It was the maid Marguerite, and in no fit state to be seen.
Her throat had been cut from ear to ear; and her head hung at a lugubrious angle from her neck, which was bedaubed with the welter of blood that had poured from her obscene wound. Her sightless eyes were rolled back into her head so that only the whites were apparent, and her mouth was agape in a silent scream. But it was the limpness of her body, thrown like a rag doll’s in the mound of hay, that affected me most strongly; the helter-skelter of limbs, nerveless beyond all mastery, were mute testament to departed life. Had she made the sign of the cross, eyes wide with terror as she died?
I should like to record that I viewed the mangled girl with the equanimity befitting a heroine of Mrs. Radcliffe, or that a black curtain fell before my eyes, and all sensibility failed me, as Charlotte Smith would have it;2 but, in truth, I lost my head and screamed at the fullest pitch of my lungs, turning and running from the gruesome shed without a backward glance.
Once outside in the air, trembling and frantic, I forced myself to halt and consider the facts. The maid was dead, and hardly by her own hand; that she had been murdered, and brutally so, must be made known to Sir William Reynolds at once. But what of her presence, here in the field? Had she been hiding by day in the shed, the better to post her poisonous letters by night? Or had she been lured here from hiding by the summons of her murderer? If the former, a hasty interview of the grooms should satisfy all doubts; either they would admit to consciousness of her sheltering in the field, or profess it to be impossible.
That she had been murdered in the shed was readily apparent, for had she been dispatched elsewhere and secreted in the hay under cover of darkness, the marks of her blood must surely have been registered on the snow that lay everywhere about. It had ceased falling by the previous night’s supper; and the blood was too fresh, by my judgment, to have been spilt very long past.
It was then that I became sensible of the import of the footprints that I had first noted leading towards die shed; and bent to study them more closely. That the one foot was Marguerite’s own, seemed clear; and that the other represented a man’s larger boot, was equally obvious; but beyond this I could tell nothing. Was the man’s print that of a poor labourer or a wealthy gentleman? The bright morning sun had warmed the snow just enough to soften the imprint of both shoes, leaving an outline that revealed nothing of the leather surfaces themselves.
I stood up and craned for some view of the groom, James; he appeared as I did so, a dark speck on the hill above the paddock fence, waving gaily. I raised my hand in return, and with new determination ducked back into the hut.
If the girl had been summoned to her death, she might yet bear the missive somewhere about her person, and so posthumously identify her murderer. That a man bent upon silencing her would also have surmised as much, I acknowledged, but deemed the search no less worthy. When James arrived, Marguerite should become the property of the law, with all the hullabaloo and confusion such a gruesome discovery necessitated; I had best undertake the duty alone, and quickly.
I allowed myself a moment to adjust to the poor light, drew a quick breath against the sickening smell of blood, and determined not to glance at the poor maid’s face as I reached for the pockets of her gown. She lay twisted on her back, thrusting one hip upward and guarding the other; and I confess I was forced to wrestle with her corpse the smallest degree to obtain access to the nether side; but it was for nought. Her pockets were empty.
I hesitated an instant and considered the ways of country folk. Where would a simple girl secrete a letter; safe from prying eyes? In her bodice, of course.
Her coarse nankeen gown was a fearful thing, while the linen of her shift was rucked up and stiffening with blood; I bethought me of my gloves, and removed the right, the better to preserve it from stain. And, God help me, I reached into the upper edge of the dead woman’s shift and felt briefly around her corset, closing my eyes as I did.
It was there, the faintest edge of folded paper lodged against the whalebone, and holding my breath, I plucked it out between two fingertips. Just time enough to tuck it into the pocket of my cloak and wipe my hand on some unspoilt hay. Then I drew on my glove once more and ducked through the doorway, my terror on my face, to meet James the groom.
1. Anne Lefroy, “Madam” among her acquaintance, was Jane’s dearest friend during her childhood days in Steventon, Hampshire, despite the disparity in their ages. Anne Lefroy was to die in 1804 as the result of a fall from her horse.—Editor’s note.
2. As noted elsewhere, Ann Radcliffe, who wrote The Mysteries of Udolpho, and Charlotte Smith, author of Ethelinde, were two authors Jane Austen read, although they were also practitioners of the Gothic formulas she sometimes lampooned for their unnatural characters.—Editor’s note.
24 December 1802, cont.
˜
SOME HOURS LATER, WHEN SIR WILLIAM REYNOLDS HAD been summoned and had seen all there was to be seen in that terrible shed, Marguerite’s poor body was borne away to the Manor by some stout fellows of the home farm. She was placed upon the oak settle in the butler’s pantry, a sheet covering her still form, and Mrs. Hodges set about making her body decent—though how the housekeeper retained the use of her wits, in the midst of the furore the maid’s murder created, I cannot think. The Scargrave household was in the throes of Christmas preparation, despite its deep mourning; and a partly-stuffed goose, its neck hanging at an unfortunate angle, was Marguerite’s companion in death.
I sat before the fire in the drawing-room, quite alone, for at the news of Marguerite’s sad end, Fitzroy Payne had offered his assistance to Sir William, while Isobel had hastened to the side of Mrs. Hodges. Their duties fulfilled, the Earl and the Countess had then retired to their respective sanctuaries—Payne to the library, and Isobel to her room. Fanny Delahoussaye, being a fashionable miss, had fallen into fits upon hearing of Marguerite’s discovery; her mother even now attended her above stairs, with a basin of gruel and pursed lips, while Fanny played the victim. Mr. George Hearst was gone to London, on some errand of a private nature—it was for this he had retained the mighty Balthasar—while Lieutenant Hearst, summoned from the cottage at the body’s discovery, had decamped to hit billiard balls in the smoking room.
My thoughts were disturbed by Cobblestone the butler, who flung wide the sitting-room door. The poor man’s countenance was ashen; the appearance of a corpse in his pantry had routed his spirits entirely. Behind him stood my good friend Sir William Reynolds, and at the sight of his benign white head, I felt all the force of my late misadventure rush upon me. My eyes filled with tears.
“Miss Austen,” Sir William said, hastening to my side, “my poor, dear Jane.” He took my hand in his leathery old grasp and patted it gently. “Since it was your unfortunate lot to discover the murdered maid, my dear. I had hoped to speak with you at some length. But you must tell me whether your nerves can bear it.”
I managed a smile. “My nerves have benefitted from quiet and contemplation, Sir William. Several hours’ distance from events have brought some peace of mind.”
“I rejoice to hear it,” he said, pulling a chair close to the fire, “for I fear I must return you to your unhappy experiences of the morning. What took you to the paddock in the first place?”
I told him of my apprenticeship in riding, and my determination to bridle the horse alone; of Lady Bess’s hesitation at the gate, and the mare’s horror of that end of the field.
“And there was no outward sign of anything amiss?”
Without a word, I handed him the scrap of fabric I had found by the paddock gate.
“A handkerchief?” he said quizzically.
“It bears Isobel’s initials.”
“So I observe. The C is for her maiden name?”
“Collins,” I said. “Her father was English, her mother a Creole by the name of Delahoussaye.”
“Ah, yes—related, no doubt, to the impertinent miss who would have nothing to do with barrist
ers,” he said. “But of what import is the handkerchief?”
“I found it by the paddock gate, before I discovered the maid,” I told him. “And though it pains me to avow it, the article cannot have been there long. We must declare it to have fallen once the snow had ceased—well after supper last evening. But it was not frozen, as it might have been had it lain out all night; nor yet was it soaked through, as any fabric lying on melting snow should be. I put its appearance at very little before the murder itself.”
“Very well,” Sir William said, “the Countess lost her handkerchief by the savaged body of her maid, who had accused her of the murder of her husband. We shall attempt to draw no conclusions from the fact.”
“It is possible that another obtained the handkerchief, and placed it where it might be found, with the intent of throwing suspicion upon Isobel.”
“It is possible, yes.”
“There were but two sets of footprints leading to the body, and one of those was the maid’s,” I continued. “The other was formed by a man’s boot.”
“Perhaps the Countess wore her husband’s shoes,” Sir William said mildly, “the better to counterfeit her appearance.”
“It is absurd!” I cried.
“It is as acceptable as the notion that someone dropped her handkerchief by the gate,” the magistrate rejoined with equanimity. “You must own it to be at least possible, my dear Jane. Now, tell me of the finding of the maid, with your usual sense and power of organisation.”
I related all that I could remember of the grim scene in the shed, though the images it recalled were of so vivid a nature as to cause me to pause now and again in my search for composure. I did not except to recount my first exit from that gruesome place, nor my return; and upon closing my recital, I handed to the magistrate the bloodstained slip of paper retrieved from the maid’s bodice.
Sir William settled his spectacles on his nose with a frown, and looked at me over their rims. “This is most singular, my dear, most singular. Two items of evidence, removed from the scene of the crime? I would advise you in future to leave such corpses as you may encounter, completely untouched.”
“But I found the handkerchief before I had reason to wonder at its presence,” I said, “and I foresaw that the body should be brought to the house. In preparing Marguerite for burial, the note might have been lost—by accident or design.”
“By design? You would have the murderer a member of the household?”
“How can it be otherwise?”
He shook his head. “One might perfectly see how it could be otherwise, my dear Jane. A penniless servant girl, abroad in the depths of winter, may readily fall prey to any number of misfortunes, and none of them at the hands of her employers.”
“You do not credit such coincidence, Sir William.”
He smiled at me in submission. “No, Jane, I do not. It is too much to believe that Marguerite should be found dead upon the very morn that her last missive was received.”
“Her last missive—” I began, but was silenced by his raised hand.
“We shall talk of that in good time. For now, I would read this scrap of foolscap.”
I knew the words by heart, though the hand was unfamiliar to me; it was a fragment of paper only, with a fragmentary sentence, let us meet in our accustomed place was all it said, without salutation or farewell. Its author had not been foolish enough to sign his name, so much was certain.
“It tells us little enough,” Sir William said gruffly, “but that the paper is of excellent quality, and so small as to be passed from one hand to another without notice in public. The fragment lacks a watermark, but it is clearly of pure rag, and purchased at some expense.” He tucked the note into his waistcoat and stroked his chin, his gaze distracted.
“It is an elegant hand, as well,” I observed, “and for my part, I would judge it to be masculine. The diction would suggest a person of higher station than the maid’s.”
“I am in agreement, my dear.”
“And now for the maid’s final letter,” I reminded him.
Sir William reached into his waistcoat once more and handed me a folded sheet. “This was nailed to the door of the Cock and Bull sometime before dawn,” he told me. “Half the town has read it, and the other half has heard the news. I trust you to make as much sense as I of its meaning.”
To the good Sir—
I have been disapoynted in my hopes of yore justice. And so I must speke out right. Evil is at work at Scargrave Manor. Look among the things of the Lord, and you will find the things of the Devil! Perhaps then you will beleve that Murder has been done, and that it was done by the Countess’ hand. God rest the pore Earl’s soul.
Marguerite Dumas
I looked up, my question in my eyes.
“It is as bad as it may be,” Sir William said, his face sombre. “She accuses the Countess of murder before the whole of Scargrave Close, and deigns to sign the accusation. Odd that she was slain so soon after writing it, do not you think, my dear Jane?”
I wrung my hands in consternation. “Can any be so unfortunate as poor Isobel? What are we to do, Sir William? What are we to do?”
“I am directed to search the personal effects of a lord,” the magistrate said. “And since I cannot presume to know exactly of whom the maid writes—whether of an Earl deceased or living—I propose to review both the belongings of Fitzroy Payne, and of the late Lord Scargrave. That should amply serve the purpose, should it not, Jane?”
I SOUGHT ISOBEL IN HER ROOM, AND FOUND HER GONE to the pantry, where all that remained of Marguerite was bathed and freshly clothed preparatory to Christian burial. I requested that the Countess join me in the drawing-room; but words and courage failed me to warn my friend of the outrage she was soon to endure. Isobel read nothing of my dread in my face, and complied with alacrity.
I found the Earl awaiting us in the company of the magistrate. That Fitzroy Payne expected Sir William to address him regarding the maid’s foul murder, was obvious by his surprise at that gentleman’s hardly referring to it. Sir William lost no time in disclosing the nature of the third letter, to the confounding of the Earl, who had known nothing of the previous notes’ existence. His face, upon learning the history of the letters, was a study in composure; never before have I seen the weight of social education brought to bear upon a matter so grievous and intimate. The Earl did not suffer himself to reproach Isobel for her secrecy, nor did he betray the slightest sensibility to the writer’s dark words concerning a grey-haired lord. But his anger at the public nature of the accusations was palpable; and when requested to submit his belongings to the magistrate’s penetrating eye, Fitzroy Payne’s features stiffened.
“Is the very privacy of our home to suffer from the calumnies of this woman?” he burst out.
“This woman, as you call her, has been silenced; and I cannot believe so brutal a consequence to be unconnected to the activities of her pen,” Sir William rejoined. “To the public eye, her end does but give credence to her assertions; and as such, we must do our best to answer them, and all rumour into the bargain.”
The Earl’s hand went to his brow, and he paced rapidly several times before the hearth, a muscle in his jaw working. After a moment, however, and a look for Sir William, he bowed his assent. “My man, Danson, will lay the contents of my apartments at your disposal. “
“My late husband’s things remain as yet in his rooms,” Isobel said, her voice barely a whisper. “I shall escort you to them.”
“There is no need to disturb yourself, Countess,” Sir William told her. “The butler shall serve as my guide. And you, Lord Scargrave—do you be so good as to remain here as well. It is best that all parties be within reach while the work is toward.”
“And barred from meddling with our rooms, if I undertake your meaning correctly,” Fitzroy Payne said with a bitter smile; “very well.”
WAITING IS ALWAYS A TEDIOUS BUSINESS, BUT NEVER MORE so than when coupled with apprehension. At Isobel�
�s request, I moved to the pianoforte, and attempted to play for her amusement; but my fingers stumbled more often than is their wont, and despite the holiday season, my selection of airs tended almost exclusively towards the melancholy. It was as I was thus employed that Lieutenant Hearst appeared in the sitting-room, having wearied, one supposes, of striking at balls without an adversary to lend the game spice. He stood at my shoulder, his brows knit, and an unaccustomed gravity in possession of his countenance.
“Sir William has been here?” he enquired, with an effort at diffidence.
“And is not yet departed,” I replied. “He is about his work above, while we await his pleasure below.”
The Lieutenant hesitated, as if debating what to say, and then looked about the room. I ended the minuet of Mr. Mozart’s I had struggled to perform, and gave up the piano altogether. As I rose from my place, too restless to seek another seat, Tom Hearst reached a hand as if to stop me.
“The magistrate has found nothing untoward, Miss Austen?”
I stared my amazement. “Untoward? Besides a blackmailing maid with a gruesomely ravaged throat, abandoned in a shed? I do not pretend to understand you, Lieutenant. Are such things in the common way, for an officer of the Horse Guards?”
He looked abashed, and cast about for an answer, but I turned swiftly from him and moved to the sitting-room window in an effort to overcome a sudden trembling in the limbs. I confess to feeling more disturbed by the memory of Marguerite’s poor face than I should like. I may expect to have nightmares—or another visitation from the ghostly First Earl—by morning.
My companions in tragedy were no less cast down. Fitzroy Payne laboured under the pretence of absorption in his book, but his eyes strayed to Isobel’s face as often as they were fixed on the page. I noted the expression, both sad and wistful, that played over his features in gazing upon the Countess; and pitied him for the silence that divided them. Marguerite’s death and the revelation of the letters had not unmastered the newly-titled Earl, however; if anything, Fitzroy Payne seemed burdened with a greater dignity, as befit his station, and the uncertainty of events surrounding it.
Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor Page 14