The clergyman’s son stiffly bowed, and murmured some politeness. He should probably disdain to dine at so unfashionable an hour, and was as yet arrayed in his morning dress.
“I do not think you know my eldest daughter—” my mother began, when Mr. Prowting broke in abruptly.
“As I said, ma’am—it is a matter of some urgency.”
“Very well. Henry shall be happy to accompany you below.”
My brother had already laid down his napkin and made for the door.
At such a moment, I was not about to be confined abovestairs with the women, and silently went to request a candle of Sally. She stood by while the little troupe crossed her kitchen to the narrow stairs, her eyes round as buttons. Imagining, no doubt, that there was yet another corpse beneath her feet.
“A lanthorn, I think, Miss Austen—if you have not an oil lamp you may spare,” the magistrate suggested.
I exchanged the candle for a lanthorn, at which Mr. Prowting gestured me politely down the stairs. With a stiff nod, he then herded Mr. Hinton before him. The gentleman was exceedingly pale, his eyes sparkling with an unnatural brilliancy, as tho’ at any moment he might succumb to a fit. Henry brought up the rear, his gaze acutely trained on Mr. Hinton. I had not neglected to relate the whole of Catherine Prowting’s story while my brother accompanied me home from Alton; and at the conclusion of it, Henry had declared that he would not be gone to London on the morrow for worlds.
Our ill-assorted pilgrimage came to a halt at the foot of the stairs.
“Mr. Austen,” the magistrate said heavily, “I must apologise again for the intrusion. There is no help for it. I have heard today such an account of the night in question—Saturday last, when Shafto French undoubtedly met his death—as must give rise to the gravest concerns and trouble. It is a weight, Mr. Austen, upon me—a weight I alone must bear. Mr. Hinton now stands accused of French’s murder.”
“That is a lie,” the gentleman retorted coldly, “as I have reiterated this half hour or more.”
“I am afraid, sir, that in so serious an affair as murder, I must subject you to certain proofs.”
“But I have told you I did not harm the man!” Hinton cried. “Does my word mean so little, Mr. Prowting?”
The magistrate stared at him from under lowering brows. “I must beg you to step over to the corner of the cellar. Mr. Austen, you are my witness as to what is about to pass.”
Mr. Hinton swallowed convulsively, his right hand rising to the knot of his ornate cravat. Of a sudden, he appeared to me a small, ill-natured boy of a kind too often hounded in his lessons; the sort of raw cub who should mishandle his mounts and be thrown at every hedge. A coward, parading as a man of Fashion; a fool who should attempt to get by intrigue what he could not command from merit. A paltry, unfortunate, and ill-bred whelp, who should always labour under the severest conviction of ill-usage at the hands of his neighbours, resenting and envying the world by turns.
“Miss Austen, would you raise your lanthorn?”
At the arcing beam of light there was a scuttle of rats, grown by now to seem a commonplace. Link, I thought; but the terrier’s work must be forestalled at least another hour, until Mr. Prowting had seen the marks on the floor undisturbed by ravaging paws. We moved carefully towards the corner, an executioner’s lockstep honour guard, until the magistrate held up his hand.
“And now, sir—if you would be so good as to press your foot into the dust at exactly this place.”
“What?” Hinton exclaimed. “Are you mad?”
“Pray do as I request, sir—or I shall have no alternative, I am afraid, but to abandon you to the Law.”
“I shall do no such thing!” Hinton protested. “It is absurd! The affronteries to which I have been subjected this evening—”
“For God’s sake, man, do as I say!” Mr. Prowting burst out.
The gentleman glanced at Henry, but found no support; and then, with an expression of grimmest necessity, lifted his boot and pressed it into the dirt.
I sank down with the lanthorn, so that the light illuminated the cellar floor distinctly; and discerned the outline of Mr. Hinton’s boot fresh on the floor. The footprint my brother and I had detected previously could still be seen, a ghost of the present one. To the naked eye, it appeared that the boot prints matched in every particular.
“Mr. Hinton, pray explain your movements on the night of the first of July,” Mr. Prowting demanded in a dreadful voice.
“I was from home and from Chawton,” the clergyman’s son returned defiantly, “having ridden out that morning to meet a party of friends near Box Hill, where a prizefight was to be held. I did not return until quite late. Any of my friends will say the same.”
“Do you have an idea of the time?”
“—The time I reached home?”
“Was it before or after midnight?”
Hinton’s gaze wavered somewhat, as tho’ he began to understand his danger. “I cannot undertake to say.”
“Would it interest you to know that you were seen to dismount your horse near Chawton Pond at perhaps a quarter-hour or twenty minutes past midnight, early on Sunday morning last, and to take up the body of a man you found there—a man, I would put it to you, Mr. Hinton, whom you had left there for dead some minutes before—”
“Mr. Prowting!” the gentleman cried. “You forget yourself, sir! If you will credit the silly imaginings of a goosecap girl—”
“Sir,” Mr. Prowting seethed, “it is you who forget yourself! Observe the footprints! Can you deny that it is your boot?”
“I do not deny it.” Hinton’s lip positively curled. “You made certain you were provided with witnesses. But any boot may be much like another. The similarity in these marks can mean nothing to a man of reason.”
“Can it not?” The magistrate looked to be on the point of apoplexy. “Who is your bootmaker, sir?”
There was a pause before Hinton replied.
“I hardly know. As I said—one boot is much like another.”
“But not yours,” Henry interposed softly. He, too, was crouching now near the lanthorn’s beam, his eyes trained upon Mr. Hinton’s footwear. “These Hessians look to be of Hoby’s make, I should say, and are quite dear.1 From the wear that can be observed on toe and heel, I should judge that you ordered them fully a twelvemonth ago, and shall probably have them replaced during a visit to Town in the autumn or winter; indeed, such an economical practise may long have been your habit. It is not every man who can afford to patronise Hoby—and only gentlemen possessed of the most exacting tastes. There cannot be another such pair of boots within twenty miles of Chawton, Mr. Hinton. I expect Hoby will have your measurements to account, and will be happy to provide them to the magistrate.”
With a swift and vicious precision, the cornered man swung his foot full in my brother’s face. Henry cried out and fell backwards, his hand clutching his nose.
I cast aside the lanthorn and went to him. Blood trickled between his fingers, but still he strained against me, as tho’ he should have hurled himself at Hinton’s throat.
“Take care, my dear,” I muttered. “You cannot demand satisfaction of a murderer, Henry. He is beneath your notice.”
“Mr. Hinton!” the magistrate said accusingly. “Must you be tried for assault as well as murder?”
“I did not kill Shafto French,” he spat between his teeth, “and well you know it, Prowting. French may have found cause enough to kill me; but I regarded the man as little as I should regard a slug worming its way through my cabbages.”
“So little, in fact, that you carried his body across the road and left it for the rats in this very cellar! Did you use your nephew Baverstock’s key for the business? We are aware, Mr. Hinton, that he may possess one. You cannot deny, man, that you stood here. For the last time, Mr. Hinton: What explanation will you offer for your actions?”
Of a sudden, the fury seemed to drain from Hinton’s countenance, to be replaced by the coldest contempt. “I should never f
eel myself called upon to offer an explanation to you or any of the present miserable company. I am the last true heir of the Knights of Chawton, Prowting—and must consider myself above your jiggery-pokery Law.”
“Very well,” the magistrate replied. “Then John-Knight Hinton, it is my painful duty as magistrate to arrest you—for the murder of Shafto French.”
Chapter 17
Too Long in the Back
Saturday, 8 July 1809
~
“AS THE HOUSE WAS BUILT IN THE LATE SEVENTEENTH century,” Lady Imogen observed as she led us into a long gallery at Stonings that was more lumber room than habitable space, “it remains firmly rooted in Palladio. The serene limestone façade, for example, is virtually free of adornment; no Jacobean chimneys or Tudor panelling are to be found, and as successive generations did not see fit to alter the original style, the house preserves a delightful unity—without the awkward shifting from epoch to epoch one so often observes in less modern creations.”
“Lord!” Ann Prowting exclaimed. “I wonder you can find your way to breakfast of a morning! I should require signposts in each passage to direct me from place to place. It is a vast pile, is it not?”
“Nearly three hundred rooms. Mr. Wyatt, whom we consulted regarding the improvements, has widened the whole and brought reason to the arrangement of the principal apartments.1 This is the saloon,” Lady Imogen added, throwing open a set of lofty doors surmounted by a pediment, “—where we often play at cards of an evening. The music room, where my instrument is set out, is adjacent. The apartment is our chief delight at present, as Mr. Wyatt’s work here is nearly complete.”
Mr. Prowting, whose anxious bulk hovered at my right elbow, managed a phlegmatic “Magnificent!”
It was a bright and airy chamber, with ivory-coloured walls and mouldings picked out in gold leaf; a massive chimney piece of carved white stone, in the form of nymphs supporting a plinth, dominated each end. The chief virtue of the room, however, lay in its great windows, which gave onto a delightful prospect of lawns and trees sloping gently towards the lake. This was skirted and surmounted in its narrowest part by a great stone parapet, over which our carriages had clattered only a few moments before.
We had set out from Chawton at ten o’clock, taking in Henry on our way. It was a smaller party than originally planned, my brother Neddie having pledged himself to all the cares and irksomenesses of Quarter Day, and being even now established in Mr. Barlow’s back parlour awaiting the appearance of his numerous tenants. My mother could not be torn from the vigourous excavations undertaken in her back garden, of which she had unflagging hopes; and Mrs. Prowting was indisposed for a long carriage drive in the heat of summer, but thought it highly necessary that her husband accompany the two girls. We had therefore placed ourselves at Miss Maria Beckford’s disposal, Cassandra and I taking two seats in the Middleton carriage. The three Prowtings and Miss Benn went in the magistrate’s barouche; and the three eldest Middleton girls went in a hired equipage with their maid. Henry had made a dashing cicisbeo, trailing beside Miss Benn on his hired hack, and offering charming observations on the suitability of the party; and the weather had not seen fit to disappoint. We had achieved the intervening miles at an easy pace, and arrived in Sherborne St. John a few moments before noon.
We had been cordially met by Major Spence and Lady Imogen, who tarried only long enough to see our wraps bestowed on a housemaid, before conducting us through the marble-floored entry hall to the delights within.
“I am reminded,” Cassandra said in a lowered tone, “of the Duke of Dorset’s establishment at Knole, in Kent; but tho’ easily as extensive as this, that is a house in an entirely different style.”
Mr. Thrace, we were told, was still engaged in his morning’s ride, but was every moment expected. Lady Imogen looked as tho’ she did not notice her rival’s absence. She was in excellent spirits, her manner a mixture of the arch and the sweet that could not fail to please. She was clothed this morning in a light muslin gown of pale jonquil colour, with beribboned sandals on her feet, her countenance glowing with the animation of her speech. There was a kind of triumph in all her aspect that suggested a victory gained—and I felt a surge of anxious solicitude on the subject of my stolen chest. Such happiness could not be due merely to last evening’s win at cards—she had a deeper game in train, and appeared confident of her luck. The admiration of every gentleman in the room was evident; the rest of the ladies must be cast in the shade; and it was as well for my brother Edward that he had stayed in Alton—this lady was far too bewitching for his fragile state to bear.
Major Spence did not need to proclaim his captivation: tho’ correct and more often silent than not, he frequently bent his dark eyes upon Lady Imogen’s face or form, and she did not move to a door or a chair but he was before her instantly as guide. How difficult must be the trials of such a man, placed in a position of subservience to the object of his ardent love! To offer his heart, as he clearly had done, in the shattering knowledge that were she to accept him, the match should be called a misalliance by the Great. Had she ever attempted to use her power over him? —Attempted, perhaps, to employ his allegiance against Julian Thrace? I could hardly say. Lady Imogen showed Spence nothing more than easy affection, of a sort she might have reserved for a groom that had placed her, long ago, upon her first pony.
As I stood near Cassandra in the elegant saloon, and gazed out at the picturesque view offered through its windows, I considered of the beauties of the Earl’s estate—and very nearly forgave the theft of Lord Harold’s precious documents. To be mistress—or master—of Stonings was an ambition that might inspire any number of crimes!
“And to think that all this has been left slumbering for years!” Henry declared.
“Having never expected to inherit the title—he was a younger son, you know—my father was disinclined to live in the style befitting an Earl,” Lady Imogen replied. “I do not think his lordship’s memories of childhood in this place are entirely happy ones. And having been a single gentleman for much of his life, he naturally prefers to maintain an establishment in Town—near his clubs and cronies—or retire to his shooting box when a craving for the country seizes him. I cannot remember when we last visited Stonings together; when I was no more than three, I daresay.”
The year the Countess of Holbrook ran away with a Colonel of the Horse Guards, I thought; and from Henry’s looks, his mind was reverting to the same. But whatever the Earl’s past feelings towards the house, he did not seem disposed to hold it in contempt now. So much sudden and expensive activity, on behalf of a putative heir—or an elegant daughter with habits of expence?
“Stonings frightened me when I was little,” Lady Imogen confided. “It was always cold and cheerless, and the servants were not the ones I knew. I used to lose my way in the upper storeys and be found crying behind some moth-eaten curtain, convinced I had been buried alive. But now I am grown, I see the place for what it is: an ancient and honourable seat that ought not to be allowed to fall into ruin.”
“Mr. Dyer’s folk have much to do, I presume?” Mr. Prowting enquired.
Charles Spence inclined his head. “They have been engaged on the repairs nearly three months, and are likely to continue their labour a year or more. The roof tiles had given way extensively in a number of places—the south end of the east wing, and the central hall—so that there is damp in nearly every ceiling and wall, and the plaster has required to be replaced throughout. Then there are the ravages to wainscoting and floors from a variety of feral creatures we are even still discovering in various corners, and the collapse of stone walls about the property. For you must understand, Mr. Prowting, that however grand the house itself, it is as nothing to the gardens, which were extensively improved in the last century by the present Earl’s grandfather, with the assistance of Mr. Capability Brown.”
“Major Spence is a fund of knowledge regarding Stonings,” Lady Imogen observed, “and his work is tireless. I bel
ieve Charles loves this place better than all of us.”
“When one has been far from home, and privileged to defend it,” he replied, “one cannot help but hold English soil more precious than anything else in life.”
“My father would not agree with you!” Imogen chortled. “If you could hear him deplore this rackety old barracks!”
“And yet he chose wisely, in placing the Major here,” I observed. “Perhaps the Earl will descend upon Hampshire soon, and inspect the progress.”
“The Earl will be arrived in less than three weeks’ time,” said a voice from the music room doorway, “and intends, so I believe, to give a ball. I will be three-and-twenty then, you know—and you must all drink to my health!”
It was Mr. Thrace, arrayed in his riding dress; he strode towards us, bowed, and was made known to Cassandra, who alone of the party was yet a stranger to him.
“A ball!” Ann Prowting cried. “I am longing for a ball!”
“Then you must certainly come,” Mr. Thrace returned easily, as tho’ the office of inviting guests to Stonings was already his, “and as the distance between our homes is so great …” his gaze moved with warmth to Catherine Prowting, “… you and all your family must certainly spend the night.”
“Julian,” Major Spence interposed gently, “we must leave the details of her party in Lady Imogen’s capable hands.”
“Does she plan to attend? I had not thought she would remain so long in the country.” Mr. Thrace bowed, a satiric expression about his lips. He lacked her ladyship’s high animal spirits this morning—the natural result, perhaps, of his losses at the faro table; but he appeared no less certain of himself than when I had first observed him. He was determined to display himself as the lord of Stonings. The battle, then, was well and truly joined.
But which of them—which of them?—had Lord Harold’s proof ranged on their side?
It seemed unlikely that Lady Imogen should have hired Old Philmore or his nephew to steal the chest; she was too little known in the country, and too high in the instep to condescend in Normandy Street or at Thatch Cottages. But necessity might work the cruellest alteration in a person’s habits, and necessity was Lady Imogen’s goad. She was distressed in her circumstances, and on the brink of losing her fortune. In such a case, might she avail herself of those same bonds of obligation and custom I had remarked in our servant Sally Mitchell? Lady Imogen’s maid might be familiar with every soul in Alton, and be despatched with certainty to the very man required to do the job.
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