“But Mrs. Grey?”
“—a woman I had never seen before in my life,” Mr. Brett concluded grimly. “She was mounted sidesaddle, in the gown Mr. Sothey had brought her, and cantered out of the yard directly.”
“How very odd!” I said. “And you believe this woman to have been hiding within the stable, quite bereft of her clothes?”
“I can come to no other conclusion,” he replied.
“And you could make nothing of her countenance.”
“It was eclipsed by the shade of a riding-hat, complete with veil, and could tell me nothing; but I remember that her hair was dark as a raven’s wing.”
“How dashing of you,” I murmured. “You betray a poetic turn in your account, Mr. Brett, that is excessively gratifying. And Mr. So they? Did he follow the lady?”
“I watched the door for several moments, but he did not appear; and the housekeeper soon discovering me still upon the premises, I did not like to linger. I called for my horse, all alive to the possibility that So they must return to the house at the stable lad’s activity; but, however, he did not.”
“And so you believe Mrs. Grey to have learned of Sothey’s liaison with an unknown woman,” I mused, “and to have broken with him on the very day of her death.”
“Can there be any other construction placed upon events?” Mr. Brett enquired.
I was silent, but my gaze would seek out the clear-eyed countenance of the landscape designer. He was a puzzling gendeman, indeed. I knew little of him, for good or ill—but I thought that there had been nobility in his looks, as Mrs. Grey’s whip lashed down upon his neck. Animation and honest pleasure, too, as he spoke of the Picturesque; a lively intelligence, an informed mind. He might charm a thousand ladies less keen in their reserve than myself—and yet he had certainly charmed me. Nowhere had I detected a desire to impose, a false posturing, the telltale marks of deceit.
And if Mr. Sothey were entangled in the Greys’ deadly game—why, then, was Mr. Collingforth fled to the Continent? Had the improver arranged appearances to his liking, and burdened an innocent man with the blame? I must know more of Julian Sothey before I might be able to measure his talents; and happily, Fate obliged.
1 John Emilious Daniel Edward Finch-Hatton (1755-1841) was about fifty when he dined with Jane Austen in August 1805. —Editor’s note.
2 Jane alludes here to events detailed in the third volume of her recendy published detective journals, Jane and the Wandering Eye (Bantam Books, 1998).—Editor’s note.
3 Presumably, news of the Austrian accord had not yet reached London at the time that Jane conversed with Mr. Emilious Finch Hatton. In fact, the Austrians had joined what came to be known as the Third Coalition on August 9, but the passage of news over land was slow and uncertain in time of war, and almost equally so when conveyed by ship.—Editor’s note.
4 It was the custom in Austen’s day to present at least two courses at a formal dinner, each comprising up to twenty dishes of a variety of vegetables, meats, and salads. When one course was consumed, the dishes were removed along with the tablecloth, which would be relaid for the second course.—Editor’s note.
23 August 1805, cont’d.
“LIZZY, DEAREST,” MY BROTHER EDWARD SAID, AS WE were settled into our carriage some hours later, “I quite liked the Gendeman Improver. He is a man of information and taste.”
“Not at all what one would expect of Eastwell Park,” Lizzy replied.
“Then perhaps he shall prove the salvation of it. Did you admire his plans?”
“—The cunning little Blue Book? I thought it quite ravishing, Neddie. I long to have one of my own.”
“How delightful. Then you will not object if he rides over to Godmersham one day or another?”
“I object to nothing, provided he leaves our avenue in peace.”
“Excellent,” Neddie returned comfortably. “I invited him for Sunday. We have never very much to do then, as you know, and might as well spend it in walking about the park as not.”
Lizzy settled back against the seat cushions, a dim perfection in the wan moonlight creeping into the carriage; only the creak of the springs and the steady beat of the horses’ hooves served to disturb the darkness.
“And you, Jane?” Neddie enquired at length. “Do you despise Mr. Sothey as much as Humphrey Repton?”
“I cannot despise a man of whom I know so little.”
“Then this is indeed a reformed Jane!” Henry cried. “I have known you to despise an hundred such at first meeting, for nothing more than a poorly-turned phrase.”
“Jane is always cautious when she possesses a dangerous knowledge,” Lizzy observed from her corner. “She has detected Mr. Sothey in an indiscretion.”
“Have you?” Neddie’s voice acquired something more of interest. “Then pray offer it to the general view. My work as Justice should be nothing at all, without a few well-placed indiscretions.”
And so I related not only the history of Mrs. Grey’s riding crop, but also of Mr. Brett’s dubious intelligence regarding the woman in The Larches stableyard, and Sothey’s disheveled arrival at Eastwell the evening of the race-meeting.
“You employed your time to better effect than I,” my brother observed drily, “for all I learned from Sothey was that he has no interest in the Gothic, and finds the Hermit Cottage a wretched addition to the body of landscape architecture. But how ought we to regard this … indiscretion, if such it should be called? For as you have noted, Jane—the man should hardly have strangled Mrs. Grey in a fit of passion, did he precipitate a break in the first place. From your description of the lady’s whip-hand, I should rather have expected to find Sothey stripped to his small clothes in Collingforth’s chaise, than Mrs. Grey herself.”
“Collingforth’s chaise,” Henry broke in. “Might it not have been Sothey the stable lad saw, entering the carriage?”
“We cannot judge the particulars on so slight an impression,” I countered, “nor yet on the evidence of a man like Mr. Brett. He is consumed by the desire to injure a rival—and jealousy working on a weak mind may produce every sort of evil. We must divine the truth as best we can. A direct approach to Sothey, however, is impossible at present; let it suffice to know him better by degrees.”
“Unhappily, we lack sufficient time,” Neddie said briskly. “Denys Collingforth is fled, and cannot feel the hangman’s rope; but if I am not to appear a fool before my neighbours, and the Lord Lieutenant of Kent himself, I must conclude the matter swifdy. I would not have Collingforth charged guilty in Sothey’s place—however charming the fellow’s Blue Books—if he is guilty of having strangled Mrs. Grey.”
Trust Neddie to place his finger on the point.
“Then I would advise a visit to The Larches’ stableyard,” I told him. “One groom or another may have observed something to our advantage—Sothey’s assignation with the unknown lady, or perhaps Mrs. Grey’s discovery of it later.”
“Indeed,” Neddie said thoughtfully. “And as we are to pay our call of condolence at The Larches on the morrow, perhaps you, Henry, might manage a visit to the stables—being a notable devotee of the turf. I might profitably occupy Mr. Grey’s attention, while you interrogate the grooms.”
But all thought of Mr. Sothey and The Larches was driven from our heads at our return to Godmersham. A constable had been stationed in the central hall some hours, patiently awaiting our arrival; and the news he bore was shocking in the extreme.
Denys Gollingforth had been found along the London road, a few miles from the town of Deal. His throat had been cut, his pockets emptied, and his body sunk with a stone at the bottom of a millpond. Two unfortunate boys, intent upon a swim, had discovered him there—to the horror of their mothers, and the routing of their sleep.
Saturday,
24 August 1805
MY OWN REPOSE WAS SIMILARLY BANISHED, AS THO’ A spectral presence hovered about the bed curtains, its wakeful eye trained upon my tossing form. Lord Harold paraded through my
dreams, arrayed in court dress and apparently deprived of the power of speech; my father, too, appeared as he had been in my earliest youth—a laughing, lively fellow who talked enough for ten. Perhaps it was his voice that so consumed Lord Harold’s; he persisted in reading aloud from Oliver Goldsmith, to the persecution of my senses. I threw back the bedcovers at last, and sat up in the darkness; the great house was utterly still, but for the setding groan of its deepest timbers, and the whisper of a mouse in the wainscotting.
Had Lord Harold prevailed in Vienna? Was he even now upon the wing of his return? Were we likely ever to meet again?
And what of his intimate friend, Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton? A curious, deceptive, and engaging fellow. He had undertaken to sound my depths, during the course of dinner, for purposes as yet obscure; but I should dearly love to know his meaning. Besieged as he was with convivial relations, Mr. Emilious was unlikely to ride over from Eastwell before Monday, when I should be gone to Goodnestone Farm; that was most unlucky. I must put the gentleman and his intrigues entirely out of my mind.
Having done so, however, I found sleep no less destroyed by thought. From Eastwell Park it was but a step to our arrival at Godmersham, and the shocking intelligence of Collingforth’s murder that had greeted us; and on this, my mind might well be occupied for the remainder of the night. Who had done away with Denys Collingforth? A footpad, encountered at random along the London road? The unsavoury black-clad friend, Mr. Everett, who had vanished from Canterbury without a trace? Or the selfsame person who had struck down Mrs. Grey?
For that Collingforth had never strangled the lady was my heartfelt conviction; his own sudden death was too implausible in the event. He had been killed to ensure his silence, perhaps—-or by an avenging hand, that could not feel certain he would hang. And of a sudden, I remembered Mr. Valentine Grey’s hasty departure for London Thursday night, the very eve of his wife’s interment—an extraordinary journey, conceived on the spur of a messenger’s summons. Had the man been paid to shadow Denys Collingforth? And having found him, rode like the wind to inform his master, Mr. Grey?
Was it Grey’s hand that had slit Collingforth’s throat, and weighted his body for the millpond?
The hope of sleep could not lie in such a direction; only one remedy could commend itself. With a sigh of despair I took up my candle, opened the bedchamber door, and lit my wick from the taper left burning all night in the hall. No other recourse was left me: I must immerse myself in the pages of Werther, until utter insensibility should descend.
MY BROTHER NEDDIE WAS AFOOT ALMOST BEFORE THE first light had broken. I was roused from my slumber by the sound of men shouting, and the clatter of horses’ hooves. When I dashed to my bedroom window, it was to survey a scene of ordered chaos in the stable area below. The rain had commenced once more in earnest, and was driving down in great tearing sheets that churned the yard to mud. Neddie was mounted and intent upon his departure, Henry was being heaved into the saddle by an undergroom, and Mrs. Salkeld stood in their midst holding aloft a swinging lantern. Neddie took from her outstretched hand a steaming cup of what could only be coffee, returned it with thanks, and wheeled his horse.
They would be bound for Deal, some ten miles distant, and a small coaching inn called the Hoop 8c Griffin, where Denys Collingforth lay cold and lifeless on a bare plank table. Then there would be the tedious work of informing the coroner, settling a date for the inquest, and visiting the thankful widow—conducted in all the mire of dirt and wet. Later should come the hours of fruidess questions, the vexation of never putting name or face to the man’s murderer.
I shuddered, and went back to bed.
“I BEG YOUR PARDON, MLSS AUSTEN,” ANNE SHARPE SAIDfrom the open doorway some hours later, “but I could not help enquiring—your visit to the Finch-Hattons was pleasant, I hope?”
Tho’ the governess could know nothing of the death of Denys Collingforth—having already retired by the late hour of our return, and being unlikely to have encountered anyone charged with the intelligence before breakfast—a feverish light animated her countenance. Her hazel eyes were too large in her white face.
“Pray come in, my dear, and sit down,” I cried. ‘You look decidedly unwell. I am sure you must have passed a wretched night!”
“I… that is to say, the ill effects of the rain … I have never been a creature to endure the sound of thunder. It invariably gives rise to… migraine.” She pressed a hand against her temple and swayed slightly. I moved to her at once, and helped her to a chair.
“You should not be out of bed,” I said firmly.
“No—you are too kind—but it is nothing, truly. I shall be vastly better in a moment, I am sure.”
“You were wise to decline the party at Eastwell, for your own sake as well as Fanny’s. You could not have sustained the jolting of the carriage, much less the punishment of conversation.”
“Punishment, indeed,” she whispered, and closed her eyes against the thought.
“We none of us slept very well last evening,” I added, with some anxiety for the faintness of her looks. “Our party returned only before midnight, and to news of a dreadful nature. Mr. Collingforth has been found— quite dead. My brothers rode out before dawn to view the body.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and she clutched at my wrist almost painfully.
“Is Mrs. Austen yet emerged from her apartments?”
“I do not believe so. You wished to speak with her?”
“It is nothing—a trifle. Any hour will do. But Mr. Collingforth—it was suicide, I presume? He was driven to take his own life, from the bitter knowledge of his guilt?”
“A man may perhaps slit his own throat,” I replied, “but he is unlikely to then tie a stone to his legs, and trundle himself into a millpond. No, Miss Sharpe, I must believe that poor Collingforth was murdered, like the late Mrs. Grey—tho’ for reasons that are as yet obscure to us.”
The governess shuddered visibly. “Good God! That I might be allowed to forget! That dreadful woman—”
“Miss Sharpe—”
“You do not know how her face has haunted me,” she cried, staring up at me blindly. “Like a demon, or a witch, in her bloodred dress.”
I stared at her, aghast. Something more than a dread of violent death was at work in Miss Sharpe—some thing that touched quite nearly on Mrs. Grey herself. I remembered, of a sudden, the little governess’s marked reserve at the race-meeting, and her horrified regard for the lady’s corpse. Had not her present fever commenced as Mrs. Grey’s life ended?—Perhaps they had met before, in Town, when Anne Sharpe was more the lady’s social equal, and the girl had despaired at meeting with her again in such reduced circumstances.
“Can not you tell me what this is all about, Miss Sharpe?” I enquired gendy.
The governess stiffened, and regained something of her composure. “You are very kind, Miss Austen,” she replied, “but I assure you I merely suffer from the headache.”
“Then Dr. Wilmot should examine you.” I turned briskly for the door. “Mrs. Austen wishes to consult him in respect of young Edward, who is not at all improved in his fever; and if the physician is summoned on behalf of one, he might as well have the dosing of us all!”
Miss Sharpe half-rose from her seat and clutched at my arm. “I beg of you, do not disclose my indisposition to Mrs. Austen. That, of all things, I could not bear.”
“But, my dear—”
“Can you not perceive that she already believes me decidedly unsuited to the governance of her children?” Miss Sharpe cried fiercely. “She thinks me a poor, troublesome creature, too delicate for the trials of education. I do not know why she has endured me this long. I shall be turned out without a reference, before a twelvemonth is complete; and how I shall manage then, when all my friends have deserted me—”
‘You must calm yourself, Miss Sharpe.” Alarm sharpened my tone, and she winced as tho’ a blow had been struck. I sank down by her chair. “Indeed, you distress you
rself unduly. I am certain that my sister can find nothing to abhor in your considerable talents; she speaks very highly of your accomplishments, and is full of admiration for your success with Fanny—whom we all know to have arrived at a most trying age. You are to be congratulated, rather than dismissed!”
The governess shook her head, and all but stopped her ears at my words, as tho’ I had subjected her to the most thorough abuse; she declared herself unworthy of such kindness, and very nearly intent upon giving notice, so acute was her sense of failure. I attempted to reason with her further; but at length, determined that the wisest course was to put her to bed—and thither she was sent, with orders to take some tea on a tray, and a stern injunction not to set forth until her spirits were entirely recovered.
When I had seen her safely into her bedchamber, I sat a litde while in my own; and considered of Miss Sharpe. Broken rest or a case of the migraine could hardly explain so elevated a condition of nerves. She looked quite wild, as tho’ all peace was fled from her heart forever. She had certainly been most unwell since the day of the race-meeting. Was that a mere matter of unlucky coincidence—or the working of a deeper evil? She could have had nothing to do with Mrs. Grey’s end. The very notion was repugnant—and fantastic in the extreme, for Miss Sharpe had been seated opposite myself for the duration of the heats. Something in the day, however, had destroyed all her complaisance. Only the next morning, she was ardent in her desire to exchange Kent for London. Her disappointment at the failure of the French to overrun the country must be instructive.
Such signs and tokens I revolved for their meaning a while longer—and then quitted the bedchamber in search of my niece Fanny.
I found her in the passage outside the kitchens (the children’s favourite haunt), attempting to keep a shutdecock aloft with the help of young William. A well-feathered shutdecock shall always have the power to tempt me; I am a proficient of the batdedore of old; and so I joined the children straightaway, to their screams of delight. On several occasions we kept it aloft with three strikes of the batdedore, and on one memorable instance, for six. And when at last the cock had fallen behind a mountain of bundles left standing in the hall— the work of the invasion packers—and defied retrieval, to William’s dismay, we all retired to the kitchen itself, to plead for shortbread and lemon-water.
Jane and the Genius of the Place Page 23