Jane and the Barque of Frailty Page 11

  If Castlereagh was not already purple with indignation, I should be greatly surprised; for it is true that Emily, Lady Castlereagh, is known for her outré habits and eccentricities of dress; but as she is perhaps the foremost political hostess of our day, much is forgiven her. The quiet propriety and elegance that characterise her husband’s habit are not for Lady Castlereagh; she prefers to shock.

  “Let us say that you observed a gentleman we may presume to be Lord Castlereagh enter his lordship’s abode in company with his lady,” Mr. Whitpeace said evenly, “at a little after one o’clock in the morning. And did you observe anyone to quit the Castlereagh residence later during your rounds?”

  “I cannot say as I did.”

  “Did you observe a second equipage to pull up before No. 45, Berkeley Square, at any later hour?”

  “I did not,” Bends said quaveringly, “and how that pore lady came to be a-laying there at the foot of his lordship’s steps, with her throat cut and her great dark eyes beseeching of the heavens—”

  “Joshua Bends!” the coroner said with great decision, “If you cannot confine your remarks to the questions put, I shall not allow you to offer testimony! Pray tell us what else you observed during the course of your rounds, in the interval between the Castlereaghs’ arrival home, and your discovery of Deceased.”

  In a series of verbal perambulations, the aged charley related how he had discouraged a woman of the streets from plying her trade on the corner of

  Charles Street; how he had watched Mr. St. John Westbrook weave his inebriated course from Lord Sutherland’s private card party to his lodgings in the Albany; how he had walked round the square at three o’clock by St. George’s bells, and heard what he took to be a pair of lovers in extremis in a closed carriage, pulled up in the mews behind No. 43; and how, having taken a catnap between the hours of three and four, he set out after the sounding of the church bells with his lantern raised, to call out the weather and the o’clock, among the shuttered houses of Berkeley Square.

  “What direction did you then take?” Mr. Whitpeace enquired.

  “Towards Covent Garden—me meaning to nip over for a can of ale and a bit of bread and cheese, like, as is my custom, afore the breaking of the day. A man can get a bite and sup in Covent Garden all night long, if he’s so inclined, what with the carts coming in from the country and the folk setting up for market day. I allus have my bread and cheese after St. George’s tolls four o’clock, I do, me being bred up in the country and used to them hours.”

  Joshua Bends stared defiantly in the direction of the magistrate, as tho’ he expected a reprimand from Sir Nathaniel; but the fact of a charley’s playing truant in search of sustenance was as nothing to the grosser crimes with which such men are usually charged—everything from the taking of bribes, to the abetting of thieves and the corruption of young women. Sir Nathaniel made no sign he had noted a dereliction of duty.

  “You walked to Covent Garden at four of the clock,” Mr. Whitpeace observed, “and cannot have been returned to the square much before five.”

  “Heard the tolling of the bells, I did,” Bends retorted triumphantly, “and went about my rounds to call the weather.”

  “In what direction?”

  “Clockwise, Yer Worship. Walked right round the square, I did, on the pavings that runs alongside they great houses. And there she were lying, like a heap of old clothes.”

  A murmur of unease ran through the room, and Lord Castlereagh shifted in his chair.

  “Where, exactly, did Deceased lie?” Mr. Whitpeace asked.

  “Across the paving, slantwise, in front of No. 45,” Bends replied. “His lordship’s house.”

  “Was Deceased lying on her face, or on her back?”

  “Her back. I went to her, o’ course, and felt for her life—but as soon as I knelt down beside her I knew it was no use. The blood was that thick on the ground—”

  “Was it liquid?” Mr. Whitpeace demanded. “Or congealed?”

  Bends stared, uncomprehending.

  “Was it thick upon your hands,” the coroner amplified, “or akin to water? Speak, man.”

  “Her neck was wet, but not so wet as to be like water.” The charley glanced about the publick room, as tho’ in search of aid.

  “She had not, then, died in the last few seconds.”

  Bends shrugged.

  “Did you observe any sort of weapon near the Princess?”

  “No-o,” Bends said falteringly, “but for the piece of china.”

  Thomas Whitpeace leaned towards the charley avidly. “What sort of china?”

  “It looked like the lid of a dish. Or maybe a lady’s box,” Bends offered, “such as she might keep treasures in. About the size of a loaf of bread, it was. I’ve never seen the like afore, except in the windows of they shops on Jermyn Street. Very fine, with gilt edging and all manner of birds painted on top.”

  “Where did you find this … lid?”

  “Smashed on the ground beside the lady.”

  “Smashed? How, then, did you know it for a lid?”

  “It was broken in three great pieces, and when the Runner come, he fitted ’em together and showed me what it was. One of the pieces had blood along the edge.”

  I glanced at Henry. His countenance was very pale: imagining the scene, as I had done, of the Princess Tscholikova standing in the night, and dragging the jagged edge of porcelain across her luminous white neck. A lady’s box, such as she might keep treasures in. The emerald brooch, gryphon and eagle, rose before my mind’s eye.

  “There was no sign of jewels scattered about the pavement?” the coroner demanded sternly.

  “Yer Honour!” Bends cried. “As God is my witness—”

  Count Kronsky rose smoothly from his place. “Prince Pirov would assure the coroner that his sister’s jewels are in his possession.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Whitpeace said. “What did you then, Joshua Bends?”

  “Set up a hollerin’ fit to bust.”

  “And the result?”

  “The lights went up in No. 45. Fair deal o’ candles they must’ve lit—sparing no expence even for the serving folk. That’s a gentleman’s household, that is.”

  “Who appeared first from No. 45?”

  “His lordship’s man.” Bends gestured towards Charles Malverley. “Full dressed he were, as tho’ ’twere broadest day!”

  “You may step down, Bends,” Thomas Whitpeace instructed. “The coroner calls Mr. Charles Malverley!”

  CHARLES MALVERLEY’S BEATIFIC FACE WAS QUITE pale under his fashionably-disordered curls as he swore his oath. But his gaze did not waver as he submitted to the coroner; he was a self-possessed creature, schooled from infancy in matters of conduct. I judged him to be in his early twenties—a man just down from Oxford or Cambridge, perhaps, with no inclination for Holy Orders. Younger sons of earls can be dreadfully expensive; bred up to the world of ton with only the slimmest of expectations, they face a life of sponging on their more affluent relatives—or the distasteful prospect of a profession. Charles Malverley must be breathlessly expensive; but rather than descending into debt and vice, he had done the honourable thing—and put himself out for hire.

  “You serve Lord Castlereagh in the capacity of private secretary, I believe?” Mr. Whitpeace said.

  “I do.”

  “And for how many years have you fulfilled that office?”

  “A matter of months, rather. His lordship was good enough to take me on in the autumn of 1809.”

  “The autumn—that is a vague term, Mr. Malverley. Was this before or after his lordship resigned from the Cabinet?”

  “I cannot see that it makes the slightest difference,” Malverley rejoined with asperity, “but if you will know—it was perhaps a fortnight after his lordship determined to enter private life.”

  I glanced around the room for Mr. Canning: He was seated a little in front of me. His countenance betrayed no undue sensibility regarding Lord Castlereagh’s retireme
nt: the private accusations of misconduct and stupidity Canning had circulated in Cabinet, and the furious culmination of pistols at dawn.

  “Let us say, then, that you went to Lord

  Castlereagh’s in mid-October, 1809,” Mr. Whitpeace persisted.

  “By all means, say so,” Malverley returned impatiently.

  “Thus you have been very much in his lordship’s confidence, I collect, for full a year and a half?”

  “I have attempted to serve Lord Castlereagh to the full extent of my abilities,” Malverley said, as tho’ the coroner had uttered an impertinence. “I aspire to nothing more.”

  “Very well. We shall return to the exact nature of your services in due course. On the evening in question, Mr. Malverley, you were first to answer the watchman’s summons.”

  “I was.”

  “And yet, it was past five o’clock in the morning. Do you reside in Lord Castlereagh’s establishment?”

  A wave of colour rose in the young man’s cheeks. “I have rooms at the Albany. But on the evening in question I … had not yet found occasion to return there.”

  “You were working on his lordship’s behalf until dawn?” Mr. Whitpeace’s expression was politely incredulous.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Malverley shot a quick look in Castlereagh’s direction. “His lordship required me to escort Lady Castlereagh home after the conclusion of the play at the Theatre Royal, as her ladyship was greatly fatigued. His lordship, I believe, intended going on to one of his clubs. I saw

  Lady Castlereagh home in her carriage. At our arrival, the hall porter informed her ladyship that the Princess Tscholikova had called a few moments before our arrival, asking for his lordship, and had been refused the house—owing to the lateness of the hour, the imperfect understanding the porter had of the Princess’s standing, and the family being from home.”

  “The Princess Tscholikova had called in Berkeley Square? But the watchman said nothing of this!”

  Malverley shrugged. “I can only relate what the porter told me.”

  “Had the Princess been much in the habit of calling on Lord Castlereagh in the small hours of the morning?”

  “She had never done so, to my knowledge.” Malverley’s eyes dropped. “I do not believe she was on terms of acquaintance with either of the Castlereaghs.”

  “And yet, the porter would have it that she came to the house after midnight—for so it must have been—but a few hours before her death!”

  “That is so. I cannot account for it.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Lady Castlereagh glanced at the Princess’s card, and declared herself ready to retire. When she had ascended to her room, I told the porter to secure the front door and go off to bed.”

  “—Tho’ his lordship was not yet returned?”

  “His lordship possesses a key,” Malverley said.

  “You did not then quit the house for your own rooms?”

  “I went into my office—an antechamber to his lordship’s study. The room gives onto the square— which is how I came to hear the charley so distinctly.”

  “Your office?” Mr. Whitpeace repeated, a fine line between his brows. “What did you there?”

  “I set about answering some of his lordship’s correspondence.”

  “What hour would this have been?”

  “Perhaps … half-past one o’clock in the morning.”

  “You undertook to answer his lordship’s correspondence in the middle of the night?”

  Malverley’s gaze met the coroner’s without hesitation. “I was not at all tired; and I find the quiet of the household at such an hour conducive to work.”

  “I see. How long were you at your writing desk?”

  “I hardly know. Several hours, I should think.”

  “His lordship accords you a great deal of responsibility!”

  “I am gratified to say that he does.”

  The secretary was very much on his dignity now; the implausibility of his story, and the publick imputation that should be put to it—that he was in Lady Castlereagh’s service, rather than her lord’s— appeared so far beneath his notice, as to be unworthy of question.

  My brother Henry leaned towards me. “This begins to grow interesting, Jane.”

  “And dangerous,” I whispered.

  “Please describe for the panel what happened next, Mr. Malverley,” Mr. Whitpeace said drily.

  “I had just risen from my desk, preparatory to seeking my own lodgings, when a cry went up from the paving-stones below my window. I heard a cry for help, quite distinctly, and recognised the charley’s voice. Thinking that perhaps he had been set upon by footpads, I unbolted the front door and peered out. It was then I saw old Bends kneeling on the paving, and the Princess.”

  “You knew her for Princess Tscholikova?” Mr. Whitpeace demanded sharply.

  “Not immediately. I went to the charley’s assistance, of course—saw from the great cut in the throat that the lady was dead—and summoned a footman from his bed, in order to despatch him to the magistrate in Bow Street. Only then did I have occasion to look again on the corpse’s countenance, and understood that it was the Princess Tscholikova.”

  Malverley’s pallor was remarkable now, and his lips compressed; but he did not falter, or raise his hand to his eyes. He was indeed a young man of considerable resolution—the sort who should have made an excellent cavalry officer, or a loyal aide-decamp. I found occasion to wonder just how far his loyalty might extend, to those he loved—or feared.

  “Were you acquainted with the Princess?” the coroner enquired.

  “Only slightly. One might meet her often in certain circles, and perhaps exchange a few pleasantries—but I should never say that we were well acquainted.”

  “In the course of your duties, Mr. Malverley, did you have occasion to answer the Princess’s letters to his lordship?” Mr. Whitpeace asked it mildly.

  Castlereagh started from his chair, with no restraining hand to save him. “I’ll answer that, Charles,” he said sharply. “You never answered the woman’s letters, because she never wrote to me! It’s all a pack of damned lies!”

  The room went still. An hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on his lordship, except my own—which profited from the appalled silence, in a survey of my fellows. George Canning’s looks were alert; Lord Alvanley’s intrigued; the Comte d’Entraigues’s— oddly exultant.

  “You may step down, Mr. Malverley,” Thomas Whitpeace said. “The coroner calls Robert, Lord Castlereagh!”

  Chapter 13

  Dark Horses

  Friday, 26 April 1811, cont.

  ∼

  I WILL NOT ATTEMPT TO REPEAT LORD CASTLEREAGH’S testimony here in my journal; it is enough to say that he delivered it with his usual arrogance, coldness, and appearance of contempt for all the world. A lesser man than Mr. Thomas Whitpeace should have quailed before the duty of interrogating such an one, who has been accustomed to stare out of countenance the most formidable orators in the Kingdom—but the coroner proved equal to the task. He demanded to know where Castlereagh had gone, after quitting Mrs. Siddons’s play at the Theatre Royal—and Castlereagh refused to tell him. His lordship produced no friend who might vouch for his presence at one of his numerous clubs; no hackney coachman who might swear he had delivered his lordship to a reputable address; and no explanation of his apparently solitary pursuits throughout the small hours of Tuesday morning. Castlereagh proved as impenetrable as the walls of Copenhagen he’d once ordered bombarded—and invoked the honour of his reputation, in his refusal to disclose his movements.

  Mr. Whitpeace then turned to the matter of the Princess’s appearance at his lordship’s town house, and was informed, in scathing accents, that no intimacy whatsoever existed between his lordship and the unfortunate woman. When the matter was pursued— and the pregnant business of the lady’s correspondence raised—Castlereagh displayed the hot temper for which he is justly famous, and insisted that he had never cor
responded with the Princess. He went so far as to suggest that Tscholikova had merely sought attention in throwing herself at a fashionable household— and that this mania for the world’s notice had ended in madness and suicide.

  When queried as to the cause of the Princess’s despair, Castlereagh could offer no explanation—save that she had received no vouchers from his wife for admission to Almack’s Assembly Rooms. As the better part of those present understood how exalted was the favour of inclusion at Almack’s, and how rarely and whimsically it was bestowed by the Assembly’s patronesses— among whom was numbered Lady Castlereagh—this notion appeared almost plausible. But it was my brother Henry who supplied a surprising bit of intelligence.

  He was called to bear testimony before the panel, to my shock and consternation. I believe he must have expected the summons—that he had, indeed, attended the inquest in order to satisfy it—but had kept mum, rather than excite Eliza’s interest.

  There is nothing like the pair of them for shielding each other.

  “You are Henry Austen, of Austen, Maunde and Tilson, a banking establishment in Henrietta Street?” Thomas Whitpeace enquired.

  “I am.”

  “And you reside at No. 64, Sloane Street, in the area of Hans Town?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Pray explain to the panel the terms of your acquaintance with Princess Tscholikova.”

  I studied my brother’s countenance, which was unusually guarded, and felt the depths of my bowels twist with dismay. Henry! Acquainted with the Princess! When Bill Skroggs, the Bow Street Runner, had intimated as much the evening before—and I had rushed to disprove the very idea! My brother was a dark horse, indeed—and there was no knowing, now, what hidden paths he might pursue, when he was far from Eliza’s society.

  “My partner in business, Mr. James Tilson, was a near neighbour of the Princess in Hans Place. About a week since, she approached him with the request for a loan.”