Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“And how did he receive the intelligence?” Edward asked.

“With sorrow and chagrin. His exact words, I believe, were: Hoisted by my own petard, Burbage . He was fully alive to the irony that events which had once urged his apparent decease, had now told against him—in allowing his wife to proceed, in all innocence, with the next chapter of her life.”

“But he did write to her,” I persisted. It seemed so material a point, I required to be convinced.

“So I believe. It was in that letter he advised Mrs. Fiske that he could not walk abroad under his true name without fear of prosecution for debt—and that she should look for the delivery of a peculiar token, as notice of his coming.”

“The tamarind seeds,” I said.

“Precisely,” the solicitor replied.

Oddly, it was the face of Julian Thane that rose most forcibly in my mind at that moment—the dark, elegant countenance animated with sudden violence, as he wheeled upon his sister in the drawing-room at Chilham Castle, the day after the discovery of the corpse. Fiske sends you his calling card , he had said, in outrage that she had not told him of the silken pouch’s delivery; and I guessed, sharply, that he, too, had known of Fiske’s survival; that Thane as well as his sister had read that ominous letter, and awaited the return of one thought to be dead. Had all the Thanes propelled Andrew MacCallister down the aisle of St. Mary’s in reckless disregard for the proprieties? And what had they hoped to gain, from such stubborn indifference to the truth?

The truth need never have been known , a voice whispered within, if they had managed to kill Fiske sooner .

I sank back against my hard wooden chair, a sensation of dread curling in my stomach. Despite every mark against them, I had learnt to like the Thanes too much.

“Sir Davie,” my brother said in a weary voice—having revolved, no doubt, every dark thought that had spun in my own mind—“pray tell me, at last, how you came to be at Chilham Wednesday night?”

“Nothing simpler,” the old seaman replied. “Burbage learnt of the wedding, and where and when it was to be. Fiske saw that his wife meant to brave it out—she never so much as acknowledged his letter, nor attempted to meet with him, tho’ he sent her his direction in London. He determined to give her a shock, therefore, on her wedding night. But he preferred not to test the memories of all those at Chilham, by descending in the flesh upon the wedding-party. He still owed too much to his creditors in England to be entirely comfortable with full exposure. And there was some other matter—an old scandal he refused to disclose—an affair of honour that prevented him from entering Kent with precisely that measure of easiness he should have desired. And so he went as a common labourer, and I as the seaman I have always been, and we agreed that I should deliver the tamarind seeds, being unknown to the lady. I was to wait for Mrs. Fiske’s reply; Fiske had enclosed a small slip of paper in the pouch, informing her she was to seek me in the back garden, on the lower terrace, once all the household was abed.”

“I did not glimpse that paper,” I said regretfully. “When the pouch was opened, I saw only a spill of seeds.”

“And if she had not appeared?” Edward demanded.

Sir Davie shrugged. “Fiske should probably have given it up as a bad business—and commenced to blackmail the lady. She had certainly left herself open to such an action, however deplorable; and Fiske regarded her in no very amiable light. The desire to punish her for indifference was hard upon him. Yes, I believe I may say that Mrs. Fiske—Mrs. MacCallister , if you will—should not have enjoyed a moment’s peace from that night forward. Poor mite.”

“And she met you in the back garden?” Edward’s tone was very hard; I guessed that considerable emotion roiled in his breast. Pity for Adelaide—or disgust for Fiske—I could not say.

“She sent her maid. The unfortunate child was frightened out of her wits at the commission, and the sight of me did nothing to support her courage. She thrust at me a knot of paper, and ran as fast as her legs might carry her back to the safety of the Wildman keep.” The baronet smiled reminiscently, displaying very bad teeth indeed.

“And what did you then?”

Sir Davie’s gaze lifted to my brother’s. “I walked directly into the village of Chilham, where Fiske awaited me at the publick house; gave him the missive from his lady-love, and put myself to sleep on a straw pallet in the stables. One of the stable boys will no doubt remember me, for I disturbed him upon my entrance.”

“Which was at what hour?”

“Perhaps midnight. I cannot precisely say. The wedding revels were still in full force at the Castle when I left.”

And so Adelaide had communicated with Sir Davie well before the interview between Captain MacCallister and his batman, and the subsequent departure of the two men with their roll of banknotes intended to buy Fiske’s silence. It was a wonder all three did not collide upon the path over the Downs in the dead of night, coming or going.

“And when you awoke?” Edward prompted Sir Davie.

“I proceeded to walk towards Canterbury, by easy stages, and was so fortunate as to be taken up by a grocer’s dray a few miles out of Chilham. Fiske and I had agreed to meet at the Little Inn, when once his business should be concluded—but he never came there. Only his corpse appeared, on the Friday, with the coroner behind it.”

“So it did,” my brother said. He paused a moment, his eyes bent on the stone floor of the cell, his expression abstracted. “You have been exceedingly helpful, Sir Davie. I am in your debt.”

“In that case, Your Honour,” Mr. Burbage said, “might my client be set at liberty?”

Edward hesitated, and glanced at me. “I should like him to sign the statement you have recorded, and agree to give evidence, once Mrs. MacCallister is brought up before the Assizes.”

“When are the Quarter Sessions to be held?” Sir Davie demanded, as tho’ much put out. “I am bound on an expedition to the Galápagos in January!”

“I believe we shall not require too much of your time,” Edward assured him. “If you will be so good as to leave your direction with Mr. Burbage, so that we might inform you of the occasion—”

And so the baronet was released, to the evident displeasure of the warden Mr. Stoke; and the baronet at least seemed to find the occasion a source of joy. For my brother and me, however, the outcome of our interview in Canterbury gaol was hardly happy. I dreaded to consider of the scenes that must be played in coming days.

25 October 1813, Cont.

“Well, Jane,” my brother said as we paused under the arch of Westgate gaol, “what do you make of this tangled web?”

“Little good,” I replied. “Sir Davie’s account must weave a hempen rope for the unfortunate Adelaide. Did she deny it all, when you charged her last evening?”

“She admitted that the hand on the fragment of paper discovered in Fiske’s coat was indeed her own. Still, she declared she never ventured out to meet the fellow that night—despite setting the assignation.”