“And where is the knife?”
Dr. Gibbs cleared his throat and glanced at Lord Kinsfell. The Marquis sat with bowed head and slumped shoulders, his attention entirely turned within. The physician reached for the bloody thing, which had been laid on a napkin by one of the footmen, and handed it to the magistrate.
“Ah, indeed,” Mr. Elliot said through pursed lips. “A cunning blade, is it not?”
No reply seemed adequate to this observation, but none was apparently deemed necessary.
“And you, sir, would be—?”
“Dr. Gibbs, of Milsom Street,” the Moor replied. “I have the honour to attend Her Grace.”
“Then I venture to suppose that you will declare the gentleman dead, will you not, Dr. Gibbs? What a quantity of blood there is, to be sure!”
Mr. Elliot sat back upon his massive haunches, and surveyed the body with a rueful look. “To come to such a pass, and in such a suit of clothes! I fancy you should not like to end in a similar fashion, eh, Gibbs? — A similar fashion, d’you see?” The corpulent magistrate laughed heartily. “Aye, that’s very good.”
A sudden whirl of skirts brought the black-haired Medusa furiously to his side.
“Mr. Elliot — if that is how you are called — I would beg you to comport yourself with some decency and respect! A man has been foully murdered — and you would make witticisms upon his attire? It is intolerable, sir! I must demand that you apologise immediately!”
“Apologise?” Mr. Elliot heaved himself painfully to his feet, and regarded Maria Conyngham with penetration. “And to whom must I apologise, pray? For the gentleman in question is beyond caring, my dear. And now tell me. Are you not Maria Conyngham, of the Theatre Royal?”
“I am, sir.”
“Enjoyed your Viola most thoroughly. Now be a good girl and stand aside. Your Grace!”
“Yes, Mr. Elliot?”
“I should like an account of this evening’s amusement.”
The Dowager glanced about her helplessly.
“I shall tell him, Grandmère,” interjected the Lady Desdemona. She had been seated near her brother, her hand on his, and now rose with an expression of fortitude, her countenance pale but composed. “Mr. Portal is the manager of the Theatre Royal, whose company we intended to celebrate this evening. The masquerade was some hours underway, when we were so fortunate as to enjoy a recital from Macbeth, performed by Mr. Hugh Conyngham—”
“Mr. Conyngham is where?”
“At your service, Mr. Elliot,” the actor replied, stepping forward.
“And in the recital you were positioned where?”
“In the drawing-room opposite, before the fire.”
“The assembly regarding you?”
“Of course.”
“And Mr. Portal was—?”
Lady Desdemona broke in with an exclamation of annoyance. “But that is what I am telling you!”
Her brother stood up abruptly. “Mr. Portal was within the anteroom where his body now lies. I know this, because I thrust open the door in the midst of Mr. Conyngham’s speech, and found him expired upon the floor. His assailant must have escaped through the anteroom window.”
Lord Kinsfell’s eyes were blazing as he conveyed this intelligence to the magistrate, but he swallowed painfully at its close; and I guessed him to labour under an excess of emotion all the more pitiable for its containment.
Mr. Elliot’s gaze swept the length of the Knight’s figure. “Do I have the honour of addressing the Marquis of Kinsfell?”
“You do, sir.”
“Heir to the Duchy of Wilborough?”
“I may claim that distinction.”
“—and possessor of the knife that murdered Mr. Richard Portal?”
A hesitation, and Lord Kinsfell bowed his head. “The knife has long been in our family’s possession, yes. It is a decorative blade from Bengal, bestowed upon my father by the directors of the East India Company.”
The magistrate looked puzzled. “Might any person have come by it so readily as yourself, my lord?”
“I must suppose so. The knife was generally displayed upon the mantel of this room.” Lord Kinsfell gestured to a small platform made of teak, ideal for the positioning of a decorative blade, now forlorn and bare above the fireplace.
“Am I correct, my lord, in assuming that you pulled the blade from Mr. Portal’s breast?”
A muffled cry broke from Maria Conyngham.
“I did, sir,” Lord Kinsfell retorted, with a glance for the actress, “but I was not the agent of its descent into Mr. Portal’s heart.” He passed a trembling hand across his brow. “I was discovered in the attempt to aid or revive him only — and should better have pursued his murderer.”
“Ah — his murderer.” Mr. Elliot turned his back upon the Marquis and paced towards the mantel, his eyes roving about the panelled walls to either side. “The fellow, you would have it, who dropped from the window. A man should require wings, my lord, to achieve such a distance from casement to paving-stone. But perhaps your murderer came disguised this e’en as a bird. Or an imp of Hell, intent upon the snatching of a soul. We may wonder to what region Mr. Portal has descended, may we not?”
“Mr. Elliot!” Maria Conyngham cried. “Remember where you are, sir!”
The magistrate bowed benignly and crossed to the anteroom window. A quick survey of the ground below, and he summoned a constable with a snap of the fingers.
“You there, Shaw — to the chairmen, and be quick! You are to enquire whether any observed a flight from the sill of this window.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Mr. Elliot,” the Dowager broke in, “my footmen, Jenkins and Samuel, attempted to pursue the assailant some moments after his flight. But having little notion of the villain’s appearance or direction, alas, they could not find him.”
“Naturally not. Their slippers,” Elliot rejoined with a critical air, “are hardly conducive to pursuit. Lord Kinsfell—”
“Mr. Elliot?”
“For what reason did you follow Mr. Portal into this room?”
“I did not follow Portal anywhere,” the Marquis objected hotly. “I thought him already thrown out of the house.”
“Indeed? And upon what pretext?”
A brief silence; the exchange of looks. Lady Desdemona attempted an answer.
“Mr. Portal had so far forgot himself, Mr. Elliot, as to behave with considerable impropriety before Her Grace’s guests. My brother thought it best that he be shown to the street before his actions became insupportable.”
“That is a gross prevarication!” Hugh Conyngham burst out. “Had your brother not seen fit to challenge poor Portal to a duel, my lady, he might yet be alive!”
“A duel?” Mr. Elliot enquired with interest. “And what could possibly have inspired a duel, pray?”
Lord Kinsfell drew himself up to his full height — which was not inconsiderable. He was a very well-made young man. “I am not at liberty to say, Mr. Elliot. It was a matter of some delicacy.”
“An affair of honour, in short.”
“As all such matters must be.”
“Of that, my lord, I am hardly convinced. Duelling is murder, as you must be aware.”
“In cases where one of the opponents is killed, perhaps,” the Marquis replied dismissively.
“Are you so certain of your aim, my lord, as to intend to miss? Or so contemptuous of Mr. Portal’s?”
Lord Kinsfell did not reply, but the colour mounted to his cheeks. “It is of no account whatsoever what I intended, for Portal is dead, and by an unknown hand.”
“Is he, indeed? And why, may I ask Your Grace,” the magistrate continued, with a glare from under his eyebrows at the Duchess, “was Mr. Portal not conveyed to the street?”
“Whatever my grandson’s feelings, I deemed it necessary to comport myself as befits a hostess,” Eugenie replied with dignity. “It seemed to me more suitable to allow Mr. Portal an interval of rest and quiet, until some m
ember of the company should be able to escort him home.”
“Yes, I see.” The magistrate’s beady black eyes, so reminiscent of two currants sunk in a Christmas pudding, moved from the Marquis to the Dowager and back again. “And so you entered this room, Lord Kinsfell, in the very midst of Mr. Conyngham’s declamation?”
“I did.”
“And to what purpose?”
“I meant to pass through it to the back hall, and proceed thence to my rooms. I was utterly fagged, if you must know, and desperate for quiet.”
Mr. Elliot glanced around. “Pass to the hallway where, my lord? For I observe no other door than the one by which you entered.”
Lord Kinsfell strode impatiently to the far side of the fireplace, and pressed against a panel of the wall. With a creak, it swung inwards — a barely discernible door. “It is intended for the ease of the servants, but it makes a useful passage when the main door to the hall is blocked.”
“As it would have been during Mr. Conyngham’s recital.”
“Obviously. The door from the drawing-room to the back hall stands to the right of where Mr. Conyngham was positioned. I should have had to force my way through the greater part of the company to attain it. And that I did not wish to do.”
“Commendable, I am sure. Mr. Conyngham must certainly regard it thus,” Mr. Elliot said slowly, and reached a well-fed hand to the silently swinging door. “Very cunning, indeed. May I request a taper, Your Grace?”
The taper was duly brought from the fire, and held aloft in Mr. Elliot’s hand; the magistrate leaned into the passage, and snorted with regret. “How very disappointing, to be sure. Not a cask of gold, nor an abducted princess can I find — nothing but a cleanly-swept hall of perhaps a dozen yards, such as one might see in any well-regulated household. You are plainly no friend to intrigue and romance, Your Grace. For of what use is a passage, if it be not dank and cobwebbed, and descending precipitately to a subterranean cell?”
Not even Maria Conyngham found strength to protest at this; but her looks were hardly easy. She followed Mr. Elliot’s every move, as he closed the passage and threw his taper into the fire. To Lord Kinsfell he turned at last, and enquired, “And who among Her Grace’s household is familiar with this passage, my lord?”
“Everyone, I must suppose,” replied the Marquis.
“Very good, my lord — you will please to sit down. Mr. Conyngham!”
“Mr. Elliot?”
“Were you long intending to declaim your passage from Macbeth—or spurred to the act by the whim of the moment?”
“I was requested to perform by the Dowager Duchess, when first the invitation to Laura Place was extended.”
“So it was a scheme of some weeks’ preparation, I apprehend?”
“To recite a part of which I am so much the master, must require a very little preparation, sir,” the actor replied stiffly.
“Quite, quite — but you do not take my meaning, Mr. Conyngham. The interval of the speech was intended as a piece of the evening’s entertainment — in short, it was planned?”
“It was.”
“Capital! And how long did you spend in prating and posing?”
“Mr. Elliot!”
“Oh, God’s breath — answer the question, man!”
Hugh Conyngham’s air of contempt deepened visibly. “I should judge that I spoke for no less than five, and no more than ten, minutes, sir.”
“During which time Mr. Portal met his end.”
“So we must assume.”
“Any cries? Any scuffle?”
“Nothing of the sort — until, that is, Lord Kinsfell entered the room.”
Mr. Elliot heaved a sigh, and threw his corpulent frame onto the settee. It creaked beneath his weight. One blunt-fingered hand caressed his chins, and the other lay limp upon his knee. He seemed to be waiting for something — divine inspiration? But no — it was the return of the constable named Shaw. The man appeared and claimed the magistrate’s attention.
“Well, my good fellow? Was our Devil’s imp observed?”
Constable Shaw shook his head. In so anxious a moment, the gesture must be eloquent. I felt my hopes to sink.
“Lord Kinsfell!”
The Knight inclined his head.
“You persist in refusing to offer some explanation for your conduct?”
The Marquis’s colour was high, and I detected the effects of anxiety in his countenance. “I do not understand you, Mr. Elliot. I have offered the only possible explanation under the circumstances.”
“Rot!” The magistrate grunted, and slapped his knees with decision. “Very well — come along with you, my lord.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“To the gaol!”
The Dowager Duchess cried out with horror, and staggered at her granddaughter’s shoulder. Lady Desdemona’s arm came up in support, but she uttered not a word.
“I am very sorry, Your Grace,” the magistrate continued, “but there it is — we must have Lord Kinsfell along to the gaol! For one man is dead, as you will observe, and another must pay for it; and in the absence of the unseen fellow at the window, I cannot think that anyone will do nearly so well as his lordship!”
“But I am innocent!” the Marquis cried.
“Perhaps you are, my lord,” Mr. Elliot responded kindly. “Perhaps, indeed, you are. But what does that signify, if you cannot possibly prove it?”
Chapter 3
The Tiger Rampant
12 December 1804, cont.
I AWOKE THIS MORNING RATHER LATER THAN IS MY WONT, being entirely overset by the events of last evening and the weariness of my return from Laura Place. Thus I made my way to the breakfast-room in every expectation of finding it quite deserted. But here presentiment failed me — for at the sound of my step upon the threshold, the assembled Austens each turned a countenance suffused with false innocence. From their eager looks it was apparent that word of the murder had preceded me.
“Well, my love!” my mother cried, waving her napkin with some animation, “make haste! Make haste! We have been expecting you this quarter-hour. I will not be satisfied until I have heard it from your own lips. A lovers’ quarrel, so Mr. Austen’s paper says, but with theatre people, it might have been as much a joke as anything. There is no accounting for an actor’s taste.”
“Although in this instance,” I observed, as I pulled back my chair, “it is the manager who is dead.”
“There, now!” My mother rapped the table triumphantly. “And so we cannot hope ever to learn the truth of the matter from him. All dispute is at an end. But I cannot be entirely mute upon the subject, Jane. I cannot turn so blind an eye to the comportment of my youngest daughter. How you can find diversion in such a business—”
“Diversion, ma’am?”
“You have a decided predilection for violence, my dear, and if the habit does not alter, no respectable gentleman will consider you twice. Only reflect,” she admonished, with a pointed gesture from her butter knife — “you are not growing any younger, Jane.”
“Nor are we any of us.”
“Jane, dear, let me pour out your chocolate,” said my sister Cassandra, reaching hastily for my cup.
“Tea, rather — for my head does ache dreadfully.”
“Gentlemen of discernment,” my mother continued, warming to her subject, “cannot bear a young lady’s being too familiar with blood. I have always held that a girl should know as little of blood as possible, even if she be mad for hunting. When the fox is killed, it behooves a lady to be busy about her mount, or on the brink of a pretty observation regarding the landscape’s picturesqueness. So I believe, and so our James agrees — and he hunts with the Vyne[14], you know, and must be treated to refinement in such matters on every occasion. Blood, and torn flesh, may only be termed vulgar. Are not you of my opinion, Mr. Austen? Was it not very bad of Jane to have remained in such a place, once the knives were got out?”
“Oh, there cannot be two opinions on the
subject, my love,” my father replied with a satiric eye. “A knife will always be vulgar, particularly in the drawing-room. The kitchens and the dining-parlour are its proper province; but when it seeks to climb so high as a Duchess’s salon — even a Dowager Duchess’s — we may consider ourselves on the point of revolution.”
“Dear madam,” I intervened, “be assured that I quitted Laura Place as soon as it was possible to do so. The general flight of guests rendered chairs remarkably scarce, and it was a full hour before Henry could obtain a suitable conveyance — a chaise summoned from his inn — which would set Madam Lefroy down in Russell Street before returning to Green Park Buildings. We hastened home as swiftly as our means allowed. Do but pity poor Henry and Eliza, who faced a longer journey still to their rooms at the White Hart, before finding the mercy of their beds. They cannot have arrived before four o’clock.”
“Well,” my mother said with some asperity, “since the matter is past all repair — the vulgarity endured — you might favour us with a report of the affair.”
“Was Lord Kinsfell truly taken up for murder?” Cassandra enquired. So the papers had printed that much.
“He was,” I replied sadly, “the knife having fallen from his grasp before an hundred witnesses. The manager of the Theatre Royal, one Richard Portal, lay bleeding at Kinsfell’s feet, all life extinguished. The knife point found his heart. Or so said Dr. Gibbs, who examined the body. He is the Dowager Duchess’s physician, and was present last evening at Her Grace’s invitation, in the guise of a Moor.”
“But is it likely that the Marquis of Kinsfell would stoop so low as to murder a common actor?” My father was all amazement.
I sipped at my tea and found that it was grown disappointingly cold. The virtuous Austens had lingered long over the cloth in expectation of my intelligence.
“Mr. Portal was hardly a common actor, Father. He has had the management of the company since Mrs. Siddons’s day, and has won the respect of all in Bath. It is at Portal’s direction and expense that the new theatre in Beauford Square is being built.[15] Mr. Portal was possessed of high spirits and considerable address — a tolerably handsome gentleman, in the flood tide of life. I may hardly credit the notion of his murder, much less Lord Kinsfell’s guilt; but I must suppose that the magistrate, Mr. Elliot, will very soon find the matter out.”
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