Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“The Captain, too, knew nothing of any note in Fiske’s pocket,” Edward said. “When I raised the tamarind seed, he recollected his wife’s receipt of the curious silk purse—but said it played no part in his errand during the wee hours. I was forced to the odious task of requiring each gentleman to provide me a sample of his penmanship—and would swear that neither resembles the fist on the scrap of paper we found.”

“Then how did the Captain and Thane know where to find Curzon Fiske?”

“MacCallister’s batman was the agent of their early morning gallop across the Downs.” Edward turned from the fender and stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, staring at the pattern in the Turkey carpet. “He is a good enough fellow by the name of Bootle, frank and loyal to a fault. He serves the Captain as a sort of valet, or general factotum—and I gather has been with him some years. At any rate, when Bootle brought up a can of hot water at half-past midnight, when MacCallister was preparing to retire, the Captain noticed that his man’s eye had been blackened in a fight. When he questioned Bootle why he had engaged in fisticuffs on the night of his master’s wedding, the batman informed the Captain that he had been compelled to defend the Missus’s virtue.”

I raised my brows at this.

“A stranger had been loitering in the Castle’s stableyard earlier in the day, asking for MacCallister’s groom, and as Bootle also fulfills that function for the Captain, the summons eventually found its way to his ears. Bootle met the fellow, was charged with a missive for the Captain which he promptly forgot to deliver in all the bustle of the wedding—and resumed his usual duties. It was only when he returned to the stables that evening to see to the Captain’s horses that he recalled the incident, and the note he still bore in his pocket. He offered a chance remark to one of the grooms—that the stranger puzzled him exceedingly, as having been dressed like a labourer, but possessed of the Quality’s accent; and the groom said confidently that the stranger was none other than the Missus’s real husband—that Mr. Curzon, what married her first .”

“And so the batman knocked the groom down?”

“He did. Or as Bootle should put it, he offered him a bit of the home-brewed. It is a pity we did not carry Gabriel in our train today, Jane—he might have profited from an interval in the stables, in hearing the entire story recounted in lurid detail. I doubt not it grows hourly in the retelling.”

Gabriel was Edward’s chief groom, and often rode up behind Fanny when she tooled the ribbons of her tilbury; but not, however, when Edward himself rode escort.

“Strange, that a Castle groom should have recognised Fiske when James Wildman did not.”

“James saw only a corpse yesterday morning—and probably averted his eyes as swiftly as possible. The groom, remember, heard Fiske speak—and a voice may do much to recall a face to memory, which a beard might obscure.”

I moved to the decanters myself, and poured out a glass of sherry. “What did MacCallister do then?”

“He demanded the note from Bootle, of course!”

“—Which established the meeting place on the Pilgrim’s Way?”

“Exactly.” Edward smiled. “MacCallister burnt the note, I am afraid—which is unfortunate. It might have proved useful at the inquest. But he did not wish it to fall into his wife’s hands. He suspected she should recognise the fist, and suffer anxiety. His whole object appears to have been to sustain her illusion that Fiske was long since dead in Ceylon—it appears never to have been his object to disclose the truth. You may imagine the agitation with which he met Adelaide, in his marriage bed.”

“—And left her, an hour or so later. Poor man! It seems a cruel way to be served on his wedding night. I imagine Fiske derived no little pleasure from thoroughly cutting up his rival’s peace.” I raised my eyes to my brother’s. “Does MacCallister say that Fiske demanded payment in his missive?”

“No. Money appears to have been the Captain’s own idea, one Thane seconded. From a better knowledge of Fiske, it was Thane’s conviction that he would invariably stand in need of funds, and should be likely to agree to anything in return for them.”

I set down my sherry glass, and met my brother’s gaze squarely. “But what if Thane and MacCallister are lying, Edward? The possibility must be faced. Men who promise to vanish on the strength of five hundred pounds, are rather more likely than not to reappear once the blunt is spent—and demand a thousand pounds the next time! We are talking of blackmail, after all, for the preservation of a lady’s reputation. What if our soldier and his second determined that an easier method of payment should be made? As a military man, the Captain is accustomed to cunning adversaries; he was canny enough not to take the meeting in solitude. And so brought his second—a man who knew the ground, and has a reputation for being an excellent shot.”

“I must consider the whole story from that aspect, of course,” Edward admitted. “I must regard it as possible truth—or a passel of lies.”

We contemplated the hearth together, our thoughts roving across uncertain ground. The flames were settling after a merry burn; and in their depths I conjured a little of the possible scene: Two young men, burdened with their hideous knowledge and the desire to protect Adelaide, riding some two miles along the Pilgrim’s Way in the dead of night in expectation of a dangerous man. They should have been fools to set out unarmed. And the thought occurred: Perhaps it was an actual Meeting, as a gentleman would understand it—a duel of honour at twenty paces, measured off by moonlight. But then I shook my head. There were the scorch marks on Fiske’s coat to consider. They had not been made at twenty paces.

“Our conjectures do not hold together. Consider, Edward: MacCallister is attached to Wellington’s staff; he has survived the Peninsular campaigns, where so many came to grief; surely the man owns a pistol of his own?”

Edward glanced at me. “Indeed he must. He should have no need of James Wildman’s.”

“Nor of placing Wildman’s pistol for any to find, in the middle of St. Lawrence churchyard; that is a wanton act of effrontery I cannot believe MacCallister or Thane capable of. No—I am inclined to believe that it was money indeed, not lead balls, that MacCallister and Thane delivered that night. But if so—who sent Curzon Fiske the note wrapped around a tamarind seed?”

“Whoever killed him, I imagine.” Edward reached for the brandy decanter. “A killer who hates young James Wildman enough to see him hanged.”

Saturday, 23 October 1813

I prevailed upon my brother to allow me to attend the inquest, tho’ he assured me there must be no occasion for me to give evidence. Others—my nephews among them—had first discovered the dead man, and borne him into the house; Mr. George Moore had identified the corpse as Curzon Fiske. The coroner himself had examined the body before empanelling his jury. In sum, the evidence must have been a tidy parcel, neatly disposed of—but for the testimony that should inevitably be sworn, concerning Captain MacCallister’s nocturnal ride.