Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“There are even the marks of powder on the man’s coat,” I observed distantly, “as tho’ his assailant stood quite near him when the pistol was fired. A sort of Judas kiss, in fact.”

“Pistol?” Mr. Moore glanced at me in consternation; I must presume that ladies were not permitted to display a broader knowledge of the world than was seemly, when in the presence of the late Archbishop’s son. “Are you suggesting he was already dead when those young fools fired upon him?”

“They did not fire upon him,” Edward declared. “They fired upon a covey of pheasant—and bagged five birds. I shall make a thorough examination of the fowling pieces, and await Dr. Bredloe’s expert opinion, naturally—but I should think this man has been dead for hours. Would not you agree, Jane?”

“Entirely. I should be interested to learn the doctor’s opinion as to the approximate hour of death, however—the night air in autumn is chill, but the ground still retains some warmth; that variance must affect the degree of stiffening we have observed.”

“Good God!” Mr. Moore exclaimed, with all the outrage of a man confounded by a female’s brazen disregard for decorum; “are you actually suggesting that this man was … was …”

“Murdered? I am, sir.”

The clergyman shot me one appalled glance, then strode quickly towards the body.

There was a brief silence, punctuated by Mr. Moore’s shallow breathing; Edward raised one amused eyebrow in my direction, and shrugged slightly. Then the clergyman said, in a voice quite raw with suppressed emotion, “You have summoned Bredloe? He is even now making for Godmersham?”

“I hope so, indeed.”

Mr. Moore swung around and stared at Edward, his pallor ghastly. “Idiot! You had better have thrown the corpse in the Stour, and allowed some other to find it!”

“What wild talking is this?” Edward exclaimed, astonished.

“You do understand that this is no pilgrim lying dead in your house? You apprehend the disaster that is about to break about all our heads?”

I stared at my brother in bewilderment, and read an equal incomprehension in his countenance.

“What can you possibly mean, sir?” I attempted.

Mr. Moore swept his hands wide in a gesture of despair; out of habit, perhaps, they formed a benediction over the dead man’s chest. “You see before you the corpse of a prodigal son returned—and at how ill an hour. I do not know what may be said to Adelaide. Or how the intelligence is to be conveyed to her. When she learns—”

“You would refer to Mrs. MacCallister?” I asked.

“I would.” But Mr. Moore was not attending to me; his gaze was all for Edward—the First Magistrate of Canterbury. “This man is none other than Curzon Fiske, whom his wife believed dead long since.”

“—And on the strength of that belief,” my brother said slowly, “was yesterday married to another.”

We were none of us required to utter the hateful word bigamy aloud; it jangled unspoken in all our minds.

21 October 1813, Cont.

“By all that’s holy,” Edward said softly as he studied the corpse’s features, “you have the right of it, Moore. Curzon Fiske! The beard and whiskers deceived me—not to mention the humble mode of dress and the excessive tanning of the skin, which should not be unnatural in one only lately returned from the Indies. I should never have known him, however, but for your better knowledge of the man.”

Mr. Moore visibly recoiled. “We were acquainted well enough when we were boys, to be sure,” he said. “I do not think there is more than a twelvemonth’s difference in our ages, indeed, and our fathers were friends of long standing. But in later years, our ways lay much apart.”

“—Once Fiske won the hand of Adelaide Thane, you would mean.” My brother met the clergyman’s gaze with a level look. There had been just that suggestion in Harriot Moore’s teazing last night—that her husband had once cherished a tendre for the young lady who had married Curzon Fiske.

Mr. Moore frowned. “The entire nature of Fiske’s pursuits—his whole manner of living—was repugnant to me, as well you know, Edward! I could not regard his stile of living, or his choice of acquaintance, with approbation. It has been long and long since we two had anything but reproaches to offer one another; and tho’ I was grieved indeed to learn of Curzon’s death, I will freely own I thought it a happy release from a life that had grown burdensome—to more than just himself.”

“You had no notion he survived the fever that was reported to have killed him?” my brother asked mildly.

“None whatsoever! Do you sincerely believe I should have countenanced Mrs. Fiske’s marriage yesterday to Captain MacCallister, had I doubted the veracity of those reports?”

“I do not.”

“Very well.” Mr. Moore looked slightly relieved. “Then I suppose it is for us, now, to determine what is to be done.”

My brother knit his brows. “I propose to await Dr. Bredloe, as I have stated already. There must be an inquest, and it is for the coroner to decide when and where that shall be conducted. Once Bredloe has seen enough of the remains, I propose to remove Mr. Fiske to a more suitable location in Canterbury—whichever publick house Bredloe chuses for the empanelment of his jury.”

“But there is Mrs. MacCallister to consider,” I interjected. “Surely she must be told?”

“On no account would I have us commit such needless folly!” Mr. Moore’s words burst from his mouth with a ferocity I had never witnessed in him—and he was a man whose ill-temper was notorious. “No possible good may be served by cutting up that unfortunate woman’s peace; she is happy in her present union; let her remain so! It should be the final insult her late husband might deliver, to destroy Mrs. MacCallister’s reputation—having already destroyed so much.”

“You forget yourself, Moore,” Edward said bluntly. “The man was foully murdered. Would you deny even Curzon Fiske his measure of English justice?”

“I would deny such a man anything he had so palpably failed to earn,” Mr. Moore returned with heat.

“Gentlemen!” I cried. “I beg of you—a quarrel between yourselves cannot hope to serve our ends. Pray consider what you are about.”

Edward smiled grimly, and Mr. Moore bowed—more in respect of a lady, than of any sense I might have uttered.

“There is but one honourable course of action before us,” the clergyman insisted. “Convey to that unhappy pair the intelligence of Fiske’s discovery if you must —but preserve an absolute silence regarding the nature and time of his death. The man was murdered, so you say—but we cannot possibly apprehend the circumstances; he might have done away with himself, after all; and the principal point, as I see it, is that Fiske is no more —as he was believed, long since, not to be!”

“But—” Edward objected.

“That Fiske is dead ,” Mr. Moore blundered on, “preserves the respectability of his wife’s late marriage; and I cannot see that canvassing the exact hour or agent of that death will achieve any greater purpose! The blackguard may have died two days ago, as easily as half an hour since; and therefore, no discussion of the subject ought to be allowed further than this room. Will you both swear to that?”