Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“Are you Nell Rivers?”

“Are you the Cap'n's sister?” she asked in a low and hurried tone. “The one as asked to speak with me?”

“I am Miss Austen,” I said. “You have twice begged an interview with my brother, and found him not at home.”

“I meant no 'arm, as God's my witness,” she said, crossing herself fumblingly. “I only thought as he might be needing to hear what I know.”

“Is this a private matter?” I asked her severely.

She shook her head. The furtive, rabbity look that Jenny had described was returned in force. “Will the Cap'n hear me, now?”

“He is regrettably engaged this morning,” I replied, “in the service of a friend accused of murder.”

Nell Rivers blenched white, and staggered a bit as though she might swoon.

“Here.” I grasped her arm. “You must rest a bit before you may speak. Lean against this pier.” There were pilings along the Quay, and a low stone parapet that served as viewing box for every urchin in Southampton with a lust for the sea. I directed her to a seat, and sank down beside her.

“Dad said as you were a real lady,” she muttered. “I'm that ashamed—”

“Mr. Hawkins is your father?” I looked up at Jenny, whose expression was aghast. “I think perhaps you should tell me what you know.”

Nell glanced at me sidelong and shook her head. “It's as much as my life is worth to speak. I daren't.”

“Am I right in thinking you know something of an officer whose body was found in the Ditches — Mr. Chessyre, lately first lieutenant of the Stella Maris?”

She gasped, and pressed her hand to her mouth.

“Are you going to be sick?”

“No. It's just that dreadful — the thought of poor Eustace.”

“You were acquainted with him?”

Her head bobbed. It was sunk so low into her bosom that I could not read her countenance. “Four year or more. We was mates.”

“I see.”

She fell silent, and I feared she might dissolve into weeping; but a second furtive glance informed me that she merely awaited initiative on my part. I reached for my reticule and extracted a shilling. Nell's head lifted and her eyes widened. I pressed the coin into her palm, and her fingers closed.

“Eustace was with me the night he died.” Her eyes were swimming with tears. “He was that afraid. That's why he left the Dolphin, and come to set up with me. He'd done some dishonour, he said, and to try to put it right would only make things worse. He'd have to run for it, he said, only he needed some blunt. I said I'd help.”

My opinion of Eustace Chessyre — already low— sank even further at this. Having failed to win his fortune from crime, the scoundrel thought to earn it off a woman's back.

“I'd never seen pore Eustace so jumpy in his skin. He wouldn't go out, but must hide in my room; he'd start at every sound, allus looking over his shoulder. Fair gave me the shudders, so it did.” Nell shuddered now, in recollection.

“He told you nothing of what he'd done?”

“Not a particle. When I tried to wheedle it outta him — so as to make him easier in his mind, like — he give me this.” She pointed to her blackened eye.

“Nothing? Not a word, not a hint of what his dishonour entailed? No … names … of anyone who might have been involved?”

Again she shook her head.

“Well,” I said, attempting to hide my disappointment, “at least we know where he was the night he died. Have you thought of telling the magistrate this?”

She looked suddenly wild, and half rose as if to spring. “I’ll be clapped in gaol!” she cried. “They've no love for a whore, them judges, and they'll lock me away.”

“Calm yourself,” I said. “I did not intend to throw you into alarm.”

“I only asked for the Cap'n because Mrs. Bidgeon— she runs the Mermaid's Tail, where I work sometimes— said he was combing the quayside for news of Eustace. I told Eustace as much, thinking maybe it was Austen he'd dishonoured, and that he ought to lie low; but he just laughed. ‘It's too late,' he said. T can't help him, nor him me. I've told off the Devil, and the Devil will have my neck for it! We'll all go to the Devil together!' “

Nell dashed away her tears with one worn hand. “I'd never seen him like that — down and beaten. Like he'd been trod on by a pack o' dogs. It scared me to death, and scares me still. When I heard they found his corpus—”

“Had he left you? Left your house, I mean, before he died?”

She gaped at me as though I were simple. “But that's what I wanted to tell the Cap'n,” she said. “About the night he were murdered, and the coach.”

“The coach?” I repeated.

“The one that come for Eustace in the middle of the night. I watched him get in, and that was the last I ever saw of him, living or dead.”

I felt a cold thrill travel up my spine. “He went into a coach of his own accord? Though he was afraid for his life?”

“He looked like he thought it was the saving of him. There,' I thought. 'Eustace will be safe as houses. He's got a friend or two more powerful than mine.' ”

“What time was this?”

“Middle o' the night. I don't properly remember. Maybe four or five bells.” [20] Between two A.M. and half-past. — Editor's note.

She had, after all, been raised by a boatswain.

“Was it a hack, or a private carriage?”

Nell looked uncomprehending.

“Do you recall noting any arms upon the doors?”

“I couldn't say. But the lady inside were very fine.”

Jenny took a sharp breath beside me. I reached for Nell Rivers's hand.

“It was a lady Chessyre went to meet?”

Nell nodded miserably. “I suppose she were the death of him, miss.”

28 February 1807, cont.

BEFORE PARTING, I ENQUIRED OF NELL RIVERS HER direction, and learned that she was staying with another woman — a confederate in her trade — who lived in one of the dense streets running from Orchard Lane, not far from her father's house. It was convenient, she said, for the Bosun's Mate to look in on the children when she could not be there — and I gathered this must be often. Nell had quitted her own lodgings in terror that the lady in the mysterious coach might return to finish her off. She would not be charged with having exposed her blameless little 'uns, she added, to harm.

I forbore from suggesting that she had already done so, for most of their young lives; and commended her to caution. I urged her to plead an indisposition with the proprietress of the Mermaid's Tail, that she might better avoid her constant brush with strangers; danger could appear in any form. But she shook her head in stubborn refusal.

“I'd lose my place, miss, and they're not easy to come by. You've no notion how many women'd fight for a chance at the Mermaid's Tail. Murder or no, I must put bread in the children's mouths.”

“You said that the lady in the coach was very fine,” I attempted. “Can you describe her?”

“I didn't see her face,” Nell answered. “She wore a black veil over all — heavy lace — and her pelisse was something dark. She was inside the carriage, and the lamps was blown out; I only caught a snatch of her cloak and a gloved hand as she opened the door.”

Either the woman had doused the spermaceti candles in her globes, or she possessed oil lamps that guttered and smoked and suffocated from want of air. It was a problem common enough; but in this case, looked too much like design. The lady had intended to go unnoticed in the environs of Orchard Lane.

“Eustace went right up to the steps and said, 'My lady,' like she were a princess or summat; and she answered in a voice that told me she were his master, all right. It was low and firm, like she were used to giving orders. 'Get in,' she says; T have not much time.' And he got in.”