Jane and the Genius of the Place Read online

  Neddie observed, when the servants had withdrawn and we were established over our boned trout and jellied fowl, “but he has disappointed me, alas. We must endeavour to talk affairs of state without our most knowledgeable partner.”

  From a hurried conference with my brother in the drawing-room before Mr. Emilious led me to the table, I had learned that The Larches returned no reply to my brother’s note. If this was cause for anxiety, Neddie betrayed no sign; Mr. Grey might have gone up to London, on a matter of business, and failed even in receipt of the message. But on the morrow, Neddie vowed, Mr. Grey must be found and questioned regarding the matter of Spanish lace; for events looked to have taken so grave a turn, as to make my brother doubt the extent of his own authority.

  “Mr. Grey?” Julian Sothey enquired, with an eager glance. “How I should have liked to have seen him! I came away from The Larches, you know, on the very day of his wife’s tragic death; and have never been so fortunate as to meet with Grey since. He was in London at the time, of course; but I am gready remiss in paying my respects. Circumstances prevented my attendance at Mrs. Grey’s funeral—and in short, he will think me an odd sort of friend, do I not pay a call of condolence very soon.”

  None of us assembled at the table, I imagine, should have broached the subject of Mrs. Grey directly to the improver; and his raising it himself, in so careless a fashion, must give rise to wonder in more than one quarter. Neddie was taken aback, and even I was at a loss for words; but Lizzy’s self-possession, as always, was equal to everything.

  “You may have one source of consolation, Mr. Sothey,” she said, “in the felicity your sudden descent upon Eastwell Park brought to Lady Elizabeth. She was never more astonished, she told me, than when you assured her it was within your power to pay your longed-for visit. She was quite unable to account for the honour of seeing you, having considered you quite fixed at The Larches.”

  This last required some reply. Some men might have coloured and looked confused, or hurried themselves into too-fulsome explanation; Mr. Sothey merely laughed. “Lady Elizabeth, I believe, is the most generous of my friends—for never have I appeared on her doorstep, a lost and masterless cur, that she has not received me into her household without the slightest demand for explanation!”

  “We have grown so used to Sothey’s turning up like a bad penny,” Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton observed, “that he might almost have a bedchamber set aside for his perpetual use! But in this instance, Mrs. Austen, I fear that Lady Elizabeth has unconsciously misled you. Sothey informed me of his intention of quitting The Larches some weeks before the day he intended, but I neglected to relate the fact to my sister. I cannot excuse such neglect; I may only plead the coincidence of a summer cold, that rendered me so wretched as to ignore everything that did not have to do with myself. Lady Elizabeth’s confusion at the races and likewise her surprised delight, were entirely of my making.”

  “I suppose her chief fear at present,” Lizzy said with a slight smile, “is that Mr. Sothey will be gone as suddenly as he came!”

  “Experience has taught her, madam,” that gentleman replied, “that I am rarely to be found in the same house for many weeks together. I consider myself quite fixed at Eastwell Park for the present—but should events conspire to divert my attention, I should be gone in a matter of hours!”

  “You endeavour to make inconstancy appear a matter for pride, Mr. Sothey,” I objected, “but it will not do. A man of your reputation cannot so lightly risk the world’s good opinion. An appearance of sober dependability must be your best friend at present, when many might wonder at your quitting The Larches so precipitately.”

  He shrugged almost indolently. “My work there was done. To have remained longer would have looked very odd, indeed.”

  “Despite the circumstance of sudden death in the household?”

  Mr. Sothey smiled. “You forget, Miss Austen, that Mrs. Grey’s murder was the merest coincidence. I had fixed on the date as my intended departure long before, as Mr. Finch-Hatton will attest; my bags were packed and stowed in the chaise I drove to the race-meeting.”

  Perhaps so much was true; but I thought the improver’s gaze too steady, and his expression too fixed, to permit of easiness. Neddie, I knew, was observing him acutely; and finding his reliance upon Mr. Emilious instructive. Would Mr. Sothey have come to Godmersham, I wondered, without his wise old watchdog?

  “Circumstances, it seems, prevented even Mr. Grey from witnessing his late wife’s interment,” Lizzy observed. She, at least, was enjoying the exchange. “With so near a relation absent from the rites, Mr. Sothey can hardly charge himself with neglect.”

  “Grey, absent from the funeral rites?” Mr. Sothey cried. “You astonish me, Mrs. Austen! I should have said he would sooner cut off his own arm, than fail in respect of so important a duty.”

  “Mr. Grey was called from home on Thursday evening,” Neddie told him, “on what appears to have been a matter of business.”

  “I suppose only such a claim as that might sway Mr. Grey,” Mr. Emilious observed. “But I cannot stand in judgement of his actions. He is the most honourable man I know of, in either the financial or the political line; and if he felt himself compelled to be from home, he undoubtedly had his reasons.”

  “You are acquainted with Mr. Grey?” I enquired, surprised. “I thought he moved but little in Society.”

  “Say rather that he is the acquaintance of a very old friend of mine, Miss Austen, and you shall have got it right.” Mr. Emilious’s countenance was as bland and charming as ever, but an acuteness had come into his pale blue eyes that warned me away from suspect ground.

  “I may hazard a guess as to the friend’s name,” I said slowly, as an idea took shape in my mind. “Is it Mr. George Canning, by any chance?”

  “The very man!” Mr. Emilious cried.

  “Mr. Grey happened to tell me of his acquaintance with the gentleman. Indeed, Mr. Sothey, he credited Mr. Canning with his introduction to yourself, and could not praise the gentleman enough. I suppose you have all met, at one time or another, around Mr. Canning’s table.”

  “Just so,” Mr. Sothey said. He affected an easy good-humour, but I do not think I flatter myself in declaring that he was considerably disconcerted, and not a little put out. It seemed that George Canning possessed other qualities besides those of clubman and exotic plant enthusiast—qualities more suited, perhaps, to intrigue and subterfuge. He was, after all, Treasurer of the Navy and an acknowledged confederate of Lord Harold Trowbridge; Mr. Emilious had informed me of the fact himself. Oh, that I might avail myself of Lord Harold’s resources, and know exactly how things were!

  “So Grey was from home on Thursday evening,” Mr. Sothey mused. “It was hazardous to be abroad that night, I believe. Is it true, Mr. Austen—are you able to divulge so much—that Mr. Denys Collingforth was murdered in Deal on that very evening?”

  “He was,” Neddie replied imperturbably. “I suppose the intelligence has travelled swiftly from Prior’s Farm, and is presently the toast of the Hound and Tooth?”

  “I heard it first from a manservant of Mr. Finch-Hatton’s,” Mr. Sothey replied, “but how he came by the news, I cannot say.”

  “Depend upon it, he had it of the butcher’s lad, who learned it of his washer-woman mother, who takes in laundry from Prior’s Farm—or some such roundabout tale,” Mr. Emilious said comfortably. “Poor Collingforth! And so he was done for as he did.”

  “Not quite,” my brother countered quietly. “Mrs. Grey, after all, was throttled. Mr. Collingforth’s neck was cut.”

  “Really?” Mr. Emilious kept his eyes trained on his knife, which was steadily applying a quantity of butter to one of Cook’s feather-light rolls. “There is no suggestion, I suppose, that he effected the wound himself?”

  “None whatsoever,” Neddie replied, “since he was discovered bound and weighted at the bottom of a pond.” If my brother felt himself to be the subject of interrogation, he betrayed little of hi
s discomfort in his countenance; but I thought Neddie’s easy manner was become guarded. “Have you a notion, sir, of the murderer?”

  “Why, as to that—it might as well have been Sothey and myself,” Mr. Emilious cried, with a jovial look for his companion, “for we were abroad on the very road to Deal, in respect of a dinner with some friends, on Thursday night.”

  “I should never suspect you, Mr. Finch-Hatton,” my brother replied calmly, “for your name does not appear in Mrs. Grey’s interesting correspondence. You can have not the slightest connexion to the affair, as those documents attest.”

  There was a sudden, appalled silence; and involuntarily, I closed my eyes. Whatever Neddie had done, was done with calculation; he was not a fatuous insinuator, to trade privileged fact as currency with his guests. He was throwing the letters like a scented bait before a pack of roused foxhounds; and I trembled for the result.

  “Her … correspondence?” Mr. Emilious repeated, with a swift glance at Mr. Sothey. ‘You have had occasion to look into the lady’s letters?”

  “Any number,” Neddie said airily, “and the names found within it should astonish the neighbourhood, I may assure you!”

  “Then I hope you will take care, my dear sir, that they never come to light.” Mr. Emilious held my brother’s gaze quite steadily. “From what little I know of Mrs. Grey, I am certain she can have said nothing flattering of her acquaintance.”

  “Then she merely returned a common favour,” Lizzy observed idly, “for they certainly had nothing good to say of her”

  “Upon my word, Mr. Austen—the ladies will think us decidedly dull,” Mr. Emilious cried, with a gallant look for Lizzy. “All this talk of dusty matters had better be confined to the Port, had it not? We were charmed to see you at Eastwell, Mrs. Austen, on Friday evening; you have been too chary in your visits altogether.”

  “Lady Elizabeth shall wish me at the ends of the earth, sir, do I succeed in wresting her improver from her grasp,” Lizzy rejoined. “I rather wonder at her allowing you to ride over to Godmersham at all, Mr. Sothey!— But perhaps she sent Mr. Finch-Hatton as a sort of surety against your return. Are you charged with bringing Mr. Sothey to Eastwell unharmed, sir, and well before dawn?”

  “Unharmed,” Mr. Emilious replied, “but not, I hope, before dawn. Mr. Sothey has so much delight in Godmersham, dear madam, that were it not for a delicacy in appearing forward, I am sure he should express his wish to continue sketching tomorrow.”

  Mr. Sothey looked sharply at his friend, but said nothing. Lizzy instantly took the hint, and invited them both to stay the night—protested that it should prove not the slightest trouble—the rooms were already made up; and was so gracious in her assurances, and so frank in her delight, that the two men accepted with alacrity. I wondered, as I observed them, how Miss Sharpe should find the addition—but as the governess had held firm to her intention of remaining above stairs, I was denied the chance to observe her.

  Anne Sharpe’s poor history had paled in comparison, however, with the suspicions now alive against Mr. Sothey and his companion; and I must wonder whether Mr. fimilious Finch-Hatton had another object in prolonging his stay, than the improvement of my brother’s estate. That Neddie assumed as much—that he had indeed incited the event with his careless talk of letters and names—I read in the studied blandness of his looks; and vowed to sit wakeful far into the night, that I might be witness to everything that should come to pass.

  IT WAS NEARLY TWO O’CLOCK, AND THE HOUSE HAD BEEN abed some three hours, when a sound in the gallery outside my door alerted all my senses. It was the hesitant, muffled, and quite obvious fall of footsteps along the drugget—footsteps that endeavoured to disguise their passage, and yet could not avoid the creaking board or the impact of an occasional chair leg. They came from the end of the wing just beyond my Yellow Room; Mr. Sothey had been housed there, with Mr. Emilious opposite. Had I been possessed of cunning, as I now assumed these two to be, I should have descended by the back stair, which depended from the opposite end of the hallway; but as the gentlemen were unfamiliar with the house, they might prefer to go as they had come—by the main staircase opposite Neddie’s door.

  I waited until the footsteps should have passed, and then threw back my bedclothes and moved as soundlessly as possible to the chair by my door. I put on my dressing-gown and reached for the knob. Another instant, and the doorway yawned wide—I peered out, scarcely breathing, and surveyed the gallery. It was empty of life. Whoever had passed must be presently upon the stairs.

  One foot forward, and then another; and at length I had achieved the end of the hall. I must be admitted as possessing an advantage, in having traversed it a thousand times before. Not for me the trespass on a weak board, that should alert my quarry to pursuit. I peered down into the sweeping dimness of the stfirs, and glimpsed a single figure bobbing hesitandy before me in the dark—a woman, fully dressed and bonneted, and carrying a satchel. It must be, it could not be other than, Anne Sharpe.

  I abandoned caution, and hastened down the stairs in her wake. She turned, and uttered a little cry that was as swifdy stifled by a hand to her mouth. Then she sped rapidly down the remaining stairs.

  “Miss Sharpe!” I trained my voice to a whisper, but the words issued forth with all the violence of a shot in the echoing expanse of the marble-floored front hall. She was but a few feet away from me now, and intent upon the front door. As she struggled with the bolts, glancing half-fearfully over her shoulder, I reached her side.

  “Whatever can you be thinking of, my dear? To walk abroad in the dead of night, without a single friend to bear you company? You are certainly in the grip of a fit,” I told her firmly, and closed my hand over her own. “Come sit down upon this bench, and tell me what you are about.”

  “Why, for the love of God, can not you leave me alone?” she cried. “But for you, I should have been comfortably away! Away—from all that is painful, from—”

  “Julian Sothey?”

  “Mr. Sothey is nothing to me, Miss Austen. You quite mistake the matter, I assure you.”

  “Nothing to you now, perhaps. But I think there was a time when he was very dear, indeed.”

  She went limp, and allowed me to lead her towards one of the little damask benches that lined the entry hall. There she sat down and threw her head in her hands.

  “You met at Weymouth and I suppose you fell in love with him there. Did you know that he was in Kent when you accepted the position at Godmersham?”

  She nodded helplessly. “We had agreed to a secret engagement, and corresponded faithfully. I used to walk out on the morning a letter was expected, and intercept it in the post. I did not think that Mrs. Austen would look kindly on such a predisposition.”

  “It bore too much of an affinity for intrigue—yes, I see how it was. And I suppose you met with Mr. Sothey, in the stableyard at The Larches, when Mrs. Grey was abroad?”

  Her head came up at that, and a band of moonlight cut across her face. I read the look of shock in her countenance. “I, meet Julian in the stables at The Larches? However can you have devised such a notion, Miss Austen?”

  “You did not sometimes visit him there?”

  “How should I, who have no mount at my disposal, and am not a great walker, have travelled all that distance? It is above six miles! Impossible! I have never been nearer to The Larches than the Canterbury race grounds; indeed, I never had occasion to observe Mrs. Grey herself, until—” She faltered.

  “Until the lady brought her whip down upon the neck of your betrothed,” I concluded grimly, “and you knew in an instant that the greatest intimacy must subsist between them. Or feared as much.”

  “Feared—knew—I cannot tell you which,” she replied wretchedly. “I may only say that the most powerful conviction of betrayal then overcame me—and with it, a dreadful sense of shame. I had been treated lightly by a man I thought worthy of my love, and knew myself for a fool.”

  “Mr. Sothey saw you on that mor
ning, I collect?”

  “Our eyes met across the race grounds. You must recall that he was positioned in such a manner that his figure must be visible to our party; seated in the Austen barouche, I was similarly exposed to his sight. We had not met in over a year, Miss Austen; and at my first glimpse of him, what joy!—to be overcome, so suddenly, by a passion akin almost to hatred.”

  “He did not attempt to converse with you.”

  “No,” she agreed, “and that alone convinced me of his guilt. Julian is many things, Miss Austen, but he is not a man who may lie in his looks. I knew that he was afraid to meet me, knowing what I had witnessed; and in this I comprehended the whole of the story.”

  “Perhaps he read only indignation in your countenance, and thought to appease you later, when the first anger should have passed. Did he attempt to write a letter?” I enquired ingenuously.

  “He may have attempted much,” Miss Sharpe replied, “but any letters I subsequentiy received, I burned without reading. Perhaps I should have returned them; but I had heard he was gone from The Larches, and did not know the direction at Eastwell. To have enquired it of Mrs. Austen would have appeared too strange.”

  “I see.” Much of my supposition regarding the governess was proved correct—all but Mr. Brett’s tale of a dark-haired woman departing on horseback from The Larches’ stableyard. Could Mr. Brett be believed? Or was the story the merest fabrication? “Were you surprised, Miss Sharpe, to learn that Mr. Sothey was gone to Eastwell?”

  “Utterly surprised,” she said in a low voice. “Julian had made no mention of such a removal to me, in his earlier letters—had offered nothing of a new direction, where my correspondence might be sent. In such neglect, Miss Austen, I read a further disregard. It was plain that Julian had tired of me, and wished to be free of all obligation.”

  “Never say so, my dearest!”

  The words burst forth in a cry of anguish, and in an instant, Julian Sothey was upon us. From whence he had come, drawn by the litde scene, I could not at first imagine; but he was dressed as fully as Anne Sharpe, as tho’ he, too, had intended a midnight flight. He threw himself upon his knees before the governess and seized her hands.