Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

by Stephanie Barron

  “He came to beg Catherine to hear him, of course—full of abject apology for having spirited her away a few days before; he had attempted much the same sort of interview at the Assembly, of course, but she would not attend. She begged me to save her from his clutches, and being no fool—having not the slightest interest in promoting the affaire—I made a show of hurling myself upon George so that she might reach the door in safety. The little idiot ran straight down the passage and out of the Pavilion, without a word to anybody—and nothing more was known of her until the maid screamed bloody murder, as I understand it, at the King’s Arms the following morning.”

  “And Byron?” I asked steadily, tho’ I hated the indifference with which Caro spoke of Catherine’s murder.

  She blew a cloud before replying. “He would have followed her, of course, until I observed that a man with his limp and a girl of her youth were decidedly ill-assorted. If he could not waltz with me, he should never race with Catherine—she should be safely tucked up in bed by the time he achieved Church Street.”

  “Clever Caro,” Desdemona said acidly. “And so he stayed with you?”

  “Of course. Once caught in my toils, he never has found the strength to break them. He loves me, you know—in defiance of all he says in publick or private, in defiance of his own reason.” She was suddenly serene as she lay upon the divan, an acolyte at a private altar. “He began by ranting against my passion—by warning me he was unsafe, and that if I could not cut him out of my heart it might end in tragedy for more than myself—but I assured him I had already lost everything of worth to a lady of my station. I am cut dead by my oldest acquaintance, called mad by my own family, and must look on as my husband’s dearest friends urge him to divorce. There is nothing more Byron may strip from me—no further tragedy I may know.”

  Lady Oxford had been correct, I realized, when she described Caro Lamb as possessed of a brilliant understanding; it was unfortunate in the extreme that her intelligence had been incapable of subduing the wilder excesses of her emotions.

  “And when his raging was done?” Desdemona persisted.

  Caro’s eyes closed again. “George was very tired. He has been working quite hard at his verses, you know, and I fear the efforts of Genius exhaust him. He took a little wine. Put his head in my lap, and allowed me to stroke it. And then he began to recite his poem to me—The Giaour. It is quite fine; something quite out of the ordinary way. And to hear the words in George’s voice—” Her own throbbed. “I crave his voice, his touch, his look, as another might the transports of opium.”

  I could well believe it; Caro spoke and moved as one still in the grip of phantasm. The man could summon a diabolic power; I had felt it myself. “We talked of the customs of the hareem for at least an hour,” she sighed. “We smoked”—she gestured here with the pipe—“and then he begged me to dress in my page’s clothes, so that he might conceive of his Leila in Turkish dress.”

  “And this would have been … perhaps three o’clock?”

  “Time, time!” she retorted petulantly. “I told you—when one is in the presence of Byron, time means nothing.”

  “And then?”

  “And then—there was nothing for it, I was dressed as a page and the idea of taking a boy excites George profoundly—we went to bed, of course.”

  I had never in my life encountered anyone like Lady Caroline Lamb. Her frankness—her lack of embarrassment or shame—utterly silenced me; I could not summon a word. But Desdemona was otherwise; she had lived in Caro’s world from birth; as had been true of Lord Harold, there was nothing she could not hear or say without complete equanimity.

  “Naturally Byron would admit to none of this at the inquest, for fear of being laughed at,” Mona said thoughtfully. “I see how it was. He has made such a publick parade of hating you—he could admit nothing so intimate without damage to his reputation. Very well—when did he leave you?”

  Caro shrugged. Time, again. We were beyond saving.

  “Was it light or dark, you tiresome girl?” Mona demanded.

  “That lovely hour when the world entire is grey—and the birds commence their singing,” she said dreamily.

  “We shall put it down as dawn.” I rose to leave. “Thank you, Lady Caroline, for your confidence. We are in your debt.”

  “I should say, rather, that George is,” she returned quite calmly. “Provided he escapes the gibbet, of course. Perhaps you will nod to me now, Mona, when we pass each other in Hyde Park?”

  “Perhaps, Lady Caroline.” And Desdemona curtseyed with quelling stile.

  WHEN WE HAD BEEN RELEASED BY A FOOTMAN INTO THE courtyard sweep fronting the Pavilion, the Countess halted in her steps, and looked to me appealingly.

  “This will utterly sink poor Jane Harley. First Catherine Twining—and now the impossible Caro Lamb. I declare, had I never known my beloved Charles—I should believe all men heartless.”

  “Say rather they possess too much heart—it is fidelity that is lacking,” I returned. “But I am not convinced Lady Oxford must be told. The outcome shall depend upon our success or failure, Mona—for if we discover the true murderer, Byron need never stand trial. And if he does not come before the Assizes, Lady Caroline’s story may remain exactly that: one of the fantastic tales dreamt up in her bower.”

  The Countess glanced at me narrowly. “You still believe him innocent?”

  “If we are to believe Caro, then we must believe her wholly; we cannot pick and chuse which bits of evidence to credit. Therefore, if we accept that Byron was here, and left her at dawn, it is impossible for Byron to have drowned Catherine Twining—for she cannot still have been alive at such an hour as half-past five o’clock. She was killed within moments of leaving this place—else she should have achieved her home, and lived to dance at another Assembly. By dawn poor Catherine was already drowned and lashed into Byron’s hammock. She must have been carried to the Arms in the dead of night—when all the intimates of both Pavilion and publick house should be deemed to be sleeping.”

  “Caro wasn’t sleeping,” Mona interjected darkly.

  “The risk of being heard at dawn,” I persisted, “—or indeed, seen by a member of Tolliver’s household, as the culprit exited the tunnel in one bedchamber and thrust the body into Byron’s empty rooms next door—should be too great. It cannot have been Byron who did all this.”

  “As you say.” Mona drew on her gloves. “Then who killed her, pray?”

  At that moment, the great clock in the stable block’s tower to the west of us began to toll the hour; Catherine Twining’s service must be over, and it was already noon. The striking clock put me in mind of something I had nearly forgot.

  “Mona,” I said, “all that we have discovered derives from what the magistrate and coroner neglected to ask. Do you not think that the key to this tragedy lies in how one puts the questions—and to whom?”

  “Very well,” she sighed, “I shall rephrase mine. Pray, Jane—who killed Catherine Twining?”

  “There was one other person abroad that night who may very well know. Are you incommoded by the smell of the stables, Countess?”

  She drew herself up. “You forget. I have been accustomed to ride with the Quorn.”

  “Ah—but can you converse with the undergroom?” I wondered, and walked purposefully towards the Regent’s sixty horses.

  THERE WERE, OF COURSE, A DOZEN UNDERGROOMS, AND even two who bore the name of Jem; but we very quickly established which of these was cousin to my chambermaid, Betsy—by enquiring of the Regent’s Head Groom, a very august gentleman in buff and blue livery. We expressed nothing more than a desire to convey a message from one servant to another, and if the Head Groom thought it odd that two ladies, one of them in mourning, should embark on such a trivial errand, he was far too well-bred to say so.

  We found Jem in a beautifully-appointed loose box which held a fine-boned mare and her foal—a filly but four days old. The undergroom was concocting a warm bran mash for the mare, an
d murmuring foolish nothings to the foal, who lay flat on her side lost in sleep, her fragile ribs rising and falling with every breath. The box was warm with the heat of the animals and the strong smell of them, overlaid with the sweetness of the straw bedding and the hay in the feeding racks. I have never been much of a horsewoman—a family lack, which may be put down to our straitened circumstances. My elder brothers hunted with the Vyne—our local pack in Hampshire—whenever our friends the Chutes were willing to mount them; but there was no gentle riding hack for my sister, Cassandra, or me. That does not mean, however, that I am afraid of horses, or do not enjoy being near them. I lacked Mona’s easy familiarity, however—she had no hesitation in leaning over the half-open door of the box, extending her gloved hand, and clucking softly to the mare—who stepped delicately over her sleeping foal and thrust a soft nose into Mona’s gloved hand.

  “She hopes that I have brought her sugar,” Mona said, “but I am a rank cheat, you beauty, and have nothing to offer. What is her name, sirrah?”

  “Rapunzel, on account o’ her long tail, my lady.” The undergroom lifted his hand to his forehead in respect, and stared at us.

  Mona stroked the small Arab head. “And does she like to run?”

  “Aye, but she’s no hunter. A neat little mount for a lady, when she’s not to foal. Granddaughter to Eclipse, she is—no better blood in the Kingdom.”

  “I believe it. Pray—go on with your bran mash. We have no wish to disturb you at your work. I am the Countess of Swithin, and this is my friend, Miss Austen—who is acquainted with your cousin Betsy.”

  The undergroom coloured, and dropped his gaze. “The lady’d be a guest over to the Castle?”

  “I am—and was a friend to the young lady who met her death by drowning a few nights ago. Betsy said you spoke of her, at the inquest; I am glad to hear it. You have done a good deal towards apprehending a murderer.”

  “Arrested Lord Byron, they did,” he said warily, and began stirring his bran with vigour.

  “But you know that to be nonsense.”

  Jem glanced up at me swiftly, but said nothing.

  “You saw Lord Byron enter the Pavilion that evening?”

  “Aye, and he did.”

  “And then Miss Twining left it? When the clock chimed the three-quarters?”

  He hesitated; it was probable he wondered what right we had to put such questions to him—but the habit of submitting to authority prevailed. With a slight grimace, he nodded.

  “Was Lord Byron with her when she quitted the place?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did he pursue Miss Twining once she was gone?”

  Another hesitation. “I was inside the box here with the mare, after the young lady—Miss Twining as it was—left. I stepped outside for just the short while, like, to fetch a rope—I had to slip it round the foal’s head, and help the mare to birth it—and that’s when I see her. I didn’t see much more than that.”

  “When was the foal born?” I asked.

  “Ten minutes past two, by the stable clock, and thank the good Lord for it—the foal would’ve been dead if she’d taken much longer.”

  I gazed at the delicate ribs, rising and falling with blessed air. While the foal drew her first breath, Catherine Twining drew her last. It was a bitter conjunction.

  “And afterwards? When the mare and foal were comfortable?”

  “I stood outside and looked at the stars for a bit,” he answered, “then went to my bed. There were but a few hours till dawn, and foal or no, I’m expected at my work by six o’clock.”

  “Did anyone else cross the Pavilion grounds while you looked at the stars?” I asked.

  “Nobody but the Colonel.”

  “McMahon?” Mona said quickly.

  He shook his head. “Colonel Hanger. He’s an odd one, and no mistake. Never sleeps, playing cards until all hours, or striding about the grounds as tho’ all the imps of Satan be after ’im. Many’s the time he’s sat down on a barrel with Mr. Davy—he’s the Head Groom—day or night, to talk of horseflesh or race-meetings or such hunts as he’s had. But Mr. Davy was gone to bed. There was only me to talk to the Colonel that night.”

  “And did Colonel Hanger stay long?” I murmured, to keep the flow of reminiscence unstinted.

  The mare had abandoned Mona and was prodding Jem’s shoulder with her nose. He poured the bran mash carefully into a feedbag, and strapped it to her head before speaking again.

  “At first I thought he’d met with an accident, so wild did he look—tramping into the stable block with his boots and pantaloons soaked to the knees. But then I saw as how he was grinning, so all was well. Colonel Hanger, I says, you gave me quite a turn. He clapped me on the shoulder and laughed out loud, as tho’ he’d just won a packet at hazard or cards; and then he gave me a sovereign. To celebrate the safe delivery of the foal, he said.”

  His boots and pantaloons soaked to the knees.

  “Was it raining that night?” I asked pensively. “I cannot quite remember.”

  “No, ma’am. He’d fallen into the sea, he said, while walking along the Marine Parade after the Assembly. Lucky for him the tide was well out. He was foxed, I suppose—but the cold water soon put him to rights.”

  Mona and I had gone very still. I do not think either of us moved a muscle for an instant, or bothered even to breathe. The tide was well out. No one had even thought to remark upon the tides, at the hour of Catherine’s death. I had dismissed Caro Lamb, even, as unable to brave the water. But Catherine’s killer had walked out to Byron’s yacht, and fetched the hammock, with only a shallow depth to concern him.

  “What did the Colonel want here in the stables?” I asked, as casually as possible. “Surely he did not mean to ride at such an hour?”

  Jem grinned. “No, ma’am. Not that night—tho’ I’ve known him to gallop the Downs in pitch black before, and a wonder it is that either the Colonel or the horse came home. No—it was a large needle Old Hanger wanted, such as we use on the horse blankets—a needle and good, strong thread.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sentry Duty

  FRIDAY, 14 MAY 1813

  BRIGHTON, CONT.

  “OH, WHAT I WOULD NOT GIVE FOR LORD HAROLD AT THIS moment,” I said to Mona, compound of frustration and despair. “He should have known what sort of man Colonel Hanger is, and how he must be worked on!”

  We had thanked Jem for his interesting conversation with a shilling pressed into his palm, and an unspoken hope that he did not share our interview with Colonel Hanger—lest his life enjoy a very brief duration. I suspected, however, that without the posing of pertinent questions, Jem’s knowledge should remain locked in the stables; he was not the sort to offer intelligence unsolicited.

  “To be sure Uncle was acquainted with Hanger,” Mona said with a visible shudder. “They were both second sons, you know, and that is apt to make for fellow-feeling—tho’ I do not think you could find two more dissimilar men the length and breadth of England! I confess I cannot see my uncle emerging from the sea at dead of night, and requesting a needle and thread from the undergroom, so that he might sew up a dead body.”

  “But that is just the point, Mona. I can,” I retorted. “And it is for that reason I wish devoutly he were with us still! There is nobody I should rely upon more to confront a villain. Lord Harold may have been the consummate gentleman, but he was capable of thinking like a rogue—and therefore, outwitted the worst of them.”

  She studied me with an oddly arrested look. “You were often in danger when you were with him, were you not? It was not all a pleasant turn around the Park?”

  “Your uncle was an agent of the Crown,” I said, taken aback. “I cannot recall that it was ever a pleasant turn around the Park. But what is that to the point? I am not Lord Harold, and I shall be reduced to a quaking jelly by a man of Colonel Hanger’s kidney; I knew it from the first moment I saw him, intent upon ravishing poor Catherine in the Regent’s conservatory. The fellow
is evil, Mona.”

  At her exclamation, I supplied the history of our entertainment at the Pavilion, and the Colonel’s readiness to draw Henry’s cork, or challenge him to a duel. She listened acutely, evidencing neither shock nor dismay.

  “It is everywhere known, of course, that Hanger used to engage in very rum behaviour—procuring women for Prinny when they were both thirty years younger,” she observed. “It was he who helped to make the illegal marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert, poor lady—only think of having such a man as witness to one’s wedding! And I do not doubt he has pulled Prinny out of countless scrapes that, were they made publick, should have greatly tarnished his honour. But I cannot think even Hanger should be fool enough to prey upon a child of fifteen, of good family—and drown her when she fought him, Jane.”

  “Someone certainly did so—and if not Hanger, then who? Recollect what the undergroom saw, Mona—and what he gave Hanger.”

  “Very well,” Mona rejoined, with her habitual air of calm amidst lunacy, “let us go and ask the villainous Colonel what use he found for needle and thread.”

  I stared at her.

  “I have known George Hanger this age,” she said impatiently. “I shall simply send in my card at the Regent’s front door, and enquire whether the Colonel is at home to visitors. If he remains as rapacious for a glimpse of the fair sex as you say, he is unlikely to send us away unanswered.”

  Her confidence was cool enough to suggest her uncle, after all; and thus I followed her without a murmur from the stable yard to the Pavilion’s entry. But George Hanger was not at home; he had gone, so we were informed, to play hazard at Raggett’s Club, and none could say when he was expected back again.23

  It was impossible for any lady to penetrate the sacred fastness of Raggett’s; we should have to wait for the Colonel to return the Countess of Swithin’s call.

  “It is a pity he prefers dice over cards,” Mona said thoughtfully as we achieved the Steyne, “else we might have set Swithin upon him. I can do nothing about that however, until we meet at dinner—and I am able to tell him all. No doubt he will think of something; I believe Swithin managed fellows of Hanger’s ilk with great success, when he was about the opium trade in China.”