“What are you reading?”
Unlike Richard’s calfskin tome, Gerri held a slim paperback, apparently inexpensively produced by a tourist board. “Visiting Winchester,” Elizabeth read. “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten we are to go there tomorrow . . .” She left the statement inconclusive. If Gerri didn’t feel like touring, they could change their plans.
“Yes. Thought I should bone up on the history of Jane’s time there. After all, we won’t have Muriel to guide us.” She bit her lip to stop her chin from trembling. “I was hoping something there might give a clue to that—” She caught her breath as if swallowing an expletive. “I wish we’d never heard of that letter. Muriel would still be alive . . .”
Fortunately Rosemary joined them at that moment, giving Gerri a chance to recover herself. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find anything about Edith Hubback being at Winchester. But I did find this interesting.” She held out the paper. “I don’t know if it will be of any use to you.”
Since Gerri was still dabbing at her eyes, Elizabeth took the sheet and thanked the librarian. “Oh, Gerri, look. This is interesting.”
“What?”
“It’s an extract from Mary Austen’s diary, written at Winchester. I always pictured Cassandra and Jane as being alone in Winchester during Jane’s last days.”
Richard looked up from his reading. “No, I’ve just reread that part of the memoir. Henry and James, their clergymen brothers, were in frequent attendance, and James’ wife Mary was there to help Cassandra with the nursing.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Mary? The former Mary Lloyd? To whom Martha might have passed her papers?”
Richard nodded. “But here’s an even more interesting thought. Edward Austen-Leigh, Mary’s son, records that some of Jane’s last words were ‘You have always been a kind sister to me, Mary.’”
He paused and Elizabeth picked up on the thought. “Oh, so Jane herself could have passed some notes directly to Mary!” She thought. “Is it possible Jane would have had anything like that at Winchester with her?”
“Unlikely, I should think. She had abandoned the manuscript of The Watsons years before. But it is known that earlier on, it was her habit to carry her writing case, with all her manuscripts in it, with her wherever she went. And she must have had her writing case with her at Winchester because she wrote letters on her better days. And a humorous poem the day before she died.”
Elizabeth turned to Rosemary, who was still hovering by the table. “I’d like to read more of Mary Austen’s journal. Do you have a copy of it here?”
To her surprise, Rosemary turned so pale Elizabeth thought she might faint. “Yes, but . . .”
Richard pulled a chair from the table and guided the librarian to sit.
“Thank you. Silly of me, I know. It’s just that. . .” She swallowed. “You see, it’s kept in the upstairs room where . . .”
“Oh.” Elizabeth understood. “Don’t even think of going back up there yet, Rosemary. I’ll go.”
She had taken a step toward the stairs when a wail from Gerri called her back. “Do you think that’s it? Could that be the book Muriel was looking for when . . .”
“Yes, I think it’s very possible.” If so, that made it all the more important to find the book. But would she be able to do so in the chaos of the room? Elizabeth wondered. Still, she must try. “Can we go in? Are the police done?”
Just then, Sylvia Martin entered the room with a bowl of fresh flowers for the table. “Those Scenes of Crime Officers were here most of the night.” She sniffed. “Of course, we don’t know it is a crime. And they made the most unholy mess— their dusting powder over every surface.”
“And you stayed up?” Elizabeth’s amazement was more for the fact that the manager looked so fresh and perfectly put together this morning than for the fact that she had stayed at her post all night.
“Certainly. It was my duty.” She placed the bouquet on the exact center of the table. “At least they said they are finished, so we can get on with our work.”
“Chloe and Anna—” Rosemary began. “Two of our volunteers. They’re up there. I asked them to see what they could do about putting things to rights. Edgar set the case back up and bolted it to the wall.” She started to rise. “I’m being silly. I can go.”
But Elizabeth was already nearly to the stairs. Behind her, she heard Richard distract the librarian with another question. She sped upward, blotting all pictures of yesterday’s horror from her mind.
The door to the room was open and she heard light female voices engaged in pleasant chatter. Chloe and Anna were busy at their work, with no awful spectres to hamper them. Elizabeth took a breath and stepped inside. She couldn’t prevent her eyes going first to the spot on the carpet where Muriel had lain, hoping against hope that no dark brown stain would meet her gaze.
Fortunately, it had been discreetly covered by a small scatter rug. The bookcase stood firm against the wall with a few books returned to the shelves. “Hullo, I’m Elizabeth. Rosemary said you could help me find a book.” She told them what she was looking for.
The young volunteers were eager to help. They introduced themselves and set about scanning the piles of books that had been stacked on the worktable. “Sorry, I don’t recall seeing The Journal of Mary Austen or anything of a similar title. But we’re just getting started,” the one with short brown hair who had introduced herself as Anna said in an apologetic tone.
Chloe nodded, making her long blond ponytail bounce. “Fortunately, none of the books were badly damaged. I guess that’s a terrible thing to be concerned about when that lady was killed, but some of these are really valuable, so it would be a shame.”
“Is there a catalog?” Elizabeth asked.
“Of course, on the monitor there.” Anna indicated a computer on the desk in the corner. “But nothing will be in order. And apparently there were books waiting to be cataloged that were knocked off the table, so the list wouldn’t be complete.”
Elizabeth went first to the computer. She didn’t find an entry under “Austen, Mary,” so she tried a keyword search. Several titles came up under “journal” and two under “diary,” but she didn’t think they were the listings she was looking for. Still . . .
She sighed and turned to examine the volumes on the shelves of the bookcase. Talk about a needle in a haystack. Maybe she should have let Rosemary come up herself. As Head Librarian she would have to face it sooner or later. Seeing the room returning to order would probably have been therapeutic. But Elizabeth was here now. She moved on to the next shelf, maybe a quarter filled with books. It was slow searching because the gold-leaf lettering on the spines of some of the volumes was worn and hard to read.
Elizabeth was at the end of the shelf when she stopped. It was only a thread. Caught in a splinter. It could easily have been there for months. Years, even. But the flame-orange color was so distinctive—exactly the shade of the scarf Gerri had worn yesterday.
She slipped the strand in her pocket and backed toward the door. “Chloe, Anna, thank you for your help. I think I’ll let it go for now.” She turned and walked in a daze down the hall toward the stairs. Her mind kept going over and over the sight of the bright orange bit of yarn, matching it in her mind’s eye to the bright length around Gerri’s neck when she flew in from the garden demanding to know why there was an ambulance in the drive.
Gerri said she had been in the grounds for hours and that she could prove it. Richard said Muriel had been warm when he felt for a pulse, so Gerri couldn’t have been with her. Could she?
“Oh, sorry! I wasn’t looking where . . .” Elizabeth had bumped into Rosemary so hard she almost knocked her down the stairs. “Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.”
“No, no. I’m fine.” But Rosemary was still gripping the rail tightly enough to make her knuckles white. “I was coming to tell you. So silly of me. My mind just isn’t functioning. We don’t have Mary Austen’s Daybook. I wish we did, but it’s in the Hampshire Record
Office. I could make arrangements for you to see it if you wish, but I found a copy of the page online.”
They descended the stairs, Rosemary talking about the fashion for Georgian ladies to carry pocketbooks which gave useful information such as the Christian calendar, fashion plates, the monarchs of England, “and space for a brief diary entry for each day,” she concluded as they returned to Richard, still reading at his table.
He looked up from the printout he had been studying. “Unfortunately, Mary made an art of being cryptic. ‘17 July 1817 Jane Austen was taken for death about ½ past 5 in the Evening 18 July 1817 Jane breathed her last ½ after four in the morn; only Cass and I were with her. Henry came, Austen & Ed came, the latter returned home.’”
Elizabeth sat beside him, “Heartbreakingly austere. But perhaps fitting for the author whose gift for understatement is one of her triumphs.”
Elizabeth looked round. Rosemary had returned to her desk on the far side of the room and Gerri had gone out. “Richard, I’ve got to show you something.” She put her hand in her pocket.
Before she could bring it out, though, Beth, Claire and Robert entered. “We just came to say good-bye,” Beth said.
“Oh, are you going?” Elizabeth fingered the thread. If there was anything to her suspicions, she would rather have them all here. Something about safety in numbers.
“Yes, we must,” Claire answered. “Robert and I should have been back yesterday.”
“Me too,” Beth added. “But you’re going to be in Godmersham next week, aren’t you? Perhaps we shall see you there. That’s next on my agenda too. And Paul said something about meeting me there before he left last night, so you may see him as well. I think he’s decided to carry on with the ‘quest’.”
“Good. I’m so glad,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes,” Beth agreed. “I’d like to help, but I must get these ‘On the Trail’ features filed first. Of course, I sent the story about Dr. Greystone’s death in yesterday.”
She held out her iPhone and pulled up the current edition of The Bath Chronicle. “I have to say, my editor was delighted. To have me on the scene, that is. Obviously not about Muriel. Ghouls that journalists can be, we aren’t that bad.” Elizabeth looked up from the tiny screen filled with a photo showing scattered books under a bookcase and an arm clad in bright purple protruding beneath an antique volume. “How did you get that picture?”
Beth blushed, but before she could answer, Arthur came in. “My doing, really,” he said. I know it was wrong, but—”
“No, Arthur, it was the right thing,” Beth turned back to Elizabeth and Richard. “Gerri was so upset. Arthur convinced her she would feel better if she saw the scene of the accident.”
“It seemed right at the time. Now I’m not so sure, but I thought anything she imagined would probably be worse than the reality,” he said.
“What could be worse than the reality of having Muriel dead?” They all turned at Gerri’s return. She took the phone from Elizabeth’s hand. “But yes, I think you were right, Arthur. Muriel with those beautiful old books . . . There is something almost poetic about it. Thank you.”
She handed the phone back to Beth. “Arthur distracted Constable Dawson. We were only in the room for seconds,” the reporter explained.
Elizabeth sighed. She felt as if she had been holding her breath ever since she found the thread, debating whether she should confront Gerri or ring Sergeant Townsend. The relief at having to do neither was enormous.
It was the tragic accident the police believed. She could have laughed out loud. Now she could concentrate on helping Richard with his thesis and simply enjoying the rest of their sabbatical.
Chapter 16
“OH, THIS IS SO Jane.” Elizabeth looked up from the book she had taken into the garden, where she and Richard sat in a sunny corner reading. After the others left, Arthur had very kindly taken Gerri off to treat her to a cream tea at Cassandra’s Cup, leaving Richard and Elizabeth in lovely peace. A bee buzzed in the flowerbed behind her and Elizabeth smiled. This was just as she had pictured their sabbatical would be.
Richard lowered the memoir he had brought out from the library. “What’s so Jane?”
“The advice she gives to her niece Anna about the novel she’s writing. ‘Your descriptions are often more minute than will be liked. You give too many particulars of right hand & left.’ Jane never over-describes, does she?”
“True. Always a light touch. What are you reading?”
She held it out for him to see Jane Austen and Her Art by Mary Lascelles. “I used it in a seminar years ago, but it definitely bears rereading. She talks about The Watsons in her chapter on Jane’s style, mentioning that Jane pruned her account of the Edwards’ house of its minute particulars.”
“Ah, that reminds me of something she wrote to Cassandra.” Richard laid aside his memoir and picked up a volume of the Letters he was keeping handy for reference. He turned a few pages, then smiled. “Yes, here it is. ‘Eliza: has given me a hat, and it is not only a pretty hat, but a pretty stile of hat too. It is something like Eliza’s only instead of being all straw, half of it is narrow purple ribbon. I flatter myself however that you can understand very little of it, from this description. Heaven forbid that I should ever offer such encouragement to Explanations, as to give a clear one on any occasion myself.’”
Elizabeth joined his amusement, then returned to the discussion of Jane’s editing of The Watsons. “Wouldn’t it be fascinating to study the original manuscript, as apparently Mary Lascelles did?” She returned to her book. “It seems it gives real insight into how Jane worked. Let me find the passage.” She scanned the page. “Yes, here it is. She’s talking about how Jane achieved such naturalness in her speech. Apparently Jane first simply wrote down what she wanted her characters to communicate, then gradually added the idiosyncrasies.”
“Wait a minute,” Richard interrupted. “Isn’t that exactly what Muriel proposed to do in her Analysing Jane proposal—look at the original manuscripts to see how Jane worked? Surely she would have known Mary Lascelles had already done it.”
“Muriel, being Muriel, probably thought she could do it better.” Elizabeth sighed. “I miss her.” After a moment, she picked up her book again. “Lascelles gives an example of the first chapter of The Watsons, where Emma and Elizabeth are driving together and Elizabeth is explaining the family ‘with the least possible help from the author’s own voice.’ She says that in the first draft, Elizabeth simply gives the facts, but ‘this plain account is afterwards so modified by a number of minute touches—above all by the substitution of little colloquialisms for formal speech—as to indicate the peculiar tone of the speaker.’”
“Ah, what a rare art that is,” Richard agreed. “How I would love to get a look at that original manuscript. I wonder where it is.”
“Perhaps Rosemary knows. We can ask her when we go in.” But Elizabeth was in no hurry to leave the idyllic garden setting. She set her book aside and watched a pair of yellow butterflies flit among the bright blossoms of the mixed border beside her seat. “How is your reading going?”
“Almost finished. It’s really heartbreaking that she didn’t finish The Watsons, I’m enjoying it so much—and only one page left.”
Richard returned to his reading and Elizabeth returned to her daydreaming until she was pulled from her reverie by a sharp exclamation from her companion. “What!” Richard jerked to the edge of his seat and held the book at arms’ length. “There it is. Why didn’t I know this? Oh, what a fool I’ve been.” He groaned and sank back against his bench.
“Richard! What are you on about? What’s the matter?”
He held the book out. “Read this.”
She turned to the last page in the Austen-Leigh Memoir of Jane Austen. ‘How Jane Austen had intended The Watsons to continue,’ she read. “Richard! You mean it’s here? What we’ve been looking for all this time?”
He merely nodded.
She read aloud, “�
�When the author’s sister, Cassandra, showed the manuscript of this work to some of her nieces, she also told them something of the intended story; for with this dear sister—though, I believe, with no one else—Jane seems to have talked freely of any work that she might have in hand. Mr. Watson was soon to die; and Emma to become dependent for a home on her narrow-minded sister-in-law and brother. She was to decline an offer of marriage from Lord Osborne, and much of the interest of the tale was to arise from Lady Osborne’s love for Mr. Howard, and his counter affection for Emma, whom he was finally to marry.’”
Elizabeth looked again at her husband. “So there never was any mystery?”
“The only mystery is why I didn’t already know that.”
“You couldn’t have been expected to. You hadn’t read the memoir for years and you only taught the major novels.” Then another thought struck her. “But why didn’t Muriel know? Why was she encouraging you on this wild goose chase? She was the great scholar. She must have known.”
Richard shook his head. “And this major book Albion Press was supposed to be bringing out—”
“With your great find as the centerpiece . . .”
“Maybe Paul Exeter discovered her sham and tipped the bookcase over on her in anger. Pity I wasn’t there to help him.” Richard jerked to his feet and stomped back toward the house.
Elizabeth watched him go. She shared his disappointment. And outrage. But more, she was puzzled. What possible reason could Muriel have had for encouraging him in that search if she knew there was nothing to find? Was it just a snare to get her publisher more interested? But surely she could see that in the end, that would come to nothing. And then she would look worse for failing to deliver.
Still puzzling, she rose to follow Richard inside, then noticed that he had left his books on the bench. She would return them to the library, then find Richard and make a pot of tea. She smiled. She still had a selection of luxury chocolate biscuits left over from the Box Hill picnic. That would raise his spirits.
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