I stopped short and studied his face. “She has quitted Brighton?”
“For good and all.” He drew me inexorably out into the fresh air of the Steyne, where I saw that a crowd had gathered near the old publick house called the King’s Arms—the place so roundly patronised by the officers of Brighton Camp and their devoted followers. But Henry avoided the publick house, and turned hurriedly into the Promenade Grove. He led me to a seat in a neat square of shrubbery.
“You must prepare yourself, Jane.” His grey eyes were flat with despair.
“Tell me what you must, Henry—I beg of you.”
“Miss Twining’s body was discovered in Lord Byron’s bed at the King’s Arms this morning.”
“No!” I cried.
Catherine as I had last seen her—the agitation in all her looks, her dread of that man—sprang vividly to mind.
She had been right to fear him.
He had killed her.
In a fit of passion—whether rage, love, madness, who could say?—Lord Byron had torn out the life of that delicate flower. But how had he lured her from the General’s side? What possible mischance had delivered the girl into Byron’s hands?
And what profound indifference to his own security had led him to murder her in his very bedchamber?
“Was she … had he …”
Of course he had; but the word rape was one I found difficult to utter.
But Henry was hardly attending, his gaze fixed on his gloved hands.
“It is the oddest thing, Jane,” he said. “She was wrapped in a sailor’s hammock, sewn tight; and when the thing was slit open, it was discovered that she had drowned.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Canvassing a Murder
TUESDAY, 11 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON, CONT.
HENRY’S SMALL FUND OF INTELLIGENCE WAS IMPARTED IN a matter of moments as we sat in the sheltered privacy of the Promenade Grove.
“It was the chambermaid who found her. The girl thought it odd that Lord Byron’s door should be slightly ajar, and yet no sound of movement be audible within,” he said. “The maid hesitated to disturb his lordship, because of course it is well known the man is a poet, and has been engaged in writing out cantos of his latest work—”
“He is writing here in Brighton?” I said numbly.
“Apparently so. At all events, neither Byron nor his traps were to be found in the bedchamber; but the unfortunate Miss Twining—”
It was whispered at Raggett’s that the girl was still clothed in the white muslin gown she had worn at the Assembly. There were marks of brutality at her throat, as tho’ she had been forcibly held under water—and she had died in the sea, for the dried stains of salt water were everywhere upon her person.
“The chambermaid put it about that her eyes were wide open,” Henry said in a subdued tone, “and that such a look of terror as lingered in them, she hoped never to witness again.”
“But the hammock, Henry?” I knew of such things from my Naval brothers; when a sailor died, his sleeping hammock served as shroud—sewn up around him, before burial at sea. “Was Miss Twining forced into it alive—trapped inside?”
The image of the girl, fighting like a blind kitten tossed with its brethren into the mill pond at birth, was too hideous to contemplate. How terrified she must have been—the darkness of the night, and the blacker dark of the water as it flooded around her—
“No,” my brother said. “The marks on her neck suggest otherwise. The hammock may have been intended to hide the deed—or dispose of the body—but somehow or other it ended in Byron’s rooms. Miss Twining was probably already dead when she was placed into it, and carried to Byron’s bedchamber by her murderer.”
“Can its owner be identified?”
“The word Giaour is embroidered on its edge.”
“Giaour?” I repeated blankly. “What sort of word is that, Henry?”
“I have no idea. But presumably Miss Twining’s murderer knows; it will perhaps be the name of his boat—or one readily to hand, at the moment he …”
“Forced her head under the waves.” I stared at my brother, a scene from two days previous recurring to mind: the crimson-hulled yacht, surging out to sea, and the dark-haired sailor at her helm, ignoring the foundering woman in his wake. “Why must you persist in referring to her murderer, Henry, as tho’ we had not an idea who it was? Are we both not certain in our minds? It will be Lord Byron’s boat that is found to be called Giaour.”
And in the most intense irritation at the entire race of men, I swung away from him abruptly, striding down the Marine Parade in the direction of Black Rock.
I COULD NOT BE EASY IN MY CONSCIENCE. I WAS BESET with the demons of regret. Nothing could be clearer than that the poet, spurned, had exacted a hideous revenge upon young Catherine Twining—and we had been the agents of her release from his chaise. But how had she died? What fateful events had determined the hours after I parted from poor Catherine at the door of the Assembly Rooms—and why, oh why, had I refused to stay? It seemed, in retrospect, so little that the girl had asked; and I had prated about propriety. But for me, Catherine Twining might yet be alive.
When Henry caught up with me, far down the Marine Parade, I was more mistress of myself. But he paced beside me wordlessly, both of us buffeted by the wind. The rain of the previous day had given way to a cloudless sky, the sun brilliant and hard-cut as a diamond; sea wrack lay everywhere strewn about the shingle.
“Have they arrested the poet?” I demanded at last.
“They cannot find him, Jane.”
I looked swiftly round.
“The publican at the King’s Arms would have it his lordship settled his accounts and quitted his rooms late last night after the Assembly—having encountered Lady Caroline Lamb at the ball, to his apparent rage.”
“Lady Caroline! Good God, I had forgot—so Lady Swithin told me this morning. Your intelligence had put such trivialities entirely out of my head,” I exclaimed.
“Directly Byron espied her ladyship—she appeared about midnight, so they said in Raggett’s, and you must know that Byron’s good friend Scrope Davies is a member whose word may be relied upon—his lordship left the Assembly, packed up his traps at the King’s Arms, and repaired to Davies’s lodgings for the night.”
“And Miss Twining remained, as yet,” I said slowly, “if Lady Swithin is to be believed. The Countess saw Miss Twining in conversation with Caro Lamb, of all people—we laughed about it this morning. The lady obsessed with Lord Byron—and the lady with whom Lord Byron is obsessed—trading pleasantries before the eyes of all Brighton.”
“Scrope Davies insists that Byron slept under his roof, and quitted Brighton on horseback at eight o’clock this morning—well before the … well before Miss Twining was discovered at the King’s Arms.”
I frowned. “But then how did poor Catherine—”
“Exactly. Is Davies lying to protect his friend? Or did Byron slip out of Davies’s house and meet with Catherine elsewhere—drown her on the shingle—pack her into the hammock—carry her to the King’s Arms, enter his old rooms to deposit her there … and then repair once more to Scrope Davies’s for an appearance at breakfast?”
“It strains belief, Henry,” I muttered. “His lordship should have to be mad.”
“Well, Jane …” my brother began dubiously.
But I shook my head. “Why shroud the girl in a hammock at all? Why not leave her as she lay, drowned on the shingle, so that the tide might take her? No possible connexion could then be made between his lordship and Miss Twining.”
“I had thought, Jane, that perhaps some other, with designs upon the girl’s life, might avail himself of Lord Byron’s empty rooms. None can say. I understand, however, that the local magistrate has sent his constables post-haste up the New Road towards London—in the hope of overtaking Byron on his way, or meeting with him at his lodgings in St. James’s. His lordship must appear at the inquest—for there will have to be an i
nquest, naturally.”
We were now perhaps a mile and a half from the Promenade Grove; and the day being fine, we were treated to such scenes of quotidian Brighton life as must grace each fleeting May: the fishwives about their endless gutting; children, half-clad and barefoot, scampering upon the sands; and the bathing machines with their dippers, drawn down to the shoreline by a team of horses.16
“I cannot accept what you are telling me, Henry,” I said, as my gaze drifted over the happy scene. “Miss Twining was in the company of her father last evening. She was escorted by that repugnant clergyman. How, then, did she go missing long enough to meet her end—and the General never sound the alarm?”
“All excellent questions, to which I may return no answers.”
I clasped my hands in frustration. “How I wish it might have been possible for us to attend that ball!”
Henry placed his hands over mine. “Do not berate yourself, my dear. You cannot regard yourself as responsible for Miss Twining’s death. I will not allow it. You could have had no notion—”
“You do not perfectly understand,” I managed. “The last words Catherine Twining uttered to me were a plea that I remain. She feared him, Henry—so much I knew; but I thought her a goosecap for doing so, in the midst of an Assembly. I actually laughed at her a little. When in fact she went in fear for her life. Oh, God, I am to blame! I am to blame for the loss of that innocent creature!”
The picture of Catherine as she had been—flower-like in her white muslin gown, the thin bones of her shoulders as subtly molded as porcelain—and the image of what she must now be, were too melancholy to contemplate. My eyes filled with tears.
Henry grasped my arm and turned me firmly back along the way we had come. “Jane,” he said bracingly, “we require a revival of your formidable spirit—one I have not seen in nearly two years. You must take up the rôle of Divine Fury. You must penetrate this killer’s motives, and expose him to the world!”
“It should be a form of penance, I suppose.”
“Penance! It should be nothing less than justice for Miss Twining’s sake!”
“There are so many persons, Henry, far more adept than I—the magistrate, the coroner …”
“Neither of whom knew Miss Twining in the least.”
I glanced at him in grudging acknowledgement.
“But what if the man you ruin is indeed Lord Byron?” my brother suggested. “Would you hesitate, when guilt falls upon a poet—one the Polite World acclaims as a genius?”
I did not bother to reply, but strode only more swiftly towards the Steyne.
“I tremble for the poet.” Henry sighed.
AS WE DINED QUIETLY IN ONE OF THE CASTLE’S PARLOURS that evening, a serving-man appeared with a note for me, presented on a silver tray. Desdemona, Lady Swithin, had scrawled it so swiftly as to blot her words, on an elegant scrap of hot-pressed paper. Struck afresh by the Swithin crest, a tiger rampant, I broke the seal—and begged permission of Henry to peruse the communication.
21 Marine Parade
11th May 1813
My dear Miss Austen,
If you do not take pity upon Charles and me, and come round directly after dinner to discuss this miserable affair of Byron’s, there will be no living with either of us. We may promise you tea and an excellent Rhenish cream in return; Swithin is most anxious for Mr. Austen to sample his Port. Two dozen of his finest bottles sent down from London, wrapped in cotton wool and supported by goose feather pillows, so as not to disturb the sediment! But I digress. I would not have you believe we are mere gluttons for gossip—that not an hour may pass, but we must surfeit on the latest whiff of local scandal—but my interest has been sought in the present tragedy, by one I hold in friendship. I shall say no more. We shall expect you at eight o’clock—but if you are otherwise engaged, pray send your reply by the footman; he awaits your pleasure.
I remain, etc.,
Desdemona, Countess of Swithin
“We are invited to take tea on the Marine Parade,” I informed my brother.
“Nonsense,” he replied, reading over Mona’s note without so much as a by-your-leave. “We are invited to canvass a murder. There is no end to the dissipations of Brighton! I never thought to enjoy myself so much!”
I drank down my glass of claret, knowing I required the fortification; there could be only one friend of Desdemona’s interested in the death of Catherine Twining—Lord Byron’s lover, Jane Elizabeth, Countess of Oxford.
16 Part of Brighton’s attraction was the belief that sea-bathing was a healthful practice; and for those who could not swim, wooden bathhouses on wheels—drawn to the water by horses—were employed, particularly by women, who were deemed too modest to be seen in wet clothing. The dippers were persons of the serving class who helped bathers descend a ladder into the safe enclosure of the bathhouse once it was immersed in the sea. Having bathed, the lady would once more ascend the ladder with her muslin shift clinging to her body. It was said to be a common practice for idle gentlemen to train telescopes upon the bathing houses, in the hope of seeing various women of their acquaintance in the Regency equivalent of a wet T-shirt contest.—Editor’s note.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Passions of Lord Byron
TUESDAY, 11 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON, CONT.
IF I EXPECTED TO FIND LADY OXFORD ALREADY ESTABLISHED in the Marine Parade, I was disappointed; but upon reflection, too little time had intervened between the discovery of the murder, and the arrival of such news in London; even were she in constant communication with Lord Byron, it must be impossible for the mistress of so considerable an establishment to fly south on a whim, as Caro Lamb had done. The Swithins were not quite alone, however: a dozen guests were arranged in the pretty drawing-room of No. 21, Marine Parade, a fact which caused me to hesitate on the threshold. I was suitably dressed for dinner à deux in the Castle’s private parlour, but not for an intimate soiree of the haut ton. It was impossible to draw back, however, or to wish that Betsy had had the dressing of my hair—and so, with Henry’s arm guiding me gently forward, I braved the tiger’s den.
“Miss Austen.” It was the Earl who greeted me, elegant as ever in evening dress. His smile was so warm that I wondered how I had ever thought him haughty, upon first acquaintance, in the Bath of our youth; perhaps nearly ten years of marriage had softened the ruthless opium trader he had once been. “It is very good of you to join us. Desdemona, I know, is most anxious to speak with you. Mr. Austen! As you see, the gentlemen—some of whom I believe are known to you—have by now rejoined the ladies; but pray allow me to fetch you a glass of Port!”
With merely a look, the Earl summoned a footman; Henry bowed to a tall, lean fellow with very little hair, and murmured, “Pleasure, Sir John—had thought you tied to Hertfordshire at this time of year—” and I was claimed by Lady Swithin.
“Miss Austen,” she said as she curtseyed. “I am in your debt, dear creature. And I said nothing of this crush in my note to you! I feared you would not come, did you know we were encumbered with acquaintance this evening. Now, in penance for my sins, I shall make you known to only a few of these ladies—Miss Kemp, who is quite musical, and shall presently repair to the instrument, thereby allowing us to converse under cover of its noise; Mrs. Alleyn, who is so animated that no one may avoid her notice; and Mrs. Silchester, who acted as duenna to your unfortunate friend, Miss Twining.”
Mrs. Silchester! Here was a treasure, indeed!
I fixed a smile to my countenance; moved sedately under Desdemona’s guidance through the gauntlet of eyes, and found that Miss Kemp was of that uncertain age, when one does not know whether to hope for salvation in the form of an eligible parti; or accept the inevitable degradations of spinsterhood with private relief. She was, in short, approaching the age of danger, and should soon be at her last prayers. Her interest, therefore, was fixed upon such single gentlemen as the room afforded—a cousin of Swithin’s called Mr. Stanhope, and a dark-haired rake i
n his late thirties who went by the name of Hodge. If he possessed any other, I never learnt it. He was absorbed in casting dice, his right hand against his left—which, tho’ hardly the most genteel occupation for a drawing-room, appeared to be regarded as the merest commonplace by his intimates.
“So pleased,” Miss Kemp fluttered; “I hope you shall find Brighton to your liking.” Her gaze drifted continually over my shoulder, to follow the course of one gentleman or another through the crowd of her rivals.
“Augusta,” Desdemona said, “we are expiring for want of music. Would you be so good as to play an air or two upon the harp?”
“But if Miss Austen should care to exhibit—?” she demurred.
“I know nothing of the harp,” I assured her. Of the pianoforte prominently positioned at one end of the room, I chose to say nothing. Miss Kemp fluttered over to her instrument, which was conveniently placed next to Hodge and his dice—fluttered a bit in composing herself to play—and allowed her fingers to flutter over the strings. At the first note, Hodge frowned—collected his dice in one sweeping movement—and repaired to the pianoforte, where he lounged in heated debate of tomorrow’s horse race with Mr. Stanhope.
Poor Miss Kemp.
Mrs. Alleyn, next in the gauntlet, was a vivacious widow who formed a principal part of Brighton’s charms, I was made to understand; her children being not yet out of the schoolroom, her fortune secured, and her taste for Society as rich as in her first girlhood, she was at liberty to accept as many invitations as the Season afforded—and in her case, these were many. She was the decided object of Sir John Stevenson’s gallantry—which, as Henry observed later, had much to do with her fortune of thirty thousand pounds, and explained why that gentleman was not tied to his estates in Hertfordshire at present.
“And so you are come down from London,” Mrs. Alleyn said. “How long a stay do you make in Brighton?”
“But a fortnight.” I glanced at Henry. “My brother, Mr. Austen, has been so unfortunate as to recently lose his wife; and we are here in an attempt to raise his spirits.”
Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron Page 12