Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor Read online

  It was my duty next to be called and sworn, and I related in as calm a manner as possible the finding of the handkerchief, the appearance of the footprints, and the discovery of the body. I stated that the time had been close to half-past ten in the morning, and that the blood was quite fresh. I was queried as to my reasons for probing the maid’s bodice, which brought a conscious flush to my cheeks and an edge of severity to the voice of Mr. Bott; and then I was allowed to go.

  Sir William took the chair; and affirmed that the maid was slain in the shed itself, to judge by appearances; that she was undoubtedly called there by the note found on her person; and that the note was determined to have been written by Fitzroy Payne. I should have thought the humble audience long since wearied by such revelations; but they were inflamed anew with every fact let fall, as a hound will grow increasingly crazed with the letting of a doomed fox’s blood.

  At the last, Fitzroy Payne was himself called to the chair; and asked of his whereabouts on the morning in question; he could say only that he had been abroad at eight o’clock for an early ride on his horse, had roamed throughout the Park, and had met with no one; that when he returned to the stables, it was eleven o’clock, and he learned the news of the maid’s murder. When asked whether he had ever communicated by letter with Marguerite, the Earl replied firmly in the negative, and declared that a common forger had grossly imposed upon us all.

  With that, Mr. Bott cleared his throat and turned his spectacles upon the dozen men who formed the jury. “My good sirs,” the coroner told them, “we have come to the close of the evidence you must consider. A hard duty is now before you. If you believe the late Earl to have died of dyspepsia, you must return a verdict of death by natural causes. If you consider the maid to have been killed somehow, but are uncertain as to whether this was murder and if so, at whose hand, you must return a verdict of death by misadventure.”

  Mr. Bott paused, and glared at the assembled villagers with severity. “If, however, you believe the Earl to have been murdered, and feel with certainty and conviction that you may name the hand that has effected his demise, you must return a charge of wilful murder against that person. The same is true in the maid’s case. Leave us now, and bring to your deliberations consideration and care. God bless you.”

  The jury filed away, eyes grim and faces averted from the Scargrave household; and in a matter of moments had returned, with a verdict of death by wilful murder—against Isobel in the case of the late Earl, and against Fitzroy Payne in the case of Marguerite.

  AND SO THE GREAT HOUSE IS HUSHED THIS EVENING, IN all the awareness of doom. Several stout fellows stand watch before the Manor’s doors, lest the Countess or the Earl conceive the reckless notion to flee. Sir William has allowed them to remain under house arrest this night, until their removal tomorrow for a special session of the Assizes, and then to London, where they will await trial by a jury of their peers. And as Fitzroy and Isobel are members of the peerage—he by birth, and she by marriage—their trial is to be in the House of Lords, a spectacle rare in the annals of England’s criminal history.

  The household and I are to follow in their train, to take up abode in the Earl’s Town house; even if I would be gone now to Bath, my duty as a friend forbids it, for Isobel will not hear of me deserting her in this, her most mortal hour. Indeed, she has charged me with a burden I scarce know how to fulfil.

  “Discover the truth, my dear Jane,” she pressed me, her brown eyes dry and her carriage unbent, as she prepared to be shut up in her rooms. “It is beyond my power to do so. As God is my witness, I am innocent of my husband’s death. Sir William is unmoved, and the townsfolk easily led; but your penetration, your understanding, must be my only hope. Do not fail me, Jane!”

  28 December 1802

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  I AWOKE THIS MORNING TO THE RATTLE OF THE UPPER house maid laying the fire—a comforting sound, suggestive of other winter mornings retrieved from the memory of childhood, when the certainty of a good breakfast before a blazing hearth awaited one downstairs, and duties no more onerous than the reading of a lesson filled up the morning. I felt a sharp longing for Cassandra, and intimate conversation in our dressing gowns—and for Steventon, the home of my youth abandoned these eighteen months. Tho’ Hampshire is often derided for its ugly chalk cliffs and quiet farmland, I cannot think Derbyshire’s crags more lovely, nor the gardens of Hertfordshire to have a greater claim on my affections. It was partly from homesickness that I once entertained the notion of marriage to Harris Bigg-Wither—for an alliance with his considerable fortune and Hampshire estates would have returned me to the circle I so dearly loved.

  I burrowed deeper in the quilts as the maid lit her tinder. My person might be in Scargrave this morning, but my mind was upon home. When my father moved our family to Bath eighteen months ago, my conviction of Steventon’s merits was only strengthened.1 Bath itself I find abhorrent, even as it fascinates—as is ever the case when I am surfeited with a certain kind of society. The sameness of the crowd in the Pump Room, though the faces themselves may change, is such as to weary; the endless parading, the restless nothingness of conversation, the crush of the public assemblies; the ennui of one’s partners, generally stupid young men with little to recommend them; the insipidity of a crowd that comes for the sole purpose of being amused, and finds it an insult to exert itself towards that end. Not for anything in the world would I have chosen a pleasure place for a permanent home.

  And the system of drains in the house at Sydney Place is not to be supported.

  I cannot but wonder at my father having chosen such a town for his remaining years, and yearn still for my snug upstairs room in the rectory and die society of Madam Lefroy, my dearest Anne. To consider brother James and his poor Mary now in possession of all that was dear to me is a further source of displeasure; they cannot appreciate its merits as I, nor find the same delight in its simple comforts. They exist only to criticise. But I recollect; I myself have been criticising at great length, and must declare it to be a family failing.

  I rose up on one elbow and peered around the bed-curtains. “Martha,” I said to the maid bent at the grate, “is anyone else yet abroad?”

  “I can’t rightly say, miss,” she declared, sitting back on her heels and brushing away a stray lock of black hair, “seein’ as those fellers are posted a’tall the doors. Took the kindlin’ from me and sent me abaht my business, they did, as though I’d ‘ave the savin’ of the Earl with a bit o’ tinder.”

  “Events have taken a sad turn,” I commented.

  “That they ‘ave, miss, and for nothin’ but Lizzy Scratch and her palaverin’ ways. That girl Margie was a bad ‘un, make no mistake, and she’s sure to ‘ave met her end from ‘er fancy man as anything else. Least, that’s what Mr. Cobblestone and Mrs. Hodges be sayin’ below stairs.”

  “Did you know Marguerite very well?” I enquired curiously.

  “Didn’ ‘ave time. She bahn’t been ‘ere but a week or two ‘fore she quit the ‘ouse.” Martha stood up and dusted off her hands. “There now. That’s burnin’ smartly. Jest you bide there in bed, miss, until the chill come off the room, and I’ll fetch the tea.”

  When she had gone, I lay back on the pillows and considered all that Lizzy Scratch had recounted the previous day. Marguerite’s unknown man may also have been her murderer; certainly Sir William Reynolds believed so, and thought him found in the present Earl. That Fitzroy Payne was hardly likely to have made love to the Countess and her maid at one and the same time (particularly when I knew him possessed of a mistress in Town), was not an aspect to trouble Sir William. Perhaps he knew more than I of the habits of gentlemen.

  It was equally possible, however that Marguerite’s lover had nothing to do with the events at the Manor, and that fear of the law prevented the man from coming forward. Now that Fitzroy Payne had been charged, perhaps the unknown swain should breathe more easily, and consider acceding to an interview—could one but locate him.

  “Mar
tha,” I said, as the maid returned with tea-tray held high, “does Mrs. Hodges or Cobblestone know the identity of Marguerite’s young man? I wonder that he did not come forward at the inquest.”

  “That Man,” Martha said, implying the coroner Mr. Bott, “made out as if ‘twere the new Earl, Lord Payne as was, ‘ad goings-on with Margie. Ha! He’d as like ‘ave to do with Mrs. Hodges, and her sixty if she’s a day. Lord Payne—Lord Scargrave, I mean—is that proud, he looks through us serving folk. He’s called me Kate or Daisy as often as my Christian name.”

  “Perhaps Marguerite had no young man.”

  “Oh, that she did,” Martha declared stoutly. “Always goin’ on about ‘ow flash he were, and ‘ow ‘e’d bring ‘er things that were that costly when she saw ‘im again.” She set the tray by the fire and poured out a cup.

  “So it was an affair of some duration,” I mused. “I had supposed her young man only recently encountered—since her coming to Scargrave.”

  “Oh, Lord, no! She was ever givin’ ‘erself airs, sayin’ as ‘ow she weren’t likely to be in service no more when ‘er ship come in, and ‘ow we’d all ‘ave to call ‘er Miss Marguerite.” Martha thrust her nose in the air and shrugged her shoulders, affecting Marguerite’s haughty disdain. “Showed us a gold locket she’d ‘ad off ‘im, that she kept real close-like, and wore under ‘er shift. Thought ‘e’d marry her; she did—or worse.”

  I threw back the covers and reached for my dressing gown, my eyes on Martha’s tray. “Perhaps it was a fellow from her native island, encouraged through steady correspondence? “

  Martha looked doubtful. “I don’t think as it was a ferriner, miss, but I can’t rightly say.”

  “I suppose she might readily have formed an acquaintance during her months in London.”

  “Come to think on it, miss, she did say as he’d took ‘er strollin’ of an evenin’ in Covent Garden.”

  I took a sip of tea and studied the maid over the rim of my cup. “I wonder her mistress the Countess did not know of it. The entire affair is curious, Martha. As curious as Marguerite’s friendship with Lizzy Scratch.”

  “Old Lizzy’s ‘avin’ the time o’ ‘er life,” Martha averred with scorn. “If she were any friend to the girl, I’m yer widowed aunt, I am. You ask anyone, you’ll find that woman was chargin’ Margie dearly for ‘er keep when she took ‘er in. She’s a warm woman, is Lizzy.”

  I BREAKFASTED WITH FANNY DELAHOUSSAYE, ARRAYED THIS morning in a dove-grey gown and lace collar that gave the barest nod to the conventions of mourning, but appeared to decided effect against her blond curls and blue eyes. My own brown muslin looked as dull as clodded earth by comparison, and made me feel just as heavy. I sought refuge in silence and Mrs. Hodges’s excellent chocolate, but peace was not a quality Miss Delahoussaye prized, and so I was soon forced to all the tedium of an early morning tête-à-tête. For Fanny was up early, impatient for her return to London, and possessed of complete equanimity as to its cause.

  “For,” said she, turning a gold bracelet idly upon her wrist, “I cannot abide the ennui of a country existence. One’s circle is so fixed, so little varied, that one might complete the sentences of one’s neighbour with very little thought or effort. When I am married, I shall suffer myself to spend as little time as possible at my husband’s country seat.”

  “Then perhaps we should wish you the wife of a man who has none,” I replied, with perhaps more of acid in my tongue than I intended.

  “How you do tease, Miss Austen!” Fanny cried. “What is a man, without an estate of his own? A poor sort of gentleman, I declare.”

  “Perhaps—but he is very often a soldier, you know; for though it is the profession you prefer above all others, it is generally the province of second sons.”

  “Oh, piffle,” Miss Fanny said, returned to her good humour. “What is country life in any case, but shooting and billiards and the coarseness of country neighbours? An establishment in Town, such as an officer possessed of a truly good commission might claim, is far to be preferred. I long to be returned to Hyde Park, and the shops of Bond Street, and the theatre, and a hundred delightful schemes, even if London will be rather thin—until Easter at least. “

  My patience for such a rattle was at an end. “I think it likely that we shall be so engaged, when in London, by matters of a sober and troubling nature,” I said stiffly, “that we shall have very little time for diversion.”

  “One cannot be always going about with a long face,” said Fanny, intent upon adjusting her bodice. “It behooves us to meet adversity with a certain style. I intend to find Madame Henri—she is quite the most fashionable modiste, my dear Miss Austen—as soon as ever I arrive, and order a proper gown for the gallery at the House of Lords. It must be of black, of course, as we are in mourning for the Earl; a pity, for it was never a colour suited to my complexion.” Impervious to my disdain, she pursued her delightful fancies with clasped hands and uplifted eyes.

  “Only think whom one might meet there!” Fanny cried. “The entire peerage of England assembled in one place! And certain to be moved to tender pity by the interesting circumstances in which we find ourselves. I could not devise a scheme more delicious. You must come along with me to Madame Henri’s, my dear Miss Austen. You cannot afford to look less than your best, at your age.”

  Madame Henri, indeed! It should never occur to Miss Delahoussaye that I lacked the funds for such an establishment—nor that my mantua-maker of choice was my dear sister Cassandra, and I hers. The price of fine muslin is too dear to make added expense of its fashioning; I should rather spend my shillings on a bit of braid, the better to trim my bodice. But Miss Fanny could know as little of economy as she might of tact.

  Somewhat nettled, I spoke with asperity. “And so you have abandoned completely Lord Scargrave as your object, and would now seek a husband among the broader ranks of the great?”

  “It was never my object to secure Fitzroy,” Fanny replied with a careless shrug; “such a cold fellow as he is, all erudition and puff! And in any case, I do not intend to injure my prospects by appearing allied to a man under such a cloud.” She dropped her eyes in the way of modest misses, and coloured prettily. “No, Miss Austen, I have long given my heart to another; I am sure you cannot mistake whom I mean. If things should fall out badly—if Fitzroy is to hang and Isobel with him—why, then, my choice will be proved aright! For in that case, it is certain that George Hearst should inherit the earldom.”

  “The Payne family being possessed of no other direct heirs?” I enquired, with a stirring of interest.

  “Unless the late Earl has got himself a bastard hidden away,” Miss Delahoussaye said, shrugging, “and between you and I, Miss Austen, that is hardly likely—he was an awfully respectable old stick. Did he get a son on the wrong side of the blanket, all the world should know it, and the boy be yet at Eton. No, Miss Austen, the Hearsts are at present the Earl’s closest male relations—and who should have a greater claim to Scargrave than Mr. Hearst, who has lived all his life here, and his mother before him?”

  “But can he inherit through the female line?”

  “I understood from Tom that there is just such a provision in the conferment of the title. George has but to exchange the name of Hearst for Payne, and all shall be settled happily. You will have heard of such things before, I am sure.”

  And so Tom Hearst has been calculating his brother’s prospects— aloud, and to one so lacking in discretion as Miss Fanny—a very little time after Fitzroy Payne was charged with murder. Or was the deadly charge the Hearsts’ objective all along, with the seizure of an earldom their primary purpose? Murder has been done, and the innocent made to suffer, for far less.

  Fanny was humming a little tune, lost in delightful fancies; I deemed it best to learn as much of the matter from her as possible, and thus turned the subject to her dearest concern.

  “And so you would have Mr. Hearst?” I said, with conscious stupidity.

  “Miss Austen!�
� she cried, with a new asperity in her eye. “I will not answer when you tease—for I see that you would sport with me. Mr. Hearst, indeed! You are a sly creature.”

  I perfectly understood her meaning, and wondered at Fanny’s ability to grasp some facts, while remaining ignorant of so many others. Should Fitzroy Payne be condemned, his cousin George Hearst would accede to an earldom, and the Lieutenant’s prospects might very well improve. Tom Hearst should find a convenient ear for all his troubles, and perhaps an open hand to make his fortune—although, from knowing a little of Mr. Hearst’s poor opinion of the Lieutenant, I would hesitate to consider his purse entirely his brother’s to command. But the direction of Miss Fanny’s thoughts should brook no disappointment; it was her fondest hope that with George Hearst’s good fortune and high estate to add to his honourable commission, Tom Hearst should merit all the felicity that Fanny Delahoussaye’s thirty thousand pounds could bring.

  Both brothers, I mused as I buttered my toast, had reason enough to want their uncle dead, and their cousin judged guilty of his murder.

  But I had no time for such dreadful thoughts, much less for Fanny’s idle chattel; I left her calculating the proper length of sleeve for a murder trial among the peerage, and turned my attentions to poor Isobel, a prisoner in her very home.

  “JANE,” THE COUNTESS GREETED ME BRISKLY, AS I BRAVED the guardsman at her lintel and slipped through the door, “you are just in time. But was ever a friend so faithful in her attendance? Another should have been long returned to the bosom of her family, unhappy Scargrave forgotten.” The Countess sat at her writing desk, head bent over paper and pen, her breakfast tray untouched.