Jane and the Canterbury Tale

Chapter Twelve A Call of Condolence

22 October 1813, Cont.

“Of course I do not belIeve Mr. Wildman capable of murder!” I retorted. “And I should be very much surprized, Edward, to learn that you do.”

He lifted his brows. “As Mr. Knight, whose lands run alongside Chilham’s, divided by the ancient Pilgrim’s Way—as a friend who knows and esteems Wildman’s whole family—as one who has watched young James himself grow from boy to man—I must declare it impossible. As First Magistrate, however, in possession of a gun responsible for the death of Curzon Fiske …”

“You must weigh the possible guilt or innocence of every person within ten miles of the Pilgrim’s Way,” I concluded quietly. “I quite take your point. But James Wildman—! I cannot conceive of so elderly a gentleman toiling along the Pilgrim’s Way over the Downs in the dead of night. He must be nearly seventy if he is a day, and prostrate with gout!”

Edward’s brow furrowed at this. “It was young James, and not his father, that I had in mind,” he said gently. “Observe the initials.”

I bent over the gun. There, chased in the silver, was an intricate monogram of a large W, flanked with a J and a B.

“The father is James, as is his son—but the son claims as his middle name Beckford,” my brother explained.

I wrinkled my nose at monograms. “I cannot conceive of a person less likely to provoke a quarrel, or more completely in control of his own temper, than young James Wildman. Indeed, he is the very last person I should expect of killing a man in a fit of rage!”

“But this was not a crime of passion, Jane,” my brother rebuked me. “Surely you must see that. Fiske was despatched by one who appointed the hour and place of his killing; one who conducted himself with a cool calculation throughout. Young Wildman is entirely capable of a premeditated act; and I should judge he possesses enough courage to undertake even murder, if circumstances so compelled him.”

“Circumstances! They should have to be quite extraordinary, for Wildman to risk so much—”

“That is understood. But Fiske’s reappearance in this country—Fiske alive when he was thought to be dead—is extraordinary enough.” Edward rose abruptly from his chair. “I must ride to Chilham Castle without delay, and enquire of James where he keeps his pistols, and the habits that attend his use of them. The inquest is set for tomorrow morning, Jane. It would be as well to be apprised of certain facts before the event, lest the wrong fellow be clapped summarily in chains.”

“You would not gaol a man on mere suspicion, surely?”

“No.” He gave me a level gaze. “But Bredloe’s panel might. I am required to submit to the coroner’s judgement, my dear—and that judgement, in our awkward English fashion, derives from the inquest’s panel of good men and true. I should like to be able to influence the panel’s conclusions—I should like them to return a judgement of Murder by Person or Persons Unknown, if I can manage it, and thereby purchase myself an interval for the conduct of our researches—but to that end I am forced to interrogate most of my neighbours in a limited amount of time.”

“Our researches?” I demanded.

“You should be invaluable in conversing with the ladies of the household—particularly Mrs. Thane, and Mrs. MacCallister. I must assume that unhappy lady is returned from her ill-fated honeymoon. Will you ride with me, Jane?”

I did not really ride with my brother, of course. I have never been an accomplished horsewoman, but on the rare occasions I find myself mounted sidesaddle on a sweet-mouthed little mare, it is invariably at Godmersham, where the whole world is on such easy terms with Edward’s stables that I should feel absurdly dowdy in refusing to ride. I do not at present possess a riding habit, however—the one Elizabeth once pressed upon me being long since outworn and outmoded—and I did not like to appear at Chilham Castle arrayed in a manner that must do my brother little credit. I proposed, therefore, that Fanny and I should take out Young Edward’s tilbury, so that Fanny might practice her driving; and her father should ride beside us as escort.

In truth, Fanny requires neither instruction nor much practice in driving, being a pretty enough whip and fully inclined to drive herself about the Kentish countryside whenever opportunity offers; but the present scheme allowed my niece to indulge one of her chief delights—instructing me in the art—and we had not proceeded a hundred paces up the country lane in the direction of the crossroad for Chilham, before she was placing the ribbons confidently in my hands.

There is nothing to equal the sensation of holding two narrow strips of leather while, at the nether end, the mouth of a horse fights one for mastery. Clutch too tightly on the reins, and the poor animal will throw its head up, eyes rolling, as tho’ one fully intended to break its neck; allow the reins to lie slack in the palm, and the beast will seize the bit between its teeth and career off down the road with every intention of overturning the vehicle and casting horse and driver both to ruin. Fanny is adept enough to drive two-in-hand, a feat I have not been so brave as to attempt; today we had but the single horse before the tilbury, and trotted along at a jaunty pace I felt myself almost equal to maintaining.

“You look very well, Jane!” Edward cried, “and in that new bonnet with the curled ostrich plume, quite dashing, indeed!”

“The road bends a little just ahead, Aunt, as you will perceive,” Fanny murmured with commendable calm. “You will wish to ease back a trifle on the left rein, and guide Rowan’s head around.”

I accomplished this feat, my heart pounding in my mouth as the tilbury tipped slightly to one side, terrified lest the equipage lose all purchase on the bend and roll without warning. But Rowan, if the truth be known, is better able to find his way than I am to guide him—and the good horse made me appear to greater advantage than I deserved.

“I should not like to be put to the test of a truly fresh animal,” I muttered to Fanny. “When I recollect the pair of smart goers the Countess of Swithin was wont to drive, and before a perch phaeton, too—”

“She sounds to be what George would call top of the trees,” Fanny observed comfortably.

“She hunts with the Quorn.”

“Ah. There you are—we cannot hope for such daring in Kent. It would not be tolerated by your Jupiter Finch-Hattons, you know. No gentleman of the neighbourhood should like to think the ladies more Corinthian than himself.”

Some thought of the probable retort the late Lord Harold Trowbridge’s niece, Desdemona, Countess Swithin, should offer this paltry complaisance brought a smile to my lips; but I did not accuse Fanny of poor-spiritedness. For one thing, I was too intent upon controlling my horse; and for another, I knew full well that the manners obtaining among countesses of the ton would never do for a Miss Knight of Godmersham. Fanny judged the tolerance of her society to a hairsbreadth, and should never be accused of overstepping its limits.

Such, of course, had not been the experience of one Adelaide Thane Fiske MacCallister—and I reflected, as I returned the ribbons to Fanny’s capable hands, that therein lay a question: Had Adelaide acquired so many surnames—so many changes of station and fortune in her brief four-and-twenty years—because of her willingness to flout convention, or in despite of it?

Endeavour to learn what her relationship has been with James Wildman, Edward had urged in a lowered tone as he handed me up into the tilbury. I must ask her about the tamarind seeds, of course, and what her movements were after the ball was done at Chilham that night—but you, Jane, have the whole of her life to discover.

The whole of her life. I wished I did not feel so daunted by the task; I am accredited a subtle conversationalist, I own, and am not unperceptive regarding the motives of much of the human race—but I dislike playing the busybody, and Adelaide MacCallister had no reason to confide anything to a stranger. Her family was all about her, did she require a confessor. To urge her conversation at such a time must be repugnant to any right-thinking person’s sentiments. I should be forced to contrive.

It seemed but a moment more, and we were trotting up the broad sweep that led to the Castle. Fanny pulled up her horse, and a footman ran from the hall to Rowan’s head, while another stood ready to help us down. I heard Edward call carelessly as he swung from the saddle, “Is your young master at home, Twitch?” and the Wildman family’s butler, a rather stout figure in black, scraped a bow.

“Mr. James is at home, sir, as is Mr. Wildman, but I must enquire whether they are receiving visitors. The household is a trifle … discomposed.”

“I’m here as First Magistrate, Twitch,” Edward said gently, “not as a neighbour paying a call. Please convey my apologies to your master and his son, and beg that they receive me on business that may not be delayed.”

“And the ladies, sir?”

Edward’s eyes drifted over me and Fanny.

“We had intended to pay a call upon Mrs. Wildman, but if that is inconvenient, pray do not disturb her,” Fanny said impulsively. “We are quite happy to send in our cards, and drive home. It is a lovely day for an airing, after all.”

I had not expected my niece to wilt before the manners of an imposing upper servant, and was momentarily exasperated with her. But I reflected that even so pert a creature as Miss Eliza Bennet should have done the same, upon arriving at Pemberley, had she been aware that Mr. Darcy was already in residence—and that perhaps some explanation might be found for Fanny’s unwillingness to thrust herself into the Chilham household.

“Twitch,” said a voice from the doorway, “why do you leave our visitors dawdling on the sweep, when they ought already to have been announced? Step lively, you fool!”

I glanced towards the entry, and saw a formidable figure: iron-haired, thin-lipped, her eyes dark and imperious as Cleopatra’s.

“Yes, Mrs. Thane,” Twitch answered woodenly, and led us into the Castle.