Jenny appearing at that moment with a large serving of brandy (“for medicinal purposes, the Cap'n having got wet through in all this cold”), my brother sighed his gratitude and could manage nothing more for several moments. At length, setting aside his empty glass, he cocked a quizzical eyebrow at me.
“What stealthy business carried you to the Quay this morning in any case, Jane? For I am not so much of a flat as to believe you were merely taking exercise when you espied the young Seagraves.”
I told him then every particle of intelligence I possessed regarding Nell Rivers, and her strange tale of Eustace Chessyre's end. My brother could no more account for the insertion of a woman — much less a woman in a baronet's coach — into the business than I. Rather than dwell upon the unaccountable, however, I moved quickly to the comprehensible: Sir Francis Farnham's perfidy regarding the prisoners of Wool House, and the manner in which I had been made to look a fool.
“It is active malevolence on Sir Francis's part,” I told Frank indignantly. “Sir Francis has determined to destroy those poor men by consigning them to that hulk. They should all of them be tucked up in warm bedchambers, while instead they lie piteously below decks.”
“Recollect, Jane, that most of those poor men, as you call them, have spent a lifetime in the hold of a ship,” observed my brother mildly. “They may feel more at home in a slung hammock than they should in the best featherbed you could provide!”
“I doubt they have often benefitted from the choice,” I retorted.
“And I must agree with Sir Francis,” Frank went on, “that our convalescent British sailors should not be exposed to gaol-fever. We are too often in want of good men, to lose them in saving the French. Though I am sorry for our friend the surgeon — who seemed a good enough sort of chap — I must say that Sir Francis shows excellent sense.”
“A prison hulk, Fly! Should you like to lie in one yourself, off Boulogne or Calais?”
“I might do a good deal worse,” he rejoined. “I know Captain Smallwood, who has command of that hulk, and I should vouch for his goodwill and integrity without hesitation. He shall not like his duty, but by God, he shall do it!”
“Hurrah for Captain Smallwood.” I sighed.
With a grunt, Frank pulled off his damp boots and tossed them against the fender. A faint frown was lodged above his eyes. “You do not suspect Sir Francis Farnham of having tainted the French surgeon's food, while inspecting Wool House? Surely that is carrying your grudge too far.”
“I do not harbour any grudge,” I said coldly. “I merely observed that the Marines were over-hasty in stating that no one but ourselves had entered the gaol. Plainly, others have. Sir Francis was certainly walking among the prisoners Thursday evening; and I saw him there again this morning. Any man with ill intent, and the good luck to know exactly which meat pasty LaForge would consume, might have done it.”
“Or any woman? — One who drives a coach emblazoned with the arms of a baronet?”
I thrust back my chair, ignoring his satiric look, and crossed to the fire.
“We ought to go to Percival Pethering with your intelligence,” Frank persisted. “Think what it may do for poor Tom! We know, in this, that Chessyre met with others before the end!”
“Nell Rivers's account, though provocative in the extreme, fails to prove Seagrave's innocence. The woman in the baronet's carriage might have dropped Eustace Chessyre anywhere, and left him prey to Seagrave's or another's violence,” I replied thoughtfully. “It should not be unusual for a man to employ a woman as his lure.”
Many ladies were but too willing to serve as the tool of a powerful man, and concerned themselves little with the purpose of their activity. Consider Phoebe Carruthers, for example, with her golden head bent to the words of her companion….
“Fly … Sir Francis Farnham is a baronet, is he not?”
My brother threw up his hands. “And I suppose he veiled himself as a woman, and spoke in a voice firm and low! Next you shall be suspecting Lady Templeton of having been in both Kent and Southampton at once.”
“That is hardly necessary,” I retorted. “Chessyre was killed on Wednesday night, and I observed Lady Templeton in Portsmouth on Thursday. She spoke a great deal of her decision to quit the place the following morning — but no one thought to inform me when she had arrived.9
“I should like a glimpse of Lady Templeton,” Frank said drily. “She must be a formidable person, and much used to arduous travel. After strangling Chessyre with a garrote Wednesday night, we must suppose she poisoned Monsieur LaForge on Thursday. That is quite a piece of road between Portsmouth and Southampton, to traverse three times in twenty-four hours! And what motive could she have for despatching either man?”
“We should have to assume that she wished Tom Seagrave to hang; that she formed a plot with his disgrace as her object; and that she was unwilling either for Chessyre to recant, or LaForge to destroy, the delicate subterfuge she had constructed.”
“But why?” Frank argued. “Because Tom married her niece against all opposition, fifteen years ago? It does not make sense, Jane.”
“Not yet,” I murmured, “but perhaps with time …”
“With time, you expect to learn that LaForge is a French nobleman in disguise, and Lady Templeton an agent of Buonaparte sworn to effect his ruin. Really, Jane! At times I must believe with my mother that you indulge too much in novels!”
I glared at him. “Have you a more apt solution, Frank? What did you learn from Seagrave this morning, in Gaoler's Alley?”
“Nothing to the purpose. Tom refused, without quarter, to discuss his activity Wednesday night; and he very nearly took off my head when I mentioned Phoebe Carruthers. All of Southampton was disposed to invade the lady's privacy, he said, because of her extreme beauty; she was an angel, she had suffered greatly, she deserved to be free of the wretched noose of gossip — et cetera, et cetera.”
“So he is in love with her.”
“Naturally. He managed, in every form of his refusal to discuss Mrs. Carruthers, to expose himself abominably. I only hope he does not behave thus before the magistrate.”
“Did you enquire about Tom's orders?”
“I did. In this, I am happy to report, he was more forthcoming.”
“Ah.” I turned away from the hearth with alacrity and regained my seat. “Excellent fellow! You have disdained all niceties and forms, you have abandoned constraint, and thrown yourself into the chase! Pray tell: Whither was Captain Seagrave bound on the fateful day he fell in with the Manon?”
Frank's grey eyes glinted. “It is most intriguing, I will confess — the stuff of novels, as I declared before! Seagrave did not wish to disclose the whole; but when I impressed upon him the gravity of his condition, he relented. It is plain he considers the orders as having nothing to do with his fate; but I cannot be so sanguine.”
“I am all agog.”
“The Stella Maris was ordered to stand off the coast of Lisbon, between Corunna and Ferrol — a treacherous bit of coastline, which the men all call the Groyne— and signal with a lantern every half-hour of the watch. between two and eight bells for three nights in succession.[22] If he received a lantern beam in return — the signal was prearranged, of course — he was to land a boat and collect a stranger, for passage to Portsmouth in the Stella. Seagrave was given no hint of the man's identity, but suspected he must be a foreign agent of the Crown; your fast frigates are often employed in such jiggery-pokery schemes.”
“And did he collect his supercargo?”
“He did not. After the affair of the Manon—the battle done, the French ship repaired and despatched to port under Chessyre's management — Seagrave proceeded to the position specified in his sailing orders.
He opened the sealed packet, and commenced to wait for the proper day and hour. Three successive nights he stood off the Groyne, signalling to no avail. Not an answering beam did he discover, and no stranger was hauled from the rocks. The duty done, Tom returned
to port — and found himself accused of murder.”
“Corunna might have been a subterfuge, I suppose.”
“Designed to lure Tom within striking distance of the Manon?” Frank enquired. “I thought the same. The idea is fantastic, however — particularly when one considers the possibility of the two ships missing each other in all that sea, the vagaries of wind and weather. No, Jane, it will not do.”
“By whom were the orders issued?”
“Admiral Hastings. And he can have no reason to wish Tom Seagrave ill — he and the Stella Marts have won Hastings a fortune! The Admiral should be a fool to hang the goose that laid all his golden eggs!”[23]
“And were the orders written by the Admiral?”
Frank hesitated. “They were certainly transcribed by Hastings's hand. Seagrave wondered whether Hastings had noted the position in error — whether the Stella had missed the agent's signal, from standing off the wrong part of the Lisbon coast. Such a mistake is possible, I suppose.”
“I do not understand you. You said that Hastings issued the orders!”
“He put them in Seagrave's hand, assuredly, and
issued them with all his authority as flag officer in command of the Channel squadron. But the orders themselves were sent by the Admiralty telegraph. There is nothing unusual in this. Frank was attempting to marshal patience; but at his words my mind and spirit were animated as if by a shaft of lightning.
“The telegraph! Of course! A convention of the Navy bent to peculiar purpose! Why did we not see it before?”
Frank looked bewildered, but I lacked sufficient time to explain. For at that very moment Phoebe Carruthers was announced.
Chapter 19
A Picture of Grief
28 February 1807, cont.
THE GOLDEN-HAIRED BEAUTY SWEPT INTO THE ROOM on Jenny's heels, a veil of black lace all but concealing her features. At the sight of it I nearly gasped aloud; but stifled the sound in time. It would not do to betray a dangerous knowledge. Nell Rivers's very life might depend upon my silence.
She lifted the veil from her face. Her eyes, I saw now, were the green of pond-weeds in April, the green of lichens and stone. Another woman might have encouraged the hue with silks of gold and amber; but Phoebe Carruthers was resolute in her adoption of dark grey. In this, at least, she was sensible of the conventions of mourning.
“Captain Austen,” she said with a curtsey, “it has been many years since we first formed an acquaintance. I daresay you do not remember me, but perhaps you will recall my late husband — Captain Hugh Carruthers.”
Frank put his heels together and bowed. “He was an excellent man, Mrs. Carruthers; all England must feel his loss. You do not know my sister, I think. Miss Austen, Mrs. Carruthers.”
I inclined my head. “Pray sit down. Jenny, be so good as to fetch some tea.”
Phoebe Carruthers glanced over her shoulder at the hard wooden chairs ranged against the wall; Frank drew one of them forward and placed it near the hearth. She perched on its edge with all the poise of a figure carved by Canova.
“I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen. I was very sorry not to speak with you last night, at the Footes'; and seized the first opportunity of paying a morning call.”
My surprise must have shown in my countenance; Her green eyes flickered, and fell to her lap. She commenced to draw off her gloves.
I said, “You were obliged to leave the party rather early. But it was a delightful evening, was it not?”
“Or should have been, but for the manners of one in the room.” Her cool eyes came up to meet my own. “I had not intended to appear at the Footes'. Much as I respect them, I am ill-suited to mix in company. I recently lost my son, as you may be aware. For my own part, I would fix quietly at home. But not all our obligations are matters of choice.”
I glanced at Frank. The lady was dispassionate; she was contained; but this frankness she affected among virtual strangers could not fail to pique our interest. It might be a cold-hearted campaign to win our allegiance, who should find cause to suspect her of complicity in murder — but that was absurd. Phoebe Carruthers could have no idea of Nell Rivers, or what the latter had seen. She had no reason to assume our mistrust. She must be a woman of considerable caution.
“Your son's death cannot but be deeply felt,” I said. “You have my sincere sympathy, Mrs. Carruthers.”
She bowed her beautiful head, and could not speak for several seconds. I thought I glimpsed the gleam of tears beneath her lashes; it was all admirably done.
“I heard of your warm support for the prisoners of Wool House, Miss Austen — of your habit of tending to the sick.”
Again, her tack in conversation surprised me; I inclined my head, but said nothing in my own cause.
“Tell me, are any of the Manon's crew imprisoned there?” she enquired.
“There were lately four,” I replied. My thoughts sprang to Etienne LaForge. If Sir Francis Farnham was somehow embroiled in Chessyre's scheme — if Phoebe Carruthers had lured the Lieutenant to his death — they would both be aware of the Frenchman's evidence at court-martial. Why, then, consult with me?
“One man died of gaol-fever, another is gravely ill, and all have been removed at Sir Francis Farnham's instruction to a prison hulk moored in Southampton Water,” Frank supplied.
“Removed? By Sir Francis?”
The careful composure of her features was entirely torn. Her countenance evidenced shock. She stood, and moved restlessly towards the fire; grasped the mantel an instant in a desire for support — or suppressed anger — then turned, and regained her seat. When her gaze fell upon us once more, her looks were under management. The serenity of her features was as a lake no stone could ripple.
“You were not aware of the amendment,” I said. “I had supposed that being acquainted with Sir Francis, you might have known all he intended.”
“Sir Francis shares nothing, Miss Austen,” she said carefully. “He prefers to dispose of people's lives rather than consult them. I had expressed a wish to speak with the men of the Manon, and he has deliberately thwarted my ambition.”
“I see.” She had betrayed none of this bitterness while in the gentleman's company.
Phoebe Carruthers leaned forward. “You have moved among them — the prisoners at Wool House. You have heard them talk among themselves. You speak French, I think?”
“A little.”
Her lips worked painfully, and then the words came. “Do any of the French say how my poor son died? Was the shot that killed him deliberately fired? Were they so heartless as to strike down a child — so that his body was dashed upon the decks? … Oh, God, when I think of his father!”
She put her head in her hands and wept with a brutal abandon. Frank went to her instantly, and placed his arm about her heaving shoulders; I snatched up a vinaigrette that stood on Mary's work table, and offered it in vain.
“Tea, ma'am,” said Jenny stoically from the doorway; and I motioned her towards the dining table. She set down the tray, poured out a cup, and proffered it wordlessly to Phoebe Carruthers.
The lady lifted her streaming face and accepted the tea gratefully. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I should not have so far forgot myself. It is just that this fresh blow is like a wound reopened, and curved more deeply than before. It was tragedy enough to lose Hugh — but Simon! He was such a bright and beautiful boy. Seagrave always said—”
Her words broke off; she sipped at her tea. The struggle for serenity was more obvious this time … and far less successful.
“I know nothing of how your son died,” I told her gently. “It was not a subject I felt authorised to raise in Wool House.”
“I quite understand. It was foolish of me to enquire.”
Frank cleared his throat. “Mrs. Carruthers — you did no wrong in sending your son to sea. That was what his father would have wished, I am sure.”
“My late husband would not have sent the boy aloft at such a time, in battl
e — he should have secured the child in his cabin. I must reproach myself for having entrusted the boy to Thomas Seagrave. I had not understood, at the time, what was vicious in Captain Seagrave's character. It was enough for me that he was Hugh's friend.”
“They were long acquainted, I think?” Frank said.
“From midshipmen. I cannot remember a time when I did not know Tom Seagrave — he was almost a brother to Hugh. I have loved him as one, I know; but all that must be past.”
She uttered the words without a blush. Whatever the naval set might suspect of Seagrave's attentions to Mrs. Carruthers, she betrayed not the slightest sensibility.
“You must not blame Seagrave,” Frank said earnestly. “His present troubles aside, I believe Tom to be as good a man, and as honourable in his profession, as ever lived. The misfortunes attendant upon his engagement with the Manon are too many to name; but do not forget get that your son spent nearly two years in Seagrave's keeping, and thrived.”
“I know it.” She summoned that ghostly smile I had glimpsed on her lips the previous evening. “How Simon loved that ship! He was always his father's child— haunting the seawalls and the quays, intent upon every anchorage. I could no more deny him a berth than I could cease to breathe. And I did regard Tom Seagrave — before I learned of his capacity for murder.”
She shuddered.
Was this another calculated ploy? A deliberate subterfuge, from a lady who had enticed a man to his death?
“We had a glimpse of you on Wednesday night,” I said carelessly, as though to change the tenor of the conversation. “In French Street, at the theatre. How did you like Mrs. Jordan? “
“Exceedingly,” she replied. “Her antics spared me the necessity of conversation. Sir Francis had only just descended upon the town, and was most pressing in his invitation — I could not bear to entertain him in Bugle Street, where I lodge, and thus resorted to the theatre.”
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