Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery Page 16

  “I take it this brooch belongs to one among your acquaintance?”

  “The Earl of Swithin—though I last saw it worn by his remarkable mother,” Lord Harold replied, and fingered the tiger gently.

  The magistrate’s eyes widened in his large face. “The same earl who has just quitted the house?”

  “His lordship is unlikely to have gone very far. Did you wish to speak to him, you have only to enquire for Lord Swithin at the residence opposite to this. His sister, Lady Louisa Fortescue, is presently serving as his hostess, and would ensure your every comfort.”

  “You are greatly pleased with yourself, my lord,” Mr. Elliot observed drily, “but you know it will not do. The Earl might have lost that bauble at any time in this house—and have not the slightest part in Mr. Portal’s death.”

  “I should concede the point with alacrity, Elliot,” Lord Harold said with a nod, “had his lordship ever set foot within Her Grace’s establishment before his visit this morning. Did Swithin go anywhere near the passage, Mona, while conversing with you?”

  “I am sure he did not,” she said faintly. She was pale, but contained; and the fever of her thoughts was evident upon her countenance. “Miss Austen? Can you recall him approaching the anteroom?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then perhaps he was present on a previous occasion without our knowledge—in the guise of one of Her Grace’s guests at Tuesday’s rout, and moving all unknown by virtue of a mask,” Lord Harold said. “Mr. Portal’s death is amply explained, Mr. Elliot, if effected by a jealous lover. For you must know that the dead man’s attentions to my niece—whom the Earl has sought to marry—were quite obvious that evening.”

  The magistrate was silent a moment. “Is it impossible that a similar pin should be worn by another?”

  “The device is Swithin’s. You will find the figure of a tiger painted upon the doors of his coach.”

  “But you cannot prove the present object is his lordship’s.”

  “Prove, prove—you grow tiresome with your proves, Mr. Elliot. That must be the magistrate’s office, not mine.” Lord Harold looked to Lady Desdemona. “I would swear that this tiger was once worn by the late Countess of Swithin—but have you ever seen the pin on the present Earl’s person, my dear?”

  She shook her head. “Though I can think of no one else whose coat of arms is so like—nor who should leave it in Grandmère’s household.”

  “That is, after all, the point,” her uncle replied thoughtfully. “Very well, Mr. Elliot—it would seem the only proper course would be to enquire of the Earl whether he has ever seen this tiger brooch; and then to establish his movements on the night in question. If his lordship was seen to be in London by a company of White’s stoutest clubmen, and was playing at whist in the very hour of Portal’s death—I will regard the cunning tiger as a phantasm brought about by the strength of my desire to clear my unfortunate nephew. But if the Earl was absent from Town …”

  “… then I shall be very well pleased, my lord,” Mr. Elliot replied, to my astonishment. “I have had occasion to doubt the security of my arrest, or indeed of the entire fabric of this case—for it is exceedingly odd for a gentleman to murder a guest in his own home, in the midst of a rout, however much in wine and fired by argument. Too convenient by half, you might say; and yet what choice did I have, but to seize the Marquis, him having been found with the knife in his hand?”

  “I quite appreciate the difficulty,” Lord Harold replied, “and if you will only undertake to set these London enquiries in train, Mr. Elliot, I shall forgive the hasty nature of your justice and afford you every accommodation within my power.”

  “Such as the fees for the stage?” Mr. Elliot’s beady black eyes assessed his lordship shrewdly. “I’d be wishful of carrying a few constables along, and there’s housing and victuals to be thought of.”

  “So there are, indeed,” Lord Harold said smoothly. He drew forth a roll of Treasury notes from within his coat, and peeled away several for the magistrate’s use. “If you move with despatch, Mr. Elliot, you might yet have time to visit the Earl across the way, before you must catch the last London stage at the Hart.”

  “So I might, my lord, so I might.” He beamed around the room, and enquired casually, “And where in London shall I find the Earl’s residence?—For I should not like to have to ask the direction of his lordship, and lose the element of surprise.”

  “In St. James Square,” Lady Desdemona replied. “Fortescue House. I daresay there are many who would be willing to show you the way.”

  The magistrate bowed, and departed without further delay. Very well satisfied with the events of the morning—though conscious of a certain despair in Lady Desdemona’s looks, and anxious for her spirits—I quite soon did the same.

  LORD HAROLD EXPRESSED HIMSELF AS DESIROUS OF ESCORTING me home to Green Park Buildings, but I had hardly achieved the street in his company, before he steered me away from the river. “Come, Miss Austen! We must take a turn in Sydney Gardens,” he said. “Fine weather in Bath is as rare as Tuesday’s snow, and we cannot let the opportunity for exercise fall by the way.”

  I should hardly call the present cloudy aspect fine—but I knew better than to quibble with a man of Lord Harold’s understanding. He intended a tête-à-tête, and chose the gardens for his venue.

  Sydney Gardens Vauxhall is one of the few areas of Bath that I may regard with complaisance and pleasure. For three years I lived happily enough at No. 4 Sydney Place, just opposite to the gardens’ entry, and was able to take a turn almost daily in its shrubberies, and look fondly upon the various waterfalls, and pavilions, and Chinese bridges over the canal. The sham castle I can forgo without a pang, and I profess no great inclination for the various swings or bowling greens; even the Merlin grotto I may be said to despise; but I cannot do without the Labyrinth. What heroine could abuse so splendid a natural amusement, conducive to the most delicious assignations, the most intriguing conversations overheard, the unexpected presentation around a turning in the path, of an Unknown Gentleman of Distinguished Appearance? Many are the wanderings I have undertaken in the Labyrinth, while lost in the pleasant fancies that are the peculiar delight of young ladies; and our sixpences paid to the attendant at the gate, it was to the Labyrinth I led Lord Harold on the present occasion.

  “I must confess I was astonished at the discovery of his lordship’s pin,” I mused, “but to you it does not seem so very extraordinary.”

  “That is perhaps because I have acquired a certain intimacy with the Earl’s affairs,” my companion grimly replied, “by the expedient of having read his mail. I did not wish to reveal the extent of Swithin’s embarrassments or machinations before my niece, Miss Austen; it was enough to start Mr. Elliot upon the track of this particular hare; but with you I shall not scruple to disclose the whole.”

  “You believe Lady Desdemona to feel more for Swithin than she acknowledges?”

  “She certainly did not meet the evidence of his deceit with composure. What is your opinion on the subject?”

  “I confess I cannot tell. She proclaims herself utterly disinclined to encourage him—and then proceeds to do so, by a frequent display of temper and the jealousy it presages. Of his heart I can determine even less. He offers coldness, and pique, and a quelling tendency to favour others in her sight—and yet, to Laura Place he returns, as outraged as a bull at the thought of a rival!”

  “There may be more than one interpretation of such behaviour,” Lord Harold said equably. “Swithin may hope to secure my niece for reasons of private gain alone.”

  “You suspect him of mercenary motives? But I thought him possessed of easy circumstances. Indeed, my sister Eliza—” I stopped, in recollection of the nature of the Earl’s trade.

  “I quite long to pursue your sister Eliza’s acquaintance,” Lord Harold remarked. “She seems a most engaging lady—on terms of intimacy with the entire world, but too strong in her understanding to be duped by it.”
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  “Eliza knew something of the Swithin fortunes in India, I believe. She is a native of the region herself.”

  “And did she comprehend the nature of that fortune’s present increase?” Lord Harold enquired keenly.

  “She thought it due to the trade of opium with China.”

  “And so it is. I might add that Swithin has put his profits from opium sales into the finest gemstones the Company might obtain; and it is these he sends in cargoes home to Great Britain. But I very much fear that his wealth has run afoul of politics.”

  I frowned. “The present Government would put a halt to the opium trade?”

  Lord Harold shook his head. “But Buonaparte will not hesitate to do so, I fear. Lord Swithin’s fortune is much exposed, in traversing the Indian Ocean. You may have heard from your naval brothers that the French hold some islands in that clime, and have harried our shipping in recent months.”

  I endeavoured to recall the respective French and British holdings in the Indian Ocean. “The Ile de France, is it not? What we call the island of Mauritius?”

  “The very same. We must destroy the French base in those waters if the Indian trade is to sail in security; and upon the fate of the Indian trade rests an entire web of investments and fortunes, touching nearly every family in the kingdom. The expense of the Crown’s war with France could not be sustained, to name but a single venture; and yet a vast deal of English goods and bullion has lately gone without a murmur into the Empire’s hands. I fear that Swithin’s ships have been served a similar fate. If rumour may be taken for truth, it is many months since the Earl’s merchantmen were heard from.”

  “And might Lady Desdemona’s fortune alone preserve his lordship from ruin?”

  “It should at the least supply his present want. My niece possesses no less than fifty thousand pounds. A man might murder for less. And then there is the inducement of silencing his blackmailer! The Earl perceives Mona’s enjoyment of Portal’s attentions—feels his influence is waning—she has already refused him once—and so he despatches the dangerous rival at a single blow, and leaves Kinsfell to supply his place. I like the stratagem very well.”

  We had achieved the Labyrinth, and with an instant’s hesitation at its mouth, plunged within.

  “Is this a favourite among your walks?” Lord Harold enquired.

  “It is, my lord. I may safely claim to have braved the twists and turns of its charms, a hundred times or more. Like yourself, I delight in cunning blinds and stratagems, as I believe you comprehend.”

  “And have you then fathomed the maze’s heart, my dear Miss Austen?”

  “But that should defeat enjoyment entirely!” I replied. “We do not adventure the Labyrinth with conquest in view—rather the reverse. Did we achieve the center with celerity, we should as swiftly lose interest.”

  We came to a turning in the path, with two possible avenues at our disposal. Lord Harold chose the right-hand way.

  “And there, perhaps, may be the answer to Swithin’s motives,” he concluded. “He may pursue my niece for gain—or more simply yet, because she persists in denying him the prize.”

  “He would not be the first gentleman since the dawn of time to behave in as absurd a fashion. But tell me, my lord—do Mr. Portal’s letters paint the Earl so thoroughly black? Is he quite lost to all goodness, that you should regard him as capable of every infamy?”

  Lord Harold was silent a moment in reflection. “Lord Swithin is much entangled with a lady, whom Mr. Portal did not deign to name, but whom we may assume is Maria Conyngham, from the manager’s proximity to his company and the Earl’s appearance in the wings last evening.”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” I said, “but are not a nobleman’s attentions to a rising actress comparatively commonplace? Surely the history of the theatre is littered with examples, both scandalous and tame.”

  “As I have very good reason to know. But how disadvantageous a moment for his lordship’s exposure! Mr. Portal’s intimacy with Laura Place must have taught him how intent was Lord Swithin upon the attachment of Lady Desdemona; and so Portal’s threats to reveal his lordship’s liaison with Miss Conyngham could not fail to find an ear. Such knowledge was as gold in Portal’s hands.”

  Our chosen path ended abruptly in impenetrable hedge, but I knew this way of old—and with a cry of satisfaction, showed Lord Harold a passage quite hidden behind a monolith of green. We had only to slip around it, to find the path continuing; and I discerned in this a useful lesson.

  “—For what may appear to be a blank wall, my lord, may very often prove a door.”

  “In life as well as mazes,” he mused.

  “What possible necessity could have driven Mr. Portal to the extortion of so much money?” I enquired.

  “An embarrassment in his circumstances. I have had the opportunity to consult Mr. Portal’s account book. I found to my satisfaction that all he possessed was mortgaged several times over. The Theatre Royal Company has not been paid in months. The theatre may be profitable, of course, but Portal was sorrily profligate; and the building of the new establishment in Beauford Square has demanded increasing sums. He faced ruin and seizure by a host of creditors, did he fail to obtain relief.”

  “And who better to solicit than a wealthy peer? It is clear, now, from the Earl’s words in the Pump Room, that the letters he would have had Mr. Conyngham retrieve, were the self-same ones you have pilfered with your cunning picks. There is an unfortunate explanation in the offing, I fear, when the letters are discovered to be missing.”

  “As they may already have been. I left the desk unlocked behind me—from a design of striking fear in the hearts of the complicitous. Mr. Conyngham will search for the letters; he will be unable to find them; and anxiety at the letters’ discovery will force him to divulge the whole to Swithin. Thus may we provoke the Earl’s hand.”

  “Did we observe him in such a pass, we should learn much to our advantage,” I thoughtfully said. “It may save endless trouble on your nephew’s behalf, my lord, if we await the natural progress of events.”

  “I believe I am of your opinion, Miss Austen.” Lord Harold hesitated between two branching paths, chose the left, and walked on. His eyes were fixed upon the gravel walk, as though he might read his future in the stones. “I long for some betrayal on Swithin’s part. For he has certainly managed the affair with miserable éclat. Would it not have been wiser, for example, to secure the blackmailing letters before dispatching their author with a knife? And what does he mean by arranging the deed in my mother’s house? Did he intend for Kinsfell to fall into his trap, and take the blame? And if so—was my nephew lured to the anteroom where Portal’s body lay, by the agencies of the very person whose name he now refuses to divulge? Is this why poor Simon clings to the claims of honour?”

  “But what can be his purpose in so complete a destruction of your nephew, my lord?”

  “I may hazard a guess. Maria Conyngham.”

  We turned into a path that led to an abrupt wall of green—a decidedly dead end. Lord Harold turned, and retraced his steps, glancing about for the most likely direction. Having chosen it, he waved to me. I joined him hurriedly.

  “I do not understand you, my lord.”

  “Mr. Portal’s documents revealed a more troubling matter to my unwilling eyes last evening, Miss Austen, than the involvement of the Earl. For my nephew, it seems, is most ardent in his pursuit of one among the company. The very same Maria Conyngham.”

  “She has been active, indeed, in cultivating admiration! At Mr. Portal’s behest, perhaps? Does she play with hearts in innocence—or for a share in the blackmailer’s spoils?”

  “That is a cunning thought, indeed. I cannot undertake to say.”

  “Her present disdain for Lord Kinsfell may be taken as a sign.”

  “Or as a clever subterfuge to divert attention from herself. Full many a guilty woman has found refuge in righteous indignation.”

  “But how was your nephew to be worked
upon?”

  “My brother Bertie intends Kinsfell to make a brilliant match; and regardless of the consideration due to the Dowager Duchess and her former career, His Grace should consider an actress quite below the ducal touch. Simon would be at pains to present the lady in the most virtuous and commendable light; and if her liaison with Swithin were bruited about—”

  “I comprehend. Mr. Portal’s scheme was complete, indeed. But might this have been the subject of his dispute with Lord Kinsfell at the Dowager’s masquerade?”

  “I cannot doubt it.”

  I considered in memory the outraged Marquis; his tearful sister; his drunken opponent. In the shadows beyond their circle stood the Earl and Maria Conyngham, like pieces on a chessboard regarding their pawns. Did Lord Swithin or his agent thrust home the knife in Portal’s breast, he should be rid in a single stroke of both his blackmailer and his rival for Lady Desdemona’s fortune.

  “And since the Earl is undoubtedly jealous of his mistress’s favours,” Lord Harold said, as though reading my thoughts, “and resentful in the extreme of Kinsfell’s attentions to Maria Conyngham, my unfortunate nephew was left to discover the body, and shoulder the blame for Portal’s murder. Fiendishly clever!”

  I came to a halt upon the path, my mind in a whirl. “But this is madness, my lord! For we know Miss Conyngham to be united by affection to Portal himself—her present grief must make it so.” Unless—

  I saw again in memory the scarlet-clad Medusa of Tuesday’s rout, her black locks tumbled and her countenance made ugly by grief, as she keened over the slain Harlequin. Maria Conyngham then might almost have felt the knife to pierce her breast along with Portal’s, so great was her suffering. But was her display in fact the consummate expression of art—merely Conyngham the Tragedienne, with deceit her chief ambition?

  “Perhaps Mr. Portal valued wealth far more than love,” Lord Harold suggested. “Or perhaps Miss Conyngham merely affects the bond—and her present grief—for the foiling of her enemies. She is accomplished in the art of dissembling, recollect.”