26 August 1806, cont.
“BUT HOW EXTRAORDINARY!” I CRIED. “CAN SUCH A thing be possible?”
“It can, Cousin, and it is,” Mr. Cooper replied gloomily. “Mr. Tivey discovered the truth directly he examined the corpse. There is no denying that a woman’s body is very unlike to a man’s, you know, and furthermore, he recognised the girl at once. She is Bakewell born and bred.”
“Indeed?” There had been elegance in her looks — that delicacy of feature, the cropped golden curls. She might well have been a gentleman’s daughter, abroad on some lark in the dead of night. That would explain the fancy-dress. “And did she belong to one of the estates in the neighbourhood?”
“To a place called Penfolds,” my cousin said, “some five miles distant. She was a stillroom maid.”
“A servant!”
“By the name of Tess Arnold.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the parlour door, concerned lest word of the girl’s unhappy end should travel unbeknownst into the hallway; Sally might be hovering there, her ears grown large with the intelligence. I shut the door firmly and placed my back against it.
“Was Mr. Tivey able to determine when she was killed?”
My cousin’s eyes moved blankly to meet my own. “He thinks it possible that life was extinguished some hours before the body was discovered, but cannot tell exactly when. The maid probably met her end in the middle of the night.”
“Quite alone and far from home” — Cassandra shuddered — “where her cries for assistance must certainly go unheeded. How dreadful, to be sure!”
“You say that Penfolds is five miles from Bakewell, Cousin,” I said. “But how great a distance separates it from Miller’s Dale, and the place of the maid’s gruesome end?”
“Less than a mile, Sir James Villiers tells me. Sir James is in commission of the peace for Bakewell, and a very fine gentleman; he has known Charles Danforth from birth.”
“Mr. Danforth, I conclude, is the owner of Penfolds?”
“And a man of very easy circumstances — a clear ten thousand a year. The Danforth family is an ancient one in Derbyshire, and boasts a considerable reputation and influence; Sir James assures me that they are everywhere esteemed and valued.” The respectability of the Penfolds family appeared of some importance to my cousin, as though it might blot out the savagery of their dependant’s murder.
“I knew a Danforth once,” my mother offered, “but he was killed at sea in the year ’sixty-nine. They carried his body in the hold of his ship for six weeks together, pickled in a hogshead of rum, so that his wife might have the burying of him. Unsavoury business. I cannot think that any wife should wish to see her husband so thoroughly disguised in drink.”
“But how came this young woman to be from home so late at night?” Cassandra enquired. “And attired as a man?”
“And whose,” I added, “were the clothes? It must be tolerably difficult for a serving girl to obtain the articles of a gentleman.”
“Unless she were intimate with the Penfolds laundress,” my mother observed — a point not without its merits.
“One does not wish to speak ill of the dead — particularly when death was achieved in so hideous a manner,” Cassandra began hesitantly. “One does not like to place an unpleasant construction on events—”
“But clearly duplicity was the maid’s object. You may speak freely, Cassandra; your words cannot harm Tess Arnold now.”
“I fear I cannot agree, Jane,” objected Mr. Cooper. “It is not for us to canvass the matter of the girl’s death. It is an affair for the Justice.”
Impossible for my cousin to comprehend the restless agitation that had held me in its grip throughout the morning; or the feverish activity of my intellect, in its effort to make sense of so much brutality. He could not be expected to apprehend that having seen the blood on the rock, I must be doing something to rid myself of nightmare. Such behaviour in a lady was beyond Mr. Cooper’s experience, and, indeed, beyond what he might consider the bounds of decorum. But I would not submit willingly to nightmare for anyone.
I took a turn before the unlit grate and came to a halt at my cousin’s chair. “Did Mr. Tivey offer his opinion of the girl? Or any views that might throw some light on this dreadful business?”
Mr. Cooper drew a laboured breath, and failed to meet my eyes. “Tivey is the sort who would consign his own mother to the Devil, Jane,” he said with surprising vehemence, “and I would not give a farthing for his opinion of anybody.”
SIR JAMES VILLIERS, HOWEVER, WAS ANOTHER KETTLE of fish — as my mother, in an angling spirit, might have been disposed to say. Sir James appeared in The Rutland Arms at so advanced an hour of the evening, however, that my mother was long since gone to bed, and Cassandra hard on her heels; only my cousin and I kept vigil with the lamps. Though the subject went un-broached between us, I rather fancy that neither of us was in haste to shut his eyes that evening, being uncertain what visions of horror might descend.
Mr. Cooper was bent over his travelling desk, composing a letter to his wife or perhaps a sermon on the day’s events — a natural expression of relief after so trying a period. I was engrossed in a slim volume of George Crabbe’s, discovered on a shelf in a corner of our parlour — a book of verse, unknown to me before, entitled The Village. Its tone was so like to a bitter wind that blights the first faint flowers of spring, that I quite admired the poet. He might have captured my very spirit of trouble and melancholy. I had just concluded the passage that begins “amid such pleasing scenes I trace/the poor laborious natives of the place,” when Sally announced Sir James.
He was not a tall man; but his figure was so elegantly spare, and so swooningly attired, that he might have been the lengthiest reed, a veritable whip of a fellow. He slid lithely into the room and bowed low over my hand before I had even thought to make my curtsey — before, indeed, my cousin Mr. Cooper had gained his feet. In another instant, Sir James had sent the serving girl for a bottle of Madeira — had made himself comfortable in our parlour — and was conversing so cordially with Mr. Cooper and myself that we might all have been acquainted this last age.
Sir James’s fair hair was artfully curled over his forehead à la Titus and the leathers of his Hussar boots gleamed. I observed the cut of his dark blue pantaloons, the narrow shoulders of his olive coat, and the remarkable extravagance of his necktie — and knew myself in the presence of a Pink of the ton, a Sprig of Fashion, a True Corinthian. My brother Henry had long ago taught me the mark of such a man.
“Have you lived long in Derbyshire, Sir James?” I enquired as Sally reappeared with his wine.
“All my life,” he replied. “I was born and raised at Villiers Hall, and absent a few years of schooling and a Season or two in London, have been happy to call it home. I am the fourth Villiers to bear the title of baronet, and the second to serve as Justice for Bakewell.”
“And does your commission generally give you so much trouble?”
He grinned — an easy, languorous expression not unlike a hound’s. “There has not been a serious offence in the vicinity for years, Miss Austen. The duties of Justice are more honoured in the breach than the observance. We may account Tess Arnold’s murder the result of an extraordinary run of bad luck.”
“Have there been other incidents, then, predating this murder?”
“Not in Bakewell itself,” Sir James replied. “But the owner of Penfolds Hall — Mr. Charles Danforth — has suffered grievous misfortune in recent months. He has lost no less than four children, the last a stillborn son. His wife passed away a fortnight after her lying-in.”
“It is a wonder the people of Bakewell do not believe him cursed,” I murmured.
“Ah — but they do! And the maid’s murder will be taken as further proof of it.” Sir James looked to my cousin. “It is a most distressing business, whatever the cause. It seems your passion for angling, Mr. Cooper, has placed us all at the center of a maelstrom. What have you to say for yourself?
”
Mr. Cooper opened and shut his mouth without a word escaping him. It was fortunate, I thought, that no hymn sprang forth.
“A maelstrom,” I repeated. “Has news of the girl’s murder spread so quickly?”
“Recollect that it was market day, and all the countryside gathered in town,” Sir James replied. “If there is a resident within twenty miles of Bakewell yet in ignorance of the events, I should be greatly surprised.”
“Is Mr. Tivey so little to be trusted?”
Sir James hesitated. “Michael Tivey is well enough in his way — a good surgeon, and a better blacksmith — but he is also a native of this country, reared in all the superstition and ignorance for which these hills are known.”
“And what does superstition argue, Sir James?” I enquired.
“Tivey would have it the girl was killed in sacrifice — that she was butchered like a spring lamb to appease a vengeful god. He is crying out in every publican’s house against the heretics who walk among us — against infidels, and idolators, and destroyers of respectable faith. In short, Tivey would have it that Tess Arnold was murdered by Freemasons.”
“Freemasons!” I cried. And was bereft of further speech.
A Freemasons’ lodge is so much a part of life in a country village — a gathering place for local gentlemen, and a focus for their benevolent works — that it might rival the Church in sanctity. Indeed, not a few of the most distinguished clerics in the Church of England espouse the Brotherhood’s Christian principles; to be a politician is almost synonymous with membership; the Prince of Wales has lent the order an air of Fashion; and advancement in the world of the professions, whether in London or the counties, might well turn upon the influence of one’s fellow Masons. In short, the lodge is the most powerful of gentlemen’s clubs — than which, in England, little else is more powerful. The idea of a surgeon-blacksmith inciting public opinion against such a creditable institution strained the bounds of belief.
“Freemasons,” Sir James repeated with a hint of irony in his voice. “I suspect the local lodge has rejected Tivey as a member. However excellent his hands with horses and broken sinews, he is not what our Derbyshire gentry would like to call one of ourselves; and so he seizes this opportunity to paint us all with a grisly brush. He shall certainly do some damage, to be sure — there are many enough among the Bakewell rabble who are willing to believe the rankest sort of nonsense.”
“But Masons have long been regarded as pillars of respectability,” objected my cousin Mr. Cooper. “I do not mean to say that this was always the case; there was a time, indeed, when God-fearing folk understood the Brethren to have formed a dark cabal, a sort of heretical sect, and the Masonic affection for obscure symbols did not recommend their cause. But such ignorance must be a thing of the past. To be a Freemason is to be recognised as a decent and benevolent fellow — and one who moves in the first circles. Even so exalted a gentleman as my esteemed patron, Sir George Mumps, is not above joining a lodge. He pressed me most flatteringly only last winter to become a member; but, however, I could not spare the time from my parish duties. It is impossible that a Mason should be connected with so disgraceful an affair as the maid’s murder — and if such accusations were to reach Sir George’s ears, I am sure he would refute them most indignantly!”
“But as Tivey has seen fit to point out, there is a ritual execution prescribed for traitors to the lodge,” Sir James replied, “and the maidservant’s case is very like in nearly every particular. Tivey has published the nature of the girl’s wounds in Bakewell’s streets, and many are now crying revenge against the Secret Brotherhood.”
“In what way does the maid’s case appear similar, Sir James?” I enquired.
“When a man betrays his brother Masons, he is to be executed in a rather grim and unhappy manner. His throat is slit, his bowels cut out, and his tongue torn from his mouth. You see the resemblance to Tess Arnold’s case.”
“But for the throat-cutting,” I murmured, “and the addition of a lead ball to the forehead. And do you credit Mr. Tivey’s accusation?”
Sir James shrugged expressively. “I am a member of the Duke’s lodge myself, Miss Austen. I cannot be considered impartial. But I may attest that the maidservant’s name was never broached in our proceedings, and that no formal decision was taken to murder her in this way. What a rogue Mason may have done, however …”
The Justice allowed his thought to trail away; the conclusion was evident enough. Sir James Villiers was placed in a most awkward position. As a Mason in commission of the peace, he must judge the very institution of which he was himself a member — a fact that should not be lost upon the common folk of Bakewell. The matter of the maid’s brutal end should become a cause for politics.
“The Duke’s lodge, you say?” Mr. Cooper’s interest had been swiftly regained. Here was influence to rival Sir George Mumps’s.
“His Grace the Duke of Devonshire has long been a member of two lodges — the Prince of Wales’s, which he attends while resident in London; and the Bakewell Brotherhood founded by his father, the fourth Duke.”
“But a woman should never be admitted to either,” I observed, “unless she went disguised as a man.”
Sir James surveyed my countenance narrowly. “You have hit upon the very point, Miss Austen, that most supports Tivey’s wildest suppositions. Tess Arnold was arrayed as a gentleman on the night of her death; and I will not disguise that her master, Charles Danforth, is a Mason like his neighbours. It is our custom to go masked into certain of our ceremonies; and with her face concealed, the girl might credibly have passed for an absent Brother.”
“And did the local lodge convene that night?”
“It did,” Sir James replied. “But certainly not among the rocks above Miller’s Dale.”
“Was Charles Danforth present?”
“I believe that he was. His brother, Andrew, however, did not appear, having an engagement to dine at Chatsworth that evening.”
“—Though the Duke is a fellow Mason?”
Sir James smiled. “Indolence marks nearly every endeavour in which His Grace is engaged, Miss Austen. It should not be extraordinary for the Brotherhood to meet, and Devonshire to remain comfortably at home.”
I rose restlessly and took a turn about the room. What possible interest could a mere maid have felt in the proceedings of gentlemen? As Sir James acknowledged, Freemasons cloaked their meetings in an air of mystery. They trafficked in rituals and signs. Had Tess Arnold attempted to pierce the veil as a sort of joke? But I could not believe she had stumbled upon the idea herself. Someone — some man, who might possibly have supplied her extraordinary clothes — had suggested the plan; and it was probably he who killed her.
“What use does Mr. Tivey intend to make of the sensation he has caused?” my cousin enquired.
Sir James pursed his lips. “He may simply enjoy the discomfiture of his betters. Or hope to see an institution destroyed, that determined to reject him.”
“So you regard his malice as having a general, rather than a particular, target in view?” I observed.
The Justice lifted a satiric brow. “Miss Austen, where Michael Tivey is concerned, I cannot profess to apprehend anything. If you believe he hopes to discredit one person — I will not say you nay.”
“Mr. George Hemming was very loath to carry the body into Bakewell,” I said slowly. “I rather wonder if he expected Mr. Tivey’s accusation.”
“Mr. Hemming is a Freemason as well as a solicitor; and highly regarded in both realms.”
“But he was not in attendance at the lodge Monday evening — for he took tea with us in this very room that night! Something of ritual murder he must suspect, however. I can think of no other objection, no other explanation for his anxiety towards a stranger.”
“He did not recognise the maid?” Sir James enquired searchingly.
“Emphatically not. He was at great pains to underline that the young man — as we then believed Deceas
ed to be — was foreign to him.”
“I confess I am surprised to hear it. George Hemming has served as Charles Danforth’s solicitor for many years, and old Mr. Danforth before him; he must be familiar with every person attached to Penfolds Hall.”
Sir James’s intelligence must be such as to astonish. If Michael Tivey had known the girl at a glance, then George Hemming could not be excused by the fact of men’s clothes and a fearful mutilation. His every action must now be weighed in light of this deceit. I glanced at my cousin, but Mr. Cooper’s countenance revealed nothing of anxiety.
“Has the wretched girl any family?” he asked the Justice.
“Yes, indeed. Once Tivey had put a name to the corpse, Tess Arnold’s mother besieged the Snake and Hind with a demand for the girl’s body, and no amount of explanation on Tivey’s part — no mention of inquests or the mysteries of the Law — would satisfy her. She was required to be physically restrained, and uttered all manner of abuse.”
“How dreadful!” I replied. “But it is to be expected, perhaps, that a mother should wish to see her child in such a circumstance. Her distress does not bear thinking of.”
“Mrs. Arnold is blind,” Sir James returned succinctly, “and has seen nothing for a score of years. I rather think her object in display was to make as much trouble as possible for all concerned. You may imagine how the townsfolk relished the scene. I was very nearly struck down this evening in my passage through the streets, with cries of ‘Murderer!’ and ‘Vengeance against the Dark Brotherhood!’”
My cousin looked all his indignation. “We shall believe ourselves in France by and by, if order is not established. When I consider what Sir George Mumps, my noble patron, would say—”
“Could Mrs. Arnold offer an account of the girl’s movements, Sir James?” I broke in hastily. “Could she explain her daughter’s extraordinary mode of dress?”
Sir James replied in the negative. “Betty Arnold knew little of Tess’s life at the Great House. The woman lives with her younger daughter in a tenant cottage, while Tess shared a bed with two other maids in the servants’ wing of Penfolds Hall.”
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