The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet

by Katherine Cowley

  The woman attempted to offer Mary a third cup of tea, but her voice was muted by the sound of horses: six horses carrying six men, five of them in military uniform. Not far behind them followed another man, driving a wagon.

  The men dismounted and approached. One of the officers, a kindly looking man with curly grey hair, bowed.

  There was no way to avoid it; Mary would yet again need to meet someone without a formal introduction. She curtsied and said, “I am Miss Mary Bennet. I am a guest of Lady Trafford’s, staying at Castle Durrington.”

  “I am Colonel Coates, the head of the regiment here in Worthing, and I am at your service.” He paused, and then addressed the subject as if it were a delicate matter. “I greatly apologize that you were the one to discover the…” He trailed off, as if afraid to use the word.

  “The corpse?” asked Mary.

  “Yes, the corpse,” he said gravely.

  “It is probably best if I show you where I found it.” It was, after all, why they had come, and there was little point to excessive pleasantries over such an unpleasant matter.

  “Oh, no, I cannot allow you to go to such trouble,” said Colonel Coates. “If you simply describe the location, we will be able to find it.”

  “It will be easier to show you.” Mary knew perfectly well that they would be able to find it on their own, but it was the body she had found, and even though the man was a thief, she now felt a certain responsibility for him.

  “If it really was a murder,” said Colonel Coates, “there is no reason to subject yourself to such an ordeal.”

  “Miss Bennet seems as if she is spirited,” said the man not in uniform, an older gentleman with thinning hair and a French accent. “Come, Colonel Coates, let her lead us. I am sure you will have more questions for her.”

  “Very well,” said the colonel.

  Mary led the way. Colonel Coates walked by her side, the Frenchman close behind, and the others farther back, leading the horses and wagon.

  “Were you alone when you found the body?” asked Colonel Coates.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you come to the beach by yourself?” He seemed surprised.

  “No,” said Mary. “Mr. Withrow was showing me the beach.” Her face reddened at the tacit admission that a chaperone had not accompanied them. “He returned to Castle Durrington, and I walked a little more on my own.”

  “Has word been sent back to Castle Durrington?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then I will see that it is done.” He sent one of the other officers to Castle Durrington to speak with Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow.

  “On the matter of the body,” Mary said slowly, unsure of the best way to raise her suspicions, “I believe I recognize the man. I do not know his name, but I saw him speaking to Mr. Withrow on the day I arrived here.”

  “What day would that have been?” asked the Frenchman, catching up with them.

  “The eighth of September,” said Mary. “It was my first day here, so I remember it distinctly.”

  “That is extremely useful,” said Colonel Coates. “With Mr. Withrow’s help, we may be able to identify the victim.”

  As they approached, part of her wondered if she had only imagined the corpse. But Mary did not suffer from an overactive imagination, and the body was indeed on the sand where she had left it, the ocean still lapping at its feet. The men immediately blocked her view of the body and engaged in whispered discussions, probably so as not to offend her feminine sensibilities.

  After a few minutes, the Frenchman came to her side.

  “I am afraid we have not been properly introduced. I am Monsieur Corneau, formerly of a small village north of Paris. I am now a resident of Worthing, and a good friend of Colonel Coates.”

  “Je suis enchantée de faire votre connaissance,” said Mary, taking advantage of the opportunity to converse with a native French speaker. Madame Dieupart would be pleased.

  “Ah, vous parlez français?”

  She understood his question, but when she tried to think of the words to reply, they escaped her. “I only speak a little, I am afraid. But I am learning.”

  “That is commendable.”

  The Frenchman pursed his lips and studied her. He had deep wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth—friendly wrinkles—and she wondered at his age. After a moment, he spoke. “You seem the sort of woman who would like to know more about what happened to the man who died.”

  She nodded, surprised. “Yes, I would.”

  “We believe he was stabbed, but that did not kill him. Ultimately, he drowned. When a person drowns, their lungs fill with water and they sink, but sometimes, after a while, the body floats back to the surface. It likely washed ashore last night, and today you found it.”

  “I see,” said Mary. “Thank you.” She appreciated that he did not attempt to shelter her, and that he treated her with respect. Maybe he treated her differently than other men did because he was French. But despite his explanation, something else still bothered her. “What happened to his eyes?”

  Monsieur Corneau hesitated, but after a moment, he said, “They were eaten, by a fish or other animal of the sea.”

  Bile filled Mary’s throat. She had always believed that knowledge was superior to ignorance, yet in this case, ignorance might be preferred. She pushed that thought aside: surely it was better to know than to always wonder. Yet what must Monsieur Corneau and Colonel Coates think of her? She had not behaved at all like a young lady was meant to behave. She probably should have screamed and fainted, required much consoling, and allowed someone to carry her to a sofa.

  “Is there anything else you know about the dead man, anything at all? Any details that might help us?”

  She hesitated, for answering his question properly required making an accusation of sorts, not only against the thief, but against her hosts. But he was working with Colonel Coates on the investigation, and a serious, irreversible crime had been committed; she needed to disclose what she knew.

  “There is one thing that I should tell you.” Mary explained how the man had visited Meryton and attempted to steal her family’s mourning rings. She decided not to mention that it was possibly on Lady Trafford’s or Mr. Withrow’s orders, as she had no evidence for that claim.

  “That is very serious indeed,” said Monsieur Corneau. “I will make sure Colonel Coates knows of it.”

  It was not long before Mr. Withrow arrived at the scene on horseback. He dismounted, rushed over to Colonel Coates, and after a few brief words was permitted to see the body.

  After a minute or so, he stepped away from the body, clearly distraught. His jaw was visibly clenched, and he ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on it.

  Monsieur Corneau approached Colonel Coates, and they had a brief, whispered conversation, after which Colonel Coates addressed Mr. Withrow.

  “We are hoping that you might help us identify the body. Miss Bennet said she saw you with this man on the eighth of September.”

  Mr. Withrow gave her a brief but calculating look, which frightened her a little. He now knew that she had followed him into the forest.

  “Miss Bennet is correct,” Mr. Withrow said smoothly. “This is Mr. Frederick Holloway, and I spoke with him at Castle Durrington. He is… He was a clergyman in Crawley.”

  “Thank you,” said the colonel. “I will make sure word is sent.”

  “His parents will appreciate that,” said Withrow.

  “I apologize for the question in advance, but what were you speaking about with Mr. Holloway?”

  “He was acting as an intermediary for me for a potential business deal with several gentlemen in Crawley. After our conversation, he was headed to Worthing on other business, I know not what. Perhaps what he did there was related to this unfortunate circumstance.”

  Colonel Coates nodded. “It seems quite likely that Mr. Holloway met his unfortunate end within a day or two of when you spoke with him. Do you know anyone here, or in the surroundi
ng area, that would mean him harm?”

  “He had many acquaintances in Worthing, but I am not aware of any who meant him harm.” His eyes strayed to the body, and then returned to Colonel Coates. “I apologize, but I do not think I know of anything more that will be useful to you or to the magistrate. You have sent for Sir Richard Pickering, I am sure?”

  “I had meant to,” said Colonel Coates. “I shall do so now. Oh—I do not have quill or paper. It shall have to wait until I return to Worthing.”

  Colonel Coates directed his men to prepare to move the body, and Mr. Withrow took it upon himself to make sure the job was done properly. The wagon was brought up the beach, and it seemed quite likely, with the men’s handling, that Mr. Holloway would lose a limb, in addition to all he had already lost.

  At one point, Monsieur Corneau took Colonel Coates aside. After a brief conversation, the Frenchman once again approached her.

  “Miss Bennet, I have what may seem a peculiar request. Since Colonel Coates and this regiment arrived in Worthing six months ago, I have been assisting him in his work, particularly in keeping him informed about this community.” He paused, and Mary wondered if he was attempting to be dramatic. “We would like you to observe if anything unusual might occur at Castle Durrington, whether it be the behaviour of the servants or the actions of Mr. Withrow and Lady Trafford.”

  “Have they done something wrong?” asked Mary.

  Corneau looked meaningfully at the body, which was now mostly in the cart, and largely covered by a blanket. “I do not know if they have or have not. But in case they have, we need to know. We need you to be our spy in their midst. It is of utmost importance.”

  “A spy?”

  Corneau nodded.

  Mary looked at the body, then to Mr. Withrow. To spy on her hosts, that was a serious request indeed. She looked out to the sea, to the water that had changed everything in a moment, when it had washed the body ashore.

  As a guest at Castle Durrington, she was uniquely suited to perform this task. Yet merely being in the right place was not enough to be successful in this sort of endeavor. She swallowed, attempting to rid herself of a sudden sense of inadequacy, but she could not escape the feeling. She was just Mary Bennet, an unimportant middle child in a normal family. Who was she to be a spy—who was she to do something of import? If she was honest with herself, she had achieved nothing of consequence her entire life. It was preposterous to think she could do so now. If her family were here, Kitty and Lydia would laugh at her delusions of grandeur. Elizabeth would make some clever comment but would not think her capable. Jane would say something kindly and supportive but would then attempt to dissuade her. Mrs. Bennet would express vocal disbelief, and her father… Well, if her father were alive, he would call her silly.

  She opened her mouth, about to make excuses as to why she could not do what Monsieur Corneau and Colonel Coates asked of her, but then she stopped herself. Why could she not be something more than she had always been? Corneau and Coates obviously thought her capable. She pictured herself: confident, intelligent, driven to discover the truth, unravelling key clues that would lead to the apprehension of the murderer. Suddenly, she wanted to accept, wanted it more than anything.

  She had left her home, she had left her family, and now she must leave behind her previous roles and become something more.

  Mary looked confidently into Monsieur Corneau’s eyes. “I will do it.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bennet.” The Frenchman smiled and returned to the colonel’s side.

  Finally, the corpse was secure and the wagon ready.

  “Come, Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Withrow. “If you stay much longer in the elements, you may catch a chill. It would be best if we returned to the castle.”

  “Very well,” said Mary, smoothing out the skirt of her black dress.

  “Wait one moment,” said Colonel Coates. “I need a brief word with Miss Bennet.”

  He led her farther down the beach, and they watched the waves. Strange, to think that a few hours ago she had stood like this with Mr. Withrow. How quickly everything could change. Once again, her thoughts went to her father, to her loss that was ever present, never ceasing.

  Colonel Coates looked at Mary with kind eyes. He reminded her of her grandfather on her mother’s side. “This must be such a terrible way to start your visit to Worthing,” he said. “Do you still feel safe here?”

  Even though she had been asked to spy on Mr. Withrow, Lady Trafford, and their servants, Mary could not bring herself to believe that anyone at Castle Durrington or in Worthing meant her harm. “I feel safe.”

  “I trust that Mr. Withrow and Lady Trafford will do everything they can to keep you safe and comfortable, and ensure a pleasant stay, but if at any time you feel threatened by anyone or anything, please come immediately to me, and I will help you with all the powers at my disposal.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. I appreciate it.”

  “You are a very brave young woman,” he said. “Remember that.”

  Colonel Coates and his men went on their way to Worthing, and Mr. Withrow walked next to Mary back to the castle, holding the reins of his horse. During the long walk, Mr. Withrow said not a single word to her, not even when it started to rain. She did not know him well, but he seemed upset, and she could not help but wonder: Was Mr. Withrow upset about the death of Mr. Holloway because they had been friends, or was he upset that Mr. Holloway’s body had not remained deep in the sea?

  Chapter Ten

  “WORTHING—The body of Mr. Frederick Holloway was found on the beach east of Worthing on Monday. Mr. Holloway had been stabbed with a knife and drowned. Mr. Holloway was a well-respected vicar in Crawley, where he had served for twelve years. He was thirty-six years of age, in healthy condition, and known to visit friends and acquaintances in Worthing on a regular basis. Local authorities have offered a reward of five pounds for any knowledge of Mr. Holloway’s death which would lead to the apprehension of the perpetrator.”

  –The Kentish Gazette, Kent, Surry, and Sussex, England, September 14, 1813

  “Incompetency,” declared Sir Richard Pickering. “Incompetency on all sides.”

  The magistrate from Brighton had come to assist with the investigation into Mr. Holloway’s death. He was a stern man, and, based on his terse greeting and the manner of conversation, did not appear to be friends with either Lady Trafford or Mr. Withrow. Lady Trafford seemed to find him amusing, while Mr. Withrow responded to his remarks with a touch of defensiveness.

  “Do not blame Colonel Coates’s incompetence on me. I did everything in my power to encourage him to leave the body where it was, and to contact you quickly.”

  “I am certain that you could have done more,” said Sir Richard Pickering. “There were injuries to his arms, and it is impossible to tell when these injuries were sustained, whether it was before his death, or during the handling of the body.”

  “I did all that I could during the loading of the wagon,” said Mr. Withrow. “But I had no justification for accompanying the body after that point.”

  Sir Richard Pickering turned to Mary. She almost shuddered, knowing that he would surely find something to criticize about her as well. She wished she could escape from the parlor, make her way up the stairs, and play the pianoforte to calm herself.

  “Tell me what you noticed when you saw the body, Miss Bennet. Mr. Holloway was on his back…” He waved his hand, inviting her to elaborate.

  “Actually,” said Mary timidly, “when I found Mr. Holloway, he was on his front.”

  “Why on earth did you turn him over?” said Sir Richard Pickering. “No one teaches or possesses a bit of common sense these days.”

  Mary’s chest rose and fell as she tried to control her breathing. His condescension was unwarranted, so she responded in a way that Elizabeth might. “Dealing with corpses is not typically considered part of a lady’s education. Besides, I did not realize at first that he was dead. His face was in the sand, and I thought
he needed air.”

  “I am quite impressed with the way you immediately acted in what must have been quite a difficult moment,” said Lady Trafford. “I believe the action you took was commendable.”

  “Given Miss Bennet’s understanding of the situation, it is justifiable,” said the magistrate. “Now describe the body—it was on its front.” The magistrate watched her attentively, quill ready to take shorthand as she spoke.

  “The feet were closest to the sea, and the water was lapping at them. His face was completely in the sand, and his arms…were limp at his side. I do not remember anything wrong with his clothing, from the back side, though he was not wearing a jacket, and he had worn one when I saw him before. I did not notice the discolouration of his skin until after I turned him over.”

  “Did you see anything else nearby on the shore, anything that could have washed ashore with Mr. Holloway?”

  “I walked the whole section to the east of the body and there was nothing there, except boulders and a tree. I did not walk west of the body, but I was faced that direction for several minutes, and I do not recall seeing anything at all on the sand for at least fifty or a hundred feet.”

  “When you turned Mr. Holloway to his back, what did you notice? Besides the discolouration, was there anything on his body? Any objects or remnants of anything or blood?”

  “There was sand on his shirt and his face. I was surprised at his missing eyes. But there was no blood really, or at least I am not sure that there was blood, and the wound in his side had discolouration.”

  “Was there anything in his pockets?”

  It was a peculiar question, but Mary tried to remember the body and its appearance. “I did not check, but his trousers lay flat. It did not appear that there was anything in his pockets.”

  He made another note on his paper. “You reported that you saw Mr. Holloway speaking with Mr. Withrow on the eighth.”

  She nodded.

  “Please answer verbally, yes or no.”

  “Yes, I saw them speaking.”

  He turned to Mr. Withrow. “Where and when specifically did this conversation occur?”