Secrets in the Snow

by Michaela MacColl

  “But I thought he was guillotined,” Tom said, confused.

  “We all did. Apparently, he managed to keep his head,” Jane confirmed. “He’s been in hiding.” She reached down and lifted the blanket. Tom looked green. Henry was made of sterner stuff, but his shock was plain to see.

  “That is Jean,” Henry said. Jane dropped the blanket. Henry’s face was impassive. Jane could guess, however, in what turmoil his thoughts must be. He had spent a summer with the Comte in France a few years ago and had thought of him as a friend. He had mourned when the Comte was killed. And yet now he coveted the Comte’s wife.

  “How did he escape the guillotine?” Tom asked.

  “More importantly, did Eliza know he was still alive?” Henry’s voice was full of hurt. Jane didn’t blame him. Eliza had not been acting like a woman who knew her husband was living.

  “She only found out at the ball,” she said.

  “So last night . . .”

  “She had decided to break with him. I’m sure she would have told you soon.” Jane placed her hand on his arm for comfort. She couldn’t help but notice that Henry’s coat was sopping wet, and the smell of damp wool filled her nose. But the day was clear and sunny. He had been in his shirtsleeves the night before in the gazebo. When did he wear his coat in the snow?

  Her heart constricted, and it hurt to breathe.

  Not Henry.

  But he was so in love with Eliza. What wouldn’t he have done to keep her? And that handkerchief! Did it place him at the church last night? She couldn’t take another step without finding out for sure.

  “Henry, do you have her handkerchief?” She didn’t need to specify whose handkerchief she meant.

  “From last night? Of course I do,” he said. His hand went to his waist. “Why do you ask?”

  Tom, suddenly alert, was watching Jane’s face with speculation. “If I had to guess, Henry old boy, your sister found a similar handkerchief at the scene and wants to make sure you didn’t drop it.”

  Henry straightened up and took a step back. “Jane, is that true? You think I would have done this?”

  “Just show me the handkerchief.”

  Henry pressed his lips into a thin line as he reached inside his coat and pulled out the lacy square. Holding it out to her, he said, “Here.”

  Just to be sure, she had to ask him. “Henry, why is your coat wet?”

  Tom turned away from the scene before him. A gentleman should avoid watching another gentleman be humiliated by his younger sister.

  “I went out last night to get some air,” Henry said. “I was only out for ten minutes or so. Tom, do you remember? After my brother won that big hand, after the ladies went to bed. We’d had too much port, and I went outside to clear my head. The snow was coming down hard.” He glared at his sister. “Are you satisfied now?”

  Jane glanced at Tom, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Henry, I’m sorry, but you see I had to ask,” Jane said. “The Comte stood between you and your heart’s desire. I needed to be sure that no one could say you killed him.”

  “Based on a handkerchief and a kiss in the garden?” Henry asked scornfully.

  Tom, his eyes fixed on Jane’s face, said, “There’s something else, isn’t there.”

  “Look at the knife,” Jane said.

  Tom and Henry squatted down to look more closely at the Comte’s body.

  “It’s an ordinary kitchen knife,” Tom said.

  Henry caught his breath. “No. It’s not.”

  “It’s Cook’s favorite,” Jane said. “The weapon used to kill the Comte came from our house.”

  “I’m sure there is a logical explanation,” Tom said, trying to be reassuring. “The magistrate will get to the bottom of this.”

  Jane and Henry exchanged anxious looks. “Our magistrate is Mr. Bigg-Wither,” Jane said slowly. “He’ll never travel in the snow.”

  “That idiot from the dance?” Tom asked. “He’ll be of no help at all. What about a constable? There must be one in Deane.”

  “Don’t be so quick to call in the law, Tom,” Henry cautioned, getting to his feet. “The situation is more complicated than you know.”

  Jane nodded, knowing that Henry was thinking about the cloud of suspicion surrounding Eliza.

  “The law is the law,” Tom said. “If you find a body, you summon the magistrate or a constable as soon as you can.”

  “But this man has been dead for over a year,” Henry said.

  “Very clever, Henry,” Tom said. “But a body is still a body.”

  “A woman’s reputation is at stake,” Henry said. “Once the authorities are involved, we have no discretion.”

  “The Comtesse?” Tom asked. “Who could attach any blame to her? She thought her husband was dead.”

  “But she is already suspect,” Jane said slowly. “Our brother Edward was charged by the War Office to watch her for any treasonous activities. They look for sedition everywhere, and they will never believe that she didn’t know the truth. And by extension, the reputation of all the Austens will be tarnished.”

  “Surely you exaggerate?” Tom said.

  “The country is at war, Tom,” Henry said. “We dare not make this public without talking to the War Office.”

  A stubborn expression on his face, Tom shook his head. “We have no choice. I’m to be a member of the bar. Regardless of the consequences, you must follow the rules.”

  “Please help us,” Jane entreated. She rather liked that the insouciant Tom had some principles, but those principles were a little awkward at the moment. “What exactly does the law say we are obligated to do?”

  Tom looked puzzled by the question. “You must report a crime within a reasonable amount of time.”

  “Ah.” Jane beamed. “There’s been a deep snowfall. It’s difficult to get word to anyone. So if we delayed reporting it for say, forty-eight hours, no one could fault us.”

  “How does a delay help you?” Tom asked.

  “If we have a little time, perhaps we can solve this crime ourselves,” she answered, feeling suddenly more optimistic. “There need not be any publicity if the magistrate already knows who did it.”

  “I cannot be a party to the obstruction of justice.” Tom’s eyes narrowed as he considered. Finally he said, “But on the other hand, the roads are terrible. It might well be that they won’t be clear until tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” Jane said.

  “But you must tell the magistrate everything. I’ll insist on that. I have my career to think of.”

  “Agreed!” Jane said, her voice quickening with excitement.

  “Not only is the victim related to you and the scene of the crime intimately connected with your family, but the weapon comes from the Austen kitchen.” Tom slowly stood. “I cannot help but wonder how much of this caution is because the crime strikes so close to home.”

  Henry was trying to catch Jane’s eye. He clearly regretted his impulsive invitation for Tom to join them. She knew her brother was thinking the same thing she was: What if someone they cared about was the killer? Would Tom be on their side—or the side of justice?

  Jane reached out and took Tom’s hand. “I swear to you that I have no direct knowledge of who killed the Comte de Feuillide.”

  “Nor do I,” Henry vowed.

  Tom held onto Jane’s hand a few moments longer than were needed. “I trust you.”

  “Thank you. But in the meantime, we can’t leave this poor man here,” Jane said. “It’s not dignified.” Her eyes darted to the trees on the edge of the clearing. “There are crows.” She had to clear her throat.

  Tom and Henry grimaced.

  “We’ll have to hide the body for now,” Henry said practically.

  “We can take him into the vestry,” Jane said. “It’s not heated and it is very private.”

  “You can’t hide the body forever,” Tom warned.

  “We have one day,” Jane said. “Anyway, that’s when James wil
l prepare for his sermon tomorrow. He’s not very observant, but even he would notice a body in the vestry.”

  As they lifted the Comte’s body, Jane could see the perfect shape of his form left in the snow. To her surprise, there was a large pool of frozen blood where his back had lain.

  “Wait!” she called after Tom and Henry. “Let me see his back.”

  “Jane, he’s heavy,” her brother grunted.

  “Can’t it wait until we’re inside?” Tom asked.

  “It will only take a moment,” Jane promised.

  Henry and Tom twisted the body. “Look!” she said, pointing to a spot just beneath the Comte’s ribs. “He was stabbed in the back twice. These two cuts are shallower but just as deadly. They must have struck the heart.”

  “Who would stab him in the back and then the front?” Henry asked.

  “Maybe he was already dead,” Tom suggested.

  “What do you mean?” Jane asked.

  “There’s hardly any blood from the knife wound in his chest, yet an inordinate quantity seems to have drained from his back. Maybe he was already dead when he was stabbed in the chest?”

  “Maybe the knife from our kitchen wasn’t the one that killed him,” Jane said excitedly.

  “Then why is it here?” Henry asked. “Just to cast suspicion on our house?”

  “If that was the reason, the knife fulfilled its purpose admirably,” Jane said. “I even suspected you, dear Henry.”

  Jane ran ahead of them to open the vestry door. Her mind was full of questions. Chief among them was why would anyone stab a dead man? And did the killer mean to incriminate her own family?

  CHAPTER 18

  “Do not consider me now as an elegant female

  intending to plague you, but as a rational

  creature speaking the truth from her heart.”

  PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  After the three of them deposited the body on a bench in the dark vestry, Jane adjusted the blanket to hide the Comte’s terrible face.

  Tom shivered. “It feels colder in here than it does outside,” he said.

  “There’s no sunlight in here,” Jane said.

  “Let me take you home, Jane,” Tom said. “Whether you admit it or not, this has been a shock for you.”

  “Yes, sister, stop being so brave,” Henry said.

  Hugging herself to keep warm, Jane shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “There are too many unanswered questions.” As she stared down at the body, a glint of gold caught her eye. “What is that?” She started to reach for it, but Tom pulled her away.

  “I’ll do it,” Henry said. Grimacing, he pried open the Comte’s fingers. Jane averted her eyes. “It’s a cross,” he said. “He was Catholic; he must have clutched it for comfort as he was dying.”

  Tom frowned; Jane agreed it was puzzling. “If he was stabbed in the back,” Jane mused, “would he have had time to take his necklace off and pray?”

  “That wound from the back was what killed him,” Tom agreed. “It must have pierced his heart.”

  “How would you know?” Jane asked.

  “I wasn’t always a lawyer. I grew up on a farm,” he said simply. “I’ve butchered my share of animals.”

  “Perhaps he tore it off the killer’s neck,” Jane said.

  “Give it to me,” Jane said, holding out her hand to Henry. She held it up to the tiny window of leaded glass. One of the links of the chain was broken. Dangling from the chain was a lovely ornate gold cross. “This looks familiar. I’ll ask Eliza if she recognizes it.”

  “You don’t think . . .” Henry couldn’t finish his sentence.

  “Eliza’s not Catholic, and I’ve never seen her wear this. But she will know if it was the Comte’s.” A stray recollection teased the corner of her mind until she remembered. “I think I’ve seen something like it around the neck of her maid, Marie.”

  “Her maid?” Tom asked. “Why would she kill the Comte?”

  “Her husband was the Comte’s valet,” Jane explained.

  “The valet who was supposed to have died with the Comte?” Henry asked.

  “Will someone please tell me how is it that the Comte de Feuillide survived the guillotine?” Tom asked crossly.

  Jane glanced at the body. “Let’s go outside, where the air is not tainted with death.”

  When they reached the door, Jane said, “Henry, we have to lock the church.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Give me the key.”

  “I don’t have it.” She glanced back toward the vestry. “I think the Comte had it last.”

  “Then that’s where it will stay,” Henry said. “I’m not searching the pockets of a corpse.”

  “We cannot leave the church open to anyone who might pass by,” Jane argued. “We just left a body there!”

  With a sigh, Tom said, “You two are worse than my little brothers and sisters! I’ll look.” A few minutes later, a pale-faced Tom rejoined them and silently gave Jane the key. She carefully locked the door and stowed the key away in her pocket.

  “It’s time you told us what you know,” Tom said.

  “It’s a long story; you might as well sit,” she said, gesturing to a stone bench outside the church.

  “Jane, it’s freezing,” Henry complained.

  “Sit,” she ordered. Obediently, Henry and Tom brushed off the snow and sat down.

  Jane told them everything, from overhearing Edward’s plan to spy on Eliza to the real reason Eliza had swooned at the ball. She ended her story with the events from the night before. Tom nodded throughout, as though sorting the details into neat dockets in his mind. Henry grew progressively more upset.

  “When I came out this morning to try to negotiate with the Comte, he was dead,” Jane finished.

  “Are you all right, Jane?” Tom asked. “That must have been terrible for you.”

  “Jane is tough,” Henry said. “She can take care of herself. But for my poor Eliza to suffer so!”

  “Yes, Henry,” Jane said without sympathy. “Poor Eliza. We know. But what about Jacques and Marie? They’ve suffered, too. René was Marie’s husband and Jacques’ brother. They lost him because of the Comte’s selfishness.”

  Tom was deep in thought. Finally he said, “The Comte is morally guilty of murder, if not legally. But no one deserves to be murdered. He should have faced a trial.”

  “So you don’t think that whoever killed the Comte might be justified?” Jane asked, curious to hear his answer.

  “Murder is murder,” Tom said. “There can be no excuse for stabbing a man in the back. I’m sure the magistrate will agree.”

  Henry and Jane exchanged worried glances. “It would be better if we find out who did it first,” Jane said.

  Henry nodded his fervent agreement. “How do we start?” he asked.

  “I’ve not yet conducted a criminal trial,” Tom said, “but I’ve observed several. The Crown’s prosecutor always focuses on three elements of the crime: motive, opportunity, and means. Let’s begin with the first. Cui bono?” Looking at Jane, he added, “That is Latin for ‘Who benefits?’”

  Henry guffawed. “No need to translate for Jane. She was the best of Father’s students. I daresay her Latin is better than mine.”

  “Not a difficult fence to clear,” Jane said, giving both of them a withering look.

  “Yes, let’s take the maid first,” Henry said. “We’ve found a piece of jewelry that Jane believes belongs to her. The Comte was responsible for her husband’s death.”

  Tom nodded thoughtfully. “Revenge is as good a motive as any.”

  “Would Marie have the strength to stab her employer in the back?” Jane asked doubtfully.

  “Who knows what she might have done in the grip of a temper?” Henry said.

  “Even in a paroxysm of rage, is she strong enough?” Tom asked. “That knife is lodged in the Comte’s chest bone. A powerful hand struck that blow.”

  “And when she spoke of her husband, it was with affection, not
any stronger emotion,” Jane recalled.

  “Perhaps there is another explanation for the necklace,” Tom said.

  “Eliza may know,” Jane agreed.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Speaking of your cousin . . .”

  Henry turned his head to watch Tom’s face. “What about her?”

  “Are we certain that the Comtesse did not kill her husband?”

  “That is a base accusation! Take it back!” Henry leapt to his feet, fists at the ready. Tom remained seated, but poised to defend himself.

  “Henry, sit down!” Jane said sharply. “Tom’s question is fair, and you are not doing Eliza any favors by blindly defending her.” After all, Jane thought, Eliza had threatened her husband the night before—a fact Jane had not mentioned to Henry and Tom. She caught Tom’s eye. “Prove your case, Mr. Lefroy, if you can.”

  Watching Henry warily, Tom said, “Henry, my friend, I did not mean any disrespect. But the Comtesse has an overwhelming motive. The Comte abandoned her and their son. And now he returns, without so much as a by-your-leave, and wants her to give up everything she holds dear and go to America. He threatened to take her son. As her husband, legally he has the right. She would be powerless to stop him.”

  Henry glowered but stayed silent.

  “And, pardon me, Henry,” Tom said, staring past him into the clearing, “but the lady is in love with a man who is not her husband. How is her lot not improved by his death?”

  Tom’s summary struck Jane with a hammer’s force. She was equally admiring of his logic and appalled by it. He went on, inexorable. “She had opportunity. She was one of the few who knew where he was.”

  “I knew, too,” Jane said.

  He smiled tentatively at her. “I exclude you from our consideration because you have no reason to kill him, and if you did, you would not be foolish enough to tell us. The Comtesse knew where to find him. And last night most of us were too indisposed and tired to note her whereabouts.”

  “I was watching her the whole time,” Henry declared.

  “Even after she retired for the night?” Tom asked, splotches of color appearing on his fair cheeks.

  Henry was silent. “Don’t be so chivalrous, Henry,” Jane said impatiently. “Can you account for Eliza’s whereabouts all night or not?”