Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

“Scrope Davies insists that Byron slept under his roof, and quitted Brighton on horseback at eight o’clock this morning — well before the … well before Miss Twining was discovered at the King’s Arms.”

I frowned. “But then how did poor Catherine — ”

“Exactly. Is Davies lying to protect his friend? Or did Byron slip out of Davies’s house and meet with Catherine elsewhere — drown her on the shingle — pack her into the hammock — carry her to the King’s Arms, enter his old rooms to deposit her there … and then repair once more to Scrope Davies’s for an appearance at breakfast?”

“It strains belief, Henry,” I muttered. “His lordship should have to be mad.”

“Well, Jane …” my brother began dubiously.

But I shook my head. “Why shroud the girl in a hammock at all? Why not leave her as she lay, drowned on the shingle, so that the tide might take her? No possible connexion could then be made between his lordship and Miss Twining.”

“I had thought , Jane, that perhaps some other , with designs upon the girl’s life, might avail himself of Lord Byron’s empty rooms. None can say. I understand, however, that the local magistrate has sent his constables post-haste up the New Road towards London — in the hope of overtaking Byron on his way, or meeting with him at his lodgings in St. James’s. His lordship must appear at the inquest — for there will have to be an inquest, naturally.”

We were now perhaps a mile and a half from the Promenade Grove; and the day being fine, we were treated to such scenes of quotidian Brighton life as must grace each fleeting May: the fishwives about their endless gutting; children, half-clad and barefoot, scampering upon the sands; and the bathing machines with their dippers, drawn down to the shoreline by a team of horses. [16] Part of Brighton’s attraction was the belief that sea-bathing was a healthful practice; and for those who could not swim, wooden bathhouses on wheels—drawn to the water by horses—were employed, particularly by women, who were deemed too modest to be seen in wet clothing. The dippers were persons of the serving class who helped bathers descend a ladder into the safe enclosure of the bathhouse once it was immersed in the sea. Having bathed, the lady would once more ascend the ladder with her muslin shift clinging to her body. It was said to be a common practice for idle gentlemen to train telescopes upon the bathing houses, in the hope of seeing various women of their acquaintance in the Regency equivalent of a wet T-shirt contest. — Editor’s note.

“I cannot accept what you are telling me, Henry,” I said, as my gaze drifted over the happy scene. “Miss Twining was in the company of her father last evening. She was escorted by that repugnant clergyman. How, then, did she go missing long enough to meet her end — and the General never sound the alarm?”

“All excellent questions, to which I may return no answers.”

I clasped my hands in frustration. “How I wish it might have been possible for us to attend that ball!”

Henry placed his hands over mine. “Do not berate yourself, my dear. You cannot regard yourself as responsible for Miss Twining’s death. I will not allow it. You could have had no notion — ”

“You do not perfectly understand,” I managed. “The last words Catherine Twining uttered to me were a plea that I remain. She feared him, Henry — so much I knew; but I thought her a goosecap for doing so, in the midst of an Assembly. I actually laughed at her a little. When in fact she went in fear for her life. Oh, God, I am to blame! I am to blame for the loss of that innocent creature!”

The picture of Catherine as she had been — flower-like in her white muslin gown, the thin bones of her shoulders as subtly molded as porcelain — and the image of what she must now be, were too melancholy to contemplate. My eyes filled with tears.

Henry grasped my arm and turned me firmly back along the way we had come. “Jane,” he said bracingly, “we require a revival of your formidable spirit — one I have not seen in nearly two years. You must take up the rôle of Divine Fury. You must penetrate this killer’s motives, and expose him to the world!”

“It should be a form of penance, I suppose.”

“Penance! It should be nothing less than justice for Miss Twining’s sake!”

“There are so many persons, Henry, far more adept than I — the magistrate, the coroner …”

“Neither of whom knew Miss Twining in the least.”

I glanced at him in grudging acknowledgement.

“But what if the man you ruin is indeed Lord Byron ?” my brother suggested. “Would you hesitate, when guilt falls upon a poet — one the Polite World acclaims as a genius?”

I did not bother to reply, but strode only more swiftly towards the Steyne.

“I tremble for the poet.” Henry sighed.

AS WE DINED QUIETLY IN ONE OF THE CASTLE’S PARLOURS that evening, a serving-man appeared with a note for me, presented on a silver tray. Desdemona, Lady Swithin, had scrawled it so swiftly as to blot her words, on an elegant scrap of hot-pressed paper. Struck afresh by the Swithin crest, a tiger rampant, I broke the seal — and begged permission of Henry to peruse the communication.

21 Marine Parade

11th May 1813

My dear Miss Austen,

If you do not take pity upon Charles and me, and come round directly after dinner to discuss this miserable affair of Byron’s, there will be no living with either of us. We may promise you tea and an excellent Rhenish cream in return; Swithin is most anxious for Mr. Austen to sample his Port. Two dozen of his finest bottles sent down from London, wrapped in cotton wool and supported by goose feather pillows, so as not to disturb the sediment! But I digress. I would not have you believe we are mere gluttons for gossip — that not an hour may pass, but we must surfeit on the latest whiff of local scandal — but my interest has been sought in the present tragedy, by one I hold in friendship. I shall say no more. We shall expect you at eight o’clock — but if you are otherwise engaged, pray send your reply by the footman; he awaits your pleasure.

I remain, etc.,

Desdemona, Countess of Swithin

“We are invited to take tea on the Marine Parade,” I informed my brother.

“Nonsense,” he replied, reading over Mona’s note without so much as a by-your-leave. “We are invited to canvass a murder. There is no end to the dissipations of Brighton! I never thought to enjoy myself so much!”

I drank down my glass of claret, knowing I required the fortification; there could be only one friend of Desdemona’s interested in the death of Catherine Twining — Lord Byron’s lover, Jane Elizabeth, Countess of Oxford.

TUESDAY, 11 MAY 1813

BRIGHTON, CONT.

IF I EXPECTED TO FIND LADY OXFORD ALREADY ESTABLISHED in the Marine Parade, I was disappointed; but upon reflection, too little time had intervened between the discovery of the murder, and the arrival of such news in London; even were she in constant communication with Lord Byron, it must be impossible for the mistress of so considerable an establishment to fly south on a whim, as Caro Lamb had done. The Swithins were not quite alone, however: a dozen guests were arranged in the pretty drawing-room of No. 21, Marine Parade, a fact which caused me to hesitate on the threshold. I was suitably dressed for dinner à deux in the Castle’s private parlour, but not for an intimate soiree of the haut ton . It was impossible to draw back, however, or to wish that Betsy had had the dressing of my hair — and so, with Henry’s arm guiding me gently forward, I braved the tiger’s den.