Jane and the Canterbury Tale Page 27

  His lips quirked at this sally; but his expression of sadness did not materially change. “The family were kindness itself, and treated me with a forbearance I ought not to expect, having gaoled two of their members within the week. It was all I could do to refuse to dine with them—the mere thought was as a mouthful of ashes to me! To accept the hospitality of one of my oldest friends, when I feel myself to be the merest scrub! It was damned awkward, Jane, I do not mind saying—damned awkward, and I hope I shall never again be forced to a similar exertion of duty, however long I may live!”

  “Poor Papa.” Fanny perched on the edge of his desk, hope warring with anxiety in her countenance. “Did you speak to Mr. Wildman, sir? Did you learn anything to the purpose?”

  “I learnt a good deal.” Edward’s eyes narrowed as he took his last bite of fowl, and washed it down with a draught of ale. “But nothing I learnt can hope to lighten Thane’s case. If anything, it merely confirms it.”

  Fanny paled. “How is this?”

  He gazed at her levelly. “Your aunt asked a pertinent question, my child. The one question, indeed, likely to tie Curzon Fiske’s murder to that of the maid. In default of heirs male, Mr. Wildman’s estate goes not, as I might have expected, to his brother’s sons—but entirely to his young cousin, Julian Thane. Wildman told me he thought it only just to provide for Thane in the eventuality his son James predeceased him, because his nephews will richly inherit from his brother, who is an even warmer man than Wildman himself. He confided, moreover, that Wold Hall was grossly encumbered with mortgages in Thane’s father’s time, and cannot possibly provide the kind of income that expensive young buck requires. With his pockets entirely to let, Thane was unlikely to prove acceptable to any heiress, either—not even to our own Miss Knight, the principal young lady in the neighbourhood. The added knowledge that his mistress, Martha, was soon to present the world with a pledge of her affection, should have blasted his marriage prospects entirely.”

  Fanny looked about wildly, searching for reason in my countenance she could not discover in her father’s. “You cannot mean to blame me, and any … interest … Mr. Thane might have shewn me, for the murder of that unfortunate maid?”

  “Fanny! No, no, child—do not think it!” The distress in Edward’s countenance was painful. “You can have nothing to do with so sordid a business!”

  “But I have to do with it,” she said tremblingly. “I encouraged Mr. Thane’s attentions. Indeed, I was gratified by them. Whatever his faults—whatever his crimes may prove to be—he will remain in my memory as the most … engaging gentleman I have ever known.”

  “Dear God,” Edward said.

  Fanny’s chin rose. “I cannot believe him capable of murder, Father. And I do not see why Mr. Wildman’s Will has anything to say to the purpose! He is not in default of heirs male. James is perfectly well!”

  “But James only narrowly escaped,” I reminded her gently. “Some one tried to tie a noose around young Wildman’s neck—by leaving his pistol near Curzon Fiske’s body. Had James hanged for it, Julian Thane might expect no less than a castle—and twenty thousand a year!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  There’s a Way

  “Lo, what tricks and deceiving subtleties

  Women can use! They’re always busy as bees,

  Buzzing and humming tales for men to believe,

  And up and down, around the truth they weave.…”

  GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “EPILOGUE TO THE MERCHANT’S TALE”

  FRIDAY, 29 OCTOBER 1813

  FANNY TOOK BREAKFAST ON A TRAY IN HER ROOM THIS morning, and I confess I was inclined to imitate her example, for the sleep I might have trusted to cure my tiresome cold proved elusive last night. My mind was too busy weaving and discarding theories of murder, tho’ all my cherished notions had proved useless thus far. I had never met Old Mr. Wildman’s nephews—they live, I believe, in London, on the fruits of the sugar trade. One is a Colonel of Hussars, or some such; the particulars do not signify. But I had taken a powerful fancy to the unknown Colonel. My intimacy with the entire Wildman family is so limited, indeed, by my infrequent journeying into Kent, that I could not be expected to know any real truth of them—and certainly not in what manner Old Wildman’s Will had been drawn. There is a decided fascination to the notion of the Absent Heir: the unseen hand wielding both gun butt and knife. He ought ideally to have been an expensive young man, who held his uncle’s life cheap, and might be expected to remove the obstacle of his cousin James with a ruthless and cunning efficiency. I confess I had cast the Colonel—whose name, I think, is Thomas—in the rôle of chief conspirator; for a soldier, you know, will generally have a high tolerance for bloodshed, and might be depended upon for a steady shot on a night of limited moon. He might just as well have killed Curzon Fiske, and left his cousin James to swing for it.1 The little matter of his having not the slightest reason to murder Martha Kean, I had conveniently set to one side.

  It was not to be, however; Edward had blasted all my hopes of the Absent Heir with the stunning news that Julian Thane was the very same; and I was sick with disappointment, for Fanny’s sake as much as for the ruin of my interesting ideas.

  I drank the coffee the maid had brought and got out of bed, therefore, to dress myself with neatness and propriety, as befit a lady of dubious health who was determined to pay a call at Canterbury gaol.

  I found my brother on the point of setting out for the town. He did not look as tho’ he wished for company, but I gave him no opportunity of refusing mine.

  “You can have little to say to Burbage,” he observed. “It is to meet with that scoundrel that I am bound for Canterbury gaol.”

  “I have nothing at all to say to Mr. Burbage,” I agreed, “other than that I prefer his countenance free of whiskers. I would speak, rather, with Adelaide MacCallister—and might profitably do so while you are closeted with the spurious solicitor. Surely you intend to release Mrs. MacCallister, now that her brother is to be held in both murders? I might convey the intelligence.”

  Edward looked uneasy. “I ought to do so, I know,” he said at length. “But my fingers have been burnt once, Jane, in freeing Sir Davie Myrrh—had I then been less merciful, a deal of worry and trouble should have been saved. Mrs. MacCallister, returned to her family, might be a comfort to her mother; and that must weigh heavily with me. I am a magistrate, indeed—but I am first a father. You see how I am torn.”

  “Mrs. Thane sets no value on her daughter at all,” I returned with asperity. “Her son is everything to her, and leaves no room for rival interest.”

  “Indeed? Who chuses to tell you so?”

  “Twitch and his good wife, who have been observing the family forever. Recollect that Adelaide was practically raised at Chilham; her mother had no use for the girl until she turned out a beauty—and then, the excellent lady’s attack upon the Marriage Mart was entirely in the cause of her son’s prospects. She hoped Adelaide might make a brilliant match, and use her husband’s fortune to save Wold Hall from the lien-holders’ clutches.”

  “That is hardly a scheme designed to foster affection between a sister and brother,” Edward mused. “The one’s happiness to be sacrificed to the other’s security—they might justly be forgiven for hating each other.”

  “And yet, their mutual cordiality appears complete. I should say rather they are united in their disdain for their mother.”

  “Unnatural family.” Edward shuddered. “You may condole with Adelaide if you wish, Jane; but I do not envy you the task.”

  THE WARDEN’S DOGSBODY, YOUNG JACK, LED ME CRINGINGLY to the women’s quarters in the gaol, where a creature I took to be his mother, from the intimate abuse she bestowed upon him so cordially, surveyed me from head to toe.

  “MacCallister?” she repeated. “Aye, we’ve got her, right enough—but her ’usband’s with her now, and I doubt as you’ll be welcome.”

  Feeling absurdly out of place, I proffered the woman my card. “Pray convey thi
s to Captain and Mrs. MacCallister with my compliments. I will await an answer.”

  She was a massive and stone-faced creature in her middle years, with a plain cap pulled low over greasy locks of indeterminate colour—and took the card frowningly between her fingertips. Such an one might refuse my commission for the sheer pleasure of disobliging me. With a grunt, however, she sorted among the keys that dangled from her chatelaine, and having found the one she required, made her heavy way down the corridor, slippers loosely slapping the stone flags. I was reminded by the sound of a cavalcade of dead fish. I lingered some moments, the boy Jack staring at me fearfully but unblinkingly.

  “How old are you, Jack?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Is that woman your mother?”

  “Dunno.”

  I was half-listening for the slapping notice of the woman’s return, and was startled nearly out of my wits when a cordial voice said, “Miss Austen. How kind of you to come.”

  Captain MacCallister—his honest, plain face and thatch of red hair, looming from the shadows of the passage. “If you will allow me to conduct you—Adelaide is at liberty now.”

  “How has she taken this dreadful news?”

  “She refuses to believe her brother culpable,” he said simply. “She is positive the truth will out, with time. It is the quality one so admires in Adelaide—her loyalty! She has a courage that is beyond everything!”

  I was gratified to know that the Captain’s ardour was undimmed by the hideous events that had attended his nuptials. “A quality you share, then, Captain—for certainly your faith in your wife has never failed.”

  It was difficult to see much of the countenance beside me in the torchlit corridor, but I thought MacCallister’s expression changed. There was regret in his visage; and bitterness, too. “I ought to have saved her this. I ought to have prevented it—if only by taking the blame myself! But it could not be done—by the time I understood the danger in which she stood, the Law already had her in its grip. Any professions of mine should then have been dismissed, as a husband’s too-willing sacrifice.”

  “Pray, do not berate yourself. I believe—I am almost certain—that all representations against Mrs. MacCallister’s innocence are done away with. Indeed, I am convinced she shall be very soon at liberty.”

  He glanced at me then. “You have not understood, I fear. Adelaide shall never be free, so long as her brother’s life is at issue.”

  I could offer the wretched man no answer; but thankfully, the prison door was nigh, and the Wardress poised to open it. The Captain bowed, and I passed before him within.

  Adelaide MacCallister was standing composedly in a narrow shaft of sunlight afforded by a slit in Westgate Tower’s walls. I was recalled suddenly to the high, narrow windows that lined the servants’ quarters at Chilham Castle—and to her mother’s austere figure, silhouetted in the passage. There could be nothing in sharper contrast to Mrs. Thane’s harsh aspect than Adelaide’s dark beauty; but the air of self-command was the same.

  My maid did not answer my bell, she had said. So I came in search of her.

  “Mrs. MacCallister.” I dropped a curtsey. “I must offer my gratitude at your willingness to receive me. I should not have been surprized to find myself turned away, as being among your greatest enemies.”

  “Not at all,” she said gravely. “Should you care to sit down? There is only one chair, but I am perfectly willing to stand. Indeed, I am obliged to sit so much that I grow restless—and pace and pace like a caged tiger. Pray sit, Miss Austen—if the mistress of such a shabby establishment may be allowed to protest, I insist you accept my meagre hospitality.”

  I sat, conscious of the interesting couple’s eyes fixed upon me in perfect politeness, awaiting whatever I should chuse to tell them, without anxiety or fury. “I ought to say how distressed I am—how distressed my entire family is become, indeed, at the turn of events at Chilham—the arrest of your brother—but such words must fall hollowly upon your ears, when spoken by the Magistrate’s sister.”

  “I am persuaded Mr. Knight is as mistaken in my brother’s guilt, ma’am, as he has been in mine.” Adelaide’s eyes kindled swiftly, but as swiftly the blaze died. “I accept your good wishes in the spirit they are offered. I bear you no ill will. If that is all the burden of your visit, however—to free yourself of anxiety, in offering condolences for the fate that has overtaken my brother and me—I must ask you to accept my thanks, Miss Austen, and be gone.” She swayed slightly as she stood. “You are very good—but I fear my nerves are not equal—”

  Captain MacCallister supported her with his strong arm, and I rose immediately from my chair. “I will leave you in an instant, Mrs. MacCallister, if you will be so good as to answer one question.”

  “What is that?”

  “Where does your mother’s personal maid sleep, while your family is in residence at Chilham Castle?”

  Adelaide stared at me in bewilderment. “Her maid? My mother employs none, Miss Austen. Our income did not permit of such luxuries. We shared the services of Martha Kean, until—” She paused, recovering herself. “Mamma was to be forced to an alteration, indeed, once the Captain and I should be married and gone—as we intended to be, a week since.”

  They had shared Martha’s services. The thought reverberated in my head with all the force of a clanging bell. Mrs. Thane had lied, when I discovered her in the servants’ quarters—because her purpose there had been to search the dead maid’s room, as I myself had intended.

  “Where, oh where, is my brother?” I cried, and turned to the cell door in a fever of anxiety.

  “Miss Austen, are you unwell?” the Captain demanded.

  “It is imperative I speak to Mr. Knight without delay!”

  “You there,” MacCallister called, in a voice accustomed to command. “Unlock this door at once! Miss Austen—is it possible you might save her?” he added in an undertone.

  “Unquestionably. But at a cost,” I warned. “I may not stay—Pray support your wife, Captain.”

  “God bless you,” he said, as the door closed behind me.

  I never felt less worthy of his words.

  WE DROVE AS FAST AS TWO HORSES WHIPPED TO FROTHING-POINT could pull us—direct from Canterbury to Chilham, no more than half an hour on the road, at the spanking pace Edward set. Twitch was standing before the Castle door as the curricle drew up; I did not stay for Edward’s assistance, but jumped down as he did.

  “Your master,” Edward said in a rush to the butler. “Where is he to be found?”

  “In the north tower, sir,” Twitch replied.

  Edward was already bolting up the grand stairs, taking two at a time. I followed with as much haste as my carriage dress allowed.

  1 Colonel Thomas Wildman, though unacquainted with Jane Austen, would intersect the life of one of her contemporaries and fellow writers, when he purchased Newstead Abbey—ancestral home of George Gordon, Lord Byron—in 1818, for the considerable sum of £94,500. Wildman was a friend of Byron’s dating from their schooldays at Harrow. —Editor’s note.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Lady in the Tower

  “Four glowing coals are all old age possesses:

  Boasting, lying, anger, and greed.”

  GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “THE STEWARD’S PROLOGUE”

  29 OCTOBER 1813, CONT.

  “GOOD GOD, MAN! MUST YOU ALWAYS APPEAR WHEN YOU are least wanted?”

  Edward drew up in dismay, his feet rooted to the floor. Old Mr. Wildman stood before a heavy oak door. His sparse white hair was in disarray, his broad face suffused with choler, and his aspect so entirely wild, as to suggest a profound disturbance of mind and temper. I had never heard him speak with such acerbity to my brother.

  “I had very nearly got her to unbar the door—which she will never do, now you are come!” he concluded.

  “You would speak of Mrs. Thane?” My voice held no little urgency. “She has secured the bolt on her chamber—she is immured within?”<
br />
  “She took to her bed as soon as you were gone yesterday e’en, and has not emerged since.” Old Wildman glanced at Edward with less heat in his aspect. “I confess that I fear for her mind. This latest blow—young Julian’s charge of murder—has overset her reason entirely. I know not what she might do in her despair … some dreadful violence …”

  Behind him, as tho’ animated by a spectral presence, the massive oak door swung slowly inward. A chill autumn draught, as from an opened window, swirled into the passage. I felt a finger of fear travel up my spine, and stepped impulsively forward.

  “Augusta?” Old Wildman called out.

  I halted in the doorway, the two men at my back.

  Mrs. Thane was standing barefooted on the stone sill of the tower’s great window, the leaded casements flung wide to the elements. Her grey hair was unbound and fell nearly to her ankles; she wore a linen shift, which billowed and sank like a sail in the October wind. She did not turn her head to acknowledge her audience, tho’ it must have been she who admitted us, before mounting to her precarious perch.

  “I am glad you are come, Mr. Magistrate,” she spat with bitter contempt, “that you might witness the ruin of a once-great house! Your hand—your overweening arrogance, your meddling in what does not belong to you—has brought misery on me and mine! But I will have my vengeance! I curse you, Edward Knight! May all your family be haunted by the trouble you have caused, and end, every one, in an early grave!”

  The colour drained from my brother’s face, and his lips parted as tho’ to protest. But it was I who stepped forward, however tentatively, into that windswept room, and halted with a word the woman who might have dashed herself to the carriage sweep three storeys below.

  “Fiddle,” I said calmly.

  Augusta Thane turned her basilisk stare upon me with an expression of hatred so profound I felt my heart quail within me. But I took another step forward. Neither Edward nor Old Wildman dared to move, it seemed.