Jane and the Canterbury Tale

by Stephanie Barron

  I had hoped Finch-Hatton might loosen the knot around Adelaide’s neck; but it seemed his account had only tightened it. Why, why, employ James Wildman’s gun?

  A few drops of rain wetted my cheek; and with a strong sense of perplexity and depression, I suggested we turn back. But neither Fanny nor Jupiter was attending. They were listening to something else—the high, excited bark of a spaniel some way ahead on the trail.

  “Frisk,” Fanny said. “I believe he has found something, Aunt Jane!”

  1 “Fuzzing the cards” and “Greeking methods” were cant euphemisms for cheating. —Editor’s note.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Coppice

  “To meet with Death, turn up this crooked way,

  For there in that grove I left him, by my faith,

  Under a tree, and there he intends to stay.”

  GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “THE PARDON PEDDLER’S TALE”

  26 OCTOBER 1813, CONT.

  I HAD NOT TRULY EXPECTED FRISK TO DISCOVER ANYTHING of note on the trail over the Downs—too many days had passed since the murder, and there had been rain in the interval. But as Fanny, Jupiter Finch-Hatton, and I hastened forward—Jupiter striding ahead of us—I saw that a horseman was endeavouring to control his high-spirited mount, as the spaniel jumped and barked about the animal’s knees. A second glance at the dexterous rider, and I knew him for Mr. Julian Thane.

  “Frisk!” Fanny called out in agitation. “Oh, if only the foolish dog is not to be kicked in the head! My brother shall never forgive me if any harm comes to him!”

  But as we hastened on, coming within ten yards of the jibbing horse, Frisk suddenly turned tail and darted back into the long grass that covered the Downs, making with the decided purpose of a bird-dog on point, towards a thin coppice that rose from the hillside.

  “By Jove, he has found something,” Jupiter declared. He seized the bridle of Thane’s horse, and the plunging beast quieted. “Fresh as paint, ain’t he? Been eating his head off in the stables, I collect?”

  “Kindly take your hand from my rein,” Thane said through gritted teeth. “The day I fail to control my horse is the day I cease to ride.”

  Jupiter stepped back a pace and cocked an eye at Thane’s stormy visage. “Apologies. No desire to offend, assure you.”

  Thane ignored these words and dismounted in a single, elegant movement. “Miss Knight,” he said, doffing his high-crowned beaver; “Miss Austen. Your servant, ma’am.”

  I dropped the gentleman a curtsey, too aware that but for my interference his sister might even now be at liberty; he ought to have given me the cut direct, and cantered past our party without so much as a glance. Instead, he stood with his reins gripped tightly in one gloved hand, the other stroking the neck of his horse—a fine, black colt whose looks were as smouldering as his master’s. Thane kept his earnest gaze fixed on Fanny’s blushing countenance; Jupiter might have been so much thin air.

  “I was making my way towards Godmersham,” he said with a bow, “with the intent of begging Miss Knight to ride with me. There is not a seat in Kent to rival hers, and no fence she will not attempt.”

  “You flatter me, sir,” Fanny returned with a dimple. “My brothers would have it I am both cow-handed and faint of heart!”

  “Then they are too severe upon you. What does any brother know of a sister, after all? She is an uncharted country, dark as Africa.” Thane’s words were careless; but I caught the bitterness behind them. A greater intimacy with Canterbury gaol had not been good for him. “Do you continue your walk, or may I escort you home—and hope for the favor of a gallop?”

  “Hardly needs escort,” Jupiter murmured, in his most indolent manner; then he glanced irritably towards the coppice, where Frisk was baying loudly enough to wake the dead. “What does that deuced dog mean by sending up such a racket? All the birds in the Kingdom will be flown by now! Must have a word with Young Edward about it—dog’s no use at all for sport!”

  “Frisk!” Fanny cried impatiently, and gathering up her skirts, plunged into the tangled grass.

  “Miss Knight!” Thane called out, in sudden concern, and glanced from his restive horse to Jupiter, who grinned.

  “Escort, is it?” he drawled derisively, and set off after Fanny.

  “She stands in no danger from Frisk, Mr. Thane,” I assured him.

  But he was not attending to me. His black brows were drawn down in a manner that put me forcibly in mind of Lord Byron; and his intent gaze was fixed on the coppice, where the sudden clatter of wings revealed a flock of crows, rising into the air. Another moment, and Fanny came pelting back to us, her hand holding down her bonnet and her pallor dreadful.

  “It is a girl, Aunt!” she panted. “Dead. There were birds—tearing at her eyes—”

  And my poor Fanny burst into tears.

  SHE WAS NO MORE THAN SEVENTEEN, I JUDGED, WHEN AT last I stood over the sad bundle of bones and cloth that lay beneath the shade of the coppice. I had comforted Fanny briskly, then persuaded her to hold Thane’s horse, so that he and I might lend our aid to Mr. Finch-Hatton; Jupiter was standing a little aside, now, a lounger no longer, and from the cast of his countenance I suspected he felt sick.

  I was faint enough myself, and spots swam continually before my vision, as tho’ I might swoon at any instant. The strong, animal stench of butchered flesh rose to my nostrils, and there was a singing in my ears—as if a scream, suppressed, rang shrilly through my disordered brain. I closed my eyes an instant to steady myself; and then, with a shuddering breath, opened them again and forced myself to see.

  The girl’s throat had been cut; the blood that had gushed from the great wound was long since congealed in dark gobbets all about her, and the birds—as Fanny had said—had been at their work. She had been seized from behind, I suspected, and had sunk down onto her knees before falling face-forward into the grass; her arms were flung out as tho’ to embrace the earth that should soon enough enfold her, and her head—so nearly severed from her body—lay at an awkward angle, one eye socket to the sky. A brown-haired, healthy girl with a skin still tanned from summer, in the simple homespun dress of the serving class.

  “Martha,” Julian Thane said hoarsely, and fell on his knees at her side, his hand reaching out to touch the huddled figure’s shoulder. “Good God, how shall I tell her mother?”

  “You know this child?” I asked.

  “Should think he does!” Jupiter turned from where he had been gazing unseeing over the valley and Godmersham, his lazy blue eyes suddenly sharp and focused.

  “She is my sister’s maid,” Thane explained. “She came with Adelaide for this wedding, from Wold Hall—where her mother is our housekeeper, and has been since my father’s time.” Thane passed one hand gently over the girl’s snarled hair, then shuddered profoundly. “Horrible! That any could do this—poor Mrs. Kean—this will kill her, I know it! Oh, God—that we had never come into Kent!”

  He buried his face in his hands, and something like a sob escaped him.

  “What were you doing here, Thane?” Jupiter demanded suddenly. “When we came upon you, just now, with the dog run mad and your horse plunging? Aye, and what is that blood on your glove?”

  Thane stared wildly at him, then glanced down at his hands. In sudden horror, he leapt back from the body and began to tear at the glove, pulling it from his fingers with one shaking hand, then bent to wipe it frantically in the grass.

  “Mr. Thane!” I cried.

  But the sound of retching was my only answer; Thane was on his knees, overcome with sickness.

  Furiously, Jupiter strode forward. “Where is the knife? Where is the knife, you rogue?”

  “Mr. Finch-Hatton,” I protested, stepping between them. “The girl was killed hours ago—it is nothing to do with Mr. Thane, I am sure! The blood came onto his glove merely because he touched her. I beg of you—do not be so hasty! There is much that we must do, and quickly.”

  The rage died out of Jupiter’s face, and he
stepped back a pace. Thane was still bent double, breathing heavily, but he managed to croak out, “Do not excite yourself, Miss Austen. Do you not know we are all murderers now? It is the Thane disease. My sister has taken it, and the Lord only knows who shall next succumb. I must be a monster myself.”

  “Pray strive for calm,” I urged him. “We have need of you, and your horse.”

  He rose unsteadily to his feet. “You wish me to carry the dreadful intelligence to Mr. Knight?”

  Too late, I recollected that Edward was far from home.

  “It had better be Chilham,” I said. “Explain to Mr. Wildman what we have found, and beg him to send for Dr. Bredloe. Then ask that a male servant be sent to stand guard with me over the body, until the coroner should be arrived; and when Dr. Bredloe appears, bring him immediately to me.”

  “I should be happy to remain with you, Miss Austen,” Jupiter said.

  “No, no—you are to bear Fanny home as soon as may be. Go quickly, Mr. Finch-Hatton! She is probably swooning as we speak! And pray—do something with that dog!”

  Jupiter whistled; and Frisk, instantly recognising the command and decision of a Master, opened his jaws in a canine grin and loped obediently to Mr. Finch-Hatton’s side. Jupiter grasped the spaniel’s collar, nodded at me, and without a word for Thane made off immediately towards the path where Fanny had braced herself to hold the mettlesome horse—her heels dug into the dirt and both hands straining at the reins. Thane collected himself enough to join them and take charge of his mount; Jupiter touched Fanny lightly on the shoulder, and after an inaudible exchange of words, she cast a doubtful glance in my direction, and turned away.

  Thane threw himself onto the back of his horse, wheeled, and made off for Chilham Castle as tho’ all the hounds of Hell were at his heels.

  I gave one convulsive look at the pitiful figure behind me. Then I wrapped my arms about my chest in a vain attempt to warm myself, and began to pace briskly back and forth some yards from the scene of carnage, as vigourous proof against the rain that at last had begun to fall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Pretty Maids All in a Row

  “And knowing this is what we old men fear:

  Our only way to ripen, now, is weary Decay.”

  GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “THE STEWARD’S PROLOGUE”

  26 OCTOBER 1813, CONT.

  “A DREADFUL BUSINESS,” BREDLOE OBSERVED AS HIS FINGERS sketched a thoughtful arc over the dead girl’s great wound. “The principal artery is severed, of course, with a single cut. Whoever effected her death acted without the slightest hesitation. A brutal will has been at work here. Poor child! And you found her, Miss Austen, just as she lies?”

  “We did not think it wise to shift her in any way, before you had surveyed the ground.”

  I said we, because Jupiter Finch-Hatton had very kindly returned up the toilsome slope of the Downs to bear me company after seeing Fanny safely restored to Harriot, who, however silly in most things, might be relied upon to comfort and coddle her niece once the horrid tale had been told. Mr. Finch-Hatton had saddled a horse for this second jaunt—advisable at the time, perhaps, but requiring him now to walk the animal up and down the path lest its limbs stiffen in the chill rain. He had not, therefore, been of much use to me as a companion; but I honoured his chivalrous sentiment all the same.

  Hunched some distance from the body, which justly horrified him, was the manservant sent out as guard from Chilham. He had arrived some moments before Mr. Finch-Hatton, but other than a laconic tug of his forelock, had vouchsafed not a word. He looked positively wretched in the rain.

  Of Julian Thane there was no sign; he was required at Chilham, perhaps, to support the household.

  The coroner flicked me a shrewd glance. “Mr. Knight is from home, I collect?”

  “He is in London, sir—upon business that could not be delayed. I expect him returned no later than Thursday, and if fortune is kind, so soon as tomorrow evening.”

  “Blast,” Bredloe said with forceful efficiency. “I should have valued his eyes.”

  “You may employ mine, sir.”

  He studied me. “Indeed. So I might. What have you discerned, Miss Austen, that I should hear?”

  “I believe you carry a pocket watch, Dr. Bredloe?”

  “I do.”

  “And what hour does it tell?”

  He frowned at me, but dutifully pulled his watch and chain from his waistcoat pocket. “Half-past two.”

  “The messenger from Chilham Castle reached you when?”

  “It wanted twenty minutes, I think, before the hour of one o’clock.”

  “And you were then at home. Let us say, therefore, that the messenger set out from the Castle at noon, perhaps, and our discovery of the body occurred some fifteen minutes prior to that hour—a quarter to noon.”

  “And you have been standing in all this wet for so long a period, Miss Austen?” The physician started to his feet—he had been kneeling by the body. “You shall catch your death of cold! Why has that fool of a Bond Street Lounger not offered you his coat?”

  “Because he requires it himself,” I replied. “I have endeavoured to keep my blood flowing with the constant pursuit of exercise. My point, Dr. Bredloe, is that before this rain commenced, and at our discovery of the corpse nearly three hours ago, the blood you see everywhere about you was thoroughly congealed; suggesting that the girl met her death well before the dog alerted us to her presence.”

  “Rigour has not yet begun to set in,” the coroner murmured, “and since an interval of some eight hours is usual for its onset, I may judge that the poor child met her death no sooner than seven o’clock this morning. As you so correctly point out, Miss Austen, death can have occurred no later than—we may surmise—eleven o’clock, to allow for the congealing of the blood. Excellently done! That fixes the period to a nicety!”

  “A full four hours,” I said dubiously, “during which, any number of individuals might have been abroad on the Downs.”

  Bredloe glanced around, took in the roaming Jupiter, and shook his head. “It is a lonely spot, on a lonely path. Did you observe nothing else, Miss Austen, in your pursuit of exercise?”

  “I did,” I answered, with an effort at suppressing the chattering of my teeth, which—now that I was brought to a standstill by the doctor’s questions—threatened to o’erwhelm me. “A person stood some time in the soft ground within the coppice, before a second person—Martha, I suspect—approached the place; two sets of footprints are evident, if you should wish to view them.”

  Without a word Bredloe followed me the slight distance further into the shelter of the lopped trunks and leafless branches. Perhaps two yards from Martha’s position, the prints were just discernible: half a booted foot, and the faint impression of another, in the moist leaf-mould. Opposed to them were a second person’s prints: smaller in form, and less deeply embedded—the marks of a lighter figure, no doubt a girl of seventeen. So much one might distinguish, before the two sets of prints merged closer to the body.

  Bredloe hunched over the impressions. “Impossible to discern whether this was a man or a woman. The two shifted about a trifle, as they talked. And then this person—” he indicated the more delicate prints—“turned away, as tho’ to depart.”

  “At which instant the other sprang forward, and struck her down.”

  The coroner lifted his eyes from the ground. “Indeed. She knew her murderer—she approached and lingered long enough to speak with him—and was under no apprehension of danger when she bade him farewell.”

  My teeth were chattering in earnest now. “W-why lure a suh-suh-serving-girl to her d-death in such a p-place?” I mused. “Why k-kill her at all?”

  Bredloe drew a flask of brandy from his pocket and pulled the cork. “Take this, Miss Austen—I insist.”

  The draught trailed its flame down my throat. I coughed and sputtered. “Th-thank you.”

  Without ceremony, the doctor removed his heavy black frock coat
—the symbol of his profession—and cast it over my shoulders. “You’ll do for a few moments; but I must insist you make for home as soon as may be. That fellow—” he indicated Jupiter—“may take you up before him.”

  I, to ride pillion before the most dashing blade in Kent! How Fanny and her friends should make sport of us both, behind their hands!

  But I said only, “You did not hear my question, I think. Why lure this child to her death? What possible reason can there have been to kill her?”

  The coroner’s eyes narrowed. “Does she belong to Chilham?”

  “Not at all! She is Mrs. MacCallister’s personal maid, and merely visits the Castle in that capacity. Her home is Wold Hall, in Leicestershire.”

  “But her killer is presumably of this neighbourhood—quite possibly of the Castle itself. Our enquiries must begin there. Your brother will agree, Miss Austen, I am sure of it—but as such interrogations belong to his province, and not my own, I shall more fruitfully pursue a nearer duty. You there, sirrah!” he called to the manservant. “Pray carry my compliments to Mr. Wildman, and request a driver and dray, with all possible speed. We must convey this poor soul to the Castle. Do you return with the dray, mind, so that the direction is clear.”

  “Very good, sir,” the manservant muttered, and set off with little enthusiasm for his errand.

  “You mean to keep her at Chilham?” I enquired.

  “Until such time as your brother has returned—I do. Her coffin might lie at St. Mary’s, if Mr. Tylden will allow it; and we might even hold the inquest at the publick house in the village. The unfortunate girl must be returned to her people at Wold Hall, seemingly—and to send her first to Canterbury for the purpose of empanelling a jury seems unduly irksome.”

  Bredloe placed a hand on my elbow and turned me gently away from the fiendish wreck of what had been Martha. “May I say that you are remarkable, Miss Austen, for your sang-froid; any other lady of my acquaintance should have been overpowered by such a sight, and swooned dead away. I am grateful I was not required to attend to two bodies at my arrival.”