Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“Naturally, I went straight to our excellent Mr. Moore, that he might offer a prayer for the repose of the dead,” she assured me, with evident satisfaction. “I thought it an office of the first importance, and was gratified to discover that my failing energies were equal to so much , at least.”

“You had better have sent him on an errand to Canterbury!” I sighed in exasperation. “Mr. Moore is exactly the person I should wish as far from the scullery as possible, at this present. He is sure to read us a sermon on the sad consequences of the encouragement of sport as a pursuit for young gentlemen, with illustrative anecdotes of his own excellent rearing under the late Archbishop. Dear Lord, I must attempt to keep him out of Edward’s way—”

Miss Clewes was immediately wounded. “My dear Miss Austen,” she cried, wringing her handkerchief—“I had no notion you would be displeased by a consideration of Christian charity—and must beg you will forgive my presumption , if such it was—but indeed, Mr. Moore’s views on the rearing of young people are highly worthy. On countless occasions he has condescended to advise me on the curbing of dear Lizzy’s temper, and the encouragement of Marianne in the use of the backboard—”

I did not linger to learn further what Mr. Moore thought necessary to the education of young ladies. Instead, I hastened in the direction of the housekeeper Mrs. Driver’s preserve: the warren of rooms below-stairs that comprehend the kitchens, serving hall, housekeeper’s and butler’s sitting rooms, pantries, stillroom, and scullery.

This last was a clean but chilly room equipped with two deep wash basins, a draining board, and a trestle table of scrubbed pine. The dead pilgrim had been laid carefully on the latter, to the evident disapproval of Mrs. Driver and the scullery maid, a girl of perhaps seventeen, who stared in bewildered horror at this invasion of her realm. A large stack of breakfast dishes had been hurriedly removed to the draining board, and steam still rose from the wash basins; the girl’s raw, red hands twisted nervously in her apron.

“Get along with you,” Mrs. Driver said crossly, “gawping like a heathen at a poor, Christian man wot’s met his Maker—” and she urged the maid out into the passage.

I eased through the doorway, which was almost entirely blocked by the worthy Mr. Moore, who appeared disinclined to breach the scullery itself and perform the duty for which he had been despatched. Perhaps it was the mingled odours of dirty dishes, hot iron tubs, and aging corpse that discouraged him—a faint expression of distaste was writ on his harsh features. Or perhaps he abhorred a crush—the small room was rather crowded with my brother Edward, his son George, Mr. Finch-Hatton, John Plumptre, and James Wildman—who, having laid their burden on the trestle table, appeared uncertain what further was required of them.

“George,” Edward said, “take these fellows upstairs where they may wash, and then recruit the general strength with tankards of ale all around. Mrs. Driver shall see to a nuncheon, presently.”

“That is very good of you, sir,” Wildman said hesitantly, “but I wonder whether we might relieve your mind by taking ourselves off—and returning to Chilham directly.”

Edward’s blue eyes met the younger man’s indifferently. “You may certainly do so—once the coroner has seen this man and heard your recital from your own lips. Until those duties have been discharged, I must beg you to remain under this roof, James.”

Wildman glanced at Finch-Hatton, who shrugged slightly.

“Naturally we shall remain,” John Plumptre said stiffly. “I should not dream of leaving you with such a tangle on your hands, Mr. Knight, having been a party to the cause of it. That should be a shirking of responsibility no gentleman worthy of the name would entertain. We shall be grateful for the nuncheon, but our first object must be to ascertain whether Miss Knight is entirely recovered from her shock of this morning—which, in the event, must have been considerable.”

“Oh, Fanny’s all right,” Finch-Hatton drawled. “I’d go bail she’d stand buff against anything—capital little body, Fanny! But if we must stay here, we might have a neatish game of billiards, by the by. You don’t object to ale in the billiard room, sir, surely?”

“Not unless you’re prone to spill it,” Edward returned brusquely. “Mrs. Driver has enough mess on her hands this morning.”

Finch-Hatton had been lounging in the doorway again—it seemed the only possible attitude that young man could adopt. Now he thrust himself away from it with such an air of insouciance that the dead stranger might have been so much trussed game. What was it about Jupiter that drove all the young ladies of the neighbourhood to tears of ecstasy whenever he came in their way? The blond hair, unruly over the chiseled brow? The full lips, given to the most sardonic of twists? The powerful figure of a sportsman? —Or exactly this attitude of immense boredom towards the world and everyone in it? I suppose it might be considered something , for a young lady to excite so weary a fellow’s notice; but for my part, the conquest seemed not worth the prize.

“George.” Edward nodded peremptorily in the direction of the door, and the gentlemen trouped out of the scullery without another word.

“Young Finch-Hatton is growing positively insolent,” Mr. Moore observed. His nostrils were compressed as tho’ insolence bore as strong an odour as the stables. “I wonder his papa does not check him. But, then, as I suppose it is possible he will be called an earl one day—perhaps the cultivation of arrogance is permissible.”

“An earl?” I repeated. Fanny had said nothing of this; Mr. Finch-Hatton’s prospects had thus far entailed nothing more than the inheritance of Eastwell Park, a rather ugly modern house some seven miles distant.

Mr. Moore shrugged. “It is unlikely, of course—but Finch-Hatton stands to inherit the title if the present Earl of Winchilsea fails to produce an heir. His cousin’s estate is so entailed [2] Mr. Moore proves prescient here. George Finch-Hatton (1791–1858), the Jupiter of this account, did indeed succeed his cousin as 10th Earl of Winchilsea in 1826. He has gone down in history for having fought a duel with the Duke of Wellington, who was then Prime Minister, over Catholic Emancipation in 1829. Jupiter opposed it. — Editor’s note . . You may imagine how this increases his appeal among the damsels of the neighbourhood. My excellent wife has condescended to remark upon it.”

“Enough of Jupiter,” Edward said. “You have heard something of our sad mishap, I collect?”

“And of its cause,” Mr. Moore replied heavily. “On how many occasions have I observed the total want of care and reverence so essential to the employment of firearms, among the youth of our acquaintance! I suppose we must give thanks that it was not one of our own young gentlemen who suffered the fatal tragedy; but that any should be compelled to offer up his life, in the cause of another man’s mere sport— ”

There it was, the inevitable stricture—but Edward cut off his old friend with one raised hand. “This fellow did not die of a fowling piece,” he said quietly. “Step closer, and observe the wound.”

As I expected, Edward had seen all that I had seen: the stiffness of the limbs, unnatural in one only lately killed; the way the blood had seeped entirely into the ground in the hours before the body was discovered by Bessy the spaniel, so that Mr. Plumptre’s coat was not even stained when we knelt upon it; the deathly cold of the unfortunate man’s skin; the coagulation of fluids around the wound; and the wound itself—which was formed of a single, neat hole in the left breast, undoubtedly through the heart.