the dining parlour, intending to get up a bit of a dance—you know the sort of thing, Fanny, most informal and dashed tedious, my opinion, but nothing for it—girl’s coming-out party, after all—when there was a great pounding at the front door, and the peal of the bell, and that quiz they keep for a butler at Chilham—”

  “Twitch.”

  “—the very one!—threw open the front door. There was Fiske and little Adelaide, looking as tho’ she might faint at our feet, and practically stumbling to get inside. ‘Oh, cousin!’ she cried to James’s papa, ‘the bailiffs are at the door, and we are lost, and if you are not kind to us, cousin, I do not know what we shall do!’ Never seen a lady so torn with anxiety as Adelaide was that night—and her increasing, worse luck.”

  “Increasing?” I repeated, quite startled. “I had not an idea of it. No one has mentioned a child.”

  “Lost it,” Jupiter said significantly, with a tentative eye towards Fanny. “Miscarried, soon as Fiske took off without a word to anyone the next day. Kept the matter quite close at Chilham, it being but another tragedy in Mrs. Fiske’s life.”

  “I see. Mr. Wildman took them in, of course?”

  “Sent Adelaide straight upstairs with his wife, and shut Fiske into the library with a bottle of his best claret. Probably hopeful the damned fellow would drink himself senseless and leave the party in peace. Wildman urged us into the ballroom—you’ve seen it yourself, Miss Austen, so no need to recite the particulars—and we made a poor show of dancing, but the talk that flew round the couples was like nothing on earth. Any number decided to depart quite early, and made their excuses to James’s mamma, once she appeared back downstairs. It was a sad end to their chit’s coming out, and I daresay the girl holds it against Adelaide to this day.”

  “But you remained.”

  Jupiter shrugged. “Been invited to stay. Traps all unpacked in the best bedrooms. M’mother and father yawning their heads off, sister determined to seek her bed. I repaired to the library with James and Plumptre and a few others, and we found Fiske in a feverish state—the wine having done its work. Another man would have been snoring on the floor, but not Fiske. He was game for anything. Demanded we play whist, for pound points. James tried to reason with him—we were all aware the fellow’s pockets were entirely to let, and he had no business playing on tick when the blunt to settle his debts should undoubtedly come from Old Wildman’s purse—but Fiske would have none of it. Jeered at James, and called him a stripling too callow to play a man’s game. Well, must tell you that Plumptre and I fired up at such Turkish treatment! James was no more a stripling than ourselves—well, perhaps Plumptre was full young to be laying down his quarterly allowance in such a cause, being then not above eighteen; but he knew what it meant to stand buff for James, and sat down at the whist table he did.”

  Now Jupiter was coming to it. I slowed my footsteps as we achieved a plateau in the Downs, a slight shelf in the continual rise, and paused to survey the view. Edward’s is a splendid fall of country, the house situated in a valley between two hills, and the Stour winding below; it was difficult to believe that so frightful an event as murder could occur amidst such peace.

  “Mr. Moore and Mr. Lushington sat down as well, I collect?”

  “Not to play, whist being a game for four hands—but the prosy old parson and the gabster from Parliament thought to keep a stern eye on the doings—it being plain as a pikestaff Fiske meant to pluck us all! I mean to say—fellow’d been a Mast
er Sharp for years, ran gaming hells on the Continent, stood to reason he took us for a bunch of flats! He meant to fuzz the cards, I daresay, and clear out of England plumper in the pocket than he’d arrived at Chilham that night!”

  “And did he?”

  Jupiter shrugged. “Curiously enough, Fiske was badly dipped by the time he broached his third bottle. James and Plumptre and I decided between us to take our winnings, and politely toddle off to bed—but Fiske would have none of it. Demanded another round. Meant to win his own back, I gather, tho’ as he’d nothing to pledge, it was hard to see how he meant to come about. James was fool enough to mention the point—in the most circumspect way, ’course—but Fiske told him to go to the Devil. And then the fellow dealt us a leveller—”

  “A what?” Fanny demanded with knitted brows.

  “That is boxing cant, my dear,” I informed her. “It signifies a stunning blow.”

  “Up to every rig, ain’t you, Miss Austen? Nothing a fellow can’t say to you. Friend Curzon floored us, to be frank,” Jupiter affirmed. “Having not a feather to fly with—Fiske tossed his wife into the pot, and invited any who was man enough, to play for her.”

  1 Jane refers to the death of Henry Austen’s wife, Eliza de Feuillide, on April 25, 1813. An account of the weeks following Eliza’s death may be found in Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron (Bantam, 2010). —Editor’s note.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Deadly Stakes

  Why should I refrain from telling your

  Misfortune, you who climbed so very high?

  GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “THE MONK’S TALE”

  26 OCTOBER 1813, CONT.

  “YOU CANNOT BE IN EARNEST,” FANNY PROTESTED. THE exertion of our uphill climb had brought a becoming flush to her cheeks; but her colour was heightened, I thought, from indignation.

  “ ’Fraid I am,” Jupiter replied cheerfully. “Told you the fellow was dashed loose in the haft.”

  “Staking his wife,” I repeated, “as tho’ she were no more than a … a …”

  “—Bit of muslin he wished to cast off. In the family way, too. Shockingly bad ton! Wouldn’t touch the betting, myself.”

  “But others did not share your compunction, Mr. Finch-Hatton?”

  “James did,” he allowed. “Threatened to call Fiske out, for offering his cousin such an insult! Plumptre and I had to talk James down, naturally—can’t challenge a man who’s three-parts bosky to a duel! Stands to reason. Not in his right mind. Can’t be held accountable for what he says. Besides, James was Fiske’s host. Can’t go shooting one’s guests whenever they put a foot wrong, what? Very bad ton. There was a good deal of it to go around, that night.”

  “Lord!” Fanny exclaimed in strong disgust. She began to plod forward like a foot-soldier, her shawl wrapped tight around her; I guessed her romantickal notions of gentlemen and chivalry were suffering a reverse.

  “And then?”

  Jupiter kept his gaze fixed upon the uneven ground. “Plumptre took James into a corner while I told Fiske he’d had his jest—much better to go to bed before he found himself at Point Non-Plus. But he wouldn’t listen to me; drunk as a wheelbarrow, of course. Kept demanding of any who’d listen, What am I bid for as fine a baggage as ever strutted the boards of Covent Garden? Naturally, that stuck in Moore’s craw. Nursed a tendre for Adelaide since I don’t know when. Never seen the prosy parson look so enflamed! He pulled out his purse and tossed it into the centre of the table, and called Fiske’s bluff.”

  “George Moore played a hand of whist for Curzon Fiske’s wife?” I whispered.

  “Loo, actually—whist being out of the question, as there were only three players by that time. James, Plumptre, and I would have none of it; James was all for fetching his papa and breaking up the party entirely, but Fiske locked the library door and pocketed the key.”

  “And the third player?” I queried.

  “Lushington consented to sit at the table. Think he only meant to keep an eye on the other two, myself—no sort of personal interest in Adelaide. Thought the affair should get out of hand, no doubt, and the two men be at each other’s throats once tempers flew high. Devil was in it, he was right!”

  “I cannot conceive of George Moore being so easily drawn!” I exclaimed. “Nor gambling for another man’s wife! His own should have been sleeping upstairs, I collect?”

  “Understand,” Jupiter said as he halted earnestly on the path, “no desire to slander the prosy parson! No interest in canvassing his morals! Moore’s a right one, however dreary his conversation. Fiske simply tried the poor fellow too high. I should judge Moore hated Fiske with a passion. Cut him out once with Adelaide, then had the deuced effrontery to treat her like a doxy. Moore meant to teach Fiske a lesson—and play the Knight Errant with Fiske’s wife.”

  “And the result?” I demanded grimly.

  Even Fanny had halted in her march, and was listening now.

  “Suspect Fiske fuzzed the cards. Well—stands to reason! Pile of silver on the table; pregnant wife asleep in her bed; the whole world to lose, and everything to gain! Not the sort to stop at Greeking methods, when his life depended on it!”1

  “He won,” I said.

  “Cleaned Moore and Lushington out. First time Fiske’s luck had turned, that night—and we’ve all seen the same. A man may throw good money after bad, round upon round, and stake his last groat—only to have his fortune come home again. Looked like that was the way with Fiske!”

  “Until Lushington accused him of cheating,” I murmured.

  Jupiter cast me a sapient eye. “Heard about that, did you?”

  “Mr. Lushington was so indiscreet as to refer to the matter at dinner a few days ago,” Fanny said in a small voice. “Uncle Moore was exceedingly angry, tho’ Mr. Lushington attempted to pass it off as a jest.”

  “Little enough of laughter in the whole business,” Jupiter declared. “Made me dashed uneasy, I can tell you. Fiske went silent, and looked sick; Moore was in a white rage, and ready to draw the fellow’s cork; and our MP demanded to lift Fiske’s coat-sleeves. I have an idea Lushington thought to find certain cards hidden there. Fiske refused; took up his winnings, and declared he was bound for bed.”

  “A cool customer,” I observed.

  “Only that James would not let him go. He demanded that Fiske answer the MP’s accusation. We urged him to stow it, of course—but James declared it was a matter of honour; and that he would not see his friends cheated by a blackguard in his father’s house.”

  “I do admire James Wildman,” Fanny cried passionately.

  I raised my brows at her. “There are occasions, my dear, when the most noble of impulses ought to be suppressed, for the sake of general security. And Fiske’s reply?”

  “—Challenged poor James to a meeting at dawn.”

  “Ah,” I murmured. “Naturally, Mr. Wildman could not then draw back, without being accused of cowardice.”

  “Plumptre and I were to stand as Seconds. Nobody could be induced to act for Fiske, of course, until Lushington quite unwillingly consented to do so. Dashed rum set-out, when the fellow one’s cheated at cards is forced to serve as one’s Second!”

  “And George Moore?”

  “Was in a finer rage than I have ever witnessed, that day to this. He told James to make sure he got his man, and that he would undertake to bury Fiske with full Church rites—at a crossroads where the souls of thieves and suicides wander. Then he demanded the key to the library door.”

  Jupiter shuddered theatrically. “I hope never to see another face like Fiske’s, when he gave that key to Moore! There was contempt and triumph in it—as tho’ he knew he had the prosy parson in his power. Covetous, aren’t we, George? he said, and, You’ve not seen the last of me, my lecherous priest. Moore knocked him down.”

  “You astonish me!”

  “Astonished us all! Never thought the parson was so handy with his fives! By the time Fiske got up—as I say, he was three-parts drunk, and none too st
eady on his feet—Moore was gone. We settled the business of the meeting between us—there’s a bit of meadow down near the Stour, on Godmersham land, where a man might measure twenty paces—and Lushington undertook to wake Fiske at dawn, if Plumptre and I should bring James up to scratch.”

  “—Which I assume, being men of honour, you did.”

  “Only that when we met in the Great Hall the following morning,” Jupiter concluded with an air of apology, “six o’clock it must have been, and dark as Hades—we discovered Lushington was alone.”

  “Fiske had fled.”

  “Crept out of the Castle in the wee hours with his ill-gotten gains to frank his passage. Left Adelaide behind, and a passel of debts, and Old Mr. Wildman to settle the whole. We four, standing foolishly in the hall, agreed that no word of the sordid affair should ever pass our lips; and we took it as gospel that George Moore would not willingly divulge the part he played.”

  “Aunt Harriot should certainly be made miserable by it,” Fanny murmured. “What brutes men are!”

  I might have told Fanny to hush—poor Jupiter had done his best in a difficult episode, and his frankness argued for praise rather than censure—but my mind was too preoccupied. Mr. Finch-Hatton’s story had supplied any number of people with motives for murdering Curzon Fiske. Moore had hated, and been cheated, by him and—if, as I suspected, the packets of gold sent quarterly to India were intended to buy Fiske’s silence regarding the shameful card game—had been blackmailed for years by him.

  James Wildman might creditably be suspected of a mortal desire for vengeance.

  But it was Adelaide MacCallister whose beautiful face rose most forcibly in my mind. What woman, made sport of and abandoned as she had been—losing her child, indeed, in her misery—should not wish to put a bullet through Fiske’s heart?