Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House jam-6

by Stephanie Barron

  “But who—”

  “Whoever killed Chessyre! Have you received a gift of food for the prisoners?”

  Mr. Hill hesitated. “Your eggs, of course,” he said slowly, “and a quantity of meat pasties from Mrs. Braggen's kitchen. They were sent in my absence yesterday. But surely Mrs. Braggen—”

  “I should never accuse the lady or her household of ill intent. But if the food appeared in your absence — anything might have been done to it.”

  “Then why did not every prisoner who partook of the food fall dreadfully ill?”

  “Because the poison was meant for only one man,” I persisted.

  Mr. Hill shook his head. “My dear Miss Austen, I fear mat your imagination is run away with you. You have been overwrought. All this talk of murder — it may give rise to the most dreadful fancies—”

  “There has not merely been talk! Two men are dead. One was killed at sea, another not a mile from this door. It is you, Mr. Hill, who persist in fancy. You must treat LaForge as though he were indeed a case of poison. It can cost you nothing, and may save his life.”

  The surgeon studied me shrewdly, then felt LaForge's brow with his palm. “Fever, a fluttering pulse, and a disruption of stomach and bowels. A purgative first,” he said decisively “Ipecac, I think, or perhaps the more gentle tartar emetic. Then a cathartic, to flux the bowels. I should attempt cremor tartar, but for its strength; perhaps a solution of castor oil and medicinal rhubarb will prove more gentle in its effect. Once the system is cleansed, we may see what a strong dose of charcoal in milk may do for what has already been consumed. It is a property of charcoal to attach itself to metallic substances, such as are often found in your common poisons; the stuff may then be passed harmlessly enough.”

  “Can such doses harm him?” I enquired with trepidation.

  “The combined effects shall work violently on his frame, and in such a weakened state — I should advise you, Miss Austen, to leave us for a period. I shall send word by messenger to your boarding house, once I am certain of the effect — whether it be good or ill.”

  He began to rummage in his black bag, purposeful now that he had determined his course. I rose, took one last look at the sufferer, and quitted that dreadful place.

  It was ten minutes past two o'clock. I went directly to St. Michael's Church, halfway along my path towards home, and knelt in the silence of the nave. I prayed for the salvation of Etienne LaForge — prayed as I had not done for some months since, with a passion and a purpose that could not help but sing its way to Heaven. If asked, I could not have said why the Frenchman's case burned at me so. I hardly knew die man. But the thought of so much wit and understanding finding an untimely grave was suddenly insupportable. In praying for LaForge, I prayed for all that I loved: Frank and Mary and their unborn babe; for my mother, and Cassandra, and the sprawling family at Godmersham; even for Mr. Hill, unstinting in his work to save this foreign life. In this quarter-hour they were all of a piece with that Frenchman: beloved of somebody, and dying alone.

  Chapter 15

  The Naval Set

  27 February 1807, cont.

  “A VERDICT OF WILLFUL MURDER WAS RETURNED AGAINST Tom Seagrave,” Frank said, as I entered Mrs. Davies's sitting-room at a quarter past three o'clock. “He is held at present in Gaoler's Alley, in expectation of trial.”

  I sank into a chair ranged against the wall and closed my eyes. “That is very unfortunate. You told the coroner's panel of your express?”

  “I did. The magistrate knew enough to direct the coroner's questions. There was little of surprise in anyone's testimony; and Seagrave refused, again, to disclose his movements on Wednesday night.”

  “Did the charges of the court-martial arise?”

  “Naturally. Percival Pethering has not the slightest authority in that case; but he sought to show that Seagrave had murdered his lieutenant — and all discussion of motive must involve events on the Manon.”

  “And thus the panel was taught to regard Tom Seagrave as a man who is intimate with murder. No other outcome was possible. I feared as much.” I stared up at Frank. “Monsieur LaForge has taken a turn for the worse. Mr. Hill suspects poison.”

  “Poison!” My brother's hand clenched spasmodically. “But who—?”

  “The man who killed Chessyre, I suppose. Having despatched his conspirator, he could not allow a witness to survive.”

  “If he dies, Jane, his blood will be on our hands,” Frank muttered. “It was we who urged LaForge to divulge what he knew.”

  “Then we must pray that he does not die,” I said, and went to dress for the party.

  “MY DEAR MISS AUSTEN! YOU DO US PROUD IN SUCH feathers, I declare — we shall be as the moon outshone by the sun!”

  Captain Edward James Foote, hearty and weather-beaten as only a man in his third decade at sea may look, stood in his dress uniform under the sparkling chandelier in the central hall of Highfield House, and bowed to all our party. Captain Foote is a towering figure — quite suited to serve as model for some martial statue in bronze; and though forty years at least, is as yet handsome.

  “And how is your delightful daughter?” I enquired, as I curtseyed before him. I had practised the movement in the privacy of my room, under Martha's tutelage, to be certain I should not disturb the wretched turban; but my heart and delight were not in it. I must be always thinking of Wool House, and the grim struggle undergone in its shadows. I had received a messenger from Mr. Hill just before five o'clock. Etienne LaForge had suffered greatly from the ministrations of castor oil and ipecac; he had refused to drink the potion of charcoal of his own will, and must be held down by two Marines while the dose was given; but Mr. Hill could detect no greater injury to the system. He saw nothing of improvement in the Frenchman's condition, but neither did he see a persistent decline. LaForge had fallen into restless slumber, still muttering the name of Genevieve. I must hope for the best and endeavour to turn my mind to other things—

  “We were so happy to receive your daughter's visit last week, when Captain Austen brought her home from church; Catherine is most natural in her manner, and quite devoid of shyness.” She was also small and frail for her age, and her looks were not equal to her brother's; but I saw no occasion for telling the father this.

  Captain Foote raised one eyebrow. “I hope Kitty did not disgrace herself by seeming too forward? She did not bring you to a blush? Her mother, you know, was not entirely what one could have wished.”

  The unfortunate Nina Herries, long since fled to Calcutta with an officer of the Hussars. She had a fatal interest, it seemed, in the military orders — a fascination with uniforms that had better been outgrown in the nursery. Little Catherine was her second child, abandoned to a new mamma and a different home; but the change had been of marked benefit.

  “Kitty was everything that was delightful — and all that I was not, at her age,” I replied. “You need have no fears for the young lady, with such an example at home.”

  I glanced at Mary Foote as I said this, and felt the Captain's eyes travel fondly towards his wife. She looked brilliant in pale grey satin, her dark locks piled ingeniously upon her head. In four years of marriage she had spent barely six months free of pregnancy; but the practise appeared to agree with her. She was perhaps a bit more stout than the elegant young daughter of an admiral who had first caught Foote's eye; but the Captain's second adventure in marriage had proved him a gambler of good fortune.

  I could feel Frank at my back, impatient to speak to his old friend; and so I passed on, and curtseyed to Mrs. Foote. She had only time to press my hand and murmur something about “delightful… so happy …” before Frank's Mary gave a little crow of pleasure, and was enfolded in her friend's embrace. “You must come up to the nursery and see the baby,” Mrs. Foote whispered to her, and received a giggle in return.

  I made my way into the large and comfortable drawing-room of Highfield House. The villa on the outskirts of town was happily situated on rising ground, w
ith a view of the sea from its upper storeys; it was adequate to the accommodation of seven children and occasional guests, and though quite modern in its style, looked everything that a growing family could wish. Nearly thirty people, I should judge, were already disposed about the room; a roaring fire ensured that those closest to the hearth should be roasted, while those at the farthest remove must suffer from draught I discerned Admiral Bertie, engrossed in conversation with another gentleman by the cunning French windows; his daughter, Catherine Bertie, held a silk handkerchief to her nose, which appeared decidedly enflamed. The Lances — Mr. David Lance and his wife, whom I believe to be called Mary, as every woman of my acquaintance must be, who is neither an Elizabeth nor a Catherine — were sitting in very grand style at the far end of the room, as though expecting the rest of the party to pay court. And beside them—

  Beside them, in the closest conversation, stood a man I recognised from his bold dark brows and his broad shoulders. Sir Francis Farnham, last glimpsed at the theatre in French Street, on the most intimate terms with David Lance. It should not be extraordinary; Lance had once been a prosperous merchant with the Honourable East India Company, and Sir Francis was something to do with the Navy Board. The two services were thick as thieves, my brother had always said. Frank had carried gold bullion for the Company himself on at least one occasion — a venture not strictly legal, but rich in its recompense and repeated so often in naval practise as to seem mundane. The Honourable Company depended upon Navy protection for its valuable convoys of merchant ships; and at times, in certain parts of the world, the Navy used Indiamen for the transport of men or victuals.

  “Frank,” I breathed to my brother as he approached, in excellent humour for the first time in days, “what exactly did you say was Sir Francis Farnham's post?”

  “Farnham is Civil Administrator of the Transport Board,” Frank replied. “He must spend a devilish amount of time in hiring merchant ships. The Navy uses them, you know, for the transport of goods and seamen. I expect that is why Sir Francis is in such close converse with Mr. Lance.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “but it is Sir Francis I mean to speak to.”

  Frank's attention was claimed by a man in the uniform of a first lieutenant. Martha Lloyd appeared in the doorway, a trifle flushed from the exertion of climbing the Highfield House stairs. I motioned to her to join me.

  “Courage, Martha. I espy a difficult acquaintance, and you know that we must pay our respects.”

  “Oh, Lord,” she breathed. “Not the Lances! Why must they be so very grand? I do not wonder poor Mr. Lance hesitates to be seen in his brother's company. It is too great a mortification for so modest a man.”, The “poor Mr. Lance” to whom she referred was a highly respectable gentleman of the Church — an old Hampshire acquaintance, and possessed of a living in our former neighbourhood of Netherton. It was through our good Mr. Lance that we had met the bad Lances, as we sometimes referred to them; for the clergyman's younger brother had gone off, in his youth, to India, and had made such a fortune there as Mr. Henry Fielding's novels satirise. He had married his partner's sister upon his return to England. The two possessed at least four children, all of them exceedingly delicate. They presided over a vast place known as Chissel House about a mile out of Southampton on the Bitterne side. David Lance is as keen as his name, and I will confess that I admired his wit and calculation; but I could not like his wife.

  Frank and I had paid a call on Mrs. Lance some weeks previous. It was clear that she was rich — and that she liked being rich; and as we are very far from being so, she has determined that we are quite beneath her notice. She displayed her enormous pianoforte, and the view of her grounds, which are known hereabouts as Lance's Hill; and these two duties done, was entirely without conversation.

  Martha grasped my arm. “Remember your feathers,” she instructed. “They shall never shame you, at least.”

  We advanced upon the sopha; the gentlemen were engrossed in conversation. Mrs. Lance bestowed a distant nod, but failed to vouchsafe a greeting or evidence that she recalled my name or visage. Martha boldly advanced to claim acquaintance, and to talk in animated spirits of our good Mr. Lance; I curtseyed, and strained to overlisten the gentlemen's conversation.

  “… signal flags certainly are an immense improvement upon the usual speed of such …”

  “… understand these signals might be changed for purposes of encoding …”

  “… entirely secure … hardly subject to …”

  Far from discussing vital matters of transport with the Honourable Company, Sir Francis was launched upon his favourite subject of swift communication. Mr. Lance was most attentive; but at that moment he happened to glance around — happened to catch my eye— and bowed most handsomely.

  “Miss Austen!” he cried. “You should never wear any colour but that. It becomes you exceedingly.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lance,” I replied. “I find the shade encourages me to boldness when I most require it. Like the peacock, I carry my feathers forward when I should prefer to retreat.”

  He gave a swift look about the assembly. “I had not realised Foote's drawing-room was a battlefield! Whom would you tilt at?”

  “Your friend, Sir Francis Farnham,” I replied promptly, with an inclination of the head at that gentleman, who stared at me sardonically from his black eyes. “Though we are as yet unacquainted, I confess I have yearned to speak with him for some time, on the subject of prisoners of war. The Transport Board is responsible, I believe, for the care of the French? Or should I say — irresponsible? “

  “Let me fetch you a glass of claret, Miss Austen,” cried David Lance with a gallant attempt to lead me away. “I am sure that you require refreshment. The heat of the room—”

  “Stay, Lance,” commanded Sir Francis. His imperious eyes had never wavered from my face. “I should like to hear the lady's concerns. It is because of the French I am come to Southampton, after all.”

  David Lance looked from Sir Francis's set face to my own, which I imagine must have been flushed with the ardour of my thoughts. He took a step backwards. “Very well. I should never come between opponents on the battlefield. Tilt away, Miss Austen!”

  I lifted my chin, and with it, my feathered turban. Martha drew a sharp breath at my side, as though she intended to dissuade me; she had not bargained for dispute when she agreed to meet the Lances. I squeezed her gloved hand in a gesture that has always commanded silence.

  “Am I right in believing I have the honour of addressing some relation of Captain Austen?” Sir Francis enquired, with ponderously calculated formality.

  “There are two captains of that name — my brothers Frank and Charles.”

  “I am acquainted with the former. He commanded the Sea Fencibles, I believe, some years ago — and was stationed in Ramsgate. But presently he undertakes a very different duty, I understand. The defence of rogues and murderers.”

  “My brother is a steadfast friend, sir,” I returned tardy.

  “It has often been observed that one may know a man by the company he keeps.”

  I gestured around the Footes' close drawing-room. “Then you may learn in a single evening at Highfield House all you wish to know. My brother is perfectly acquainted with three-quarters of the party.”

  “His great friend Tom Seagrave, however, is not present. I understand the Captain was thrown into gaol this morning. It is a wonder he did not land there years since. Has your brother visited Gaoler's Alley?”

  “He has. The support of a friend is no less a duty when it is afforded little respect, Sir Francis.”

  “It must call into question Captain Austen's judgement, however,” Sir Francis observed. He had a broad smile on his supple mouth; he bent his broad shoulders attentively my way. Anyone in observing us would consider Sir Francis the most delightful of men, a true paragon of the Fashionable Set — and so attentive to the poor spinster with the ill-judged plumes. “I imagine the Admiralty will be forced to review their op
inion of Captain Austen. They will wish to revise their estimate of his probity.”

  “I have every confidence in my brother, sir — as I have in Captain Seagrave's innocence.”

  “I shall take that as the most ardent recommendation of each man's worth, ma'am.” He bowed, and made as if to turn away — but that I reached without hesitation for his sleeve.

  “Pray enlighten me, Sir Francis, regarding an Admiralty matter that does happen to fall within your purview. Why are French prisoners, though no less men than ourselves, housed in such miserable conditions that they die of want and disease?”

  My voice had risen with my passion for the subject; conversations all around me fell away and ceased. Sir Francis regarded me with one eyebrow quizzically raised. I drew breath, and blundered on.

  “Surely we would not wish for British soldiers and seamen to be treated so abominably! If we cannot secure expeditious exchanges in the dead of the winter months, then we must ensure that the sick and wounded are placed in the naval hospitals at Greenwich or Portsmouth.”

  “Are you fond of causes, Miss Austen?” he enquired with a curl of his lip.

  “Only when I discern injustice, Sir Francis.”

  He set down his wineglass with a care that suggested his temper was under tight rein. “I wonder that you dare to broach such a subject in the home of a naval officer. Those men you speak of so tenderly would as soon kill Captain Foote, and every other man in this house, as kiss your pretty hand.”

  Most of the naval set was utterly engrossed, now, by our spirited scene. I felt my cheeks grow warmer.

  “The men I have seen are in no condition to stand,” I replied evenly. “Indeed, there is one man at least who may not survive the night, he is in so wretched a condition; and he is a gentleman of some learning, too — a naval physician.”