Jane and the Canterbury Tale

Chapter Twenty-Seven Pretty Maids All in a Row

26 October 1813, Cont.

“A dreadful business,” Bredloe observed as his fingers sketched a thoughtful arc over the dead girl’s great wound. “The principal artery is severed, of course, with a single cut. Whoever effected her death acted without the slightest hesitation. A brutal will has been at work here. Poor child! And you found her, Miss Austen, just as she lies?”

“We did not think it wise to shift her in any way, before you had surveyed the ground.”

I said we, because Jupiter Finch-Hatton had very kindly returned up the toilsome slope of the Downs to bear me company after seeing Fanny safely restored to Harriot, who, however silly in most things, might be relied upon to comfort and coddle her niece once the horrid tale had been told. Mr. Finch-Hatton had saddled a horse for this second jaunt—advisable at the time, perhaps, but requiring him now to walk the animal up and down the path lest its limbs stiffen in the chill rain. He had not, therefore, been of much use to me as a companion; but I honoured his chivalrous sentiment all the same.

Hunched some distance from the body, which justly horrified him, was the manservant sent out as guard from Chilham. He had arrived some moments before Mr. Finch-Hatton, but other than a laconic tug of his forelock, had vouchsafed not a word. He looked positively wretched in the rain.

Of Julian Thane there was no sign; he was required at Chilham, perhaps, to support the household.

The coroner flicked me a shrewd glance. “Mr. Knight is from home, I collect?”

“He is in London, sir—upon business that could not be delayed. I expect him returned no later than Thursday, and if fortune is kind, so soon as tomorrow evening.”

“Blast,” Bredloe said with forceful efficiency. “I should have valued his eyes.”

“You may employ mine, sir.”

He studied me. “Indeed. So I might. What have you discerned, Miss Austen, that I should hear?”

“I believe you carry a pocket watch, Dr. Bredloe?”

“I do.”

“And what hour does it tell?”

He frowned at me, but dutifully pulled his watch and chain from his waistcoat pocket. “Half-past two.”

“The messenger from Chilham Castle reached you when?”

“It wanted twenty minutes, I think, before the hour of one o’clock.”

“And you were then at home. Let us say, therefore, that the messenger set out from the Castle at noon, perhaps, and our discovery of the body occurred some fifteen minutes prior to that hour—a quarter to noon.”

“And you have been standing in all this wet for so long a period, Miss Austen?” The physician started to his feet—he had been kneeling by the body. “You shall catch your death of cold! Why has that fool of a Bond Street Lounger not offered you his coat?”

“Because he requires it himself,” I replied. “I have endeavoured to keep my blood flowing with the constant pursuit of exercise. My point, Dr. Bredloe, is that before this rain commenced, and at our discovery of the corpse nearly three hours ago, the blood you see everywhere about you was thoroughly congealed; suggesting that the girl met her death well before the dog alerted us to her presence.”

“Rigour has not yet begun to set in,” the coroner murmured, “and since an interval of some eight hours is usual for its onset, I may judge that the poor child met her death no sooner than seven o’clock this morning. As you so correctly point out, Miss Austen, death can have occurred no later than—we may surmise—eleven o’clock, to allow for the congealing of the blood. Excellently done! That fixes the period to a nicety!”

“A full four hours,” I said dubiously, “during which, any number of individuals might have been abroad on the Downs.”

Bredloe glanced around, took in the roaming Jupiter, and shook his head. “It is a lonely spot, on a lonely path. Did you observe nothing else, Miss Austen, in your pursuit of exercise?”

“I did,” I answered, with an effort at suppressing the chattering of my teeth, which—now that I was brought to a standstill by the doctor’s questions—threatened to o’erwhelm me. “A person stood some time in the soft ground within the coppice, before a second person—Martha, I suspect—approached the place; two sets of footprints are evident, if you should wish to view them.”

Without a word Bredloe followed me the slight distance further into the shelter of the lopped trunks and leafless branches. Perhaps two yards from Martha’s position, the prints were just discernible: half a booted foot, and the faint impression of another, in the moist leaf-mould. Opposed to them were a second person’s prints: smaller in form, and less deeply embedded—the marks of a lighter figure, no doubt a girl of seventeen. So much one might distinguish, before the two sets of prints merged closer to the body.

Bredloe hunched over the impressions. “Impossible to discern whether this was a man or a woman. The two shifted about a trifle, as they talked. And then this person—” he indicated the more delicate prints—“turned away, as tho’ to depart.”

“At which instant the other sprang forward, and struck her down.”

The coroner lifted his eyes from the ground. “Indeed. She knew her murderer—she approached and lingered long enough to speak with him—and was under no apprehension of danger when she bade him farewell.”

My teeth were chattering in earnest now. “W-why lure a suh-suh-serving-girl to her d-death in such a p-place?” I mused. “Why k-kill her at all?”

Bredloe drew a flask of brandy from his pocket and pulled the cork. “Take this, Miss Austen—I insist.”

The draught trailed its flame down my throat. I coughed and sputtered. “Th-thank you.”

Without ceremony, the doctor removed his heavy black frock coat—the symbol of his profession—and cast it over my shoulders. “You’ll do for a few moments; but I must insist you make for home as soon as may be. That fellow—” he indicated Jupiter—“may take you up before him.”

I, to ride pillion before the most dashing blade in Kent! How Fanny and her friends should make sport of us both, behind their hands!

But I said only, “You did not hear my question, I think. Why lure this child to her death? What possible reason can there have been to kill her?”

The coroner’s eyes narrowed. “Does she belong to Chilham?”

“Not at all! She is Mrs. MacCallister’s personal maid, and merely visits the Castle in that capacity. Her home is Wold Hall, in Leicestershire.”

“But her killer is presumably of this neighbourhood—quite possibly of the Castle itself. Our enquiries must begin there. Your brother will agree, Miss Austen, I am sure of it—but as such interrogations belong to his province, and not my own, I shall more fruitfully pursue a nearer duty. You there, sirrah!” he called to the manservant. “Pray carry my compliments to Mr. Wildman, and request a driver and dray, with all possible speed. We must convey this poor soul to the Castle. Do you return with the dray, mind, so that the direction is clear.”

“Very good, sir,” the manservant muttered, and set off with little enthusiasm for his errand.

“You mean to keep her at Chilham?” I enquired.

“Until such time as your brother has returned—I do. Her coffin might lie at St. Mary’s, if Mr. Tylden will allow it; and we might even hold the inquest at the publick house in the village. The unfortunate girl must be returned to her people at Wold Hall, seemingly—and to send her first to Canterbury for the purpose of empanelling a jury seems unduly irksome.”

Bredloe placed a hand on my elbow and turned me gently away from the fiendish wreck of what had been Martha. “May I say that you are remarkable, Miss Austen, for your sang-froid; any other lady of my acquaintance should have been overpowered by such a sight, and swooned dead away. I am grateful I was not required to attend to two bodies at my arrival.”

I considered of the dizziness and swimming mind with which I had met the corpse’s discovery; how I had blenched, and felt my gorge rise at the rank scent of blood. “I know not whether I should thank you for a compliment, Dr. Bredloe, or protest an insult! Do you regard me as more or less of a woman, as a consequence of my composure?”

He smiled—a strange sight in that creased and cynical old face—and saved his words for Jupiter.

“Mr. Finch-Hatton! Pray conduct Miss Austen with all possible speed to Godmersham!”

I drew off Bredloe’s frock coat and presented it with my thanks; he protested, but I remained firm—God alone knew how long he should be required to stand in such weather, and he had long since left off being a young man. Then I was lifted onto Jupiter’s horse and borne swiftly in his strong young arms towards the comforts of home.

I indulged my need for such comforts perhaps longer than was strictly necessary. A steaming bath in my own chambers, supplied by cans of boiling water carried up by Edward’s manservant; the combing out of my hair, and the drying of it by the roaring blaze Mrs. Driver had caused to be kindled in the Yellow Room’s hearth; the restorative warmth of a glass of wine and a plate of macaroons, sent up from the kitchens; and an interval of rest, laid down on my bed in my dressing gown, when at last the shuddering of my body had eased. I should be fortunate to escape an inflammation of the lungs; I expected no less.

I dressed for dinner, however, and descended to the library, where Fanny and Harriot had assembled with the addition of Miss Clewes to round out our numbers. The gentlemen—Young Edward, my nephew George, Mr. Finch-Hatton, and Mr. Moore—had been playing at billiards in the adjoining room; but at my entrance it appeared the game was concluded, and they soon joined us, in full-blown argument as to the merits of cross-breeding hunters for stamina and speed. I underwent a strong sensation of relief; the idea of Jupiter and Moore closeted together, with nothing to discuss but the events of the morning, must unnerve me; I should not like George Moore to know of all that Mr. Finch-Hatton had imparted regarding the dangerous game of cards at Chilham three years since.

“Miss Austen,” the clergyman said with a bow, “I hope I find you recovered from the exertions of your walk. May I say that I could have wished you to have gone in the opposite direction to the Downs this morning! There was nothing so gruesome by the meadows near the Stour; you should have got your fresh air without all the agitation of discovery.”

“Were you along the Stour this morning, sir?” I enquired.

“I was.” He gave me a thin smile, his gaze remarkably steady. “The example of these young fellows so far persuaded me to shake off the lassitude of age, and take out a gun.”

“A gun, Mr. Moore! And were you so happy as to bag anything, sir?”

“Not a single bird or rabbit!” he declared with an attempt at cheerful disregard. “But the exercise was beneficial. So lost in the beauty of my autumnal surroundings was I, that I may have been gone as much as several hours! —And only considered turning for the house once hunger assailed me.”

“Fancy!” Harriot cried to Miss Clewes. “Mr. Moore, forgetful of his nuncheon!”

“I should have thought the rain would dissuade even the most ardent of sportsmen,” I observed.

He inclined his head. “Happily, it commenced to fall only after I had achieved the gun room. I am not so much of a hearty as your nephews, I confess!”

He moved on to his wife, and engaged her in low conversation; Harriot was looking harassed and pale, as tho’ the atmosphere of the house—or the prevalence of murder—had begun to tell upon her nerves. Curious, that Mr. Moore should be so eager to impart to me the vagaries of his morning; he had never elected to share such intelligence before. It was rather his habit to preserve a frigid personal distance, than to chatter about the mundanities of the day. I thought him rather too earnest in establishing his presence at the extreme opposite locale from Martha’s resting place, high on the Downs. He had certainly been absent from the house, however, throughout the period at issue.

Why should George Moore summon a serving-girl from Chilham Castle and do her to death, Jane? a voice within me argued. There can be no possible relation between them. Or none, at least, of which I knew.

And this was a truth that applied to every person within ten miles’ reach of the Castle. I knew nothing at all of Martha Kean, much less of those who might have come within her orbit during her stay in Kent. There was the entire class of persons serving below-stairs, at both Chilham and Godmersham, who might have formed an attachment to the girl; the folk of Chilham village with whom she came into contact; and above-stairs, there was Julian Thane. Captain Andrew MacCallister. Even Jupiter Finch-Hatton, who had been staying at the Castle some days before coming to us at Godmersham.

But why should any determine to kill Adelaide MacCallister’s personal maid? —Because of something the girl had seen? Or suspected? I had heard mention of her only once: when Sir Davie Myrrh received a note from Martha in the back garden, on the night of Curzon Fiske’s murder. He had professed to exchange barely two words with the girl—she had fled from him in fear.

I wished, suddenly, for my brother Edward. No one else was aware of the maid’s rôle in that wedding-night drama—not even the coroner, Dr. Bredloe. There had been insufficient time to apprise him of our late interview with the nautical baronet.

“All right and tight, Miss Austen?” Jupiter Finch-Hatton stood before me, proffering a glass of sherry. I took it gratefully; I could feel the weight of the inevitable head-cold gathering unpleasantly behind my eyes, and there is nothing like a little wine, after all, for helping one to bear it.

“I meant to thank you, Mr. Finch-Hatton, for all you did today—your mere presence was a support and a comfort,” I said. “But my lips were so frozen when at last we dismounted that I confess I could not speak!”

“Happy to oblige,” he replied with his usual air of indolence, which I had begun to apprehend was in fact a foil for a young man’s embarrassment. “Devilish business, all the same. Don’t like Thane’s part in it. What was he doing there, I mean to say? Not ten yards from the girl’s body? If we hadn’t taken that dog out, might never have known she was there! Might have lain for months, in fact! And Thane, spot on the scene!”

He fingered his cravat, which was tied to a perfection, and glanced at me sidelong from his lazy blue eyes. “Must see it yourself, ma’am. You’re dashed needle-witted. Said it before!”

Needle-witted. It was a phrase that might have come from my old friend Lord Harold’s lips—had he been twenty years younger. I smiled to myself and turned my glass in the firelight, thoughtfully studying the shift in the wine’s colour. “You have been some days at Chilham, I think—both before the wedding and after. Did you ever happen to notice the girl Martha there?”

“Shouldn’t have, in the usual way—lady’s maids being not quite in my line,” Jupiter replied. “Known my mother’s Dresser for donkey’s years, of course—devilish high in the instep, and jealous as a cat. Been with her la’ship longer than I’ve been alive. But that’s neither here nor there. Noticed this Martha because Thane was forever cornering the girl in passages and side-rooms. Sort of thing he does—daresay you’ve noticed it yourself. Fellow comes the rake over anything in skirts.”

“Really, Mr. Finch-Hatton,” I replied mildly. “You strike terror in a maiden’s heart.”

Jupiter looked discomfited. “Don’t hold with it myself. Daresay Thane only does it from boredom. I mean to say—fellow must be blue as megrim up at the Castle! Sister taken up for murder! Nobody to speak with except that mother of his, who’d freeze the blood of the hottest hellborn babe—and nothing much to entertain in poor James’s sisters. But all the same—doesn’t do to meddle with the servants. Not good ton.”

“Should you have called the affair a persecution on Thane’s part,” I asked thoughtfully, “or a mutual dalliance?”

Jupiter rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “The two tended to part company whenever I hove into view, so I’ve no way of judging. What went on when the whole house was abed, I shouldn’t like to conjecture. Shabby thing if I did—no real proof Thane’s a bad’un—and besides, girl’s dead. De mortuis, and all that.”

“Was Captain MacCallister aware of Thane’s interest in that quarter?”

“The Captain doesn’t chuse to meddle with Thane,” Jupiter said succinctly. “Ask me, he meant to get his fair lady away from the household as soon as possible, and leave the dirty dishes behind. Trouble is, plan went awry. Fair lady’s in gaol. Captain’s up to his neck in dirty dishes.”

I sighed and glanced at Fanny. “Is Julian Thane truly a dirty dish?”

Jupiter smiled crookedly, his countenance suffused with a shrewd self-knowledge. “Don’t like the fellow above half, ma’am. Too dashing for his own good, and cuts me out with your niece whenever he sees the chance. So take anything I chuse to say with a grain of salt. Must wonder, all the same, why we came up with him this morning near that coppice.”

“The girl had been killed hours before,” I reminded him, gently.

“Know it. What I mean to say is: Looks like he’d been intending to meet her there.”

I thought of the young man on the plunging black horse, halted on the path by the coppice, and the dog yapping at his feet. When we came up with him, he had been eager to turn us back—and ready with his tale of a visit to Fanny. I had wondered how Thane could contemplate such an errand—however charming he found my niece—when it was Fanny’s people who had placed his sister in gaol.

“Reckon the coppice was a habit of theirs,” Jupiter said wisely. “Stands to reason somebody besides Thane and Martha knew of it, too—and made use of the place for his own ends.”

I stared at him, my mind working. Jupiter might actually have seized on the truth. “You mean—”

He nodded. “Girl went happily enough to her death. Thought it was Thane she was going to meet.”