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

by Stephanie Barron

  I AM UNCERTAIN WHAT I thought to find in looking through West’s drawings. The mounted rider who had caused his injury? That should not be possible—the horseman had presumably come upon him from behind as he was in the act of jumping the hedge, not while he was at rest, with charcoal in hand. I sought the sketchbook because I wished to know West’s mind—and being injured, it was more than ever barred to me. Were I in similar circumstances, I should hope my friends would think to consult my journal. West’s sketchbook was his daily record, his visual memory.

  The initial pages were unfamiliar: scenes of domestic life, of a young woman with her head bowed over a book. His late wife? Or his daughter? Someone else who was dear to him?

  These pictures gave way to studies of draperies on a classical figure; of a cuff and a wrist and the fingers of a male hand; of a Gypsy grouping beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak; the lineaments of a horse, and the remnants of a tavern meal scattered upon a table. There was a series of sketches in charcoal that must tighten my throat with wonder—a human forearm, with its inner structure of muscle and bone revealed. How had he seen this? Was it imagined, or real? Had he lifted the skin of a man or—I swallowed convulsively—a corpse?

  But I was taking too much time. My absence from the Saloon should be noted.

  I paged hurriedly through the various studies of William Chute, recently taken, until I reached the last sketch I had glimpsed—the one of Amy Gage and her son in the Angel Inn at Basingstoke.

  So vivid was the image of the woman—the page summoning her to life—that my eyes widened a little. I turned to the next drawing. This was the likeness of the boy alone—a soft and angelic portrait. How had West obtained it? He had written one word beneath: Jem. It was the sort of name Mrs. Gage might chuse, when a more genteel woman should insist upon James.

  I studied the boy’s features. I could not find John Gage in them; but I had known the Lieutenant so briefly, my memory of him had begun to fade.

  Next there was a sketch I recognised—of the Portsmouth Naval Yard. Masts strove for pride of place, while figures in uniform hurried by. West had gone to Portsmouth as well as to London, then. I considered this bit of intelligence. He had referred to a French spy, taken in the Bosun’s Whistle. He had sought some evidence of connexion between Amy Gage and the traitor. Had he found it?

  I turned eagerly to the next sketch—but it was a series of ledger entries rather than a picture. I peered closer, my eyes weak in the light cast by the book room fire. It appeared to be a baptismal register—with the usual names and dates. Lieutenant Gage and his wife, Amy, had baptised their son, James, on the sixteenth of March, 1813, in the Portsmouth Garrison Chapel.

  “They were truly married, then,” I murmured to myself. “Poor Mary Gambier.”

  I turned the page, and saw a copy of the Naval List for 1811. Admiral Lord Gambier had been assigned to the Atlantic Station; his first lieutenant, John Gage.

  The final leaf in Raphael West’s book was another copy of a ledger—this time, from St. Martin-in-the-Fields, London. I searched the list of names for one I might recognise.

  And naturally, I found it.

  John Gage, bachelor, resident of Greenwich, holding the King’s Commission in the Royal Navy, had married Aimée L’Anglois, spinster, late of Montreal, on the first of March, 1813.

  A mere fifteen days before the baptism of their child, who—judging by his present appearance—must even then have been a year and a half old.

  I stared at the sketchbook lying open in my hands. L’Anglois. And her Christian name spelled in the French stile, as befit a girl from Quebec.

  How had she come to be in England? How had she met John Gage? What was her relation to Benedict L’Anglois? Sister? Cousin? Cast-off wife?

  And was Lieutenant Gage’s murder in fact a personal matter—a crime of passion between two men, divided over a single woman?

  I shook my head in vexation.

  Then why steal the Treaty?

  Or kill Mary Gambier?

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs persuaded me to close the sketchbook and return it to Chute’s writing table. But I had only just achieved the book room doorway when William Chute appeared, Lord Bolton on his heels.

  “Miss Austen,” Chute said. “You remember his lordship.”

  “Perfectly.” I curtseyed.

  “He has come to talk over this sad affair of West’s. Have you looked into that sketchbook?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “Did you discover anything of interest?”

  “That it is most unfortunate you allowed Mr. L’Anglois to quit The Vyne.”

  “Hey?” Chute frowned. “You must explain. Pray take a chair, my lord. Sit down, Jane.”

  I sat. I opened the sketchbook to the critical pages. I allowed William Chute and his neighbour ample time to study them. I waited. The expressions on the two men’s countenances were puzzled.

  At last, Chute sat back in his chair and stared at me pugnaciously.

  “I deduce that the widowed Mrs. Gage is a connexion of Ben L’Anglois,” he said. “You will remember L’Anglois, Bolton—my secretary. He left us for Paris only this morning. He is to rejoin his patron, the Comte d’Artois, at the Bourbon court.”

  “I see,” Lord Bolton said.

  I doubted that he saw very much.

  “But his having the same family name as Mrs. Gage does not make him the Lieutenant’s murderer,” Chute continued. “If anything, it makes the two men family.”

  “Then why did Mr. L’Anglois not acknowledge as much, when they were seated here at the same dinner table?” I enquired. “Why fail to mention his family, once Lieutenant Gage lay dead?”

  “The same may be asked of the Lieutenant,” Chute countered. “He did not own a relationship.”

  “He may never have learnt your secretary’s true name,” I suggested. “Recollect, Mr. Chute, your wife was forever calling him Mr. Langles.”

  Chute grimaced.

  “Mr. West went to Portsmouth,” I continued, “because he knew a French spy had been taken there. He knew Amy Gage lived there. He was attempting to find some connexion between Portsmouth and this house—and he found it, sir, in Benedict L’Anglois.”

  “That is nowhere shewn in these pages,” Chute said stubbornly. “West discovered the record of the Gage marriage, and their child’s baptism; well and good. That says nothing to the point of murder.”

  “Unless Mrs. Gage was first Mr. L’Anglois’s wife,” I suggested. “In which case, her second marriage is bigamous.”

  Chute snorted. Lord Bolton looked intensely uncomfortable. I imagine that a lady as wanting in propriety as myself has rarely come in his lordship’s way.

  “You will observe that the marriage occurred only two weeks before the child was christened, in London,” I added.

  “But from the Naval List, we know that the Lieutenant was serving on the Atlantic Station for some time,” Chute said.

  “The usual port of call is Halifax, I believe,” Lord Bolton contributed. “Is it possible Gage met his wife while on shore in Canada?”

  “Most probable,” I agreed. “But why wait to marry, years after the child’s birth?”

  Chute lifted his shoulders. “Perhaps Gage was forced into it! Admiral Gambier is everywhere known as a pious and religious man. He should not scruple to enforce a marriage if he thought Gage had wronged the girl. She may have brought the Admiral her grievance. He may even have carried the bride to England, and seen the marriage performed.”

  “—then punished Lieutenant Gage by refusing to advance his rank,” I mused. “I thought the Lieutenant ought to have made Master or even Post Captain by this time. But if Admiral Gambier disapproved of John Gage’s conduct, the case becomes clearer.”

  “We shall not know for certain, without we question his widow.” Chute sighed.

  “Indeed. Tell me, Mr. Chute—do you know where Benedict L’Anglois grew up?” I asked.

  “In Canada,” he ad
mitted heavily. “I discovered that fact among his references. His mother is English, but he was educated in Paris.”

  “Hence his command of languages. He must have been invaluable to his Bourbon patron,” I said. “Or to whomever else paid him.”

  If Chute caught my meaning, he did not betray it. “The Comte d’Artois employed him for seven years,” he said. “Before that, he was in Paris. It must be many years since he crossed the Atlantic.”

  “Perhaps he married Amy too young,” I suggested. “Perhaps she thought him dead—and he allowed her to believe it so.”

  “But even if we grant that L’Anglois and Mrs. Gage are related,” Chute said, “wife, sister—that does not account for the murder of Mary Gambier. L’Anglois was absent from The Vyne when it occurred.”

  “I know. It is all wrong!” I admitted in frustration, “starting with the child.”

  “The child?”

  “Jem, I think Mr. West called him.”

  Chute turned to the sketch.

  “Recall the charades on Christmas night,” I persisted. “Natural son. The riddle that so offended Mary Gambier.”

  “Jem is certainly that.”

  “But why should the barb strike at her? And why must her aunt nearly faint?” I rose from my seat and began to pace restlessly before the fire. “Why should Mary be murdered, because Benedict L’Anglois is a cuckold? Why draw her figure as a crucified martyr? And God in Heaven, Mr. Chute—why steal the Ghent Treaty, if all this violence is due to an affair of the heart?”

  It was Lord Bolton who answered.

  “To make a personal murder appear to be a political one,” he said.

  “If personal,” I mused, “the grudge ought to have ended with John Gage’s death. But the violence continued. Miss Gambier is dead, and Mr. West lies insensible, after his accident yesterday. Mr. L’Anglois claimed to have witnessed the cramming of Mr. West’s horse. Is it so unlikely that he crammed Mr. West himself—with the intent of silencing him?”

  “Because of these sketches?” Chute demanded. “How could Ben know of them?”

  “Perhaps he was merely afraid of what Mr. West might suspect,” I said. “Mr. L’Anglois knew Mr. West had gone to London; he saw Mr. West return to The Vyne. The more a murderer’s suspicions swell, the more violence he commits.”

  “Ben must be found,” William Chute said brusquely. “We cannot go on accusing him of the most hideous deeds, without he is allowed to answer for them. It is not the way of Justice.”

  “I am of your opinion, Mr. Chute,” I said. “I should dearly love to hear Mr. L’Anglois explain himself. Send word to the principal Channel ports, by all means—and see if you may secure him.”

  27

  CHARACTERS

  Wednesday, 4th January 1815

  The Vyne, cont’d.

  “Jane,” Mary said indignantly, “it is not to be borne! Here I have gone to all the trouble of searching out my sister Martha’s receipt for Brandy Pudding”—Martha is by far the best cook of the three Lloyd sisters—“and Eliza refuses to entertain the notion of a flaming sweet! She is all for the fashion that is so much the rage in London.”

  “What is that, Mary?”

  “Twelfth Night cake.” She uttered the final word with loathing. “I do not know what we are come to, if one cannot eat pudding on the fifth of January.”

  “Given the number of place cards I am writing out,” Cassandra said in a harassed voice, “we ought to have several of both. Surely Mrs. Chute will offer more than one sweet?”

  “That is an excellent notion,” Mary replied. “I shall tell her it is my sisters’ opinion that cake alone shall not do. Eliza cannot stand firm against all the Austens.”

  She hurried off, triumphant for once in her association with our family.

  “We should be happy, I suppose, that she has so much energy.” My mother sighed. “It appears to thrive on opposition. Jane, dear, do you think James will consent to figure as the Lord of Misrule? For you know he does not in general approve of orgies.”

  “I hardly think a Children’s Ball may be called an orgy, Mamma.”

  “Perhaps I have got the word wrong. Only, on the last occasion when we discussed the matter, your brother was most decided in condemning every form of Twelfth Night masquerade as a … a …”

  “Saturnalia,” I supplied. “Appoint James-Edward Lord of Misrule, Mamma. Twelfth Night is an occasion for liberty—and putting sons in command of their fathers.”

  “I sometimes wonder what my dear husband would chuse to say about James,” my mother mourned. “He seems most averse to innocent enjoyment. As tho’ joy were the stepchild of Evil. For what else did Providence intend us, my dears, if not happiness?”

  “James would argue, suffering,” Cassandra supplied.

  “James has got it all wrong,” Mamma said firmly, and wrote James-Edward’s name under Lord of Misrule.

  Topsy-turvy is the only order of the day—or night, as it happens—on the Eve of the Epiphany. My brother is not far wrong in seeing Twelfth Night as a threat to decency. For women are expected to dress as men, and men, as women. Children hold court at the Children’s Ball, with their parents as toad-eating subjects. Servants are permitted to sauce their masters. Grooms may kiss the Lady of the Manor—provided they present a sprig of mistletoe.

  Caroline was bursting with ambition to figure as the Twelfth Night Queen. It was probable, however, that the honor should go to Miss Wiggett, as the daughter of the house, with our Caroline as Lady in Waiting. She must be content to tend to Miss Wiggett’s train, as I had informed her sternly. Caroline promised to be good, tho’ with a sulky air; I do hope she has not taken a lesson from her mother, in the speediest way to seize attention.

  “How many of our neighbours has Eliza invited?” my mother enquired.

  “Sixty-six.” Cassandra supplied. “And that does not include the children.”

  It would be a rout. A fearful squeeze, as they are wont to say in London. Eliza had determined that only the Stone Gallery would do for our ballroom; this ran along the west side of the house on the ground floor, just beyond the billiards room and directly below the portrait-filled Oak Gallery. It had previously figured as a lumber-room, and was characterised by ancient chests, decaying hobby-horses, quantities of broken furniture, and the occasional rusted garden implement. James and Thomas-Vere had been set to superintend the removal of this motley to the garrets; a team of four labourers were tasked with the heavy lifting.

  “If only Mr. West might be well enough by tomorrow to attend!”

  My mother threw out this hope in all innocence, but neither Cassandra nor I knew how to answer. We were, at present, somewhat at odds. Cassandra was determined to figure as a heroine. She had insisted upon being conveyed to Raphael West’s bedside, and proceeded to bathe his forehead with lavender water, until Mr. Price, the surgeon, banished her from the sickroom.

  Mr. Price declared the swelling at the rear of his patient’s head to be lessening, but his condition otherwise the same. He had forced a paregoric draught down West’s throat, and urged that pork jelly be administered by spoonfuls to keep up the patient’s strength. For this duty, Cassandra immediately volunteered; but Eliza would not hear of her sacrificing herself in this way. She had not come to The Vyne to minister to the sick. Mr. West was being nursed by Miss Wiggett’s old nanny, who, now that the governess held pride of place in The Vyne schoolroom, had nothing to do but darn socks and mend rents in Miss Wiggett’s gowns. Mr. Price reposed complete confidence in Sackett, as she was called, and thought that nothing could be more promising for Mr. West’s recovery.

  With this—and with the lesser rôle of inscribing place cards—Cassandra was forced to be content. It was as well she knew nothing of my conference with William Chute and Lord Bolton in the book room. The knowledge that I had examined Raphael West’s sketchbook without his consent should certainly have roused her indignation.

  IT WAS BUT AN hour before dinner by the time we had com
pleted our preparations. Thomas-Vere and I had laboured gamely over the composition of so many characters—some thirty-five couples, male and female. Only those we purposed to take ourselves—meaning The Vyne household—were assigned. I was Miss Candour, and must tell everyone frankly what I thought of them. Thomas-Vere was Sir Macaroni, a rôle he should fill to admiration (he intended to borrow a pair of Eliza’s heeled French slippers and mince about the Saloon). James was to be The Archbishop, so that he might look his disapproval at the proceedings without offending the guests; William Chute was the Gamekeeper, and might walk about with a fox’s mask or a pheasant in his pockets. Eliza was Mrs. Topnote, the celebrated Italian soprano, and must sing for her supper; my mother was Lady Lavish, as befit one who possessed such a handsome reticule. Cassandra we stiled as a Greek Muse, so that she might carry her sketchbook. Mary, we had by common accord, deigned Duchess Highinstep, so that her patronising airs might be taken for a game, and not in earnest.

  The majority of the characters, however, were intended to be proffered at random to guests as they arrived in the front hall. Thomas-Vere should have charge of the gentlemen, and I, the ladies. The children—some couple dozen were expected—should form the Queen’s Court. Miss Wiggett and James-Edward were to be Queen and King of Misrule—and little Caroline was to wear a splendid faerie-gown of tulle, as Lady in Waiting.

  She had spent the better part of the afternoon in the kitchens, watching Eliza’s French cook create the intricate decorations for the Twelfth Night cake. These were formed of sugar paste, pressed into boxwood moulds, the shapes then being used to form fanciful royal crowns. The confection itself was a light fruit-cake, made with yeast so that it should rise, and covered all over with a heavy paste icing. It was the most remarkable shade of pink; I suspected it had been coloured with cochineal. The last of the sugar paste crowns and scalloped edging had just been applied as we were mounting the stairs to dress for dinner; Caroline tripped up to the schoolroom behind Miss Wiggett in considerable excitement.