Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

“You walked to Covent Garden at four of the clock,” Mr. Whitpeace observed, “and cannot have been returned to the square much before five.”

“Heard the tolling of the bells, I did,” Bends retorted triumphantly, “and went about my rounds to call the weather.”

“In what direction?”

“Clockwise, Yer Worship. Walked right round the square, I did, on the pavings that runs alongside they great houses. And there she were lying, like a heap of old clothes.”

A murmur of unease ran through the room, and Lord Castlereagh shifted in his chair.

“Where, exactly, did Deceased lie?” Mr. Whitpeace asked.

“Across the paving, slantwise, in front of No. 45,” Bends replied. “His lordship’s house.”

“Was Deceased lying on her face, or on her back?”

“Her back. I went to her, o’ course, and felt for her life — but as soon as I knelt down beside her I knew it was no use. The blood was that thick on the ground—”

“Was it liquid?” Mr. Whitpeace demanded. “Or congealed?”

Bends stared, uncomprehending.

“Was it thick upon your hands,” the coroner amplified, “or akin to water? Speak, man.”

“Her neck was wet, but not so wet as to be like water.” The charley glanced about the publick room, as tho’ in search of aid.

“She had not, then, died in the last few seconds.”

Bends shrugged.

“Did you observe any sort of weapon near the Princess?”

“No-o,” Bends said falteringly, “but for the piece of china.”

Thomas Whitpeace leaned towards the charley avidly. “What sort of china?”

“It looked like the lid of a dish. Or maybe a lady’s box,” Bends offered, “such as she might keep treasures in. About the size of a loaf of bread, it was. I’ve never seen the like afore, except in the windows of they shops on Jermyn Street. Very fine, with gilt edging and all manner of birds painted on top.”

“Where did you find this … lid?”

“Smashed on the ground beside the lady.”

“Smashed? How, then, did you know it for a lid?”

“It was broken in three great pieces, and when the Runner come, he fitted ’em together and showed me what it was. One of the pieces had blood along the edge.”

I glanced at Henry. His countenance was very pale: imagining the scene, as I had done, of the Princess Tscholikova standing in the night, and dragging the jagged edge of porcelain across her luminous white neck. A lady’s box, such as she might keep treasures in. The emerald brooch, gryphon and eagle, rose before my mind’s eye.

“There was no sign of jewels scattered about the pavement?” the coroner demanded sternly.

“Yer Honour!” Bends cried. “As God is my witness—”

Count Kronsky rose smoothly from his place. “Prince Pirov would assure the coroner that his sister’s jewels are in his possession.”

“Very well,” Mr. Whitpeace said. “What did you then, Joshua Bends?”

“Set up a hollerin’ fit to bust.”

“And the result?”

“The lights went up in No. 45. Fair deal o’ candles they must’ve lit — sparing no expence even for the serving folk. That’s a gentleman’s household, that is.”

“Who appeared first from No. 45?”

“His lordship’s man.” Bends gestured towards Charles Malverley. “Full dressed he were, as tho’ ’twere broadest day!”

“You may step down, Bends,” Thomas Whitpeace instructed. “The coroner calls Mr. Charles Malverley!”

CHARLES MALVERLEY’S BEATIFIC FACE WAS QUITE pale under his fashionably-disordered curls as he swore his oath. But his gaze did not waver as he submitted to the coroner; he was a self-possessed creature, schooled from infancy in matters of conduct. I judged him to be in his early twenties — a man just down from Oxford or Cambridge, perhaps, with no inclination for Holy Orders. Younger sons of earls can be dreadfully expensive; bred up to the world of ton with only the slimmest of expectations, they face a life of sponging on their more affluent relatives — or the distasteful prospect of a profession. Charles Malverley must be breathlessly expensive; but rather than descending into debt and vice, he had done the honourable thing — and put himself out for hire.

“You serve Lord Castlereagh in the capacity of private secretary, I believe?” Mr. Whitpeace said.

“I do.”

“And for how many years have you fulfilled that office?”

“A matter of months, rather. His lordship was good enough to take me on in the autumn of 1809.”

“The autumn — that is a vague term, Mr. Malverley. Was this before or after his lordship resigned from the Cabinet?”

“I cannot see that it makes the slightest difference,” Malverley rejoined with asperity, “but if you will know — it was perhaps a fortnight after his lordship determined to enter private life.”

I glanced around the room for Mr. Canning: He was seated a little in front of me. His countenance betrayed no undue sensibility regarding Lord Castlereagh’s retirement: the private accusations of misconduct and stupidity Canning had circulated in Cabinet, and the furious culmination of pistols at dawn.

“Let us say, then, that you went to Lord Castlereagh’s in mid-October, 1809,” Mr. Whitpeace persisted.

“By all means, say so,” Malverley returned impatiently.

“Thus you have been very much in his lordship’s confidence, I collect, for full a year and a half?”

“I have attempted to serve Lord Castlereagh to the full extent of my abilities,” Malverley said, as tho’ the coroner had uttered an impertinence. “I aspire to nothing more.”

“Very well. We shall return to the exact nature of your services in due course. On the evening in question, Mr. Malverley, you were first to answer the watchman’s summons.”

“I was.”

“And yet, it was past five o’clock in the morning. Do you reside in Lord Castlereagh’s establishment?”

A wave of colour rose in the young man’s cheeks. “I have rooms at the Albany. But on the evening in question I … had not yet found occasion to return there.”

“You were working on his lordship’s behalf until dawn?” Mr. Whitpeace’s expression was politely incredulous.

“In a manner of speaking.” Malverley shot a quick look in Castlereagh’s direction. “His lordship required me to escort Lady Castlereagh home after the conclusion of the play at the Theatre Royal, as her ladyship was greatly fatigued. His lordship, I believe, intended going on to one of his clubs. I saw

Lady Castlereagh home in her carriage. At our arrival, the hall porter informed her ladyship that the Princess Tscholikova had called a few moments before our arrival, asking for his lordship, and had been refused the house — owing to the lateness of the hour, the imperfect understanding the porter had of the Princess’s standing, and the family being from home.”

“The Princess Tscholikova had called in Berkeley Square? But the watchman said nothing of this!”

Malverley shrugged. “I can only relate what the porter told me.”

“Had the Princess been much in the habit of calling on Lord Castlereagh in the small hours of the morning?”

“She had never done so, to my knowledge.” Malverley’s eyes dropped. “I do not believe she was on terms of acquaintance with either of the Castlereaghs.”

“And yet, the porter would have it that she came to the house after midnight — for so it must have been — but a few hours before her death!”

“That is so. I cannot account for it.”

“What happened then?”

“Lady Castlereagh glanced at the Princess’s card, and declared herself ready to retire. When she had ascended to her room, I told the porter to secure the front door and go off to bed.”