Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor Page 31

  I began to sway where I sat, too cushioned by the feathered mattress when I most needed hard purchase, and she profited from my weakness to thrust me down on my back, her knee drawn up and braced cruelly against my chest. I could not move her; and the advantage of her position should finish me in a very little time. I prayed as I have never prayed before—a single refrain only, dear God dear God dear God—even as I felt my strength begin to ebb. As from a great distance, I saw her grotesque fancy dress thrown by the candle in shadows upon my wall, and felt an absurd desire to laugh; but what emerged was nothing more than a pitiful sob.

  With a harshness magnified by the silent absorption of our deadly contest, the door burst open, and a man’s form was abruptly outlined against the darkened hall. Mr. Cranley, I thought, with rising hope—and then saw that all hope was lost. For it was Harold Trowbridge who stood there, with his evil profile and hooded eye; and that he came to finish what Madame had begun, I felt with all the certainty of despair. The room whirled; I gasped for air; and gave way to a pounding darkness that would not be gainsaid.

  • • •

  “Miss Austen,” a gentle voice repeated in my ear; “Miss Austen!”

  As my eyelids fluttered open, I found the earnest gaze of Mr. Cranley bent upon my own. I sat up suddenly, consciousness regained; saw Madame Delahoussaye bound to a chair and staring at me malevolently; and would have started from the bedclothes in my wildness to be free of her presence, did not the barrister restrain me.

  “Do not try to speak,” Mr. Cranley said; “I fear your throat is badly bruised.”

  “You came,” I croaked, turning my eyes with relief to his.

  “Try to give her some brandy,” said a voice suffused with concern; and I knew with gladness that it belonged to Sir William Reynolds. Mr. Cranley raised me on one arm, and turned to receive the flask from an outstretched hand—which was attached to none other than Lord Harold Trowbridge.

  I thrust the brandy away and reeled backwards, choking and spluttering. “Murderer!” I cried. “That man would have killed me! He is in league with Madame!”

  “Lord Harold was your salvation, Jane,” Sir William said gently, as he hastened to my side. “He overpowered that woman with not a moment to spare. For I fear we should have arrived too late.”

  “Trowbridge was closeted in my chambers, divulging much that you should know, when I received your note,” Mr. Cranley added. “He understood your danger immediately, and flew to your side while I went for Sir William. We deemed it best that a man of the King’s Bench be present to receive Madame’s confession—did we arrive in time to catch her in another act of murder.”

  “I do not understand,” I said, in my strange new voice; “if Lord Harold is become a friend, why has he endeavoured so long to send the Countess to the gallows? Why lie, as he so clearly did, before the Royal Gallery Bar?”

  Mr. Cranley gazed across my head at Sir William, and Sir William at Lord Harold. “She shall have to be told, my lord,” the magistrate said. And so the man I had thought a rogue pulled a chair close to my bedside.

  “My dear Miss Austen,” Harold Trowbridge began, “I told you once that I was a dark angel, and you a light one. But I should better have said that we both used our wits to similar ends—only I bend mine to deceive, and you to illuminate.”

  I raised myself to my elbows in protest. “You claim now to have no interest in the Countess’s property? Or in the fortuitous death of her husband?”

  “In her property, I remain as desperately interested as ever,” he replied, with amusement in the heavily-lidded eyes, “but for reasons that shall soon be made plain; and as for the late Earl, it has been many years since I have thought of Frederick as anything but a friend. I did not kill Lord Scargrave, Miss Austen; indeed, I should more easily have killed myself. For it was the Earl who directed my every movement.”

  I confess to a confusion of the senses at this revelation. “You must speak more plainly, Lord Harold.”

  He sighed deeply, betraying for the first time some emotion other than languor, and fixed his eyes upon my own. “A second son—even the second son of a duke—must have a profession, Miss Austen; and I have made mine what the French call espionage.”

  “You are a spy,” I breathed.

  “If you will. I work only for those whose sacred reputations forbid all mention of their names; I serve the Crown from time to time; and always I go where the law may not—or will not.” Trowbridge paused a moment for reflection, as if choosing his words to suit his audience.

  “These many months past—for almost a year; indeed—I have been in the Earl’s employ,” he resumed, “for the purpose of divining the true nature of his wife’s financial difficulties. Frederick, Lord Scargrave, had long been a friend of her father, John Collins; and at that gentleman’s death, he received a sealed letter from his solicitors, begging him to look after John Collins’s only child. Isobel came to the Earl at her arrival in England; he was immediately enchanted with her beauty; and his duty to a late friend soon became the necessity of a man in love.

  “In very little time he learned of Isobel’s financial difficulties; and in her innocence of business, she told him much that caused suspicion in him. Frederick believed her to be the victim of duplicity within her own family, but could not determine how it was done; and I may plainly state that he also feared for her life, and thought to protect her most by offering marriage and himself as a champion for her cause. The late Earl would not see that he alone should prove the greatest threat to her enemies, though I made the point on several occasions; Frederick was possessed of much strength and resolve, and foolishly could not believe himself likely to fall victim to anyone.

  “At the Earl’s direction and with his funds, I purchased Crosswinds’ debt, then held in various hands about the Continent, and approached the Countess in the guise of her chief creditor, pressuring her to make over the property in my name in order to cancel her heavy obligation. It was the Earl’s hope that my appearance should force her true enemies into the clear, and expose their purpose; and to my great chagrin, he was correct. I was summoned by him to Scargrave on the night of the ball; I made an obvious advance upon the Countess, in the hearing of her family and friends—and that night, her main protector was foully murdered.”

  “Can it be possible?” I said, turning to Sir William.

  My old friend answered me with a single look. “It can, and is,” he said grimly. “Lord Harold has papers in his possession signed by the Earl, vouchsafing his purpose and the means placed at his disposal; and furthermore, he has all the notes representing the Barbadoes debt—from which the Countess is now, happily, freed.”

  “It was these matters, among others, that we discussed in my chambers tonight,” Mr. Cranley said.

  “I only returned from France a few days ago, and thus was incapable of halting the proceedings in the Royal Gallery,”’ said Lord Harold. “But I felt it necessary to explain my elliptical speech at the Bar this afternoon. I could not—even under oath—betray the delicate progress of snaring Madame Delahoussaye in a noose of her own making; nor could I unjustly consign the Countess and Lord Scargrave to the gallows.” The thin mouth creased in an unwonted smile. “You placed me in a devilish position, Miss Austen; but it is no less than I have come to expect from you. You are indeed a worthy adversary.”

  I had not quite forgiven such a man. “I should have preferred us to work in concert, my lord,” I said tartly, fingering my bruised throat. “Was that so impossible?”

  “Not without exposing you to extreme danger, such as you have only just escaped,” he returned, glancing at Madame. The lady could only appear ridiculous at this point, despite her murderous hands; her costume was torn, her wig discarded, and a quantity of false cobwebs fluttered about her face. In her eyes, however I read still her talent for evil.

  Even Harold Trowbridge was sobered by a look in Ma-dame’s direction. He turned back to his tale with obvious relief. “I remained at Scargrave
long enough to ascertain that it was Madame Delahoussaye who harboured the chief interest in Crosswinds—and as its trustee, this was not altogether remarkable. I lacked proof of her malevolence, however, until the day before I left—having pressured the Countess into signing a worthless paper, as a final nasty flourish with which to make my exit. For my true purpose had been satisfied the previous evening, when Madame had approached me with a provocative proposition.”

  There was the sound of a throat clearing in the corner, and with a profound venom, the bound woman spat. A pustule of phlegm landed on the floor just short of Lord Harold; with infinite grace and irony, he smeared it to nothing with his boot.

  “She told me that however much I preyed upon the Countess, I should never obtain the property I sought without her own consent—and a handsome fee. From her elliptical questions regarding my motives, I perceived that Madame believed that it was the port I wanted—until that moment, I had not known the port was so valuable—for reasons of my own; but I little understood then that she, too, had designs upon the port, of a far more destructive nature, and on behalf of a far deadlier client. I knew nothing of the true nature of her schemes, and thought only that she wished to extort a princely sum for her consent to the sale. Having considered her demands—which were enormously high—I was to wait upon her in London after the holiday.

  “I left Scargrave the next day, and consulted my brother—who, despite his fatuous appearance, is a man of probity and sense much valued at the Ministry of War—and it was Bertie’s view that I should accompany him on a mission he had only then received, of parlaying with his French counterpart regarding the disposition of the French Navy. While in the country, I should endeavour to learn what I could about deep-water ports in the West Indies; and so I agreed.

  “I had not been long abroad when it became clear to me why Madame had fenced with me so guardedly—why, indeed, a port attached to the property should be so valuable. She had nothing less in train than the betrayal of the British Navy—and she intended to be paid for it twice. Having bartered the port to me, she should as readily offer it to Buonaparte—and trust that the French Navy should discourage any thought I might have of pressing my claim. I returned in haste to England, intending to play her like a fish until she should betray enough to incriminate herself; and she very soon waited upon me at Wilborough House, to learn my decision. She had a new impatience about her that I judged to arise from fear; though what had caused her to become anxious—when the trial of her niece was so nearly achieved, and my own suspicions so closely guarded—I could not comprehend. But I have since learned from Mr: Cranley that you, Miss Austen, precipitated her unease.”

  “Though I fixed upon her too late, and lacked any proofs,” I admitted.

  “And but for her attack upon you, we should still lack them,” Sir William told me.

  There was a rustle from the corner, and all our eyes turned to the murderess. She struggled with her bonds, her glittering eyes fixed upon me. “Meddlesome girl!” she cried. “But for you I should have prevailed! But I assure you, Miss Austen, I regret nothing I have done, except my failure to dispatch you earlier.” Her eyes shifted to Sir William and she smiled cruelly. “You think yourself very clever; old man, in catching me; but we both know who the clever one has been. It was who charged the maid with poisoning the Earl, and then slit her throat to ensure her silence; and you were susceptible to my diversions—the handkerchief, the note in Payne’s handwriting—and charged others with my crimes.” Madame let forth a piercing laugh. “How I rejoiced, alone in my room at night! You were fools, all of you. My discovery came about by the merest accident. That I failed at the last makes not a whit of difference—in affairs of great moment, one wins or loses by the cast of a die.”

  “As your patron Buonaparte undoubtedly taught you,” Sir William said dryly, “knowing that in the end, it was you, Madame, who should hang; and he who should survive to play at dice another day.” He turned to me and patted my hand, his aged brown eyes gaining something in their warmth. “Lord Harold’s words might have brought a charge of treason against this lady, my dear Jane, but they should not have solved for us the unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor. For that, we needed you. I only regret that you endured such peril to achieve your Countess’s freedom.”

  I knew not what to say, and so took refuge in my dearest concern. “Isobel shall go free?” I enquired, looking from one man to another.

  “On the very morrow,” Sir William assured me, “and Fitzroy Payne with her.”

  A feeling of exquisite joy overwhelmed me, and I closed my eyes a moment; but of a sudden, I looked for Mr. Cranley. “Poor fellow!” I cried. “To be denied your day before the House of Lords!”

  “It might well have been the ruin of my career,” that worthy said wryly, “for I certainly had no defence to offer.”

  20 March 1803

  No. 4 Sydney Place, Bath

  ˜

  I HAVE HAD NEWS TODAY FROM SIR WILLIAM REYNOLDS, OF Madame Delahoussaye’s trial before the Assizes only a few days past; the proceedings were brief, as expected, and she has been sent to her Maker this very day. I should feel a depth of pity for her, had she not stood by with complete equanimity while Isobel faced a similar fate; and there is the image of foolish Marguerite Dumas, grimacing horribly in her unlooked-for death, that will not depart from memory. The snow is falling today, late in season, and I am cast back afresh to the dusky shed in the paddock, and the dark blood pooled in the straw; and though I think Madame well departed from this life, I offer a prayer for her eternal soul.

  I have recovered fully from my own misadventure; the marks on my throat have faded; and I have determined to avoid all proposals of marriage in future, in the fear that my refusal should precipitate another spate of killing at some country house or other. The rest of the Scargrave party are not so sanguine; and like every novel of manners written by my contemporaries, this story has ended in marriages all around. Poor Fanny Delahoussaye was the first to assay that happy state—she ran off to Gretna Green with Mr. Cranley while her mother still sat in Newgate prison, and now publishes the news of her expectant condition with hardly a blush. That she had vowed never to marry a barrister, is happily banished from her mind.

  Mr. George Hearst received a handsome Scargrave living under the terms of the late Earl’s will, which he has effectively traded for one in Newcastle. He has repaired to the north with his Rosie, who bids fair to make an excellent curate’s wife with a bit of schooling and gentle attention.

  Though Fitzroy Payne is restored to Isobel’s good opinion—and in so decided a manner as must make her blush with contrition and shame—he and the Countess are not yet joined in matrimony. The wounds of their past experience remain too raw. There is the weight of public opinion to be braved as well; for though they are saved from the noose, and all the indignities suffered in the weeks before their trial, they remain the object of much speculation. Isobel has retreated from society altogether, while the Earl devotes his attention to securing a suitable overseer for his estates in the West Indies. He has embarked on a plan of visitation to that region in May, and urges Isobel to accompany him; and my friend has not yet told him nay.

  Isobel remains in her late husband’s London house, the bitter memories of Hertfordshire and Scargrave Manor being as yet too strong. She is freed of her debt, as Lord Harold said, having received from that gentleman a large package of cancelled notes a few days after her liberation. The knowledge of her aunt’s betrayal, against the extent of Frederick’s goodness, has made my friend sober and sad; but she is young, and possessed of wealth and beauty, and cannot forego living for very long. With time, and forgetfulness, I believe Isobel shall find happiness again in the parity of Fitzroy Payne’s mind and youth.

  And Lord Harold Trowbridge? A curious man. To have held his high esteem—as I clearly did—is an honour I only understood when our acquaintance was at its close. He is everywhere misunderstood, mistrusted, and disliked, except by those who
need his services; but he commands a fearful respect. I have said in the past that I should rather spend an hour with the notorious than two minutes with the dull; and my taste is proved again to be unerring.

  I have here a letter penned in Trowbridge’s hand—To the light angel—that contains a single phrase only. My dear Miss Austen, it says, we may take this as a lesson: It required a woman to divine what a woman had wrought.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Stephanie Barron, a lifelong admirer of Jane Austen’s work, is the author of five previous Jane Austen mysteries. She lives in Colorado, where she is at work on the seventh Jane Austen mystery, Jane and the Ghosts of Netley. As Francine Mathews, she is the author of The Cutout and The Secret Agent. Learn more about both Stephanie Barron and Francine Mathews at www.francinemathews.com.

  If you enjoyed Stephanie Barron’s Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House, you won’t want to miss any of the wonderful mysteries in this superb series. Look for them at your favorite bookseller’s.

  And turn the page for an exciting preview of Jane and the Ghosts of Netley, coming soon in hardcover from Bantam Books.

  JANE

  AND THE

  GHOSTS OE NETLEY

  ˜Being the Seventh Jane Austen Mystery˜

  by Stephame Barron

  Castle Square,

  Southampton

  Tuesday, 25 October 1808

  ˜

  THERE ARE FEW PROSPECTS SO REPLETE WITH ROMANTIC possibility—so entirely suited to a soul trembling in morbid awe—as the ruins of an English abbey. Picture, if you will, the tumbled stones where once a tonsured friar muttered matins; the echoing coruscation of the cloister, now opened to the sky, the soaring architraves of Gothick stone that oppress one’s soul as with the weight of tombs. Vanished incense curling at the nostril—the haunting memory of chanted prayer, sonorous and unintelligible to an ear untrained in Latin—the ghostly tolling of a bell whose clapper is muted now forever! Oh, to walk in such a place under the chill of moonlight, of a summer evening, when the air off the Solent might stir the dead to speak! In such an hour I could imagine myself a heroine straight from Mrs. Radcliffe’s pen: the white train of my gown sweeping over the ancient stones, my shadow but a wraith before me, and all the world suspended in silence between the storied past and prosaic present.