Jane and the Man of the Cloth jam-2

by Stephanie Barron

  “There may be men with a greater claim to unblemished reputation,’” I said, “but none to bravery. It is something, indeed, to know myself your friend. Adieu, Mr. Sidmouth — and courage! in that most mortal hour.”

  And so I knocked upon the portal, and emerged into daylight, and the curious eyes of Gordy Trimble — and let the little gaoler think what calumnies he might.

  AN INVOCATION OF FIRE, AND OF CHAOS UNLEASHED. I HAD THOUGHT it a pretty speech, from a man in contemplation of his fate, and gave it no more consideration than I should a verse of Cowper's — stirring words, to be sure, and well-phrased, but with little of prophecy about them. I made my slow way home, and endured a listless dinner, my thoughts unabashedly pensive; for the few moments I had spent in Sidmouth's arms were calculated to send any woman's principles to the winds (yes, even a clergyman's daughter), and at the thought that I should never see him the more, I could not but be melancholy. My father observed me narrowly, but forbore from interrogation; and even James — though ignorant of the cause of my Ianguor — had something of sympathy in his tone as he bade me good night.

  “You are returned, then, from your day of liberty?” I said, my hand on the stair-rail. My parents had preceded me to bed, leaving me to close up the house in the manservant's company, with only a tallow taper between us to light the way. If there was the thinnest paring of a new moon, a bank of clouds had sufficed to hide its light, and the night beyond the windows was very black. “I hope it was not entirely a slave to my service.”

  “Not a'tall, miss — though I'd count it no hardship if ‘twere.”

  “I am deeply grateful for your energy and intelligence, James.”

  He blushed scarlet, and knew not where to look. A sudden recovery of his memory, however, gave him relief in providing a purpose. “Beggin' yer pardon, miss, but there's one thing as we forgot to talk of, with Matty Hurley this afternoon.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You were wonderin’ ‘bout his work on the gangs, if I recollect.”

  “I was.”

  “And whether he ever worked wit’ Bill Tibbit on a job for the Captain wot's dead.” James threw home the front door bolt with a satisfying thud.

  “You need not concern yourself with enquiring further of Mr. Hurley, James,” I began, “for I learned something to advantage this afternoon that makes all such questions of the Captain's garden irrelevant.”

  James shrugged. “Don't need to enquire further” he replied. “Me and Matty's talked o’ it already. He never worked wit’ Bill at the Captain's, him havin’ chose his own folk, on the quiet-like, and kept ‘em paid proper. Seems as if Bill spent three or four months up Charmouth way, when he warn't drinkm’ in the Three Cups.”

  My interest was piqued despite myself, though the tunnel was no longer an object of mystery. “And did Captain Fielding engage only the one man?”

  James shook his head. “There was one or two others. Dick Trevors, and Martin Ciive maybe, and old Ebenezer Smoot, ‘im with the high voice and the soft ‘ead.”

  “Dick and — Ebenezer?” My voice, I confess, was tremulous.

  James nodded, and paused at the foot of the stairs, preparatory to leaving me for the evening. “Marty died o’ the fever last May, and I ‘aven't seen Dick lately, come to think on it, nor Eb neither.”

  “I believe they are gone to London,” I said drily, remembering their fear of the Reverend and his vanished silk, “on rather pressing business. The result of having mislaid something of value to their current employer.”

  “They've never gone and filched from Mr. Crawford?” James exclaimed, in surprise.

  “Mr. Crawford?”

  “Aye. They've been a-workin’ them fossil pits, and his bit of a smithy, most o’ the summer now.” The manservant scratched his head in wonderment. “Dick and Eb, run off with Mr. Crawford's property! There's something like. Now what they want with them bits o' stone, then?”

  Chapter 22

  …and Absolution

  25 September 1804

  MR. CRAWFORD, THE EMPLOYER OF DICK AND EBENEZER — Mr. Crawford, whose passion for fossils allowed him unquestioned observation of the Charmouth coast, and a presence for labourers on each and every day, and a cavernous excavation where he might easily have constructed a hidden room, for the purpose of secreting contraband — Mr. Crawford, whose demeanour and reputation assured him an unquestioned propriety, the better for conducting his nefarious business. Mr. Crawford, who never lacked for tea, or the best of brandies, and whose sister went about clothed in a dressmaker's dream of black silk; Mr. Crawford, whose fortune seemed so easy, despite his open hand to friends, and the liberality that too often placed others in his debt — a debt, perhaps, that might purchase goodwill and silence, did those friends think to question his activities.

  Mr. Crawford, who clearly knew of Sidmouth's habit of marking his horses” shoes, and was quick to tell the entirety of his dinner guests the fact, only a day before Captain Fielding met his untimely end. Mr. Crawford, whose friendship with Sidmouth might make him privy to the man's concerns, and cognizant of the import of a white lily left by the dead man's feet; and whose sadness at discovering the very hoofprints that should betray his friend, must disarm the suspicions of ail — particularly Mr. Dobbin, the justice, who could not be expected to believe such a gentleman in any way involved in a crime of passion. Mr. Crawford, whose forge at the fossil site might readily have served to craft such a set of shoes, well before he undertook to murder the man whose relations with the Lyme Customs officer, Roy Cavendish, had quite disrupted his lucrative trade.

  Mr. Crawford the Reverend, and Percival Fielding's murderer. It strained even my propensity for cynical calculation.

  I sat down upon the lowest step in an attitude of shock, the lighted taper dropping from my nerveless fingers. James could not suppress an exclamation of anxiety, and fell to his knees by my side.

  “Dear miss!” he cried. “Are you unwell? What can I have said?”

  I reached a shaking hand to ward off his concern. “It is nothing, James — nothing — a mere trifling indisposition. I shall be myself in a moment.”

  “A glass o’ water, mebbe?” He dashed into the scullery and rummaged about in a cupboard, reappearing instantly with a saucerless teacup filled to the brim. “You drink that down, now, miss, and you'll be right as rain.”

  I brushed his hand aside and rose, my faculties all but routed. “I must be off at once,” I said. “I must speak with Mr. Dobbin!”

  “At such an hour?” James's voice was doubtful, and I saw from his look that he thought my senses quite fled. “He'll be a-bed, surely, or close to it.”

  “That is as nothing. The man must be stopped.”

  “What man, Miss?”

  I ascended the stairs as hastily as I knew how, in search of a bonnet and cloak, paying little heed to my father, who emerged from his bedroom in nightshirt and cap, his countenance overlaid with wonder.

  “Are you intending to pay a call, my dear? And in the middle of the night?”

  “It is not above ten o'clock,” I replied crossly, and turned from him in haste. “I do but go to Mr. Dobbin, and shall return directly.”

  Comprehension dawned on my father's face. “But do you know the proper direction? Had not I better accompany you?”

  At this, I paused — for indeed, I had not the slightest idea of where the justice of the peace was to be found. “I shall have James to accompany me,” I said, with an air of decision that brooked no reply. “He will know the way, and may serve as greater protection in case of need. Do not alarm yourself, Father, and endeavour to disguise the truth to my mother. Inform her I have been called to the side of a sick friend — Mrs. Barnewall, if need be — at the lady's request.”

  “Are you certain, Jane, that such activity is required of your benevolence?”

  “Justice demands it, Father. I shall not be long.” I gave him a swift kiss, and received his hand on my head in blessing, and turned from him in
a swirl of my wool skirts.

  It was as James and I stepped out upon the threshold of Wings cottage, and turned up Broad towards the center of Lyme, that the glow upon the horizon — so incongruous in so dark a sky — astounded our senses. We stood aghast, our purpose forgotten at the sight of the blaze, and smelled the sharp odour of wood and tar upon the wind.

  “FIRE! FIRE!”

  All was chaos, with the old wooden buildings at the center of town aflame. Fire licked at the stone pavements, and found no purchase, and so turned to leap greedily from thatched roof to thatched roof, in a crackle and volley of sparks that suggested a riotous celebration, as though the Devil himself had determined to hold a party. Several of the principal buildings along Silver Street were ablaze, and a long line of men were engaged in swinging buckets from the town's main cistern; but the water was as a drop to the throat of a dying man; it had no power to stem the course of events, except in that it allowed the onlookers to feel comfort in the activity of refusal.

  “How did it start?” James cried hoarsely to a passing man.

  “Dunno,” the fellow replied. “Does it matter?” and he handed my manservant a sack of burlap and a stout shovel. “Get you to the fireguard, there, and join in the diggin’. If the flames come near, beat at ‘em with the sack.”

  James did not hesitate; in an instant he had disappeared into the thick cloud of smoke and townspeople collected near the blaze; and I was alone at the periphery of Hell.

  I gazed in horror, remembering Sidmouth's words of but a few hours ago — unless it be that chaos reign and fire cover the earth — and that swiftly, I felt I knew how the blaze had begun, and the object of so much general diversion. Did the townsfolk exert their energies in an hour of true crisis, they should be little likely to guard the gaol. The Royalists had done as their leader predicted. Fire rained down from the heavens, and chaos reigned[76]; and in the midst of it all, I knew that Sidmouth was fled.

  I turned away from the prospect of Silver Street, and ducked down a narrow alley towards the whitewashed stone keep. The fire was at just enough distance from the gaol, and threatened so valuable a number of shops, as to ensure complete distraction. A very few moments sufficed to bring me to Gordy Trimble's cubby; and to find it deserted, and the doorway beyond flung wide. I did not bother to look within; for I knew I should find the manacles burst, from the blow of an axe, and the prisoner gone into the dark.

  I turned — in the grip, at the moment, of indecision; and nearly collided with a gentleman at my back.

  “Miss Austen!” he cried, and despite the disorder of our surroundings, did not neglect to bow.

  “Mr. Crawford!” I replied, in a tremulous tone — and wished, of a sudden, for James by my side. “The blaze has brought you out, I see!”

  “How could it not? I observed the light of the flames from Darby's high position; and waited only long enough for Miss Crawford to put up some bread and cheese, before mounting my horse and hastening to town. You cannot know, I realise, that we are very much prey to such blazes, here along the coast; a similar fire not a year ago quite nearly levelled the lower part of town; and every man's aid must be necessary at such a time.”

  His earnest face was as good-natured as ever beneath the balding pate, and he betrayed not the slightest hint of his propensity for evil, nor the incongruity of us both, as we stood many streets away from the conflagration he had hastened so far to combat. I forbore from suggesting that he might find his way closer to the flames, from fear of arousing his suspicions; and endeavoured to appear as though my anxiety were active only on the crisis's behalf.

  “But what do you here, Miss Austen — at such a remove from both your home and the blaze together?” he enquired, bending nearer. Did I imagine it — or did his tone bear a sharper construction?

  “I began by observing the activity in some proximity,” I attempted, “but found the heat from the flames and the noise of the townsfolk to be too great; and so sought relief in this removal. I hardly know where I have got to.”

  “Indeed,” Crawford said. “I think you have fetched up quite close to the Lyme gaol.” And at that, he peered over my shoulder into the yard beyond, and his eyes widened. “I see that Sidmouth's friends — if, indeed, he retains any — have profited from the confusion, to effect his escape. Mr. Dobbin must be informed!”

  I turned about, and pretended to as great a surprise as Mr. Crawford, though I imagine neither of us saw anything very unexpected; and delayed only a moment to speed the gentleman on his way to the justice of the peace.

  “Do you hasten, Mr. Crawford, sir, lest the villain be lost in the general alarm!” I cried, with as much fervour as my desire to be rid of the man allowed. “With such criminals about, I believe I shall make my way back to Wings cottage, and take refuge there with all my dear family, until a general order is restored. I declare, I had not an idea of such terrifying adventures — such utter disregard for propriety, or such a propensity for revolution — when I undertook to travel to Lyme. Our sojourn in this place has been one long trial of fortitude; I wonder that either you or your good sister can long sustain a residence in the place.”

  “It is possible,” he replied, “that we shall seek a removal in the near future — for I may admit that Miss Crawford's views are very similar to your own, Miss Austen. But I hesitate to send you off so very alone — I fear that perhaps I should accompany you — for great are the misfortunes that might befall so gentle a nature as your own, in the general recklessness of these streets.”

  “I would not delay your errand for the world!” I cried, with energy. “Only consider the consequences!”

  “Indeed,” he said, in some hesitation; and I felt him to have anything but the justice's house in view. His object, rather, should be to see me safely out of the way, before proceeding himself in pursuit of Sidmouth; for Crawford's plans had been too carefully laid to be put so awry. Sidmouth must serve as scapegoat for Crawford's crimes; and if the man were lost as a result of the fire, and never appeared again, so much the better. I knew, of a sudden, what Crawford intended. He would make his way to the beach below the Grange, there to search for Sidmouth as he awaited removal by boat; his friend had no reason to suspect Crawford's motives, and did he appear in the guise of aid, should welcome him with open arms. It but remained to thrust a dagger through his heart, or turn him over to the justice, and complete his betrayal.

  Sidmouth must, at all costs, be warned.

  I bobbed a curtsey to Crawford, and summoned the falsest of smiles. “I shall be quite all right, I assure you,” I said, and turned away. “I should never sleep easy, Mr. Crawford, did you not hasten to Mr. Dobbin this very moment God forbid that Jane Austen should stand in justice's way!”

  I RETURNED WITH HASTE TO WINGS COTTAGE, IN THE EVENT THAT Mr. Crawford followed; for I knew not how narrowly he suspected my motives, or my presence by the gaol, and I would wish to preserve the appearance of credulity in Mr. Sidmouth's guilt and an innocence of my intended plan. But I knew that Crawford should spare a very little time, and should be mounted on horseback, and must lose nothing to delay. And so I tarried only long enough to discard my cumbersome cloak and bonnet, don my stout boots, and mount the steps to Wings cottage's back garden — there to slip once more into the night. It was but a scramble up the hillside, and a furtive ducking through the yard of a neighbour, before I found my road; and in a very little while, my hand pressed to a stitch in my side, I was hastening across the exposed expanse of Broad Ledge at low tide, and down into the little cove of Charmouth beach.

  THE ROYALISTS SHOULD NOT HAVE CHOSEN TO SET THE TOWN alight, and free Sidmouth from his chains, only to keep him in hiding several days — no, there was a plan behind all of this, and a purpose, and I little doubted that I should find a party upon the beach, in expectation of the arrival of a ship offshore, and a signal light that should go unremarked against the broader glare of flames to the west. That Crawford might assume as much — or look for Sidmouth to return t
o the Grange, and from thence make his way down the cliff side to the shingle, seemed equally likely. I had not a moment to lose.

  Caution must be my guide, however; and so, as I drew shuddering breath at the eastern foot of Broad Ledge, my shins much abused by my passage and my gown spattered with sea spray, I attempted to calm my racing heart. I could not know for certain the route Mr. Crawford should take; but his own familiarity with this bit of coast, and the proximity of his fossil digs, must make him a knowing adversary. I strained to make out the beach's foreground, and observed no movement; but for safety's sake, I turned into the cliffs, and began to creep my way up the shingle.

  Nothing but the soft susurration of waves upon the shore, did I have for comfort in the darkness; that, and the light patter of raindrops that had begun to fall from the clouds above — slowly at first, and then with a mounting urgency, as though the very heavens wished to save the houses and shops of Lyme, in letting fall a healing flood. My turn of mind was grown quite biblical, I reflected — a propensity for which I must blame Geoffrey Sidmouth, and the discord his circumstances had unleashed. I placed a careful foot upon a rock, in an effort to leap a small sea-pool, and found I had miscalculated; the rock o'erturned, with a sharp clink!y and I stopped in horror of discovery.

  Nothing greeted my misstep, however — no leap to alarm, or sudden gunshot, or cry of warning torn from an anxious throat Had I miscalculated? Was Charmouth beach empty, and Sidmouth lost in the mouth of the Pinny, and far from the effects of Crawford and my warning together? Or — and at this, I felt a shudder of apprehension — was Crawford better apprised of his friend's whereabouts, and I had lost both Sidmouth and the opportunity to effect his salvation?

  I found my fingers were trembling, and willed myself to complaisance with an effort; but it was not fear that had so unnerved me, but cold—for I was wet through to the skin from the combined effects of rain and spray, and my hair hung in wet rat-tails about my face. I looked the very part of castaway, and must find some shelter soon, or catch my death.