Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas: Being a Jane Austen Mystery

by Stephanie Barron

  In the distance I caught the faint sound of baying. The pack was in full throat; the fox must have broken. Even now the bright stream of horses and riders, vivid spots of colour in the landscape, must be coursing after the Master.

  “I should describe Miss Gambier in much the same terms,” I said. “Her character appeared as a puzzle. She was often on her knees in The Vyne Chapel—but given what occurred there last week, this is hardly wonderful.”

  “Mrs. Austen suggested there was an attachment between Miss Gambier and the messenger who was killed.”

  “So it appeared,” I said carefully. “Can you tell me, Mrs. Portal, whether there was any mystery surrounding Mary Gambier, when you met her in Bath? A whisper of scandal, perhaps, or a rumour that persuaded her to avoid Society?”

  She shook her head. “If Mary suffered from idle talk, it was not on her own account.”

  “Her brother’s, perhaps?”

  “Edward!” Lucy smiled indulgently, as one who has known a man first as a troublesome boy. “He was at Oxford that year, I believe—and must have persecuted only his tutors. No, Miss Austen, I refer to Lady Gambier. There are many in Bath who refuse to receive her.”

  My footsteps slowed. “She is a difficult personality, to be sure. But … to cut her dead? Whatever for?”

  Lucy Portal might have answered me. But at that moment, the clatter of a horse, galloping flat-out, assailed our ears. We turned as one and gazed up the lane towards the coverts. I did not recognise the rider at first, but then Lucy clutched at my arm.

  “Your nephew, Miss Austen,” she said. “And in a tearing hurry. Whatever can be wrong?”

  I think we both expected James-Edward to pull up his horse and speak to us as he approached, but to our surprize he did neither. He was clinging to Trooper’s neck like a monkey, and if I had not known what an excellent rider he was, I should have suspected the horse of running away with him. His mouth was set in a grim line as he swept past, and his gaze did not swerve from his object. Indeed, it is probable that Lucy and I were invisible to him.

  Without a word we gathered our skirts and hastened back the way we had come. We were in time to meet James-Edward at the door of the Swan, already remounting his horse.

  “What is it?” I cried, as he turned Trooper impatiently back towards the open lane. In the stableyard behind, an ostler was harnessing a team to a cart.

  “An accident,” James-Edward said, his eyes on the cart.

  I realised with foreboding it was meant to follow him—and take up a body.

  “Who?” I demanded.

  “Mr. West. He was thrown from his mount, and took a nasty knock on the head.”

  “His neck is not broken?” Lucy Portal faltered. Of all injuries on the hunting field, it must be the most dreaded.

  “Or his back?” I said.

  James-Edward lifted his shoulders. “Who can say? He is insensible. Papa could not rouse him. Mr. Chute sent me back for the surgeon—but he is attending a birth at Monk Sherborne, I’m told. We shall bring Mr. West back here in the cart.”

  “Better than lying in a field,” Lucy said.

  I attempted to nod. A cold desolation spread through me.

  MRS. GIGEON, THE PUBLICAN’S wife, ordered a fire lit in her best bedchamber and set cans of water to heat on the kitchen hearth. A stable lad was sent on horseback to Monk Sherborne in search of the surgeon—a man named Price—and an air of urgency overtook the Swan. For those of us who were acquainted with Raphael West, and forced to wait in idle suspense, the interval before the cart’s return was an unhappy one. The folk from Deane might gossip and smile, while those who had been intimate at The Vyne must collect in silence by the parlour window.

  “An accident?” Cassandra muttered. “Oh, Jane—”

  I clasped her fingers in my own. “I cannot help but think of Madam Lefroy.”

  Ben’s mother, Anne Lefroy, and my own dear friend—who died from a similar fall from her horse nearly ten years ago.

  “I daresay it is another of these murders,” my mother supplied philosophically, as tho’ she referred to comets coursing unexpectedly across the night sky. “It is too much to believe that Providence would strike from caprice, when the Chutes have already borne so much!”

  “Do we know how the fall occurred?” Cassandra asked.

  Mary might be of importance, here. “James-Edward says that Mr. West was crammed before a fence, and thrown.”

  “Crammed?” I repeated. “By whom?”

  “James-Edward did not say. I suppose he did not notice. It may have been more than one rider, perhaps.”

  Cramming was the bane of good horsemen—when less experienced hunters, or wilder mounts, forced their way too close to one preparing to leap over an obstacle. It might well have been a chance encounter, such as should occur on any hunting field.

  But my heart argued it was not.

  He had warned me to guard myself. He had feared that I would be an object of violence. When in fact …

  “If only he had stayed in London,” I muttered.

  “Girls,” my mother cried, “James is come!”

  I leaned over her shoulder—Mamma is shorter than I by several inches—and stared through the frost-rimed windowpane. My brother led a sort of cortège, with William Chute at his side. Behind them came the Swan’s cart, driven by its chief ostler, and bearing within—God knows what tragic figure. As I watched, James pulled up Aristo and dismounted, handing the reins to a stable lad.

  We hastened as one to the door. James had jumped into the cart and was lifting Raphael West’s shoulders. Despite myself, I winced; if the spine should be damaged—

  William Chute was at his feet, and had grasped West’s ankles. The stable lad hurried to support the midsection, and slowly—slowly—our friend was eased from the bed of his conveyance.

  I waited until the men should have turned with their burden, to face the Swan’s front door—saw his white face and shuttered eyes, the way his head lolled helplessly on one shoulder—and felt ill. I stepped backwards, into the hall. Cassandra started forward.

  She knew nothing, of course, of his true employment—nothing of the restless spirit that urged him to direct his wit against the enemies of the Crown. Nothing of the Secret Funds, or his constant exposure to danger. She knew only the sensitive hands that captured the world on paper as surely and swiftly as an angel, and the probing gaze that saw into one’s very soul.

  William Chute eased his burden into the Swan’s foyer. The other two men followed him across the threshold. I could not help but recall a similar group of bearers who had laboured under my eye, carrying John Gage’s body back into The Vyne. The two scenes possessed a fearful symmetry.

  “How very ill he looks, to be sure,” Mary whispered audibly as Raphael West was carried above-stairs. “They say that three times is the charm, poor fellow. I suspect he shall not last out the night.”

  THE TENTH DAY

  25

  HOLDING VIGIL

  Tuesday, 3rd January 1815

  Steventon Parsonage

  I did not sleep at all well last night. Upon our return at dusk to Steventon in John Portal’s carriage, I had believed myself utterly drained from the emotions of the day; so exhausted that a little soup was all I could stomach, before bidding my equally enervated companions adieux, and hastening to my bedchamber.

  But sleep would not come to ease my troubled mind. Scenes of the previous hours would intrude, and with them the speculation so natural to one anxious for Raphael West’s survival. I was constantly on the twitch for a knock at the door, during the late hours of night and the early hours of this morning—for James had remained at Sherborne St. John, in the event that final absolution was requested.

  He was still insensible when carried up to the Swan’s bedchamber. William Chute and my brother removed his clothes and dressed his inert form in one of Gigeon’s nightshirts. He was kept warm, and a little brandy placed between his lips, and hartshorn tried under his nostrils
. He did not stir, even when the contusion at the rear of his head was bathed with warm water, and a poultice applied. The skin had not been broken, and there was no blood to be seen, but the reports we received in the side parlour were guarded.

  “He did ought to have come around by now,” Mrs. Gigeon observed when an hour had passed, “unless it be that that there skull is cracked. My sister knew a man once, knocked down in the street in Lunnon, who stood up—got into his carriage—drove back to his grand house—and died in his Saloon a bit later. There’s no telling, with blows to the head.”

  It was full three o’clock before the surgeon arrived from his troublesome labour, and tho’ our relief at his appearance was immense, he did little more than palpate the scalp. Mr. Price opened West’s eyes, which appeared to see nothing; listened to his heart; and felt for a pulse—which he proclaimed to be tumultuous. He then bled him a pint, and ordered that he should be called, no matter what the hour, if there was any change.

  James told us all this when he came down to bid us farewell. Mr. and Mrs. Portal, tho’ considerably moved by our friend’s fate, could not entirely share our anxiety—Raphael West being a stranger to them. They were naturally eager to be getting home to their children.

  “Go with them, Mary,” James ordered. “Chute has sent word to The Vyne. He and I shall remain, to do all that body or soul may require.”

  With this we were forced to be content.

  It was a silent and dull ten miles, back to Ashe Park. I stirred myself only once, to enquire of John Portal whether he had witnessed the accident. He had not. He had jumped the hedge well before Mr. West, and had turned back with Chute when another hunter blew his horn. Considerable confusion then reigned. He had heard something of cramming. He considered it impossible to know who was responsible.

  Only little Caroline chattered the remainder of our journey to the parsonage. Jemima, it seemed, had been a great success in the Portal nursery.

  THERE CAME NO SUMMONS, no word in the night. I must have slept at last, for the morning light at the window awakened me. I lay there an instant, conscious of a great oppression looming at the edge of my mind. And then I remembered. Did no news mean good news—or bad? Was West unchanged—or beyond all care?

  I rose from the bed and donned my dressing gown.

  The addition to Jemima’s wardrobe today was a diminutive Paisley shawl, cut from a real one that my brother Frank had brought as a present from India, years ago. Appropriate for a winter day when Caroline and her doll should be fettered within doors, pacing the floors as women so often must—or hemmed in by sopha cushions, with only books and needlework to hand. It should never have been appropriate for me to remain behind with James at the Swan, but I was certain I should waste every hour of this unfortunate day, in waiting for intelligence of the patient.

  Cook was bustling about the kitchen, tho’ no sign of her mistress could be found. My mother, like Cassandra, was still abed. I fetched my own teacups and pot and carried them on a tray back upstairs to wake Cassandra. We deserved a little Vyne indolence to comfort us this morning.

  JAMES APPEARED, LOOKING QUITE weary, at a few minutes past eleven o’clock. He came in through the rear of the house, from the stables, so we did not know immediately that he was home. I had been endeavouring to work at the negligible pages of my latest story—my frivolous madcap Emma is about to have her nose put out of joint by a proposal from the odious Mr. Elton—and found the effort ill-advised. When one’s mind is darting with anxiety, it must be impossible to string three coherent words together. Add to this the vexation of a poorly-mended pen, which drove me out of the parlour in search of a knife. In the passage I encountered James, entering his book room.

  I stopped short. “What news?”

  “There has been no change.”

  “He is still insensible?”

  James nodded listlessly. “Price believes the case is not hopeless—but it shall be as God wills. Chute intends to remove him tomorrow to The Vyne.”

  “His unfortunate father has been informed?”

  “I believe Chute intended to despatch an Express to London.”

  I clasped my shaking hands and raised them to my lips. “I shall tell Cassandra.”

  “Jane—”

  “Yes?”

  “We are still bidden to The Vyne tomorrow for this foolish Children’s Ball. Eliza means to go forward, Chute says, as half the county has been invited. Perhaps by then West will have come to his senses. You need not entirely despair.”

  I nodded, unable to speak. Kindness from James was altogether unexpected. We were not in the habit of offering each other sympathy.

  I left him to the solitude of his book room, and went to find my sister. How many hours remained, before I might once more enter The Vyne, and look with my own eyes on one who might, even then, be gone?

  THE ELEVENTH DAY

  26

  SKETCHING THE TRUTH

  Wednesday, 4th January 1815

  The Vyne

  The Yule log, to Caroline’s delight, was still burning in the Staircase Hall—tho’ considerably reduced in girth and grandeur. She took Jemima to it immediately, so that the doll should not suffer a chill in removing her wraps. Today Jemima was arrayed in a pale green spencer over a gown of Irish linen, worked with green crewels—run up from scraps Cassandra had kept from one of her own gowns, years ago. I had searched half of London for those lengths of linen, I recalled; and now the dress was fit only for the rag bag. Caroline, however, reveled in the fanciful crewels nearly as much as Cassandra once had.

  We collected near the fire, awaiting Eliza. The taciturn Roark had gone to inform her of our arrival, while footmen carried our things to our familiar bedchambers. Our party was in general subdued, with the exception of Mary—who seemed conscious only of the promised Children’s Ball, and her own daring in defying her husband’s wish not to attend it.

  “Ah, the Austens!” Eliza cried, advancing upon us with her hands outstretched. “How happy I am in my good friends—and how excessively grateful that you have come, to lighten a little the air of gloom in this house!”

  “How does Mr. West go on?” my mother asked immediately, as she removed her gloves and bonnet.

  “He is unchanged.” The twinkle of welcome fled from Eliza’s countenance. “Mr. Price has been to see him, and has bled him again. There is no fever, and no sinking of the pulse—but no sign of consciousness, either.”

  “His poor father,” my mother murmured.

  “William has had a reply to his Express to London. The old gentleman is much grieved—this news, coming hard on the heels of the death of his beloved wife, is dreadful! He is far too frail, however, to make the journey into Hampshire at this time of year. We are aware that Mr. West also possesses a daughter—but we do not know her married name! It is most vexatious—”

  “Indeed,” Mary interjected, “for if Mr. West dies, you will be forced to bear all the expence of conveying his corpse to London. I wonder that his father did not consider of it!”

  This observation had the power to strike us all dumb. Thankfully, Eliza suggested we seek refreshment in the Saloon, and we hastened to avail ourselves of William Chute’s Madeira and claret.

  The Master of The Vyne Hunt looked tired almost beyond recognition. In my preoccupation with his more immediate troubles, I had ceased to consider the weight of anxiety caused by the continued loss of the missing Treaty, as well as the unexplained murders. I expressed my concern for his health, but Chute brushed this aside affably enough.

  “I cannot mend what I cannot help,” he observed. “We shall procure another copy of the signed Treaty. Castlereagh is to return to London in February, you know—the Duke of Wellington is to take his place in Vienna—and my burdens in Parliament will be considerably eased. It is just as well, now that Ben has left me.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Mr. L’Anglois,” Chute said. “He has reconsidered of his decision to remain in England.”


  I glanced about the Saloon, and indeed, there was no sign of the secretary.

  “A letter arrived from Paris the very morning of our Hunt,” Chute continued. “The Comte d’Artois was most pressing in his desire for Ben to join him—and I cannot blame the fellow for wanting to be away. I suspect he had a tendre for Miss Gambier, you know. His spirits have been very low since her death. He took it hard.”

  I recollected L’Anglois’s white face and stricken looks as we discovered the body lying by John Gage’s bier. His effort to engage Miss Gambier with sheet music from France. I had suspected an attachment. With the lady in her grave, there could be nothing more for him in Hampshire—perhaps nothing more in England. My own brother Charles had found balm for suffering, in flight.

  “He waited only to see West safely returned to The Vyne,” Chute concluded, “before he bid us farewell this morning. Such a competent fellow. It shall be long and long before I find another like him.”

  “What is your opinion of Mr. West?” I asked in a lowered tone. “Has no one said how the accident on the hunting field occurred?”

  Chute shook his head. “L’Anglois saw West’s horse crammed—but was too unfamiliar with the neighbourhood to recognise the rider. West had stopped but a few moments before to sketch the scene, I believe, and most of the field had gone on before him. Certainly no one has admitted to the fault.”

  “He had his sketchbook with him?” I exclaimed. “Where is it now?”

  “In his room.” Chute furrowed his brows. “Should you like to see it, Miss Jane?”

  “Very much,” I replied.

  MY HOST ENDEARED HIMSELF further by keeping his intentions from the rest of our party. He moved among his guests with frank good humour, chaffing James-Edward on his excellent seat and admiring Jemima’s costume. He complimented Mary on her good looks, and brought a blush to my mother’s countenance by saluting her cheek. On the ostensible errand of replenishing our glasses, he exited the Saloon, and not ten minutes later bent to inform me, in a subdued whisper, that the sketchbook was now in his book room. I might be private there. From all this I concluded that William Chute regarded me in some wise as a co-conspirator, and thought discretion our friend.