"Jane and the Genius of the Place" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barron Stephanie)Chapter 4 A Passage with the BereavedIN NEARLY THIRTY YEARS OF LIVING I HAVE OFTEN HAD occasion to observe, that one sensational event may only be supplanted by another of equal or greater import. And so it has been with all of us at Godmersham this morning: Mrs. Grey's brutal murder is quite forgot, and the agent of her eclipse is none other than Captain Woodford. He appeared in the approach to our gates at noon, arrayed in his full dress uniform and mounted on a dappled grey. I was privileged in having the first sight of him — for I had profited from the interlude after breakfast, when the little ones were taking turns with patient Patch, the old pony, to escape to my Doric temple and my solitude. There in columned shadow I was established with paper and pen, secure in such privacy as I may rarely command. There I might gaze out over the chuckling Stour, and watch the growing heat of morning raise a fine mist above the meadows; feel birdsong throbbing in my veins, and attempt to wrestle Lady Susan to her Fate.[15] The nature of that Fate is much in question at present, for Lady Susan is not a woman to suffer the vagaries of fortune as willingly as her creator might intend. She is a vengeful and calculating Virago, in fact, and I am entirely delighted with her. Cassandra believes there is something shocking in a woman so very bad; she would have Lady Susan repentant and reformed at the tale's end. But in this we may read the force of sentiment— and the failure of Art to mirror Truth. For I have known a thousand Lady Susans; have seen them sail unremarked through the Fashionable World, their consequence increasing with every fresh outrage. Unnatural mother, adulterous schemer, and treacherous friend — what can such a woman ever know of virtue? I love her too well, in short, to have her broken for a moral. My thoughts in this vein had only just borne fruit, in the composition of the novel's final pages, when the sound of hoofbeats on the dusty lane below my hilltop perch alerted all my senses. I half-rose, and peered round a column; observed an officer mounting the stone bridge over the Stour; and set aside my paper and pen. A moment's further study revealed the upright figure to possess an eye patch — and there could not be If I entertained the notion of a soul burdened with guilt, and advancing upon my brother for the full confession of its sins, I may perhaps be forgiven. I watched with narrowed eyes as the Captain achieved the gates and made his measured progress up the sweep.[16] He did not look a man overwhelmed by grief; yet neither was he galloping as befit an officer charged with the most urgent intelligence. The French were not upon our very doorstep, at least. I gathered up my little sheaf of paper, secured Lady Susan and my pen in the pocket of my apron, and set off down the slope towards the house. “CAPTAIN WOODFORD,” LIZZY SAID, WITH HER MOST charming smile — the one that is barely a smile at all. “I fear you find us quite abandoned by the gentlemen.” Neddie had left early on horseback intent upon Valentine Grey, while Henry had been charged with learning what he could of Denys Collingforth's affairs. He intended, I believed, to spend the better part of the day drinking ale in the Hound and Tooth, the center of all gossip in Canterbury. The Captain bowed low over my sister's hand, then inclined his head towards myself. “Mr. Austen is from home? should have suspected as much. The tragic business at the race-meeting—” “Indeed,” Lizzy returned smoothly. “My husband left the house at eight o'clock, intent upon The Larches. Mr. Grey, it seems, arrived home just after dawn, and Mr. Austen wished to speak with him as soon as might be.” “Of course. I had not known Grey was returned.” If the Captain felt a moment's uneasiness at the mention of The Larches, he betrayed nothing in his countenance. His entire aspect, in fact, was official and grave, as tho' he moved in a role not entirely his own. He handed Lizzy a furled despatch, tied round with a scarlet cord. “I had hoped to speak with Mr. Austen himself, but given the pressing nature of the business at hand, can delay no longer. You will comprehend the urgency of this document's contents, I am sure, Mrs. Austen, and see that its instructions are fulfilled to the letter.” But Lizzy was already perusing the despatch, a fine line growing deeper between her brows. “Evacuation orders?” she said faintly. “But is it certain?” “Nothing can be certain, ma'am, when the enemy is so inscrutable as Buonaparte,” the Captain replied. “We merely thought it wisest to discharge these orders among the local gentry, in the event of an invasion's taking place. You apprehend that it would not do, ma'am, to have the populace choking the major routes of any army retreat towards London.” “Retreat,” Lizzy repeated. “You have capitulated already, I see.” Captain Woodford gave a short bark of laughter, and glanced at me uneasily. “There is no cause for alarm, Mrs. Austen, I assure you. It is merely wisest to be prepared.” “What has occasioned the present release of these orders?” I enquired. “Have the French been sighted in the Channel?” “I regret that I am not at liberty to disclose the intelligence,” the Captain told me with another bow, “since I am hardly in command of it myself. I may only say that Major-General Lord Forbes was called out in the middle of the night, and told of something that so excited his anxiety, he deemed it best to alert the surrounding countryside. It is everywhere rumoured that the fleet has escaped from Brest and Boulogne — that the Emperor has embarked — and that even now some thousand French ships with cavalry and cannon in their holds are bound for the shores of Kent.” “The fleet escaped? While Admiral Nelson and the intrepid Fly Austen patrol the Channel? Unthinkable!” I scoffed.[17] “Would that the General might share your fond hope,” said Woodford with a smile, “but caution must argue a more present surety. We would wish you to have the chief of your household goods packed and in readiness, in the event you must quit the country on little notice.” “Packing is merely the tenth part of it,” Lizzy said abruptly. She crumpled the despatch into a tight little wad. “We are to fire the sainfoin harvest from June, and cull the herds as well? — It shall be a bitter winter in Kent, if every household does the same! And what if we refuse, Captain Woodford?” “I should not like to have to enforce the orders against your will, madam,” he rejoined, “but if my general commands it, I will do so. We cannot have such a rich provision fall into the hands of the French.”[18] Lizzy thrust the despatch into my hands, and turned away. “Forgive me, Captain — but I must see that the packing is commenced at once. A household of nine children, a variety of adults, and fourteen in service, may never move but at a ponderous pace. Pray overlook my ill-breeding, and accept a glass of lemonade. Mrs. Salkeld! Mrs. And so she swept out of the drawing-room, her carriage magnificent, the very picture of an outraged chatelaine. Captain Woodford gazed after her with an air of trouble on his brow, and then smiled ruefully at me. “At least she did not dissolve in tears. For that I am thankful. It is a difficult business, informing the populace of so unexpected a removal. I have witnessed all manner of behaviour in the past several hours — fainting fits, the tearing of hair, and even the threat of violence. One lady I shall forbear to name advanced upon me with a pair of sewing shears!” I could not suppress a smile. “Poor Captain Wood-ford! Duty is a difficult master, in the best of times. We must all suffer from its effects. My unfortunate brother feels his burden as cruelly as yourself, I assure you.” At that moment, Russell the manservant appeared in the doorway bearing a tray. Woodford's countenance lightened with an expression of relief. The conveyance of the King's orders must be a parching business. “Pray sit down, Captain,” I said. He removed his hat, and took a chair, and accepted a glass of lemon-water from Russell. “Little as I enjoy my present orders, I do not envy Mr. Austen his duty. It is one thing to kill another man in battle — that is merely a trick of Fate, the necessity of war. But to murder a woman, in cold blood — and a woman, too, in the full flush of youth! I shall never forget the sight of her dead face as long as I live, Miss Austen.” “I understand you were intimate with the family,” I offered gently. “You have my deepest sympathy.” The Captain coloured, and dropped his gaze. “It is true that I have known Grey from our earliest years. We were practically raised in each other's London households and schooled together at Harrow. But as for Francoise — the late Mrs. Grey — my acquaintance was very brief. She had been a bride but seven months.” “So little.” “You know, of course, that she was connected to an influential banking family in France.” “I heard something of it,” I admitted, “but am ignorant of the particulars.” “Mrs. Grey was the ward of the Penfleurs. They are a powerful and prodigious clan, with branches in every kingdom, and a wealth that approaches fable. There are Penfleurs who are princes in France, and Penfleurs who are counts in Naples; Penfleurs who advise the rulers of German states, and not a few who are essential to the Netherlands. Their resources remain entirely in the family, and their credit extends across continents. But remarkably, there were no Penfleurs in England—” “Until Francoise,” I said. “Until Francoise,” he agreed. “I tell you this, Miss Austen, so that you might comprehend the nature of my friend's marriage. It was arranged, I believe, by the elder Penfleur himself, who had the charge of Francoise from infancy; she cannot have been very well acquainted with Mr. Grey, when first she arrived on these shores.” “Did she come to England, then, against her will?” “I doubt that Francoise Lamartine ever did anything against her will,” he replied with a faint smile. But it could not be surprising, I thought, that in the face of such a marriage — exiled by her family and treated coldly by her husband — she had turned to an unknown lover. “How very tragic,” I murmured. “For so young a woman, and a stranger to Kent, to find her death in so brutal a manner … You had no hint of Mrs. Grey possessing any enemies, I suppose?” He eyed me over the rim of his glass, then set it deliberately on the table. “You are not of Kentish society yourself, Miss Austen, any more than I may claim to be. We are both of us merely visitors to this delightful place, and care little how its intimates may treat us. But that was not the case with Francoise. I am sure that your sister and brother have told you a little of her reception.” “But a coldness on the part of a strange society, in itself, should hardly lead to murder,” I persisted. “Surely that is another order of violence altogether, Captain?” “I have been taught to think so.” He rose, and took up his hat. “A sense of what is due to my friend Grey, Miss Austen, must prevent me from speaking plainly. I may only tell you that his wife's enemies were thick upon the ground. You might look no farther than the lady's own household.” I gazed at him narrowly. “I cannot believe you would accuse your oldest friend, Captain Woodford, of doing away with his wife. This cannot be what is “I, accuse Valentine Grey? Impossible!” he cried. “I merely meant to underline, Miss Austen, that Denys Collingforth is hardly the only man in Kent who has reason to think ill of the dead.” “And what Woodford eyed me uneasily. “That is a question best answered by Mr. Collingforth. I am sure your brother, the Justice, has considered of it.” “Mr. Collingforth appears to think ill of any number of people,” I observed, as I conducted the Captain to the door. “Had you not been present to prevent it, he should certainly have served our poor Mr. Bridges with violence! You are owed a debt of gratitude in this house, sir.” “Mr. Bridges is possessed of such happy manners as may ensure his making any number of friends,” Woodford replied, with a bow. “Whether he is equally capable of retaining them, is another matter. Good day, Miss Austen.” IT WAS ABOVE AN HOUR BEFORE THE CLATTER OF Neddie's horse, pulled up hard before the door, was heard on the sweep. He looked overheated and cross, and entered the house with a rapid step and the briefest of salutations. After an interval of respectful quiet, and the consumption of a quantity of ale drawn from the barrel in the cellar, good humour and volubility returned. “I have seen Grey,” the Justice announced, as he took up his customary place before the cold library hearth, “and he has seen me. It remains uncertain which of us was most scarred by the encounter — but I shall leave it to you to decide, Jane, when I tell you that the gentleman chose to offer me his glove!”[19] “Good Lord!” Lizzy ejaculated, and set down the books she had commenced packing. “I cannot think when you have been served such a turn before, Neddie!” “It is unique in my experience,” he admitted, “tho' I am almost ashamed to say as much. Every sprig of fashion is required to have a history of such meetings. It is a poor show I've given you, Lizzy!” “Pray do not trouble to kill yourself on my account, sir,” she replied serenely, and retrieved the books. “Do you require breakfast and the witnessing of a will at dawn?”' “Nothing so romantic.” Neddie peered at the spines of the volumes she had selected, and pulled several from the box. “Pray leave these, my dear — they had far better be burned with the sainfoin, I am sure.” “Beast.” “What occasioned Mr. Grey's challenge?” I enquired at last, being provoked beyond endurance. My brother threw himself into a chair and gazed at me idly. “My unwillingness to clap Denys Collingforth in chains, I suspect. But let me relate the whole, I beg, in an orderly fashion. The exercise might do much for the composure of my mind.” And so the Justice undertook to convey the essence of his morning's work: how he had achieved The Larches just after nine o'clock, and found the master of the house breakfasting serenely in his parlour; how Valentine Grey, a compact, powerful man with weary features and the acutest gaze, had appeared in excellent health, despite his broken night. He had enjoined the Justice to take coffee with him in the saloon, and tho' his spirits appeared a little disordered, they were in general composed. A man who looked less the part of a mourning husband could hardly be conceived, Neddie assured us; and from that moment forward, he assumed there had been little of love in the Greys' union. In the saloon, all was ease and congeniality at first. Grey placidly expressed himself shocked — quite beyond comprehending the event — and wild to see justice done. Neddie said all that was correct and feeling in a man condoling with the bereaved. It was after the coffee, however, when Grey had at last enquired as to the conduct of his wife's case, that the outburst of temper had broken like a thunderclap over my brother's head. “Do I understand, sir, that you have done nothing to apprehend the scoundrel responsible for her murder? This is not to be borne!” The widower rose and stood menacingly over my brother, who could not conceal his surprise. “I am afraid, Mr. Grey, that I am less hasty than yourself. I cannot apprehend a man before I know his name.” “But it is obvious! Collingforth is the man. My poor wife's corpse was discovered in his chaise!” “In such matters, the obvious may prove a doubtful guide,” Neddie returned steadily. “Mr. Collingforth's movements are vouched for by his acquaintance. It seems almost impossible that he should have murdered your wife on the Wingham road, and returned her body to his own chaise. I fear we must look farther afield for the responsible party.” Valentine Grey commenced to pace the length of the saloon in agitation, then halted before French windows giving out onto the gardens, one hand pressed to his brow. “Can you offer any reason, sir, for your wife's brutal end?” Neddie enquired. “How can any man be expected to explain such a horror! She must have fallen into the clutches of a fiend!” Grey wheeled to face him, an expression of agony on his countenance so at variance with his earlier behaviour, that Neddie must confess himself amazed. “Can you bear to contemplate it, man? A lady alone — unprotected— quite disregarded by those in whom she placed her trust—” “Her trust?” Grey's next words had all the viciousness of a challenge. “Do not deny, man, that she was hated by the entire neighbourhood! Those who should have embraced and protected her as one of their own, rejected her from the first. Do not think I was ignorant of the coldness in which she lived. I saw all, I knew all — and it tore at my heart!” “Your wife, Mr. Grey, was not entirely one of Kent's own,” Neddie countered. “She was a Frenchwoman. In such times as these, her end must be suggestive.” “An act of war, you would say?” Grey laughed harshly. “Impossible. Francoise did nothing to excite a peculiar hatred.” “And yet she is dead,” Neddie observed bluntly. “Is it so unlikely that she should be killed by a fool? A simple-minded fellow who resented her triumph at the races, as he resented French victory on the battlefield? Such an one may have thought to strike at the Monster by murdering your wife.” Grey merely snorted. “You have failed to propose an alternative, Mr. Grey,” my brother burst out in exasperation. “Because there is none that I may offer.” “You can think of no one who might bear your wife ill-will?” “That is for yourself to determine, Mr. Austen, as the embodiment of the Law. I am told you are the Justice in these parts. Why, then, do I find you at such a loss? Is it perhaps because my wife was merely a Neddie admitted that he began to grow angry. I am sure that he flushed, and controlled himself only with difficulty. But when at last he spoke, it was with admirable coolness. 'You have every reason to vent your anger at me, my dear sir. I should far rather you expressed yourself thus in the privacy of this room, than in the public venue of your unfortunate wife's inquest. It was exacdy my hope that we might speak in private before that distressing event, which is to occur on the morrow, as there is a matter of some delicacy I had hoped you might resolve.” Mr. Grey went pale. “What the Devil do you mean?” “I refer to the letter discovered among your wife's effects after her death.” “Letter? What letter?” Neddie presented the indelicate note from the unknown seducer. Grey read it through with commendable swiftness — he was clearly an adept at the French language — and then crumpled it in his fist. “I could offer you an hundred such, Austen. There is nothing so very unusual in this” “Indeed?” Neddie rejoined, somewhat surprised. “Mrs. Grey was often in the habit of eloping with gentlemen not her husband?” Had Valentine Grey thrown down his glove at that moment, he might perhaps have been forgiven. Instead, he merely looked all his outrage, and endeavoured to explain. “That note is nothing more nor less than a message from one of her French couriers, man. He was undoubtedly sent from her family in Paris, and expected to arrive by packet at the dead of night. It is the custom for couriers to travel in this way, for fear of a cruising Navy ship with little regard for matters of safe passage. But in the event, he was before his time, and met with my wife in this very room, the morning of the race-meeting.” “A courier?” Neddie repeated. “What sort of courier, if I may presume to enquire?” Grey's impatience was evident in his countenance. “It is a common practise, I assure you, in banking circles— particularly those with branches throughout Europe. Timely intelligence of world events, as you will understand, is vital in matters of finance. My wife was the ward of a powerful French family, the Penfleurs, who in company with other banking houses, such as the Hopes and the Rothschilds, command a service of couriers they may despatch at a moment's notice. Such men carry letters of safe passage across warring borders, and may venture where another might fear to tread.” “A man with intelligence direct from France?” Neddie cried.“ — And this man met with your wife on the very day of her death?” “Indeed. The housekeeper informed me of the fellow's appearance upon my arrival this morning. But he had long since returned whence he came.” “You have no notion of his news?” “None whatsoever.” Grey affected unconcern. “But is not such a coincidence extraordinary?” Neddie persisted. “It was the custom for Francoise's family to correspond in this expensive fashion. A private courier is more certain than the mails across the Channel, at such a time.” “I see.” Neddie studied the banker's face acutely. “And you did not encounter him along the road?” “I?” Grey was taken aback. “What should I be doing on the coast road yesterday morning? I was quite fixed in Town, and had been for some weeks. It was your express, which found me at my club late last night, that drew me from Pall Mall as fast as wheels and horseflesh could carry me. I stopped at my lodgings only to collect my man and a change of clothes.” And Grey's man, if he was still to be found, would certainly swear as much, Neddie thought. There was the express rider, too, who could speak to Grey's presence at his club — and any number of honourable clubmen who would have witnessed his play at hazard or loo. But whether Mr. Grey's movements for “I wonder if the courier might be located,” my brother had mused aloud. “Neither the courier,” Mr. Grey burst out, “nor this note establishing a meeting-place, can have the slightest bearing on my wife's death, Mr. Austen! She was hardly murdered on the shores of Pegwell Bay, but in the middle of a crowded race grounds, where someone must have seen something to the purpose! Did you make enquiries among the spectators? Or despatch a constable to all the major coaching inns, where a miscreant might have taken shelter?” “One such is even now beating the underbrush about the Wingham road, in search of your wife's riding habit,” Neddie replied. “I have offered a gold sovereign to the first man who discovers the gown.” Grey snapped his fingers in irritation. “I give you “Then I take it you no longer believe Mr. Collingforth responsible, but some other,” my brother observed. “Collingforth? Who can say? But I will insist, Mr. Austen, that you have been sadly remiss in your duties!” “Why should Collingforth throttle your wife?” “You would do well to enquire of him” “Did he bear her any malice?” “Malice!” A contemptuous snort. “He had eyes for no one but Francoise. The man is a lecher, a blackguard, and a scoundrel — as everyone in Kent, including his wife, must be aware!” “And so he killed Mrs. Grey because he was in love with her?” “I should never deign to call it love.” “Did she return his … interest?” “Damn your eyes!” The banker hurled a crystal brandy glass against the stones of his hearth. “The lady lies foully murdered, and you would trample her reputation in the dirt?”' Neddie was silent an instant. Then he said, “Come, come, Mr. Grey. If all of Kent knows CoUingforth for a scoundrel and a blackguard, they must equally have seen that your wife was what the A choked snarl of fury from Mr. Grey was the only reply. And at that moment, he threw down his glove. My brother told us that he regarded it steadily. “If I am truly the first to broach such a delicate matter in your hearing, I am sorry for it,” he said, “but depend upon it, I shall not be the last.” Then he retrieved the glove and secured it in his waistcoat pocket. “Let us put off the matter of satisfaction, sir, until your wife's murderer is brought to heel. There is enough of blood in Canterbury at present, without spilling our own into the bargain. Good day to you!” |
|
|