The Coroner’s Inquest was adjourned, for pursuit of further information, and the crowd of the curious gladly filed outside into fresh air and sunlight.
I was perhaps one of the few who noticed that Mrs. Haskell had been prevented, by the depth of her fear and a strategic swoon, from publicly disclosing the cause of the stillroom maid’s dismissal.
For Swooning Fits
ub to powder three grains of Cochineal, and mix thoroughly with a little sugar. Add a spoonful of burnt wine, and take the dose immediately. Follow with a glass of the same burnt wine afterwards.
—From the Stillroom Book
of Tess Arnold,
Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire, 1802–1806
Chapter 7
Old Friends Well Met
28 August 1806, cont.
∼
“YOU ACQUITTED YOURSELF WELL, MISS AUSTEN.” SIR James Villiers appeared before me in all the splendour of yellow pantaloons and a striped waistcoat, his fair hair carefully disarranged. “And without the display of nerves or sensibility so many young ladies should have thought necessary! I feel myself moved to offer you refreshment. Shall we adjourn to Mr. Patter’s front parlour, and send the maidservant in search of victuals? I should like to discuss the particulars of this extraordinary case.”
“Though I am as much a friend to an innkeeper’s larder as any man,” interposed my cousin Mr. Cooper, “I confess, Sir James, that we cannot quit these premises too soon for my taste.” Mr. Cooper’s first experience of a Coroner’s Inquest had been an unhappy one; his brown eyes were deeply shadowed, and an unaccustomed frowziness distinguished his sparse hair. “I cannot feel easy in Miss Austen’s association with this unfortunate affair. I must beg to remove myself and my party from Derbyshire at the nearest opportunity, Sir James, and cannot apprehend why you believe it in your power to thwart my wishes—”
“My dear Mr. Cooper,” exclaimed Sir James, “pray do not let us quarrel! Circumstances at present are disagreeable enough. I suggest you find comfort in a spot of angling, and throw off the cares of this sordid world in fresh air and exercise. Your friend Mr. Hemming will undoubtedly oblige you—if he can be found.”
“Fishing!” Mr. Cooper cried indignantly. “You would have me to fish, when the whole world is run mad? I should rather spend an interval on my knees in the parish church. I am sure that someone should consider of his God.”
“Very well,” returned Sir James briskly, “then I may recommend most highly the offices of Mr. Dean, the rector of All Saints, should you desire a companion in your spiritual ablutions. But I am most anxious for Miss Austen—she appears in danger of swooning”—this was purest fabrication on the Justice’s part, although the closeness of the crowded room at such a season was considerable—“and I cannot think it wise for her to forgo a nuncheon. You will find Mr. Dean at The Elms, Mr. Cooper—a lovely little stone cottage directly across from the churchyard. He is sure to be at home, and happy to welcome a fellow man of the cloth. Do not neglect the Vernon Chapel in the South Transept. The tombs are quite fine. Come along, Miss Austen!”
And so I was led, without chance of argument, towards the neat front parlour of Jacob Patter, publican, while my cousin stared after, open-mouthed.
THE TABLE HAD BEEN LAID WITH A CLEAN WHITE cloth and a tray of victuals—cold roasted capon, fresh Derbyshire cheese of the blue-veined variety, and the cherished Bakewell puddings of my sister’s preference. Next to these stood a pitcher of ale and one that proved to be filled with ginger beer. Sir James drew forth my chair and I settled myself with a sigh.
“You are very good to think of my comfort, Sir James,” I told him. “I am afraid my cousin is not at present equal to consideration of anything but his own misery. He must be overwhelmed by present events, and cannot offer an accurate picture of his true character.”
“We are not all the masters of every circumstance that life presents,” Sir James replied equably. “I am sure that Mr. Cooper is a very good sort of man, in his own neighbourhood and his own church particularly.”
“Among the people of Hamstall Ridware I believe my cousin is esteemed and valued,” I replied. “His character is unblemished and his conduct entirely respectable. If he is unequal to the present horror, so much the better. I should not like to meet a man who could view Tess Arnold’s corpse with equanimity.”
“Could I despatch him to his rectory without comment tomorrow, I should do so,” the Justice declared, “and all his party with him. But I fear the kindness would not be worth the talk it should occasion in the town. I must beg you to remain a little in Derbyshire, Miss Austen, until the present affair is concluded.”
“Would this necessity have arisen, Sir James, if Mr. George Hemming had not disappeared? You spoke just now as though you had sought the gentleman, and found him from home.”
“He was certainly not in evidence at the Inquest,” Sir James replied, “and having sent a messenger to his establishment in Carding Street, and having found Mr. Hemming away—I am not entirely certain what to think. He might have chosen a more suitable hour for his absence.”
“You do not know any real ill of him, however?”
“As to that—I do not think I should open my mind even to you, Miss Austen. I have a dangerous tendency to disclose far more than is safe, under the influence of so subtle a lady.”
“Flattery, Sir James, must satisfy me for the present,” I told him archly. “Mr. Hemming’s nature—his power for good or ill—shall remain a mystery, and my cousin shall bear all the weight of his disgrace, by standing firm in Mr. Hemming’s stead. Mr. Cooper must endure his purgatory, whatever the just horror his noble patron may feel; and offer up his suffering to God.” As my cousin had yet to cast his suffering in lyrics, I saw no reason to dread the event. “I am sure that upon reflection, Mr. Cooper will comprehend the necessity of your prohibition.”
“I fear that he has arrived at a very unnatural conclusion—that he is himself under present suspicion of effecting Tess Arnold’s death.”
“And so should he be.” I accepted a serving of capon from the Justice and met his gaze unflinchingly. “So must we all. From your particular acquaintance with events, Sir James, you may determine only this: that the maidservant, Tess Arnold, met her death at midnight in a place peculiarly remote from her home, and in clothes that are determined to have belonged to her employer. She died as the result of a prodigious shot, fired at some remove from her corpse’s resting place. You never met my cousin before Tuesday; and as he and some part of his party were the first to discover the dreadful scene, we might reasonably have done so to appear in innocence before your eyes. You know nothing whatsoever of Mr. Cooper—or if it comes to that, myself. He might be a desperate cutthroat in the guise of a clergyman, and I his paramour. We might have quitted The Rutland Arms in stealth at ten o’clock of a Monday evening, with the intention of seeing murder done. I leave it to your considerable understanding to devise a motive for our doing so.”
“And as a sporting fellow, I should accept the challenge,” Sir James cried, “but for the excellent report of both your characters I received from George Hemming, whom I have known these three decades and more.”
“Mr. Hemming I never met before Monday evening,” I declared, “and my cousin has not seen him this age. Besides, Mr. Hemming may stand in testament to nobody; his own actions at present will not bear scrutiny. No, no, Sir James—you must preserve the cold judicial eye of the Law. We are none of us above suspicion, and I for one am glad of it. Only the most discerning and impartial mind shall discover the truth in this sad tangle.”
“Well said.” He poured out a tankard of ale for himself and quaffed it deeply before replying. In the silence I could hear a slight noise in the passage beyond the parlour’s closed door, and wondered if Jacob Patter or his serving girl was lingering there, in respect of Sir James’s conversation.
“Have you an idea where Mr. Hemming could have got to?” I enquired.
The Justice shook
his head. “I may say that I am most uneasy in my mind, that he should have neglected of his duty. Indeed, his conduct throughout this affair must lay him open to the most uncomfortable scrutiny; it is unlike anything I have witnessed in George Hemming before. He certainly does not serve Charles Danforth as I should like.”
“Not at all! The gentleman seemed astonished at the tenor of the Coroner’s questioning, and that anyone in Bakewell should remain so in ignorance of the facts, or of his own peril, is in everyway remarkable.”
“Except, perhaps, when his solicitor conspires to keep him so,” Sir James observed. “Though Danforth summoned Mr. Hemming to Penfolds yesterday, to my knowledge the solicitor did not appear; and so poor Charles went forward to the Inquest without the slightest sensation of danger.”
“Mr. Hemming did not appear? But surely—” I stopped short, uncertain of what should be said. Might Mr. Hemming’s sudden disappearance creditably be laid to my own account? I had bullied the man unmercifully, and it seemed that he had fled.
Sir James smiled grimly. “I could wish Mr. Danforth greater fortune in his movements that night; he possesses not a single person who may testify to his presence at the house, or about the fields. But still he may claim some friends. His housekeeper is surely one of these. Had Augusta Haskell not fainted dead away, we must have seen her master charged with murder.”
“Given the direction of Mr. Tivey’s questions, the panel may be excused for believing no other course left open to them,” I agreed. “But what do you know of Mr. Danforth’s brother, Sir James? For he was also abroad that night. Is he a man to be trusted?”
“As to that, I cannot presume to say whether any man is entirely to be trusted, Miss Austen. Andrew Danforth was certainly present at Chatsworth on Monday evening, however. He appeared at the house at six o’clock, and sat down to dinner at seven; the last course was cleared at half-past ten, and the ladies quitted the dining-room. The gentlemen rejoined them at a quarter to twelve, when the card tables were set out—”
“What late hours these Whigs do keep, to be sure!” I murmured. It was the Austen habit to retire early; I was generally abed by ten o’clock.
“—and the entire party broke up after supper, at approximately half-past one o’clock in the morning. Andrew Danforth cannot have reached his bed before half-past two, I should judge, in travelling at that hour; and by that time, it seems safe to say, the maid was already dead.”
“You were prevented from saying it, however, by the sudden end of the Inquest,” I mused. “But perhaps it is just as well. I have long determined that an Inquest is no place for justice—it serves no greater purpose than to satisfy the local worthies that they may manage the affair themselves. Impartial judgement may only be won from impartial judges; and for them, we must look to the Assizes.”
Sir James drew his chair somewhat closer to mine. “You referred Tuesday evening, Miss Austen, to a former intimacy with the investigation of murder. I must confess that I have not been so unfortunate. My experience of such tangles is … limited. I should dearly love to learn your opinion of this dreadful affair.”
“My opinion, sir?” I returned with some surprise. “But I know nothing of the country or its inhabitants. I am acquainted neither with the victim, nor with the family that employed her. I cannot be allowed to have formed an opinion.”
“From what little I know of your character and understanding, Miss Austen, I doubt very much that this is the case.” Sir James was studying my countenance over the rim of his tankard; the directness of his gaze brought the colour to my cheeks.
“What can you mean, sir?”
“Your understanding and good sense were recommended to me in the most fulsome terms last evening—and from a source that I should consider unimpeachable.”
“Were they, indeed!” I could not suppress a stirring of curiosity. “You have been speaking again with my cousin, I perceive.”
“Such events in your life as were then unfolded,” he continued without a yea or nay, “confirmed my good opinion of your penetration and firmness of mind—and determined me in my course of soliciting your aid in the present affair.”
“Good God!” I cried. “What can my cousin have told you, Sir James? I fear that he has grossly exaggerated my talents, for some mischievous purpose of his own.”
“Mr. Cooper would never presume to impart particulars so injurious to the reputation of a lady, and a lady so closely connected to himself,” Sir James said quietly. “In the present instance, indeed, he would not wish it known that you have been associated with past cases of murder. It might enflame the gossip already circulating about the town.”
I coloured, doubted, and was silent.
“The intelligence I received, Miss Austen, was from a very old acquaintance we hold in common. He is presently residing at Chatsworth, being an intimate of the Duke.”
“Chatsworth!” I cried. “I must believe you to have been imposed upon, Sir James! For I know no one in Derbyshire.”
At that moment, the rustling in the passage increased and the parlour door was thrust open. I turned, gazed, and rose immediately from my chair. A spare, tall figure, exquisitely dressed in the garb of a gentleman, was caught in a shaft of sunlight. He lifted his hat from his silver hair and bowed low over my hand.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Austen. We have not met this age.”
Nor had we. But I must confess that the gentleman had lately been much in my thoughts.
“Lord Harold,” I replied a trifle unsteadily. “The honour is entirely mine.”
A Way of Getting Sons
ll babes are male in the womb, and turn weak and female only through the humours of the Mother. Therefore, if a girl child be desired, the Lady must spend her time of increase in lying upon the Sopha, and drink only warmed milk with little egg in it. If a boy child be the object, then the Lady is advised to eat heartily of chopped beef and mutton boiled in Claret nearly every day. She must rise early, and spend her Mornings in healthful exercise, such as walking about the country or riding to hounds; her evenings should be principally spent among friends, with the diversion of dancing and conversation. At no time should she waste more than seven hours in sleep, for a male child will not require it.
—From the Stillroom Book
of Tess Arnold,
Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire, 1802–1806
Chapter 8
A Period of Mourning
28 August 1806, cont.
∼
THE APPEARANCE OF LORD HAROLD TROWBRIDGE HAS ever been a source of astonishment in my life, the sudden intercession of a breathless world, imperfectly understood. His taste for fashionable intrigue and clandestine statecraft, when allied with a character already prone to discretion, make him an elusive figure. Although an intimacy of sorts subsists between us—as much as any such condition may, when the lady is single and impoverished and the gentleman one of the most pursued partis on the marriage circuit—I never know when he is on the Continent or in Town; in danger of his life on behalf of the Crown, or dying of boredom at a country retreat. Ours is not the sort of footing that might encourage a voluminous correspondence. The exchange of letters between a lady of my station, and a gentleman of his, might suggest an improper liaison or a secret understanding. I have never enjoyed either in my association with Lord Harold.
On the present occasion we met after a silence of above eight months, and the absence, on his part, of nearly a year. I had seen vague reports in the public journals of diplomatic sallies in the Baltic, and visits to the Prussian Court; I had snatched at rumours of romantic alliance with a certain Russian Princess, and the whiff of scandal in the Montalban chit’s elopement. I knew not what to credit, what to deny, what to approve, or what should give me pain.
I cannot presume upon Lord Harold’s notice, or even look for the continuance of his friendship. But he is, without exception, the most intriguing member of my acquaintance; to move in his circle is to drink a kind of elixir, not ne
cessary to the maintenance of life, but sparkling in its effect and invariably invigorating.
Though my mother and sister disapprove Lord Harold’s influence, I consider my intimacy with the Gentleman Rogue to be a considerable honour, and one not lightly bestowed. On certain occasions, and in certain circumstances, I have known some part of Lord Harold’s confidence and his counsel—and in this, I understand myself to have been the keeper of his trust. Should he disappear from the face of the earth and persist in silence the better part of a decade, I should still meet his renewed attentions with cordiality.
“I understand your mother and sister are also in Bakewell,” he said to me now, and I replied in the affirmative. “They are well?”
“Perfectly well, I thank you.”
“Despite the intrusion of a murderer in their midst?”
“I do not think my mother has afforded the Arnold girl more than a quarter-hour of consideration,” I said drily, “and my sister, though greatly distressed by the reports she has heard, was spared all sight of the corpse. We must remember, Lord Harold, that it is August. The world’s concerns cannot be too deeply felt when the weather is fine.”
This sally won the barest ghost of a smile. “What brings you into Derbyshire? I should have thought to find you in Kent, at Mr. Edward Austen’s estate, in such a season.”
“My brother is from home at present,” I told him, “having taken a house at Ramsgate; but I may find it in my power to visit Godmersham again in the autumn. We intend a removal in October to Southampton, my lord.”
“Southampton?” he repeated, with a slight frown; “I should not have thought your character any more suited to a watering place, Jane, than it has been to the dissipations of Bath. Of what is your mother thinking?”
Jane and the Stillroom Maid Page 8