Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery

by Stephanie Barron

  “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,1 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 drawingroom. 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.2 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.”

  “You presume no such thing,” my father retorted testily. “You abhor justices with a passion, as I very well know. ‘They seek only to make a case against some unfortunate innocents, while the true culprit goes free.’ Is not that a quotation, my dear Jane, from one of your very own letters? A letter written from Scargrave Manor?”

  “I will not pretend to an unalloyed admiration for English justice,” I ventured, “but I may, perhaps, have spoken then too warmly. I do not abhor such respectable gentlemen as Sir William Reynolds.3 Nor may I assume that Mr. Elliot is entirely incapable.
Mr. Elliot is a singular fellow, assuredly—both gross in his humours and repulsive in his person—but a shrewd and cunning intellect nonetheless.”

  “If Lord Kinsfell was found with the knife,” Cassandra innocently observed, “what doubt can possibly exist? Does his lordship deny the murder?”

  “Naturally!” I said, with more attention to my plate than it deserved. “He should be a fool to do otherwise, whether he be guilty or no.”

  “Though he uttered a falsehood? Such wickedness!”

  It is remarkable, indeed, to spend all of one’s life in the company of a lady so thoroughly good as Cassandra. Never mind that a falsehood, at such a juncture, should be as nothing to the shedding of blood—the slightest misstep is capable of causing my sister pain. It is well, perhaps, that the untimely demise of her beloved intended should have left her pining in the single state. The vicissitudes of marriage—with that frailest of creatures, a man—should certainly have been the death of her.

  “Lord Kinsfell insists that in the very midst of Hugh Conyngham’s declamation—a passage from Macbeth—he was overcome with an excess of heat and spirits, and intended to seek his bedchamber by passing through the little anteroom at one side of the main party. Upon throwing open the double doors, he observed Mr. Portal in his Harlequin dress, prone upon the floor with a most hideous blade protruding from his breast. Kinsfell gave a shout, and leapt to Portal’s side; he felt for a pulse, and then effected the removal of the knife; but was swiftly overpowered by two stout fellows convinced of his dangerous intent. It was only then that I observed him myself.”

  “And this Portal? Had you remarked his figure before?”

  “I had.” The memory of Lord Kinsfell’s bitter words to Richard Portal brought a frown to my countenance. I pushed aside my cup of cooling tea and toyed hopelessly with a piece of bread. Cook had allowed it to grow stale again.

  “And did he betray any morbid sensibility?” Cassandra enquired.

  “Of what, my dear?”

  “Of his impending death! Did he comport himself as might a marked man?”

  “Indeed, Cassandra, I might fancy you to have indulged too much the taste for horrid novels! Portal seemed no more marked than any eligible gentleman at a rout full of ladies!” I hesitated, uncertain how much to divulge. “I did observe him to dance with Lady Desdemona Trowbridge, Lord Kinsfell’s sister, and somewhat later, he treated the better part of the company to a scene of some belligerence.”

  “On the point of blows, was he? And with whom?” my father asked.

  “With Lord Kinsfell, I regret to say.”

  He touched his napkin to his lips, eyes averted.

  “An actor! Well!” my mother cried, as though picking up a thread of conversation quite lost long ago. “They are always coming to blows, with swords or pistols or ruffians for hire. One sees it constantly in Orchard Street—Hamlet is nothing but a brawl, though it pretends to treat of adultery. I never leave the theatre without feeling I have been pummelled from one end to the other.”

  “But did Kinsfell perceive no one else in the room?” my father enquired.

  “He did not. He persists in believing the murderer exited by the anteroom window, which stood open at Portal’s discovery.” I gazed soberly at the Reverend Austen’s lined and kindly face. In three-and-seventy years, my father had seen much of the evil men may do, though from so retired a vantage as a Hampshire parsonage. “But Lord Kinsfell’s assurances are open to doubt, Father. Not one of the chairmen assembled in the street below admitted to having observed a similar flight; and if they had, the man should certainly have been taken. The drop from window to pavement, moreover, must be full thirty feet. For any to attempt the ground—in darkness and in haste—is madness. The man should surely have broken a leg.”

  “But you forget the heavy snow, my child. If there were a drift to break the fall—”

  “The Dowager’s footmen were assiduous in sweeping the pavement, for the accommodation of her guests,” I replied wearily. “It seems unlikely that anyone quitted the house in so heedless a manner.”

  A brief silence fell over the breakfast table, and I saw once more in memory the Duchess’s horror as Kinsfell was led away. But for Lady Desdemona, I believe Eugenie Wilborough should have sunk to a heap on the floor, her seventy years quite suddenly writ upon her face.

  “Some toast, my dear? Or perhaps a muffin?”

  “I believe I shall walk out, Mamma.” I thrust my chair from the table. “A breath of air will do my head a world of good.”

  DESPITE THE HEAVY FALL OF SNOW LAST E’EN, THE SUN HAD consented to shine, with a brilliance that dazzled the eyes. I found that my own poor orbs, much weakened from years of plying my needle and pen in the indifferent light of a sitting-room candle, could barely sustain the force of the light, and so kept them fixed upon the paving-stones. Here the snow had begun to melt, and the water ran in rivulets along the gutter. In my cumbersome pattens, I picked my way around the puddles, clicking and clattering in company with every young lady so stout as to venture out-of-doors. Sydney Gardens should be impassable on such a day; my accustomed walk along the verge of the canal must be foresworn for drier weather. And so I ignored the roads leading down towards the river; and determined upon the much shorter distance through Queen Square, in the direction of Edgars Buildings.

  Edgars Buildings are fine, respectable establishments, offering lodgings for respectable families who come to Bath yearly in the pursuit of health and marriageable young men. They comprise as well, on their ground floors, a group of respectable shops—and in one of these, I had remarked a very fetching demi-turban of apricot sarcenet, adorned with ostrich feathers, such as one might wear with a gown of the same fashionable shade. I had just such a gown in view—indeed, had one as yet in pieces, at a formidable mantua-maker renowned in all of Bath for her artistry.4 My peach silk confection, so clearly suited to a Duchess’s rout, or a night at the theatre, or a concert in the Upper Rooms—a gown that should be utterly too fine for my usual diversion of Aunt Leigh-Perrot’s insipid card parties—should be the sole spoil of recent misadventure. Not two months ago, I had purchased the stuff from smugglers in Lyme. By such small sacrifice of Miss Austen’s judgement and integrity was a vicious murderer apprehended; and I may confess to no great unwillingness to revel in the gain.

  With very little fuss, and only the negligible discomfort occasioned by over-hasty coachmen and their great splashing beasts, I soon achieved Edgars Buildings. My enquiry as to the cost of such a thing as an apricot demi-turban, arranged cunningly with plumes, was the matter of but a moment; and the acknowledgement that it should be too dear for my purse, required but another. I turned away, lost in contemplation of how a similar headdress might be contrived, through the remnants of my own cut-up silk, and the loan of my sister Eliza’s feathers—when a loud hallooing from the street brought my attention to bear.

  Outriders, in a gorgeous livery of black and gold, with Bengal caps and tassels; postilions, mounted on the wheelers,5 similarly arrayed; and the coach-and-four, magnificent and sleek, the horses as black as night. A spirited team, chuffing and tossing their heads as they turned down Milsom Street—bound, no doubt, for the Bear or the White Hart. I strained to make out the coat of arms on the coach’s door—but it was unknown to me. Certainly not the Wilborough device; and so the conveyance could hardly hold Lord Harold. That the Gentleman Rogue was posting towards Bath, however, upon the early morning receipt of an express from his mother, I little doubted. Perhaps in the company of his brother, the Duke.

  “The Devil’s own cub,” muttered a gentleman not three paces away. He stood similarly arrested on the pavement, his eyes following the careening coach.

  “Who is it, guv’nor?” cried a small boy, skipping and bouncing with excitement.

  The gentleman turned angrily away, as though offended, and strode briskly towards Gay Street. His small persecutor kept pace, dodging the vicious stab of a walking stick with effortless grace. “Come on, no
w! Tell us who ‘tis, guv’nor! Ol’ Prinny, maybe? Or the Queen?”

  “The Earl of Swithin, you unfortunate cull,” his quarry spat out, “and now I suggest you take yourself off. Swithin’s hardly the sort to throw you a penny for carting his dunnage. He’s more likely to eat you for breakfast.”

  The urchin chortled, doffed his cap, and sped off in the direction of Cheap Street.

  After a pause for consideration, I sedately did the same.

  MY SISTER ELIZA WAS FIRMLY ENSCONCED IN A SUITE OF rooms at the White Hart; her maid, Manon, and her little dog, Pug, comprising fully half of her establishment, while the remainder—bedchambers for herself and Henry, with a sitting-room in between—might all be taken as Eliza’s to rule, so little evidence of my brother could I find. Such an apportionment of space at the White Hart must be very dear, and I wondered at the expense, and at my brother’s having failed to take lodgings in some retired square. The Henry Austens intended a visit to Bath of some three or four weeks, and it was unusual in such cases to remain more than a few days at the coaching inns. But Eliza, though accustomed to luxury, is singularly careless about convention—the result, perhaps, of her itinerant childhood. She moved with her mother, my aunt, from India to England and thence to Europe—fixing, at last, in the environs of Versailles. Even in London, Eliza is rarely at rest; she has occasioned the removal of my brother’s household several times already, and fully intends to continue the practice as long as a suitable establishment should offer.

  Even her grave, I suspect, will be a temporary domicile.

  “My dear Jane!” she cried now, throwing aside her netting and smoothing her hair. “And are you quite recovered from the Duchess’s rout? I am on the very point of venturing to the Pump Room. You will accompany me?”

  She was dressed today in bottle-green silk, far too fine for morning wear, with small puffed sleeves and a plunging neck. A large green stone glittered on her finger.

  “Is that an emerald I see, Eliza?”

  “Oh, pooh,” she cried, “it is nothing of the sort. A tourmaline merely—a gift from my godfather, Mr. Hastings. We met with him only last week. You will never guess, Jane, who has come to the inn.”