Jane and the Man of the Cloth

Chapter 20 The Watcher in the Doorway

Sunday, 23 September 1804

IT WAS NEARLY THE HOUR FOR DINNER WHEN I RETURNED TO WINGS cottage from Wootton Fitzpaine yesterday afternoon, but the fog had lifted under the influence of a light breeze, promising a shift in the weather; and so I seized a few moments of liberty to slip down Pound Street to the linendraper's, of a mind to view Mr. Milsop's latest sketches of evening gowns, so important to the effect of a good length of peach-coloured silk, and to consider whether a demi-turban[71] or a feather should be better suited to my headdress; and with such pleasant fancies dancing before my eyes, and banishing all thoughts of smugglers, their wives, and their purported bloodlettings, I very nearly ran down poor Mr. Dagliesh, who was engaged in conversing with a rotund lady of middle age, not five paces from Mr. Milsop's door.

“Miss Jane Austen!” he cried, with a flourish of his hat and a hasty bow. “I hope I find you well?”

“Very well, Mr. Dagliesh,” I replied, with a nod for his companion, who paid no heed to ceremony and made her lumbering way on up the street, leaving me to enjoy the gentleman's undivided attentions. “I am relieved to see you in excellent health.”

“Had you any reason to fear for it?” he enquired.

“Oh! No reason at all — though I guessed you were so much in demand, and in the middle of the night, too — about the shingle and the downs, in attending to all manner of wounds of a sudden received, whose victims have not the luxury of appearing by the light of day — that I thought you must soon be quite broken down.”

He started, and gave me a narrow look, and with a foolish smile, said that the demands of a country practise were sometimes unmanageable.

“Particularly when one is under the obligation of attending to one's friends,” I continued. “The demands of a stranger might be put off to another day; but the necessity of one's intimate acquaintance may not be gainsaid. And there has been so much of that sort of thing in Lyme, of late! A lady thrown from a horse here, a shot to the back there, a skirmish at sea that might leave a man at the mercy of Fate — I wonder you have slept at all, from riding to the Grange.”

“Miss Austen—” he began, and then halted in confusion.

“I know now why you could not be summoned, the very night of my sister's unfortunate injury — for you were undoubtedly in attendance upon some smugglers’ band, deep in the folds of the Pinny, or secreted in a convenient cave. And nothing is plainer than your failing to appear the morning of her departure for London, to pay your respects. It was the very morning that Mr. Sidmouth routed the dragoons, just below the Cobb, and even 1 observed Davy Forely the lander to have been shot Was it Mademoiselle LeFevre who cared for him there, in the kitchen garret, against the Preventy Men's discovery?”[72]

“I could not undertake to say,” the surgeon's assistant replied. “It was not there that I attended him, certainly. But tell me, Miss Austen — would you have a man die of a wound he did not merit, when a surgeon could easily be called? Is there some wrong you might find, in my ministering to such unfortunates? For to heal is my calling in life.”

“No wrong, Mr. Dagliesh — unless it be that your care for the local criminal set prevents you from attending to those more worthy of your attention. Had my sister died of her injuries, I should look with less gentleness at the manner in which you spend your evenings.”

“Heaven forbid!” he cried, with a sensible look. “And how does your sister? She continues to mend?”

“As swiftly as we might have hoped — her Ijmdon physician having no other claim upon his time and attention, that might prove more remunerative.”

“You are severe upon me.” He turned his hat in both hands, worrying at the brim. “But money has not been my object, though you would have my motives solely mercenary. I may go so far as to assert, Miss Austen, that neither my conduct, nor that of those I have attended, merits such censure; but honour forbids me saying more.” His look, when he raised his eyes, had something of pleading in it, and a circumspection I should not have guessed Mr. Dagliesh capable of. “There is a nobility in the most common of men, Miss Austen, when they are spurred to act from principle; and I have found that the appearance of what is wrong may often cloak, conversely, a very great good.”

“As I am sure the opposite is true,” I rejoined, somewhat tardy, “with all manner of evil parading itself as circumspection and propriety.”

“That has ever been the case,” he said, with some gentleness. “The wonder is that we should still be equally as fooled.” And with a civility, he left me — though less happy in my designs upon peach-coloured silk.

IT WAS AS I RETURNED FROM POUND STREET TO WlNGS COTTAGE, that I first noticed the presence of a man to my back. He appeared to find interest in shop windows at exactly the moment I turned to gaze at something on offer; and resumed his slow stroll in my train whenever my interest was satisfied, and my own walk recommenced. Upon first perceiving him, I was puzzled; then alarmed; and finally, determined upon calculation. Though I had half a mind to confront him with questions, the possibility that I but succumbed to an over-active imagination, could not be discounted; and so I turned instead into a local purveyor of comestibles, in search, ostensibly, of tea. I knew the shop to let out onto an adjacent street at its rear; and upon learning that no tea was to be had in all of Lyme — a curious notion, that — I exited by this latter way. Imagine my dismay, upon perceiving the gentleman as yet behind! For he had assuredly pursued me to the shop's interior, and thence into the adjacent street.

I had no desire to alert him to my awareness of his presence, by attempting blatantly to lose him; and so, with my head down and my feet purposeful, I made as swiftly as I might for Wings cottage. A hurried ascent to my room, to dress for dinner — and to observe the gentleman posted in the street below, arranged so very casually in a doorway, for all the world like one of my brother James's Loiterers.[73]

I wonder what shall become of him? Does he intend to remain there the rest of the night? And who has set him upon me — and for what possible reason? Is he, perhaps, one of Roy Cavendish's men, intent upon learning the direction of my enquiries, since I have been so rude as to avoid communication with the Customs man himself?

I was unsettled the length of dinner, and could make only the most cursory of replies to my mother's many suppositions regarding Wootton House, and my father's observations of the history of Wootton Fitzpaine's church.

And now, alone with my pen and paper in the clear light of a Sunday morning, with little of activity before me other than the writing of a long-overdue letter to my poor Cassandra, I am incapable of so simple a task, and must rise continually to peer out at the street, in as stealthy a manner possible, in search of an unknown watcher.

Monday, 24 September 1804

NOT LONG AFTER BREAKFAST THIS MORNING, AS I SETTLED DOWN IN the sitting-room to mend the slit in my brown wool, and mull over all that I knew of Lyme's tangled affairs, I was starded to find in the depths of my workbasket, a bit of paper — its edges sealed with a drop of tallow. Opening it in some wonderment, I discovered it to be a missive from our man James, written painstakingly with a bit of lead, and looking something of a scrawl.

I had but to waste the better part of the morning, then, in fitful bursts of work, and occasional glances from the scullery window — which revealed no watchers waiting in doorways; and indeed, I am forced to wonder if my fancies did not run away with me Saturday e'en, in being surfeited with all manner of preposterous schemes.

ST. MICHAEL'S BEING BUT A SHORT WALK DOWN BROAD TO BRIDGE Street, and from thence, after a brief look at the sea and Broad Ledge, which was visible now at low tide[74], up Church Street, I had a very little way to go. I set out not long before three o'clock, accordingly, in my demure close bonnet and with a basket of clothes depending from my arm; for at my mother's hearing that I intended visiting the church, she would charge me with delivering her contribution to the ladies’ auxiliary, and was only persuaded with difficulty against accompanying me herself.

St. Michael's is not a handsome edifice; and that may be attributed, perhaps, to it being two churches at once — a late Norman one, and the present building, which dates from the sixteenth century. It sits nobly upon a cliff, how-ever, and seems quite suited to the spirit of Lyme, with all its peculiarities. I should not wish a more regular building to take its place; it seems, indeed, to have been a part of this coast forever.

I stood a moment on the stoop of the church, and glanced back the way I had come; and shivered to think that I detected a figure lingering behind; but it must have been an effect of the sunlight, a chimera of sorts, for when I blinked to observe a second time, the figure was no more. I pushed open the church's heavy oak door, and stepped into the cool dimness of its vestibule.

All was hushed, and the few supplicants scattered amidst the pews, too bowed in prayer to attend to my arrival. I looked about for James's broad shoulders, and could not find them; and so, after a moment, I progressed up a side aisle and took my place among the reverent. The church bell tolled the hour.

After fifteen minutes of silent contemplation, I determined to search for James outside the church; and made my way once more to the vestibule. It was there I encountered Miss Crawford, as staunch as a general the afternoon of a battle. She stood to one side of the vestibule itself, in the Auxiliary's anteroom, in an imposing black cap arrayed with jet. Her nostrils were pinched as though in reception of a noisome odour, but her bony hands fairly flew among the ordered piles of cast-off clothing. She looked up as I hesitated on the little room's threshold, and under the command of Miss Crawford's gaze, I could not but drop a curtsey.

“Good afternoon, Miss Austen,” that lady said sharply over her spectacles. “I understand you were at Wootton Fitzpaine on Saturday. You should have informed me of your visit prior to having paid it, and I should have charged you with enquiring of Mrs. Barnewall when she intends to make her contribution to the ladies’ auxiliary. My brother tells me she is to leave the country soon; and it should be a very shabby thing, if in all the bustle of making ready, St. Michael's were forgot. But no matter. I was not to know you were to go — and on such a foggy afternoon, too! — and so I shall have the trip to make over.”

“My apologies, Miss Crawford. I could not imagine you to have an interest in that quarter, and thus could not be expected to inform you of my plans.”

“Expected! Hardly. The young are never expected to treat anyone with consideration. But never mind. I see you have your mother's things in that basket.”

“I do, and I send them with her compliments.”

Miss Crawford paused to examine a tiny nightdress, of fine cambric, overlaid with my mother's excellent satin stitch; and sniffed audibly. “The seams might have been straighter; but then, one never gives as much care to things for the poor, as for one's own; and I suppose her eyes are weak, at her age.”

“I shall inform her of your gratitude,” I said drily, and turned for the door.

“Do you remember, Miss Austen, to tell her of the ladies’ tea, to be held at Darby on Saturday,” Miss Crawford called sharply after me. “It is meant as a kindness to the good-hearted women who do so much for the unfortunates of the parish. It is a vast deal of trouble, to be sure, but I count it as nothing. It is the least that I may do. It is to be a very fine tea.”

“Though, perhaps inevitably, tealess,” I observed.

“Whatever do you mean to say, Miss Austen?”

“I had understood there was not a leaf to be had, in all of Lyme.”

“But that is hardly the case at Darby, I may assure you.” Miss Crawford spoke with an air of smug complacency. “My dear brother is never at a loss for tea — but then, we may consider him as having resources, that should be denied a mere visitor, such as yourself.”

“Indeed we may,” I rejoined, in some amusement at her vanity, and quitted the church and Miss Crawford together.

I made my way to the little churchyard, and found James with his back against a headstone, and a burly man, quite ill-shaven, at his side. The latter discarded a bit of grass he had been twirling between his teeth, and pulled himself to his feet He had no hat to hold, and so stood with his head slightly bowed, awaiting my notice — a balding fellow, with a crooked nose, a perpetual dimple in one cheek, and a rough warmth to his gaze. Despite his attitude of deference, he had a confident air, as though life held no mysteries beyond his understanding.

“Miss Austen, miss,” James said, with the barest suggestion of anxiety in his aspect. “We thought as you weren't coming.”

“I was somewhat detained by church business,”I replied. “I take it you are Matthew Hurley?”

“Matty'll do just fine, miss.”

“I've been a-teliin’ Matty here how Maggie Tibbit'd have it ‘e owes her money,” James began, “and Matty — well, you tell Miss Austen, then.”

“I don't owe Bill Tibbit nothin’ nor a curse,” the fellow said comfortably, “and haven't done, since he ran the Royal Belle aground.”

“The ship's loss does seem to have turned all of Lyme against him,” I observed.

“It did that. He were paid to lose the Belle, and three fine young men o’ town was lost with it.” Mr. Hurley paused a moment to clear his throat, and as abruptly spat.

I glanced at James's untroubled countenance, then turned to his companion. “It was the Reverend's ship, I understand.”

“Now, 'oo be tellin’ you that?” Matty Hurley said, with a narrowed eye.

“Maggie Tibbit. She said that her husband had been a regular spotter for the smugglers’ crews, and that he lingered too long over his tankard, when he should better have been gone to Puncknowle and the signal tower.”

“It's right convenient she should think so,” the man replied, “but that warn't the truth of it. Bill were paid, and he met ‘is end fer it, as did the feller as paid ‘im.”

I looked from one to the other with a growing apprehension. “You cannot mean — that is to say — Mr. Hurley, would you have it that Captain Fielding paid the man to ground the Bella And that he lost his life as a result?”

“I ain't savin’ here nor there,” the fellow asserted, his eyes shifting. “It's a deep business, as no lady should concern hersel’ wit. But Maggie Tibbit oughter know better.”

This was a thought to give one pause, indeed. The Captain must have believed the ship to be engaged in smuggling, and attempted to thwart the trade in a ruthless manner, considering the consequences. And yet, if the doomed ship was not the Reverend's—

“How can you be so certain that the Belle was not the Reverend's, Mr. Hurley?”

“Let's jist say as I was a-waitin’ on the Chesnil beach for ‘er to land, and had the pulling of the bodies out o’ the surf,” he replied darkly. “I hope I may never see another such a sight, as long as I may live. Terrible it was, and Nancy Harding's boy but fifteen.”

“But what can a ship have been doing, in so clandestine a manner, if not to smuggle contraband?”

Matty Hurley shrugged, and flicked a glance at James, who turned back a bewildered countenance. “You'll be a stranger to Lyme, miss, and all our ‘fairs,” Matty offered. “I'm not sure yer needin’ to know. Just settle as it was a matter o’ some importance, as three young coves and a passel of Frenchies give their lives for, and not a thing to do with brandy barrels or kegs o’ snuff. Bill Tibbit was no good, and a traiter, and we're well quit of ‘im, whatever ‘is Maggie says. You can tell ‘er so for me.” He turned away, of a conviction, no doubt, that our discussion was at an end; but I could not suffer him to leave in so sybil-like a manner. A cloud of conflicting thoughts held converse in my mind, but through them ail I grasped at one. The man had declared that the boat was not the Reverend's; but I knew of one other household, at least, that was much given to signalling ships at sea.

“Matty,” I said, reaching a hand to detain him, “did the Royal BeUe belong to Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth?”

The astonishment that overlaid his hardened features was a spectacle to behold, and should have elicited my delighted laughter, had not I perceived his underlying consternation, as having betrayed perhaps too much. “Never fear,” I assured him. “Your secret is safe with me — though from your words, I must declare it a rather open one, since most of Lyme seems admitted to it.”

“Just the folk o’ the Buddie district,” Matty said grudgingly, “and only them as are trusty.”

“So it was Mr, Sidmouth s ship that ran aground,” I said thoughtfully, “as a result of Bill Tibbit's carelessness, or design. And Bill Tibbit died for it, as did Captain Fielding. That does alter the complexion of Sidmouth's case. For his motives and his natural reticence about the matter, become all too clear.”

“I thought she come here on a matter o’ Maggie Tibbit's,” Matty protested, with a glare for James.

“She did!” the poor man rejoined, in natural dismay. “Miss Austen?”

“No matter,” I replied. “There is another of whom I had better enquire, and leave Mr. Hurley in the clear.” I turned and looked towards the horizon, in an effort to judge of the time — for of a sudden I had a notion to conduct a further piece of business in the hours remaining before dinner. It could not be far from half-past three; and we generally dined at five. It should just do.

“You have been very helpful, Mr. Hurley, and I thank you — for what you would not, as well as what you might, impart.” The wretched fellow shifted from one foot to the other, and looked desperate to be gone, his native confidence fled. I reached into my reticule and retrieved several coins, which I pressed upon the two men, who bobbed their thanks, however doubtfully. For my part, I affected a desire to return to the church, that they might be freed of my presence, and go about their business, as unmolested as I preferred to go about mine — for I had no desire to be observed, in making my way, as I must, towards the grim stone keep that served as Lyme's gaol.