Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“Muzzer that go into Kent,” Edward declared through a mouthful of pastry. “We thould be more of a burden if we thayed.” He swallowed mightily. “Besides, I cannot support Aunt Templeton. She means to engage a tutor for us! As if we did not know all we needed to learn, already! She is an ape-leader! Poor Uncle Walter — how he must suffer it!”

“He is shot of her for now,” returned Charles, “and must be having a jolly time of it. But I for one shall certainly run away to sea if we are bound for Luxford!”

I met Martha's eyes over the heads of the two boys. She raised one eyebrow. At that moment, the bells of St. Michael's Church, adjacent to our seats in the shop's bow front window, tolled half-past eleven o'clock. The inquest into Mr. Chessyre's death must be concluded, or nearly so.

I was suddenly sharply impatient to know what the judgement might be, and determined to place the boys in Martha's charge — they were getting along famously, for Martha has always been a slave to children's amusement — and set off in search of Fly. I gathered up my paper parcels — one held a pair of gloves in dark blue satin, quite unlike my usual wear, but perfectly in keeping with the iridescent hue of the three feathers I had chosen under Martha's instruction — and motioned for the reckoning. Pray God I had sufficient coin to satisfy the ravages of two healthy young predators.

“Jane,” observed Martha in peering through the window panes clouded with February cold, “is not that Mr. Hill I see before us? He looks worn to a fag end. I should judge that travel by sea does not agree with him — a curious recommendation for a naval surgeon, I am sure!”

The thin frame, the narrow, black-clad shoulders, the periwig — indeed, it could be none other than Mr. Hill. I set down the gloves and hurried out of the shop to intercept him.

“Miss Austen!” The surgeon started at my address, as though lost in a brown study. “How well you look this morning! I should say that your cold is quite gone off!”

Martha appeared in the doorway, her parcels precariously balanced in her arms and the Seagrave boys hiding behind her skirts.

“Miss Lloyd, too! And you have been making a few purchases at the milliner's, I see — a pursuit that is always calculated to bring animation to a lady's countenance.”

“We have been entertaining Captain Seagrave's sons,” I informed Mr. Hill. “Master Charles, his heir, and Master Edward.”

Both boys scraped their bows. Mr. Hill inclined his head benevolently.

“Your brother is well, I hope, Miss Austen? No ill effects from yesterday's voyage?”

“I do not think that Frank could ever suffer at sea. You might better enquire how he fares on dry land!” I scanned the surgeon's face. He looked very ill indeed. “But what of yourself, Mr. Hill? Are you quite recovered from your exertions?”

He hesitated. “I could wish our friend Monsieur LaForge to be in better frame. I sat up with him all night. The effort of achieving Portsmouth yesterday — his testimony on Seagrave's behalf — or perhaps simply the exposure to poor weather in his weakened state—”

Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.

“You find me just returning from a consultation with Dr. Mount,” the surgeon continued, “a physician of considerable reputation, and a great traveller in his day. He has seen many cases of gaol-fever — or ship fever, as it is also known. Even he cannot account for LaForge's symptoms. I confess that I am greatly disappointed; I had hoped for some inspiration. Instead, I have fetched only laudanum. It shall ease his suffering, at the very least.”

“Then you think … you believe it possible …”

“That the man will die?” Mr. Hill gazed at me baldly. “I should never undertake to say, Miss Austen. It is a point that only his Maker may answer. I will tell you that his fever has increased; that from cramping in the bowels, he may take neither food nor water; and that his pulse is fluttering and weak. Indeed, he may have passed from this life while we stand thus, in talking.”

I looked my indecision at Martha, then impulsively seized Mr. Hill by the arm.

“For God's sake, let us be silent,” I said, “and reserve our breath for walking. Miss Lloyd must carry the young Seagraves back to the Dolphin, but I shall accompany you to Wool House. I cannot stay away.”

ETIENNE LA FORGE WAS NOT DEAD; BUT HE LAY IN AN attitude so narrowly approximating it, that I all but despaired of his life. The sharp brown eyes were completely closed, the jaw clenched in pain. He was drenched in sweat despite the room's raw atmosphere, so that his body was racked with chills. His ebony walking-stick lay by his side on the pallet, as though in the last extremity of existence, he would guard this one relic of home. He muttered fragments of French — phrases I could not always catch, or comprehend once I heard them. At times he seemed to be wandering in childhood; at others, he broke into bawdy song, and must be restrained or he should have attempted to dance. But for the most part he seemed torn with anguish, and struggled upright to cry aloud the name of Genevieve. His Beloved, perhaps? Left behind in the Haute Savoie — or in early death?

“Just so it has been,” Mr. Hill muttered, “since eight o'clock last evening. I do not know how much more the human frame may stand.”

Chessyre is dead. I shall not long —

I pressed LaForge's shoulders gently back onto his pallet and bathed his brow. I held a basin while Mr. Hill bled him. Where I knelt on the stone floor, the cold crept through my dress, deadening all feeling in my joints.

“He should not be lying in these dreadful conditions,” I burst out. “None of them should. It is shocking that we tf eat men this way — as though they were slaves, or less than human. He should be moved to a proper bed, near a proper fire.”

Mr. Hill did not meet my eyes. “Naturally. But his condition has declined so greatly, Miss Austen, that I do not think it possible to move him now.”

“This is nothing like the usual course of gaol-fever?”

The surgeon shook his head. “Did I know nothing of the case before this, I should pronounce him poisoned. He suffers, I should say, from an acute gastric complaint quite unlike the troubles of a few days previous. His sickness is lodged in the bowels. It is that which causes him agony.”

I felt my frame stiffen, the breath caught in my chest. “I once witnessed a death from poisoning. It was terrible to behold. Could something noxious have been introduced to his food?”

“But that is absurd! Why should anyone wish to harm a French prisoner? None but ourselves is familiar with even a particle of his history!”

“Monsieur LaForge was in despair yesterday at the suspension of Captain Seagrave's trial,” I told the surgeon urgently. “When he learned the news of Lieutenant Chessyre's murder, he declared that his life was forfeit for having related what he saw aboard the Manon. He is the sole witness to an attempted plot. Do not you comprehend the matter?”

“But who—”

“Whoever killed Chessyre! Have you received a gift of food for the prisoners?”

Mr. Hill hesitated. “Your eggs, of course,” he said slowly, “and a quantity of meat pasties from Mrs. Braggen's kitchen. They were sent in my absence yesterday. But surely Mrs. Braggen—”

“I should never accuse the lady or her household of ill intent. But if the food appeared in your absence — anything might have been done to it.”

“Then why did not every prisoner who partook of the food fall dreadfully ill?”

“Because the poison was meant for only one man,” I persisted.

Mr. Hill shook his head. “My dear Miss Austen, I fear mat your imagination is run away with you. You have been overwrought. All this talk of murder — it may give rise to the most dreadful fancies—”