Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

“But Miss Radcliffe would have it that Tscholikova called upon her the day before her death,” I said in puzzlement. “Why should she then have been ignorant of the house’s direction?”

“Perhaps we are mistaken,” Mr. Chizzlewit returned, “in crediting Miss Radcliffe’s account.”

A faint chill stirred along my spine; I had accepted much of what the Barque of Frailty told me, and held in reserve only the knowledge that she had not told me all. But if duplicity there was — must it not have been in the service of a great deceit?

“The lady quitted your hackney before the door with the flaming torches?” I persisted.

“And told me to wait,” Clayton averred. “I waited a deal of time. Walked the horse, I did, and had a word or two with the grooms and coachmen standing in the square. Some were that affable; Mr. Ponsonby’s man, and Lord Wildthorn’s. Others were too good to pass the time o’ day with the likes of me — I knew Lord Alvanley’s coach by the crest on the door, but the livery stuck up their noses. One by one, they all took their masters in charge and toddled off home. The torches were doused, but a light still burned in the first-floor window. I began to grow uneasy — thinking as maybe the mort never would come out, and I’d be short my fare for a double trip, first to Berkeley Square and then to Russell. The horse was tired and I’d missed a deal of custom, waiting on the lady.”

“Malverley must have been there. He must be acquainted with Julia Radcliffe!” I said. “Can you have an idea of it, Mr. Chizzlewit? The discarded lover confronting her rival for your friend’s affections?”

“Just after the bells went three o’clock,” the jarvey continued, “the door opened and out she come.”

“Under her own power?” I enquired.

The man Clayton frowned. “Not rightly. She was in a dead swoon. Had to be nearly dragged down the flagway with her head on the fellow’s shoulder. Drunk as a wheelbarrow, I thought.”

“The fellow,” I repeated. “A tall, handsome young man with golden curls? Could you see his countenance? Should you recognise him?”

“I might be able to tell his voice,” Clayton returned, “but he weren’t no young man, and no golden curls, neither. This fellow was a Frenchie, by the sound of him, in a fine dark coat and a grey beaver.”

“Good Lord!” I stared at Sylvester Chizzlewit, aware that our thoughts must be fastening upon the same figure: grey-haired, rakish, and elegant in a degree that must always be foreign.

The Comte d’Entraigues, who had made Russell Square — and Julia Radcliffe — his private hunting ground.

“The lady’s weight would have been a sad trial to him. When he got to the cab, he gave it up and lifted her in his arms. ‘Open the door, you fool,’ he says. ‘She’s took ill. I must see her home.’ ”

“Home?”

“Aye. ‘Berkeley Square,’ he ordered — ‘Pull up in the mews, behind No. 43.’ ”

Wednesday, 1 May 1811, cont.

FAR FROM HAVING ILLUMINED THE TANGLE UNDER consideration, the jarvey’s interview had merely increased my confusion. Would Julia Radcliffe shield the Comte d’Entraigueswith her carefully-chosen confession? What, then, was I to make of her contemptuous tone in speaking of him? Had the Princess’s jewels ever been given over to the Barque of Frailty, as she claimed, or had d’Entraigues seized them outright? And why had the Princess gone to Russell Square on the night of her death?

One question at least must be satisfied: Whether the lady had met her end in Julia Radcliffe’s house — or had come to it later, in the chill of Berkeley Square.

“Did you drive here this morning in your own hackney, Clayton?” I asked the jarvey.

“O’ course.” He glanced at Sylvester Chizzlewit doubtfully; the solicitor nodded encouragement.

“I suppose it is pulled up in the courtyard?” I persisted. “May I view the interior? You might tell me, as we proceed thence, what you did in the mews behind No. 43.”

I rose; Mr. Chizzlewit threw open the door. As I passed him I detected a faint smile upon his lips; he would be silently applauding so much decision, and the strength of mind that animated it. If I must detect blood-stains and a knife thrust down among the seat cushions, and know the Comte to be guilty, I should not flinch from the task.

“Ought we not to summon William Skroggs to taste of these delights?” Mr. Chizzlewit whispered as I passed him.

“He is certain to believe them fabricated, if they come without a neck for his noose. Let us wait a little, if you please.”

The hackney was of the usual run of such vehicles — an outmoded town chariot originally designed for the accommodation of only two persons abreast, with a facing seat and a coachman’s box upon the top; a single horse was required to draw this vehicle, and the poor beast looked as tho’ it had descended by degrees from a gentleman’s stable, much as the carriage itself had.

“When we come to Berkeley Square,” Clayton said, “I turned in at the mews and pulled up before No. 43.

The sidelamps were burning, naturally, and the party asked as if I’d douse ’em — the lady being yet ill, and him being wishful to rest her a bit, before attempting to escort her to the house.”

“I see. You did so?”

“Aye. We sat there in the dark maybe half an hour, maybe more, until the bells rang four; and him talking low to the lady all the time, in that soft foreign voice of his, as tho’ he were talking to a child.”

“You heard him speak from within the carriage?” Surprised, I studied the jarvey’s countenance. “Did the lady reply?”

“She might have groaned, like. Being foxed out of all reason.”

“And what did you then?”

“The Frenchie asked me to stand lookout, as he was worried for the lady’s reputation — didn’t want her seen, while he got her to the door. I climbed down from the box, and went right out into the square, but there weren’t nobody about — not even the charley.”

“Old Bends, on his quest for ale and bread,” I murmured. “That would be the moment to effect it.”

“When I got back to the cab, they were gone.”

“Gone?”

“Aye. The Frenchie left a guinea on the box for my trouble. He took her the back way, I reckon — but how she ended on the street with her throat slit, I cannot say, and that’s the truth. I never saw no murder done, miss — nor self-murder, neither, as God is my witness.”

It was possible that what the jarvey saw as inebriation, had been nothing less than the nervelessness of death; the Princess might well have been extinct from the moment she was carried from Russell Square. D’Entraigues would have chosen the mews behind No. 43 for its proximity to Castlereagh’s residence — the scandal of the published correspondence, perhaps, providing him with inspiration. But I said nothing of my speculation to Clayton. “May I glance within your hackney?”

Upon his throwing open the door, I observed the springs to be negligible, and the squabs dirty; but the jarvey had taken pains to provide a lap-robe for his passengers’ use. This was folded neatly on the facing seat.

“You have employed this equipage for your trade in the week since Princess Tscholikova’s death?” I enquired.

“All but Sunday — the horse and I always have our bit o’ rest, tho’ there’s some as work even on the Lord’s day.”

“You carry how many fares each day, Clayton?”

“Upwards of thirty, miss. London’s a rackety enough place.”

“And have you found occasion to clean the interior in recent days?”