“At the race-meeting itself, Jane?”
“Tho' well before the murder of Mrs. Grey. Our party met with the two gentlemen in the interval before the heats. They seemed most companionable, and joined in their good wishes for the Commodore's running.”
“As well they might,” Henry retorted gloomily. “Much good it may do them.”
“Perhaps the betting aroused their enmity,” Neddie mused. “Or Denys Collingforth's insults. He fairly accused them of Mrs. Grey's murder — and before all of Kent.”
“But would that cause either to drive post-haste to The Larches?” I protested. “You spoke of rifled desk drawers, Neddie. Certainly you were in error there? The two were surely not despoiling Mrs. Grey's things?”
My brothers exchanged a long look; then Neddie shrugged. “Their appearance at our entrance had all the suggestion of uneasy interruption, Jane. Woodford was bending over the desk, while Mr. Bridges was intent about the lock of one drawer. Whether either man had divined its secrets, I cannot say; but I am certain that was their purpose.”
“And could the housekeeper tell you nothing of their coming?”
“Only that they had burst upon her all unawares, when she was already prostrate with grief at her mistress's passing; that they insisted upon admission to the house, and vowed that they would wait for Mr. Grey.”
“And so she left them to peruse the contents of her mistress's desk,” I muttered. “A considerable liberty.”
“I must believe that Mrs. Bastable — the housekeeper— was quite accustomed to seeing my brother Bridges and the Captain at The Larches. To her there was nothing extraordinary in their being granted the freedom of the house.”
We considered this unfortunate conclusion in silence a moment, while the willows sighed gendy along the banks of the Stour in the darkness. The sound, so generally soothing, drifted through the open French windows like a whisper from the grave.
“Do you apprehend the nature of Mr. Bridges's intimacy with the Greys, Neddie?” I enquired at length.
He shrugged. “It was neither so very great, as to be called intimate, nor so trifling as to pass for the barest acquaintance. Edward would have it that Mrs. Grey was very fond of cards, and when her husband was absent on business in Town, she would often send round to various gendemen in the neighbourhood, that they might make up her whist table.”
“Mr. Bridges played at cards at The Larches?”
“Then no doubt he lost,” Henry added.
“It is his chief talent.” Neddie rose and turned restlessly before the bare hearth. “But I confess to some anxiety at his presence in that house, and at such a time. I feel scarcely less on Woodford's account. They are both of them honourable fellows — as the behaviour of gentlemen is usually construed.”
“Meaning, that they are amiable, good-humoured, feckless sportsmen who should not be trusted with their quarter's pay,” I finished. “Either they intended to retrieve their vowels from Mrs. Grey's desk, or some other piece of incriminating paper has given rise to anxiety.[14] A love letter? An indiscretion, too desperate to be revealed to the lady's husband?”
“Perhaps,” Neddie admitted.
“Perhaps the lady had a taste for blackmail,” Henry threw out.
I started at the word. Blackmail will always possess an ugly sound — and I had learned to respect its vicious nature in Bath the previous winter. The rifling of a desk was a natural aftermath of a brutal killing, when the victim of the act had proved brutal herself. Mr. Bridges's behaviour bore all the markings of a man in fear of betrayal. But of what?
Of whatever Denys Collingforth had hinted, in the middle of the race grounds? His object then had been the curate alone, not Captain Woodford — but Wood-ford had been encompassed in the insult later, the price of coming to the aid of his friend. Perhaps the shadow cast on the Captain's honour had caused the rift with the curate. But the Captain, too, had been discovered bent over the desk—
“I see how it is. This is an ugly business, Neddie.”
“And likely to grow worse.” He tossed off the last of his wine. “All of Kent may have despised Mrs. Grey; they may have cut her dead in certain circles, and laughed at her in others — but her influence was felt. Her charm was insidious. Her habits and style were bewitching to some. And no matter how the sad nature of her end is resolved, we can none of us hope to avoid the breath of scandal, Jane. We are touched by it too nearly.”
He looked then as though he felt all the weight of his commission — hollow-eyed, burdened, and wearied in mind and body. I went to him, and kissed his cheek in silent testament of affection.
“What do you intend to do next?” I asked him.
I shall endeavour to learn why Collingforth should have killed Francoise Grey,” he replied, “tho' I cannot believe he did it.”
“You might also enquire who bore a grudge against CoUingforth himself,” I suggested. “The introduction of the corpse into his chaise must bear a questionable aspect. It is one thing to murder a woman, and quite another to throw the blame.”
“True.” My brother took up his candle and made for the stairs. “Pray inform me, Jane, as to the result of your own researches. I am not so callow as to believe you will sit home, quiet and confined, while so much of interest is toward. I will neither enjoin you to silence, nor urge you to the chase — but I will always be ready to listen.”
And so our conferences ended, with a solemn procession by candlelight — my brothers to their beds, and I to the Yellow Room's little writing table.
I would not have you share this intelligence with Harriot for the world, I cautioned Cassandra now. Better that she should learn the worst — if worst there is — when it cannot be avoided. But if you should have occasion to observe the two gentlemen, my dear sister — one comprising her brother, and the other her suitor — pray be on your guard. For anything you discern might be as gold.
I signed the letter, sealed it with some candlewax and my brother's fob, and waited for the storm to break above my head.
Chapter 4
A Passage with the Bereaved
Tuesday
20 August 1805
IN NEARLY THIRTY YEARS OF LIVING I HAVE OFTEN HAD occasion to observe, that one sensational event may only be supplanted by another of equal or greater import. And so it has been with all of us at Godmersham this morning: Mrs. Grey's brutal murder is quite forgot, and the agent of her eclipse is none other than Captain Woodford.
He appeared in the approach to our gates at noon, arrayed in his full dress uniform and mounted on a dappled grey. I was privileged in having the first sight of him — for I had profited from the interlude after breakfast, when the little ones were taking turns with patient Patch, the old pony, to escape to my Doric temple and my solitude. There in columned shadow I was established with paper and pen, secure in such privacy as I may rarely command. There I might gaze out over the chuckling Stour, and watch the growing heat of morning raise a fine mist above the meadows; feel birdsong throbbing in my veins, and attempt to wrestle Lady Susan to her Fate.[15]
The nature of that Fate is much in question at present, for Lady Susan is not a woman to suffer the vagaries of fortune as willingly as her creator might intend. She is a vengeful and calculating Virago, in fact, and I am entirely delighted with her. Cassandra believes there is something shocking in a woman so very bad; she would have Lady Susan repentant and reformed at the tale's end. But in this we may read the force of sentiment— and the failure of Art to mirror Truth. For I have known a thousand Lady Susans; have seen them sail unremarked through the Fashionable World, their consequence increasing with every fresh outrage. Unnatural mother, adulterous schemer, and treacherous friend — what can such a woman ever know of virtue?
I love her too well, in short, to have her broken for a moral.
My thoughts in this vein had only just borne fruit, in the composition of the novel's final pages, when the sound of hoofbeats on the dusty lane below my hilltop perch alerted all my sens
es. I half-rose, and peered round a column; observed an officer mounting the stone bridge over the Stour; and set aside my paper and pen. A moment's further study revealed the upright figure to possess an eye patch — and there could not be two such at large in the country. Captain Woodford, then, was come to Godmersham, and well before the usual hour for paying a morning call!
If I entertained the notion of a soul burdened with guilt, and advancing upon my brother for the full confession of its sins, I may perhaps be forgiven. I watched with narrowed eyes as the Captain achieved the gates and made his measured progress up the sweep.[16] He did not look a man overwhelmed by grief; yet neither was he galloping as befit an officer charged with the most urgent intelligence. The French were not upon our very doorstep, at least.
I gathered up my little sheaf of paper, secured Lady Susan and my pen in the pocket of my apron, and set off down the slope towards the house.
“CAPTAIN WOODFORD,” LIZZY SAID, WITH HER MOST charming smile — the one that is barely a smile at all. “I fear you find us quite abandoned by the gentlemen.”
Neddie had left early on horseback intent upon Valentine Grey, while Henry had been charged with learning what he could of Denys Collingforth's affairs. He intended, I believed, to spend the better part of the day drinking ale in the Hound and Tooth, the center of all gossip in Canterbury.
The Captain bowed low over my sister's hand, then inclined his head towards myself. “Mr. Austen is from home? should have suspected as much. The tragic business at the race-meeting—”
“Indeed,” Lizzy returned smoothly. “My husband left the house at eight o'clock, intent upon The Larches. Mr. Grey, it seems, arrived home just after dawn, and Mr. Austen wished to speak with him as soon as might be.”
“Of course. I had not known Grey was returned.” If the Captain felt a moment's uneasiness at the mention of The Larches, he betrayed nothing in his countenance. His entire aspect, in fact, was official and grave, as tho' he moved in a role not entirely his own. He handed Lizzy a furled despatch, tied round with a scarlet cord.
“I had hoped to speak with Mr. Austen himself, but given the pressing nature of the business at hand, can delay no longer. You will comprehend the urgency of this document's contents, I am sure, Mrs. Austen, and see that its instructions are fulfilled to the letter.”
But Lizzy was already perusing the despatch, a fine line growing deeper between her brows. “Evacuation orders?” she said faintly. “But is it certain?”
“Nothing can be certain, ma'am, when the enemy is so inscrutable as Buonaparte,” the Captain replied. “We merely thought it wisest to discharge these orders among the local gentry, in the event of an invasion's taking place. You apprehend that it would not do, ma'am, to have the populace choking the major routes of any army retreat towards London.”
“Retreat,” Lizzy repeated. “You have capitulated already, I see.”
Captain Woodford gave a short bark of laughter, and glanced at me uneasily. “There is no cause for alarm, Mrs. Austen, I assure you. It is merely wisest to be prepared.”
“What has occasioned the present release of these orders?” I enquired. “Have the French been sighted in the Channel?”
“I regret that I am not at liberty to disclose the intelligence,” the Captain told me with another bow, “since I am hardly in command of it myself. I may only say that Major-General Lord Forbes was called out in the middle of the night, and told of something that so excited his anxiety, he deemed it best to alert the surrounding countryside. It is everywhere rumoured that the fleet has escaped from Brest and Boulogne — that the Emperor has embarked — and that even now some thousand French ships with cavalry and cannon in their holds are bound for the shores of Kent.”
“The fleet escaped? While Admiral Nelson and the intrepid Fly Austen patrol the Channel? Unthinkable!” I scoffed.[17]
“Would that the General might share your fond hope,” said Woodford with a smile, “but caution must argue a more present surety. We would wish you to have the chief of your household goods packed and in readiness, in the event you must quit the country on little notice.”
“Packing is merely the tenth part of it,” Lizzy said abruptly. She crumpled the despatch into a tight little wad. “We are to fire the sainfoin harvest from June, and cull the herds as well? — It shall be a bitter winter in Kent, if every household does the same! And what if we refuse, Captain Woodford?”
“I should not like to have to enforce the orders against your will, madam,” he rejoined, “but if my general commands it, I will do so. We cannot have such a rich provision fall into the hands of the French.”[18]
Lizzy thrust the despatch into my hands, and turned away. “Forgive me, Captain — but I must see that the packing is commenced at once. A household of nine children, a variety of adults, and fourteen in service, may never move but at a ponderous pace. Pray overlook my ill-breeding, and accept a glass of lemonade. Mrs. Salkeld! Mrs. Salkeld!”
And so she swept out of the drawing-room, her carriage magnificent, the very picture of an outraged chatelaine. Captain Woodford gazed after her with an air of trouble on his brow, and then smiled ruefully at me. “At least she did not dissolve in tears. For that I am thankful. It is a difficult business, informing the populace of so unexpected a removal. I have witnessed all manner of behaviour in the past several hours — fainting fits, the tearing of hair, and even the threat of violence. One lady I shall forbear to name advanced upon me with a pair of sewing shears!”
I could not suppress a smile. “Poor Captain Wood-ford! Duty is a difficult master, in the best of times. We must all suffer from its effects. My unfortunate brother feels his burden as cruelly as yourself, I assure you.”
At that moment, Russell the manservant appeared in the doorway bearing a tray. Woodford's countenance lightened with an expression of relief. The conveyance of the King's orders must be a parching business.
“Pray sit down, Captain,” I said.
He removed his hat, and took a chair, and accepted a glass of lemon-water from Russell. “Little as I enjoy my present orders, I do not envy Mr. Austen his duty. It is one thing to kill another man in battle — that is merely a trick of Fate, the necessity of war. But to murder a woman, in cold blood — and a woman, too, in the full flush of youth! I shall never forget the sight of her dead face as long as I live, Miss Austen.”
“I understand you were intimate with the family,” I offered gently. “You have my deepest sympathy.”
The Captain coloured, and dropped his gaze. “It is true that I have known Grey from our earliest years. We were practically raised in each other's London households and schooled together at Harrow. But as for Francoise — the late Mrs. Grey — my acquaintance was very brief. She had been a bride but seven months.”
“So little.”
“You know, of course, that she was connected to an influential banking family in France.”
“I heard something of it,” I admitted, “but am ignorant of the particulars.”
“Mrs. Grey was the ward of the Penfleurs. They are a powerful and prodigious clan, with branches in every kingdom, and a wealth that approaches fable. There are Penfleurs who are princes in France, and Penfleurs who are counts in Naples; Penfleurs who advise the rulers of German states, and not a few who are essential to the Netherlands. Their resources remain entirely in the family, and their credit extends across continents. But remarkably, there were no Penfleurs in England—”
“Until Francoise,” I said.
“Until Francoise,” he agreed. “I tell you this, Miss Austen, so that you might comprehend the nature of my friend's marriage. It was arranged, I believe, by the elder Penfleur himself, who had the charge of Francoise from infancy; she cannot have been very well acquainted with Mr. Grey, when first she arrived on these shores.”
“Did she come to England, then, against her will?”
“I doubt that Francoise Lamartine ever did anything against her will,” he replied with a faint smile.<
br />
But it could not be surprising, I thought, that in the face of such a marriage — exiled by her family and treated coldly by her husband — she had turned to an unknown lover.
“How very tragic,” I murmured. “For so young a woman, and a stranger to Kent, to find her death in so brutal a manner … You had no hint of Mrs. Grey possessing any enemies, I suppose?”
He eyed me over the rim of his glass, then set it deliberately on the table. “You are not of Kentish society yourself, Miss Austen, any more than I may claim to be. We are both of us merely visitors to this delightful place, and care little how its intimates may treat us. But that was not the case with Francoise. I am sure that your sister and brother have told you a little of her reception.”
“But a coldness on the part of a strange society, in itself, should hardly lead to murder,” I persisted. “Surely that is another order of violence altogether, Captain?”
“I have been taught to think so.” He rose, and took up his hat. “A sense of what is due to my friend Grey, Miss Austen, must prevent me from speaking plainly. I may only tell you that his wife's enemies were thick upon the ground. You might look no farther than the lady's own household.”
I gazed at him narrowly. “I cannot believe you would accuse your oldest friend, Captain Woodford, of doing away with his wife. This cannot be what is due to him, as you put it.”
“I, accuse Valentine Grey? Impossible!” he cried. “I merely meant to underline, Miss Austen, that Denys Collingforth is hardly the only man in Kent who has reason to think ill of the dead.”
“And what was his reason, Captain, for despising her?”
Woodford eyed me uneasily. “That is a question best answered by Mr. Collingforth. I am sure your brother, the Justice, has considered of it.”
“Mr. Collingforth appears to think ill of any number of people,” I observed, as I conducted the Captain to the door. “Had you not been present to prevent it, he should certainly have served our poor Mr. Bridges with violence! You are owed a debt of gratitude in this house, sir.”
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