Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

Chapter 25 What the Lady Knew

1 March 1807, cont.

“DEAR GOD,” I WHISPERED, WITH MY EYES UPON THE ceiling of the inn's drawing-room, as though Louisa Seagrave might overlisten our words in her poisoned dreams. “We must discover what she knew.”

Frank stared. “You think it possible …”

“That she arranged for her husband's dishonour? Paid off Eustace Chessyre to commit an act so obscene, the entire Navy must take notice, and charge Tom Seagrave with a violation of the Articles of War? Entirely within the range of her powers, I assure you!”

“But that is madness — to send her husband to the gallows! No woman could contemplate such an act! No wife could be capable of it!”

I did not reply. Restlessly, I commenced to turn about the room, my fingers smoothing the pleats of my gown. “What did Louisa know of her father's will, and when did she know it? From Lady Templeton, as lately as Thursday, when I found the two together in Lombard Street? Or far earlier — before, let us say, the Stella sailed in January under sealed orders? How much time would Louisa require, to effect her husband's ruin?”

“If she were well-acquainted with Chessyre — and he had been her husband's lieutenant for many years — very litde time at all,” answered my brother grimly.

I wheeled upon Mr. Hill. “You said, I think, that the Viscount began his decline a month ago?”

“That is as the papers would have it. But the death itself was quite sudden.”

“And the Stella Maris engaged the Manon some seven weeks since. If we would have Louisa responsible for Chessyre's plot, then we must accept the idea that she knew of the Viscount's provisions well before her father's illness. In a communication from Lady Templeton, sent during the Christmas season, perhaps? Or — if the Viscount's sense of fun, as you call it, extended to the torment of his daughter — in a communication from the gentleman himself?”

My thoughts raced as a fevered pulse; but the gentlemen followed as swiftly behind. We all of us spoke in lowered tones, in deference to the public nature of an inn.

“The moment of the Viscount's passing is immaterial,” Mr. Hill pointed out. “What is vital is the moment of his interment — and the subsequent reading of the provisions of his will. Mrs. Seagrave today is no different than she was before; but by the dinner hour on Tuesday she might be anything.”

“We may exonerate Lady Templeton of murder at least,” observed my brother ironically. “You have provided her with the strongest inducement to ensure Tom Seagrave's survival. Without him, Lady Templeton gets not a farthing to administer or spend.”

“We must interrogate the aunt regardless,” I said, “though we must venture into Kent to do it. Without intending to incite murder, Lady Templeton may have done so with simple gossip. If she was aware of the Viscount's provisions before his death, and communicated them to her niece—”

“It cannot prove that Louisa Seagrave decided to murder her husband,” Frank insisted impatiently. “And by so contrived a means! She should better have put arsenic in Tom's plum pudding at Christmas, than attempted a hanging by court-martial!”

“Poison will out,” I reminded him. “How much more to be preferred, is an official disgrace — an impartial judgement — a public hanging… and the widow rather to be pitied than suspected of evil. The entire affair bears the mark of Louisa's subtle mind.”

“And yet, not subtle enough,” opined Mr. Hill. “For Mrs. Seagrave to achieve the object you would set her, Miss Austen, she must have effected her husband's death by Tuesday at the latest; and you must admit that that is not very likely.”

“Not if she is watched,” I said, “and knows herself to have fallen under suspicion. But if she feels secure … we might catch her in the very act…”

The two men were silent.

“Death might have been achieved already if Tom Seagrave's court-martial had not been suspended,” I persisted. “Thus far, Louisa's scheme marched to plan. She was listening for the gun that should mark her husband's execution when I found her in Lombard Street on Thursday.”

“We may blame Eustace Chessyre and his uneasy conscience for spoiling such morbid hopes,” said my brother.

“Perhaps we may congratulate ourselves, for having thrown Etienne LaForge into the fray, and complicating matters irremediably,” I added. “We must certainly accept the burden of his poisoning.”

“But how? Louisa Seagrave has never been to Wool House — and on Thursday, when LaForge fell ill, we know her to have been at home!”

“Remember that LaForge was present in Lombard Street on Thursday, in company with ourselves. We were served dry sherry and iced cakes, much against our will. Is it at all possible that Monsieur LaForge was poisoned then, Mr. Hill, and not several hours later?”

“It is possible,” the surgeon said slowly, “for you will recall that LaForge was ill en route up the Solent. Something might have been introduced, I suppose, to his victuals in Lombard Street. We ascribed his sickness to the effects of fever and the sea, but with the benefit of hindsight—”

“The lady would have to be remarkably cool!” Frank protested. “She had only just learned of Seagrave's survival — of LaForge's existence — and you would have the poison so conveniently to hand?”

“She had learned of LaForge's existence a full two days before his appearance in her drawing-room,” I countered. “You told her yourself, Frank — in your express to Seagrave of Tuesday; and we learned from the Captain only this morning that Louisa had plundered his desk.”

That fact must cause my brother to fall silent an instant “But consider, Jane,” he attempted at last, “that we believe Eustace Chessyre to have been murdered by his conspirator. Nothing you may say shall convince me that Louisa Seagrave wields a garrote. It is one thing to plot disgrace, and another entirely to strangle a man!”

“True.” I halted before the hearth and stared into the flames. “But where did Louisa go, when she fled Portsmouth on Wednesday night in her aunt's carriage — a carriage that bore the arms of a baronet? To meet with Chessyre, who she feared repented of his betrayal?”

“If Louisa Seagrave was the veiled woman in the carriage, and not Phoebe Carruthers, then Chessyre was a fool to get in,” said Frank bluntly.

“He may not have feared the hands of a woman. Particularly one who appeared so sickly.”

Mr. Hill nodded once, as though in agreement; but my brother could not be easy.

“Why despatch Chessyre, if his death should suspend the very trial and conviction she desired?”

“Because you outlined the Lieutenant's plot in your express of Tuesday. Louisa is unsteady in her mind, as we have all observed; she may have read that letter, feared Chessyre's exposure of herself and her object — and made her plans accordingly.”

Frank revolved the idea in his mind. It is something to learn that one's meddling for good might have achieved the deaths of two men.

“But why, Jane?” he demanded suddenly. “Do you believe Louisa to crave rank and fortune so very much? She scorned them fifteen years ago.”

“Fifteen years is a period,” I mused. “Louisa has become a bitter woman in the interval, and not a little deranged by opium. And she has much to resent, Frank — the rumours of Seagrave's infidelity, the threat she perceives to her sons' safety. She felt the decline in her social fortunes acutely, I assure you. All these must have led her to Dr. Wharton's Comfort in the end.”

Mr. Hill cleared his throat. “I should say rather that the steady usage of Dr. Wharton's Comfort may have deluded the lady, over time, into believing her husband the very ogre whose face she saw in her nightmares. To kill such a beast — we might take it as Mrs. Seagrave's hidden desire to free herself from opium-eating.”

“You are kinder by half than I should be,” muttered my brother.

There was a knock at the parlour door, and the maidservant's visage once more appeared around the frame. “Begging your pardon, but the lady upstairs is awake, and asking for Miss Austen.”

I glanced at the gentlemen with resolution. “What shall I say to her?”

“For now,” cautioned Mr. Hill, “it is vital to offer comfort.”

Frank held his finger to his lips. “Remember that you know nothing for certain, Jane. Do not betray your worst fears. Remember that we have told her LaForge is dead. She may exult in the idea that her secret is safe. If Louisa intends to have her fortune, she must despatch Seagrave tonight.”

“Then we must watch her every movement,” I cried.

SHE HAD ARISEN BY THE TIME I ENTERED, AND WAS staring at her countenance in the looking glass.

“I was quite beautiful once. You would not think so, Miss Austen, to look at me now — but that summer I made Thomas's acquaintance in Brighton, I was the flower of the regiment,”

“The passage of time may affect many changes, in appearance and sentiment; we are none of us immune.”

“I cannot remember the name of the regiment in Brighton that year,” she murmured, “but it scarcely matters. I tired of scarlet uniforms, and turned instead to blue. Thomas thought me quite the most extraordinary creature he had ever seen.”

“And you?” I asked her quiedy. “What did you think of him?”

Her fingers, which had been fluttering over the wisps of her dull, black hair, stilled an instant; her eyes met mine in the glass. “I thought John Donne had come again to walk the earth. 'When thou and I first one another saw: / All other things, to their destruction draw.'”

“ 'Only our love hath no decay; / This, no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,' “ I quoted. “The perfect union of two hearts, two souls, for all eternity. It is a fearful burden to answer, Mrs. Seagrave. A greater man than your husband should have bowed beneath it; for time, as we know, will exact its cost. Death only may preserve such love.”

She shuddered as if with cold, and reached for her bottle of laudanum.

“Mr. Hill is of the opinion that Dr. Wharton's Comfort works viciously upon the system,” I told her gently. “Do you not wish to rid yourself of its effects?”

“At the suggestion of a naval hack?” she enquired with a laugh. “When I choose to consult a doctor regarding my health, Miss Austen, he shall be a reputable London physician — not the sort of man who administers to gaol-fever. I wonder you allow Mr. Hill's acquaintance; he is hardly prepossessing.”

“Take care, Mrs. Seagrave,” I replied evenly. “You would not wish me to prefer one friend to another.”

Her expression hardened instantly. “I am glad you are come today, Miss Austen. I should have regretted quitting Southampton without a word of farewell. I go into Kent tomorrow with my children, for the funeral of my father — Viscount Luxford — and I cannot say when it shall be in my power to meet with you again.”

Had she summoned me upstairs merely to issue this dismissal?

“It is a considerable distance. Do you travel around the coast by boat — or intend to journey overland, by post?”

“My aunt is to send her carriage for me. It would not do, she insists, for the daughter of a viscount to appear at Luxford in one of the Dolphin's equipages.” She turned her face before the glass once more, in contemplation of her complexion. “I shall achieve my ancestral home in good time for the funeral rites. How surprised they shall be to see me at Luxford!”

“Then you shall be in need of your rest, Mrs. Seagrave,” I said curtly, and bade her adieu.