Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“Quite,” Edward said abruptly. “And when you came up with him, was he already expired? Did he speak?”

“Not a word, sir. I knew as soon as I glimpsed his face that life was extinct.”

My brother was hardly attending to Plumptre, I thought, his gaze being fixed on the corpse and his countenance teeming with speculation. Edward had seen all that I had, and formed what I should guess were similar conclusions; but it would be best to discuss such matters in private.

“Observe the satchel,” I murmured. “How it sits off the path, near the walking stick. As tho’ both were placed , not fallen, there.”

“Have you searched his things?”

“Not yet.”

Edward assisted me to rise, then lifted Plumptre’s coat and tossed it in a careless bundle towards the young man. “Thank’ee. You’ll find, I believe, that it’s not much stained.”

Edward glanced coolly at the reddened ground, nodded once, and strode to the spot where the satchel lay.

The strap that had secured it was torn open and some of the contents had spilled out onto the ground. Edward collected these, examined them briefly, and then slipped them back into the leather sack. “A knife in a sheath,” he said, “a crudely drawn plan of the Pilgrim’s Way from Boughton Lees to Canterbury, showing our side-path to St. Lawrence Church; a flask of Blue Ruin against the rain; a heel of brown bread; and a Bible. Perhaps he was a pilgrim, after all.”

“Is there no name written in the Bible? No family history of births and deaths?” I asked.

Edward shook his head. “And odder still, Jane—there’s not so much as a farthing on the fellow. Unless he wore his purse next to his skin.”

I glanced at the corpse, which still stared Heavenward, oblivious to our deliberations. I did not like the thought of searching for a wallet within his coat; it was stiff with blood. “Perhaps,” I suggested, “being intent upon a holy journey, he came as a mendicant—and relied upon the succour of strangers.”

“You do not believe that,” my brother said quietly, “and neither do I.”

He began to pace delicately along the edge of the path, scanning the ground. “A welter of footprints, worse luck—we cannot know if they were made by this fellow, or our own pack of young sportsmen. But here, Jane—” he crouched abruptly, his gloved finger probing the dead bracken some ten yards from the corpse—“a pair of horses were tethered to this tree. The hoofprints are just visible in the soft ground.”

“A pair ?” I repeated.

Edward glanced up at me, his blue eyes hard and bright. “Perhaps our pilgrim owned a horse, once. Edward!” he called to his son, “take Rob Roy and ride for Dr. Bredloe at Farnham. If he’s not at home, find out where he is. Do not be satisfied until he returns to Godmersham with you.”

“Very good, sir,” my nephew said stoutly, and swung himself into his father’s saddle.

“What am I to do, Father?” George asked breathlessly.

“You—and the rest of these young reprobates—may make yourselves useful, and carry this unfortunate man up to the house. We shall invade Mrs. Driver’s scullery, I think, tho’ she may well give notice on the strength of it.” He wheeled on the beaters, who had been chewing idly on pieces of straw as tho’ we were engaged in nothing more than a delightful picnic excursion. “You there, Monk, collect the bags, and Jack, you take the gentlemen’s guns. On no account should they be cleaned; leave them in the gun room just as they are, until I have had an opportunity to examine them.”

“And the dogs, sir?” Monk objected.

Edward glanced at me. “The dogs will follow Miss Austen, I think. She has a way with them.”

This was an outrageous lie, but I did not regard it. “Dr. Bredloe is also the coroner?” I asked, as I hurried to keep pace with my brother, who was striding ahead of the shooting-party as it struggled to bear its ghastly burden. The leg that had been bent under the corpse in falling, had already stiffened in that position. I was on the point of alerting Edward to this curious fact when he stopped me with a word.

“Bredloe is a man who knows how to keep his mouth shut. I think that is of vital importance, Jane, do not you?”

For a wonder, the pack of spaniels danced at my heels all the way back to the house.

21 October 1813, Cont.

“My dear Miss Austen!” cried Miss Clewes, who was hovering near the stairs with a square of linen clutched in one bony hand as I entered the Great Hall, “I was never more shocked! When our excellent Fanny told me what dreadful events had occurred in the Park, and of the death of that poor innocent at the hands of our gentlemen—a pilgrim, no less, intent upon an errand of expiation for his soul—I declare I suffered palpitations! Poor Lizzy and Marianne administered my vinaigrette, tho’ I am sure they were equally overcome, poor lambs! I should be lying down upon my bed this instant , were it not that my sense of duty required me to remain upright, and offer what assistance a frail woman may, in a household o’erwhelmed by tragedy!”

Miss Clewes is a recent addition to Godmersham, having been engaged by Fanny as governess for her little sisters only a few months ago. In this capacity, Miss Clewes follows a succession of unfortunates, both old and young, who have attempted to earn their bread by imposing order in Edward’s chaotic nursery in the years since Elizabeth’s death. I do not dislike Miss Clewes; indeed, I pity any woman whose circumstances are so sadly left that she must secure a respectable position in a genteel household—for governessing is in general an unhappy lot. I know full well that without the excessive generosity of my brothers, my sister, Cassandra, and I might well have been forced to a similar servitude—existing in that wretched limbo between serving hall and drawing-room, never comfortable in either sphere and despised as imposters by both. Instead, we two have been sustained by the funds contributed yearly by our excellent brothers—and by Chawton Cottage itself, which Edward was so good as to make over to our use. Tho’ we possess no carriage and set up no stable, tho’ we scheme and contrive to dress in a respectable ape of fashion, we four women—for I count my mother and my fellow lodger Mary Lloyd in this—are blessedly fortunate. The luxury of being free from want has allowed me to indulge the frivolity of writing. That I have been able to command a minor independence, from the monies secured by the sale of my novels, is but an added comfort. Miss Clewes was never so lucky.

Some awareness of the similarity, and quelling difference, in our circumstances encouraged me to answer her cheerfully now, when I might have lashed out with impatience. Miss Clewes is too prone to die-away airs for my taste; and tho’ not unintelligent, her volubility cannot serve to recommend her sense. A silly but well-intentioned creature without a particle of harm in her—that is Miss Clewes. Or so I was thinking, until she uttered the fatal sentence that must banish all charity.