“At about three in the afternoon, here on the estate.” Mr. Withrow gave Mary a quick glance and then continued. “In the patch of trees in front of the castle.”
“The front entrance?” asked Sir Richard Pickering.
“Yes, the north side.”
“Can you confirm Miss Bennet’s statement that he was wearing the same clothes that were then found on his dead body?”
“I believe so.”
“Why were you meeting in the forest?” asked Mary.
“A very good question, Miss Bennet,” said Sir Richard Pickering. “I myself would like to know the answer.”
Sir Pickering was not as friendly as Colonel Coates or Monsieur Corneau, but the longer this conversation lasted, the more she appreciated his thoroughness and perceptiveness.
“Mr. Holloway has always been rather theatrical,” said Mr. Withrow. “Though he had a comfortable living as a vicar, at several points he considered running away to perform on the stage in London. Sometimes he insisted on living life in a theatrical manner—staying at out-of-the-way inns, conversing with unsavory characters, trying out different accents and clothing. For him, life was always a bit of a game, a bit of a performance. He did not like to sit still; he would rather have a brief meeting in the forest than over a cup of tea in a comfortable room.”
Withrow’s description painted a very different portrait of a man who Mary knew only as a thief and a corpse.
“What did you speak about?” asked Sir Pickering.
Despite some of the unfriendliness of demeanor between them, Mr. Withrow gave the magistrate a more detailed response than he had given Colonel Coates.
“I had interest in several potential business dealings with men in Crawley, people seeking investments to develop new technological inventions in horticulture. Since Mr. Holloway knew them well and was soon coming to Worthing, I had asked him to speak with them on my behalf. Often, in a conversation, one can gather more than a letter. He had come to Castle Durrington to tell me what he had learned. I can collect my notes on the matter if you are interested.”
“That would be useful,” said Sir Pickering. “Did Mr. Holloway mention what he planned to do after the conversation?”
“He said he planned to meet several people in Worthing. He seemed anxious, but when I asked who he was meeting and why, he did not say, and grew rather upset.” Withrow paused, in thought. “Holloway did have a small notebook and a pencil with them. He placed them in his jacket pocket. If you find the notebook, it may give some indication of who he was meeting and why.”
Withrow turned to Mary. “What were you doing in the forest, Miss Bennet, when you saw me with Mr. Holloway?”
“I was in my room, looking out the window, when I saw strange lights in the forest. I wanted to see what it was.”
“I see,” said Mr. Withrow. “When you saw us, why did you not call out or approach?”
“I did not want to disturb you.”
Sir Richard Pickering cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him. Mary expected him to ask if she had seen Mr. Holloway before and was prepared to disclose the full details about his theft of the mourning rings. But Sir Pickering did not. Mary was certain that Colonel Coates and Monsieur Corneau had informed Sir Richard Pickering of that key detail, so Sir Pickering must have his own reasons for not bringing it up now.
“Mr. Withrow, can you account for your whereabouts for the remainder of the day on the eighth?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Withrow. “But some might construe your question as making a rather unpleasant accusation.”
“I am making no accusations,” said Sir Pickering. “I am certain that you would agree that it is best I be thorough as I gather information.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Withrow. “I apologize. I took care of other matters of business at Castle Durrington, mostly in the library. I ate dinner with Miss Bennet, chaperoned by Mrs. Boughton. Then I retired to my room. You may speak with the servants and verify my whereabouts.”
Sir Pickering turned to Mary. “What about you, Miss Bennet?”
“I retired to my room and slept. Fanny woke me, then I dined with Mr. Withrow. Following dinner, I spent a significant amount of time in the library, and then I retired again to my room.”
“Lady Trafford?”
“I was in Brighton, seeing to matters of various societies I am part of. I will write you a list of all of the particulars, and since you live in Brighton, it should be simple for you to verify them.”
“That concludes my questions for now,” said Sir Pickering. “Though please, gather your relevant papers, Mr. Withrow. Do any of you have any questions for me?”
“I do,” said Mary. “Are you working with Colonel Coates and Monsieur Corneau on this investigation?”
“Yes,” said Sir Pickering. “The militia is tasked with keeping the peace, and so Colonel Coates and I will pass information back and forth until this mystery is solved. Monsieur Corneau has also proven himself useful in the past.”
After a few more minutes, Sir Pickering departed. Mary hoped that she too would prove herself useful. Due to Sir Pickering’s visit, her lessons for the day had been cancelled, which gave her time to begin gathering information.
Once Mr. Withrow and Lady Trafford had gone upstairs, Mary entered the library. She sat for a minute in a chair, waiting to see if anyone would interrupt her again, like the previous morning, but no one did.
She went straight to the shelf with the prized books and took down the Bible. While it was similar in appearance to the family Bible, it was not the book she had held her first evening at the castle. It contained no family records whatsoever. She spent the next hour searching the library for the family Bible but found not a trace.
*
Several hours later, the Shaffer family arrived for dinner. Mrs. Boughton led them into the drawing room with the pianoforte where Lady Trafford, Mr. Withrow, and Mary were waiting.
Mary recognized Mr. Shaffer from the sermon he had given at church two days before. Lady Trafford introduced him, as well as his wife, Mrs. Shaffer, who was blind in one eye, and his daughter, Miss Shaffer, who appeared to be approximately Mary’s age.
“It is so kind of you to invite us,” said Mrs. Shaffer to Lady Trafford. “I hope we have not been a burden on your kitchen staff, what with the last-minute notice.”
“It is no trouble at all,” said Lady Trafford. “It simply occurred to me that it had been too long since our last dinner engagement, and I decided that I best act quickly upon my realization, for sometimes if I do not, my best intentions go to naught.”
“That is a laudable approach,” said Mr. Shaffer. “So many people have endless good intentions. I firmly believe that every single person has the potential to do and be good, but intentions must be put into action.”
Miss Shaffer smiled at Mr. Withrow, but then she spoke to Mary. “I heard that you are at Castle Durrington in part to pursue your studies.”
“Yes,” said Mary.
“Please, tell me about what you are learning.”
Miss Shaffer was attentive to Mary’s answer, so Mary described her French and drawing lessons in detail. Everyone in Worthing seemed much more apt than those in Meryton to listen to Mary with their full attention. At one point Mary paused for breath, and Lady Trafford inserted herself into their conversation.
“It makes me very happy that you are so appreciative of your studies,” said Lady Trafford, effectively ending Mary’s description. Lady Trafford must not have realized that Mary had more to say. “Now tell me, Miss Shaffer, how are your own studies progressing?”
“I have not been doing as much as I ought—I spend much time assisting the less fortunate—but I have taken several more painting lessons from Mr. Linton, and I feel like my work is progressing.”
“That reminds me,” said Mrs. Shaffer, “you still have not shown me your newly acquired painting, Lady Trafford. I have been rather expecting an invitation to see it, and it has been a
month since it arrived at Castle Durrington.”
“I apologize for neglecting to show it to you,” said Lady Trafford. “Come, there should be time to view it before the meal.”
Lady Trafford led everyone to the hall that could be used as a ballroom. The large room, which was often left dark, was already aglow with candlelight; Lady Trafford must have predicted that they would visit the painting, or maybe it was lit anytime that guests were expected. Mary stayed near the end of the group, with Miss Shaffer. As they entered the ballroom, Miss Shaffer paused for a moment at the portrait of a man who had the same nose as Lady Trafford. Miss Shaffer spent longer gazing at the next portrait, a young lady not more than twelve or thirteen years of age, with a pleasant face and a warm smile.
Miss Shaffer turned away from the portraits and gestured that they should catch up with the others. “It is a pity you will never have the opportunity to meet Lady Trafford’s children, James and Anne. They were remarkable people.”
“Did you know them well?” asked Mary.
“Yes,” said Miss Shaffer sadly.
After a moment of silence, Mary realized that it would be appropriate to say something kind in response. But despite the fact that she herself was in mourning, no words came to her. She turned to what her sister Jane would likely say. “It must have been very challenging, for all of their friends and family.”
Miss Shaffer nodded, and they caught up with the others at a painting of a vase of flowers.
“This is a piece by Mary Moser,” said Lady Trafford. “I like the contrast of the dark background, with the vase and table almost disappearing into it, and the vivid brightness of the light on the flowers.”
Mrs. Shaffer leaned her head closer to the painting and then stepped back to take a fuller view of the work. “I think it is admirable when women paint,” she said, “but I do not believe that they should sell their paintings. It is better for them to develop their talents to serve their family members and friends, rather than place themselves in the public eye.”
“I like the painting,” said Mr. Shaffer. “But, like my wife, I do believe it leaves something to be desired.”
“I think it is marvelous,” said Miss Shaffer. “If I could paint like that, I would try to sell my work.”
“I do not doubt that you could succeed,” said Lady Trafford.
Mr. and Mrs. Shaffer did not seem pleased with that prospect.
Personally, Mary liked the painting. She herself had no accomplishments that would ever place her in the public eye, but if she did, she wondered if her mother would support her, or if her father would have when he was alive.
“Have you had any news from Charles?” asked Mr. Withrow, changing the subject.
Mrs. Shaffer stiffened.
Mr. Shaffer considered his wife, then spoke. “We recently received a letter, and Charles is doing well.”
“Conditions are terrible for the troops,” said Mrs. Shaffer.
“At least Charles has not taken ill,” said Mr. Shaffer.
“My brother is serving on the continent,” Miss Shaffer whispered in Mary’s ear.
“I am sorry to hear of it,” said Mr. Withrow. “We all hope something will change soon so this war can end, and the troops can return home.”
For most of Mary’s life, England had been at war with France. She could hardly imagine what it would be like for their countries to be at peace.
“How is Jacob?” asked Mr. Withrow.
“He is enjoying his studies,” said Mr. Shaffer.
“My eldest brother is in London,” whispered Miss Shaffer. Mary appreciated how Miss Shaffer provided context so she could feel part of the conversation.
Lady Trafford gestured them forward to another painting. “This painting is not new, but it has been in storage. I thought it time to display it again.”
It was a rather striking historical painting depicting John the Baptist’s head on a platter. Salome, who had requested his death, stood to the side, smiling. This painting had not been on display when Mrs. Boughton had given Mary a tour of the house a few days before, so Lady Trafford’s decision to display it must have been recent indeed.
“It is fascinating to consider the ugly things people will do when they think it best,” said Lady Trafford.
“I always find historical paintings very instructive,” said Mary. “Particularly those that take, as their focus, religious themes.”
Mrs. Shaffer once again stepped closer to the work. “It is well painted,” she said decisively.
“I was horrified when I heard of Mr. Holloway’s gruesome death,” said Lady Trafford.
Mary did not see the connection between Mr. Holloway and their current conversation. Mr. Withrow took one small step back, and all of the Shaffers’ faces looked as if they had just come across an unpleasant smell.
“Did you know that Sir Pickering and Colonel Coates think that Mr. Holloway may have been murdered on the eighth?” asked Lady Trafford.
“I had not heard the date,” said Mrs. Shaffer.
“Mr. Withrow met with him that very afternoon, here, on our property. Mr. Holloway told him he was headed to Worthing, but no one ever saw him again.”
“The eighth?” said Miss Shaffer. “That was the evening Mr. Holloway was supposed to dine with us. He never came.”
“Are you sure it was the eighth?” Mrs. Shaffer considered for a moment. “Yes, you are correct, it was the eighth. To think that he might have been murdered while we were halfway through our second course.”
Miss Shaffer put her hand on her father’s arm. “Father, are you unwell?”
Mr. Shaffer did appear rather pale. “I am fine,” he said briskly. “Quite fine.”
“Please, take a seat,” said Lady Trafford, gesturing to a chair. “I will send for something for you to drink.”
“It is unnecessary,” said Mr. Shaffer. He turned away from the painting of John’s head, but then turned back. “Mr. Holloway and I did not part on the best of terms the last time we saw each other, about a month ago. I had hoped to be able to reconcile with him, but now I will not have that opportunity.”
Mary did not think Mr. Shaffer would openly acknowledge a rift between him and Mr. Holloway if he had been involved in the death, but their relationship was worth noting.
“I am so sorry,” said Lady Trafford. “There are many things I wish I had said to Anne before she was taken from us so suddenly.”
Suddenly, Mary was brought back to her own father’s final moments, to the things he had not said, and to the things, in the months and years prior, that she had never said. She was not good at expressing her emotions, and never felt as close to others as they seemed to feel to each other.
“We cannot dwell on regret,” said Mr. Shaffer. “We must learn to forgive not only others, but also ourselves.”
The conversation moved on to more pleasant topics, and remained that way, all through dinner. After dinner they returned to the drawing room, and Mary sat in a comfortable chair with a book. As Mr. and Mrs. Shaffer spoke animatedly with Lady Trafford next to the fire, Mary overheard Miss Shaffer and Mr. Withrow speaking, almost in a whisper.
“It must have been terrible for you to see Mr. Holloway’s body in such a state,” said Miss Shaffer.
“I was rather shocked,” Withrow admitted. “I had very much come to rely on him. Now, I feel as if I must share the blame for his death.” Mary wondered if he, perhaps, had been involved—after the meeting with Holloway, instead of taking care of matters of the estate, he could have gone to Worthing. Yet surely he would not confess such a thing to Miss Shaffer. Mr. Withrow continued, “He would not have been in Worthing if it were not for his meeting with me.”
“You cannot blame yourself,” said Miss Shaffer. “That is what I keep telling my father. He has kept pacing, back and forth, back and forth in his study, ever since he heard the news yesterday.”
Miss Shaffer glanced in Mary’s direction, and Mary pretended to be reading her book. Miss Shaffer and
Mr. Withrow did not discuss Mr. Holloway again, but Mary had already gathered plenty from this evening’s conversations that she could report to Monsieur Corneau.
Chapter Eleven
“On Saturday, J.F. Spur…underwent a final examination, charged on suspicion of stealing a Bank of England note, for ten pounds, from the General-post Receiving-house….[A] number of letters that had been put into Mr. Miles’s receiving house, in Oxford-street, particularly…letters with which the postage had been paid, and which contained bank-notes or bills, had not reached the persons to whom they were directed.”
–The Kentish Gazette, Kent, Surry, and Sussex, England, October 22, 1813
Dear Jane,
Thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear that you are feeling ill. I can only recommend good books as an antidote to your struggles. While they may not resolve physical ailments, they do enrich and uplift the mind, helping people to feel less burdened.
Thank you for informing me that you and Elizabeth have declared an end to the formal mourning period. However, I still feel it important for me, at least, to continue to wear black and not engage in any frivolous behaviour.
I am much recovered from the incident of finding the deceased clergyman on the beach. Do not worry about me on that account. They have yet to find the responsible party.
This is Lady Trafford’s ear. Can you not see the progress from my letter a few weeks ago? I have drawn features of every single servant in the house and the main stables (there are twenty-two). Lady Trafford even sat for a full portrait. Mr. Withrow is the only person I have not drawn, but I do not think I will ask him.
It is getting cold here, and the wind from the sea makes it feel even colder. We have also had much rain. Both facts are unfortunate because Mr. Linton has prohibited me from doing landscape drawings inside, looking out the window. Most days I am forced out of the castle.
My French is also improving. I can now understand a fair amount of spoken French and speak a fair amount. Twice this past week I met Madame Dieupart in Worthing and was able to practice with other French speakers. Madame Dieupart finally admitted that the years I spent reading French are helping me learn the language faster. She does complain that I sound too much like a book, but there are much worse things than sounding like a book.
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 12