Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“As murder must always be,” Frank observed.

I was in danger of being led away from our companions of the morning without so much as a farewell; I turned, and found the two surgeons preparing to cross from the Quay to the far paving-stones where Wool House loomed.

“Adieu, monsieur,” I told LaForge

He looked very ill; but nonetheless he carried my gloved hand to his lips with an excess of courtier's gallantry. In this, as in everything, his manners belied the humbleness of his professed station; and I wondered again at his being in such a place and among such company.

“Mr. Hill,” I murmured to the surgeon, “we must contrive between us to improve Monsieur LaForge's circumstances. He ought to be exchanged at the earliest opportunity; but he is most pressing, my brother tells me, in his desire to remain in England. Cannot we secure a more salubrious lodging? He ought not to be allowed to sleep another night on those chill stone floors.”

“I quite agree,” Mr. Hill returned wryly, “but I fear in the case of a prisoner of war, comfort is the very last consideration. I shall write to Admiral Bertie tonight, and plead LaForge's case; your brother has requested that I should refer the Frenchman's desire to remain in this Kingdom to Bertie as well.”

“I shall urge Frank to write to the Admiralty. He is not without acquaintance among the Great. We shall see what determined activity may do.”

“Improvement, of whatever nature, cannot come too soon,” Mr. Hill observed. The shrewd narrow eyes flicked from my countenance to LaForge's. “Our colleague injustice has grown quite despondent since his appearance before the panel. Lowness of spirits cannot help a case of dubious health. I shall prescribe brandy as soon as I am within Wool House's doors.”

“You are very good,” I said with deep sincerity.

“Jane!” cried my brother. “We try Mr. Pethering's patience.”

Mr. Hill bowed; I curtseyed, and without another word turned to my brother and the magistrate.

Frank all but raced up the steep pitch of Southampton's High. He was considering, I knew, of Mary's anxiety — of her fears for himself, and of the magistrate's intent. Mr. Pethering proved unexpectedly equal to a sailor's brisk stride. I followed along in the wake of the two men, and bent all my effort at attending to the questions of one, and the replies of the other.

“May I enquire, Captain Austen, as to your conduct last night?” the magistrate began.

“My conduct? I was engrossed by the performance of Mrs. Jordan, in the French Street playhouse, as my sister and wife shall attest.”

“That play should have ended by half-past eleven, and all of you been returned to East Street by midnight at the latest. Did you stir from your home afterwards? Put the ladies down at the door and proceed alone to some haunt only you are aware of?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Do you generally display so domestic a devotion?”

“In general — yes. I am in the habit of rising at an early hour, Mr. Pethering, and such habits require a settled and tranquil life.” Frank's tone was easy enough; but I knew my brother, and found his words were watchful.

“I understand you sent an express messenger to Captain Seagrave's house in Portsmouth on Tuesday evening.”

“Seagrave is a very old acquaintance. I am often in communication with him — when we are both aground on dry land.”

“But an express — an express would argue a certain urgency, Captain Austen.”

“Would it?” Frank posed airily, as though constantly in the habit of spending more than he ought on his correspondence. “I confess that I am so often at sea, Mr. Pethering, that I am not able to keep abreast of the usual forms and charges of landsmen.”

“At sea. Yes, indeed. I imagine you must often be at sea. May I enquire, sir, as to the nature of the intelligence your express conveyed?”

“Gentlemen never look into the contents of each other's mail,” my brother replied with heat

The magistrate abruptly changed tack. “You have heard already of Chessyre's murder, though the body was discovered only this morning and you have been in Portsmouth all day. How, pray, did you learn of it?”

“In much the same manner, I imagine, that you learned of my express. From the mouths of innocent men. The messenger you sent to Portsmouth this morning was the agent of my discovery.”

The magistrate glanced sidelong, his appearance for all the world like that of a long-beaked marsh crane. “So you are not above perusing my correspondence, though I may know nothing of yours. I see how it is. But my message, Captain Austen, was for Admiral Hastings alone.”

“I was aboard the Valiant at the moment the Admiral learned of Chessyre's death. Your note was read aloud to all in attendance at the court-martial.”

“Your friend Seagrave's court-martial,” Mr. Pethering reiterated pointedly.

“I was not aware there was any other, sir.”

“You are deeply concerned in that unpleasant affair, Captain Austen. I wonder that you risk your reputation and standing — a man of your pronounced domestic virtue — in such a cause.”

“I should always support a brother officer,” Frank replied tautly, “particularly when I believe him unjustly accused. But I do not think, sir, that an affair of military justice fells within the scope of your power.”

Here my brother was on uncertain ground. It was true enough that the original charge on Seagrave's head — the killing of the French captain after the surrender of the latter's ship — fell to the disposition of his naval superiors. That crime, if crime it were, had occurred at sea aboard one of His Majesty's vessels. The murder of Lieutenant Chessyre, however, was another kettle of fish. Chessyre had died in Southampton proper, while relieved of his dudes and turned upon shore. The disposition of his case must be considered the magistrate's; and anyone Mr. Pethering suspected of evil should fall within the temporal law, be they naval or no.

We turned into East Street and progressed the brief distance to Mrs. Davies's establishment. The magistrate seemed disposed to ignore, for the nonce, Frank's challenge to his authority. He preferred to pursue a different line.

“If Captain Seagrave ranks so high among your friends, Captain Austen, one must presume that Eustace Chessyre was chief among your enemies.'”

I stumbled slightly at a loose paving, and both men turned.

“It is nothing,” I cried. “Pray do not regard it”

Frank flashed me a brief smile; he must know that anxiety had tripped me up, not an obstacle at my feet. “I date my acquaintance with Mr. Chessyre only from Tuesday, and thus must consider him neither as a friend of the bosom nor an enemy of the heart To what do your questions tend, Mr. Pethering? Or should you like to enter my lodgings, and discuss them further?”

“You need only explain this, Captain Austen,” Mr. Pethering replied, “and I shall trouble you no longer.” With the air of a conjurer he withdrew a square of paper from his coat pocket and thrust it towards Frank.

“That is my card,” my brother observed, without taking it from Mr. Pethering's bony hand.

“Indeed. It was found upon Chessyre's corpse— one of the few things the man seems to have kept about him.”

“I gave it into the Lieutenant's keeping on Tuesday.”

“You met with him?”

“On … an affair of business.”

“You have written your direction upon the reverse, I see. Did you expect Mr. Chessyre to call in East Street?”

“He did call. Unfortunately, I was not at home.” Frank's lips had set in a thin line; he was holding his temper in check only with difficulty.