Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

The man at the window turned. At the sight of his face I drew a sudden breath, for its aspect was decidedly sinister. Two pale agates of eyes stared full into my own; a pair of bitter lips twisted beneath a lumpen mass of nose; and the left cheek bore the welt of an old wound — the path of a pistol ball, that had barely missed killing him. He was not above the middle height, but gave an impression of strength in the quiet command of limbs that might have served a prize-fighter.

“You are Miss Jane Austen,” he said.

“I am. But you have the advantage of me, Mr.—”

“Skroggs. William Skroggs. I am a chief constable of Bow Street. Do you know what that means?”

“I am not unacquainted with the office—”

“It means,” he said softly, advancing upon me without blinking an eye, “that I have the power to drag you before a magistrate, lay a charge, provide evidence, and see you hang, Miss Austen — all for the prize of a bit of blood-money, like. I’ve done the same for thirteen year, now, give or take a day or two, and I find my taste for the work only increases.”

He was trying to frighten me. I stared back at him, therefore, without a waver, my hands clasped in my lap. “Do not attempt to bully me in my brother’s house, Mr. Skroggs. His friends are more powerful than yours. Be so good as to explain your errand and have done.”

The corners of the cruel mouth lifted. “With pleasure,” he said, and lifted a wooden box onto Eliza’s Pembroke table.

I recognised it immediately. I had carried it myself into Rundell & Bridge, playing country cousin to Eliza’s grande dame.

“How did you come by those jewels?” I demanded sharply.

Bill Skroggs — I could not conceive of him as William — halted in the act of opening the lid. “Amusing,” he observed, with a leer for his colleague Clem Black, — “I was just about to pose the same question to Miss Austen myself.”

I glanced at Eliza in consternation. She was propped on her cushions, eyes closed, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. It was possible she had fainted; but certain that she had no intention of crossing swords with the Runners. It was left to the novelist to weave a suitable tale.

Manon appeared with her wine and began to coax a little of the liquid through her mistress’s lips.

“The jewels were given to me,” I told Skroggs with passable indifference, “and being little inclined to wear them, I resolved to consult Mr. Rundell, of the Ludgate Hill concern. Was it he who required you to call in Sloane Street?”

“You might say so.” Skroggs chuckled. “He’s no flat, Ebenezer Rundell — and well aware as how a receiver of swag is liable to hang. You won’t find him going bail for no havey-cavey mort with a load of gammon to pitch. He come to Bill Skroggs quick enough.”

I studied the man’s pitiless countenance, and for the first time a chill of real apprehension curled in my entrails. I understood little enough of the man’s cant to grasp the full meaning he intended, but had an idea of Mr. Rundell consulting his voluminous ledgers, so close to hand, and finding no record of the Lady Mary Leigh or the Duke of Chandos’s ancestral jewels.

“If you would ask how I came by such a fortune in gems,” I answered calmly, “I am ready to admit that the tale I told Mr. Rundell was false. There is a lady in the case, who does not wish it known that she desires to sell these pieces. I cannot offer you her name, as I should be betraying a confidence.”

The Bow Street Runner threw back his head and howled with laughter. Clem Black joined him in expressions of unholy mirth. I stared at the two men, bewildered. What had I said to send them into whoops?

“Betraying a confidence!” Skroggs repeated, almost on the point of tears. “A lady in the case!”

I rose from the sopha. “Pray explain yourself, Mr. Skroggs. This deliberate obscurity grows tedious.”

He left off laughing as swiftly as tho’ a door had slammed closed. “You had these gems off a dead woman, Miss Austen, and we mean to know how.”

“A dead woman?” I repeated, startled.

He reached into the box and drew out an emerald brooch, in the figure of two mythic beasts locked in combat: the gryphon and the eagle. I had glimpsed the device only a few hours before — on a stately black travelling coach bound for Hans Place.

“Good God,” I said, and sat back down abruptly, my legs giving way at the knees.

“Now,” Bill Skroggs said softly, “why don’t you tell us all about it, eh? What’s this confidence you don’t care to violate? — That you slit the Princess Tscholikova’s throat, and left her for my lord Castlereagh to find?”

Thursday, 25 April 1811, cont.

ELIZA GASPED AT THE RUNNER’S WORDS, AND BURST into tears; Manon broke into a torrent of French, gesticulating with wine glass and vinaigrette; and as she advanced on Bill Skroggs, his partner moved to the drawing-room door and closed it firmly, his broad back against the oak.

“It was you gave the jewels to old Rundell,” Skroggs said, pushing Manon aside as he approached me, “and you who have a story to tell. I’ll give you a quarter-hour, Miss Austen, by my old pocket watch; and when the time’s sped, it’s off to Bow Street.”

I have rarely found occasion to wish that among the myriad professions pursued by my brothers — clergyman, banker, sailor, and gentleman — at least one had embraced the Law. In truth, the few country attorneys thrown in my way have been prosy individuals, devoid of humour, exacting as to terms and precise as to verbiage, with a lamentable relish for disputation. In this hour of desperate peril, however, I yearned devoutly for a hotheaded barrister in the family fold: one who might knock Bill Skroggs on his back with a single blow, before serving notice that his sister was not a toy for the magistrate’s sport. What I detested most in the Runner’s manner was his easy assurance of my venality — no hint of sympathy or doubt lurked in those hard, pale eyes. Innocence was unknown to Bill Skroggs; in his world every soul was guilty of something. His exultation was like a hound’s that has caught the fox between its teeth. In this I understood the depth of my danger.

Some fleeting thought of Sylvester Chizzlewit coursed through my brain — but such an exquisite gentleman would surely be dining in his club at this hour, and beyond the reach of supplication. Eliza was no support in my hour of need: a lady who has had recourse for fifty years to fits of the vapours, hartshorn, and burnt feathers cannot be expected to show steel in extremis. I should have to attempt to offer Skroggs the truth, and turn the snapping dog on a rival scent.

“You labour under a grave misunderstanding, Mr. Skroggs,” I observed, “and one that is likely to cost you your prize money. [11] Bow Street Runners were not public servants but professional thief-takers more akin to our present-day bounty hunters. They typically worked for a percentage of the value of any stolen goods recovered; this was their “prize money.” As the jewelry belonged to Princess Tscholikova, presumably her family would pay the reward once the gems were recovered. This pursuit of gain made Bow Street Runners typically less interested in justice or the guilt or innocence of those they pursued, and more intent upon the simple recovery of goods. Although they were empowered to arrest suspects and bring them before the magistrate, justice was for the court to determine. — Editor’s note . I know nothing of Princess Tscholikova or her death—”

“But you know these rubies and emeralds, and you were cool enough to tell a Banbury story to old Rundell. Isn’t that right, Mr. Black?”