Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

“Betsy,” I said to the chambermaid as she tidied the ashes from my grate, “are you at all acquainted with the servants at the King’s Arms?”

Her eyes grew round. “That I am, ma’am, but if it’s the murder you’re wanting to talk of, I must beg to be excused. Not a word I’ve heard of anything else, since yesterday noon, and not a wink of sleep I’ve had, for brooding over all I’ve heard, and dreading to find a similar case each time I open a bedchamber door!—For if there’s a madman throwing young ladies into beds at the Arms, what’s to keep him from doing the same at the Castle? There’s little to chuse between them, except we’ve more beds to hide a body in! And now they’ve lodged that Lord Byron here! I declare, it’s enough to make every man, woman, and child pack up their traps and quit the place, for all he’s so handsome. Mr. Anson, the head steward, allows as how our patrons is too high in the instep for the use of hammocks, besides needing a servant to do the sewing for ’em, but I never pay no mind to Mr. Anson. He’s from Liverpool,” she added, as tho’ such an origin could hardly be trusted.

“I was a little acquainted with the young lady who died,” I said.

Betsy sat back on her haunches, her dustpan slack on her knees. “Were you now? No wonder you look so peaked this morning. Probably never caught a mite’s sleep all night. But wasn’t she fearful young?”

“I should judge her to have been no more than fifteen.”

Betsy bit her lip. “Then she’d no cause to be walking abroad alone at night. Foolish, I call it, and fast , tho’ the poor thing was murdered. Got what she asked for, didn’t she?”

“Nobody asks to be drowned,” I said sharply, “much less sewn into a hammock. But why do you say Miss Twining walked alone?”

“Jem saw her.”

“And who is Jem?”

“Undergroom at the Pavilion,” she said immediately. “He’s by way of being a cousin.”

“I see.” Betsy’s relations were extensive enough to cover most of Britain. I set down my teacup. “And this fellow saw Miss Twining before her death? Well enough to recognize her?”

“Not so as to know her name. Jem’s not the sort to be acquainted with young ladies. Asleep, he ought to have been, at such an hour—but one of the Regent’s mares was dropping a foal that night, and Jem was up in the loose box a-helping of her. The mare’s first, it was, and having a hard time of it. Jem stepped out with a lanthorn to fetch hot water from the kitchen, and that’s when he saw her—a girl with dark hair, dressed in white, hurrying away from the Pavilion. Headed towards the Steyne, she was, but powerful late Jem thought it, to be abroad alone.”

“He did not chuse to speak to her?”

Betsy shook her head. “Wasn’t his place, ma’am, to take notice of young ladies leaving the Pavilion in the middle of the night. The Regent’d have had his head, like. Young ladies’ve been slipping in an’ out of the Regent’s quarters for years, and nobody the wiser. Besides, there was the mare to think of.”

“Did he say what time this was?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I should like to talk to Jem,” I said thoughtfully.

“If you’re wishful to have a word, I can always send for him.” The maid coloured painfully. “Jem is always ready to oblige me.”

“You would do better to send him to the magistrate. The coroner’s panel assembles this morning, and they would give much to know what your cousin saw.”

“A reward, like?” Betsy eyed me curiously; ladies who were knowledgeable of the workings of inquests had probably never come in her way. I slid out of bed and went to my reticule. Within it, I kept a few coins. I withdrew a shilling.

“Please give this to Jem,” I said, “and urge him to seek out Sir Harding Cross. The Regent, I am sure, shall not reproach him for speaking publickly in a matter of murder.”

If I surprized her, Betsy made no comment—but pocketed the coin and promised to do as I urged.

BEFORE THE EVENTS OF YESTERDAY, I HAD MADE A thousand plans with Henry for the balance of the week. We were to take in today’s race-meeting, on the course established by the late Duke of Queensberry just outside of town; we were to drive past Hove, to the ruins of St. Aldrington’s Church; we were to hire a pair of dippers, and bathe in the frigid seas, first obtaining a respectable costume for the purpose; we were to attend a concert at the Pavilion, at the express invitation of Colonel McMahon, who had taken an inexplicable liking to my brother, or perhaps to the depth of his pockets. But some part at least of these frivolous pursuits must be set aside. The race-meeting was not to be thought of. I took breakfast in my room, being certain that Henry was already at Raggett’s, awaiting the issue of Miss Twining’s inquest—and as I sipped my coffee, and fiddled with my bread, I compiled a list of questions that must be answered, if the truth were to be known.

1. With whom did Catherine Twining dance at the Assembly, besides Mr. Smalls?

2. When did Catherine arrive at the Pavilion in Caro Lamb’s care?

3. What was the purport of the ladies’ tête-à-tête?

4. When did Catherine quit the Pavilion?

5. If the undergroom observed her walking towards the Steyne, how did she come by her death in the sea?

6. Where was Lord Byron at the time?

7. Colonel George Hanger?

8. General Twining? Mr. Hendred Smalls?

9. What did Lady Caroline Lamb do after Catherine left her?

10.When did the General discover that his daughter never returned home Monday night—and did he sound an alarum?

11.How could a body be carried into the King’s Arms in the dead of night without being seen?

12.Did anyone at the Arms hear a disturbance in Byron’s rooms? Query : Who was lodged next to Byron?

I should have to speak with the principals on my list, of course—tho’ some might bar their doors against me. The endeavour should demand considerable address. I considered of the prospects: the General, whom I knew already for a formidable man, and whose plans for his daughter I had reason to suspect; Mr. Smalls, from whose interview I should derive little but platitudes and no pleasure; Caro Lamb, who should be unlikely to disclose her schemes to anyone. Desdemona might better assist me there .

And Byron himself: a slight shudder coursed through my body at the thought of the man—so much a prey to his passions, so entirely a complex of contempt and ardour. Would he recall my visage from the Cuckfield Inn, and regard me as his enemy? How had the murder of Catherine Twining worked upon his lordship’s emotions?

Amidst such a company, my enquiries were likely to be fruitless.

In the course of my mature life—dating, indeed, from my first acquaintance with the Gentleman Rogue, more than ten years ago—I have been so circumstanced as to meet with a variety of murderers, some very clever and some merely cold. Avarice has been their motive, or revenge, or a passionate love turned to hate. There were aspects of this case—the sewing of the hammock, the delivery of the corpse to Byron’s bed—that argued a deliberation of mind; and other aspects—the forcible drowning of a young girl, her head held violently under the water as she struggled—that bespoke a destructive passion. It was almost as tho’ two different persons had been involved . Had they worked in concert, or in ignorance of each other? Had Byron done murder—and another delivered the proofs of it?