Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“What about the nags?” my faithful Jenny demanded. “Did you not notice them? How many, and what colour?”

“Four, I think,” said Nell in doubt, “and dark. But I've never paid too much mind to a horse.”

It was hardly a hack chaise in local use; they were drawn by at most two horses, sometimes one alone. It must have been a private carriage, or one hired post at a coaching inn along the road. The entire matter was a puzzle; I could not believe that a woman had garroted Lieutenant Chessyre in her own equipage, much less cast him from the same into the Ditches behind the Walls.

“And you noticed nothing upon the carriage itself?” I pressed, without very much hope. It had obviously been pitch black in the lane in the middle of the night, and the lady had depended upon this to increase her anonymity.

“Naught but the diamond painted on the side,” said Nell as an afterthought, “with the fist in the glove.”

The fist in the glove. The bloody gauntlet accorded a baronet. I had seen one only days before, emblazoned on a coach that stood before Tom Seagrave's door. Lady Temple ton's equipage.

“MISS AUSTEN!”

The voice came from the paving-stones opposite, as I made to cross to French Street. Mr. Hill, bereft of his companion of the morning. I had searched the Quay steps for Charles and Edward Seagrave, to no avail; I was desperate to be at home, in order to consult with my brother regarding Nell Rivers's rambling account; but I could not deny the impulse to enquire after Monsieur LaForge. I bade Jenny return to East Street, and her long-neglected duties in Mrs. Davies's household, and made for Mr. Hill's spare figure.

“Good day to you, sir. How did our patient pass the night?”

“Far better than we had reason to hope. I sent you word this morning, Miss Austen, but must conclude that the messenger found you from home.” He peered at me kindly. “You hoped for a last sight of him? I am afraid I must disappoint you there. He is gone.”

“Gone?” My throat constricted. “But I thought… you said that he passed the night…”

“LaForge was taken away with the rest of them this morning, at Sir Francis's orders.” The surgeon pursed his lips in a grimace of frustration. “I cannot like the decision, but in this, I am utterly powerless. Sir Francis is the Transport Board, and before him I must bow.”

“Then LaForge is not dead! Thank Heaven! Your purgatives and emetics did some good!”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Hill thoughtfully, “and I should never have attempted them were it not for you. I suspected — I feared the matter was one of poison; but I could not believe the evidence of my eyes. As every physical scientist must, however, I credit the result of my own experiment.”

“You believe, then, that he was deliberately poisoned?”

“It was not a case of food gone bad,” he said, “nor yet of an arsenic intended for Wool House's rats, ingested in error. His food — and his food alone — was tainted by something I have yet to name. I am as certain of that, as I am that the poor man lives. And I confess it disturbs me greatly in my mind. This threat to his life can have been no accident. It came too swiftly upon the heels of his testimony in Captain Seagrave's court-martial.”

“You have questioned the Marines?”

Mr. Hill shrugged. “I have. They observed nothing untoward, and all stoutly maintain that no one but ourselves was permitted to enter Wool House. By ourselves, I would include, of course, your brother and Mrs. Braggen.”

“Then the Marines are in error,” I declared with heat. “Last evening, Sir Francis Farnham told me that he had visited the place the previous day. It was then he determined upon the removal of the prisoners to Greenwich.”

“Greenwich?” Mr. Hill stared at me strangely. “Our patients are not gone to Greenwich, Miss Austen. They have been removed to that hulk lying at anchor in Southampton Water you may see from the quay — a rotting, foetid, and unwholesome berth if ever I saw one. It has been commissioned as a prison hulk, under the command of Captain Smallwood. An excellent fellow, but an unenviable post”

“A prison hulk?” I gasped. “But that is madness! Sir Francis told me expressly last evening that all the prisoners were to be removed to the naval hospital at Greenwich!”

“Not while the gaol-fever hangs over them,” Mr. Hill grimly replied. “Greenwich would never tolerate the threat of infection to its good British sailors. Sir Francis claims that he had no choice but to isolate the sufferers; all of Southampton was alarmed at the possibility of epidemic. The French could not remain the longer in Wool House.”

“He lied to me,” I muttered furiously. “He made me look a fool, and himself a paragon, before the better part of my present acquaintance.”

I turned and stared out at the ghostly ship, dismasted and forlorn at its anchorage in the Solent “Etienne LaForge has been consigned to that misery? A man as ill as he?”

“I promised him I would row out to the hulk tomorrow, and see how he did,” the surgeon said. “He was quite broken at his removal; he commended his books and walking-stick to my care, and went into the longboat as though it were a tumbril of execution.”

“I should not give a farthing for his chances,” I said bitterly.

“And I should not take your wager, if you did,” replied Mr. Hill.

I FOUND FLY SITTING IN THE PARLOUR WITH HIS BOOTS off and his damp socks steaming gently before the fire. He was alone — Mrs. Foote, I was made to understand, had very kindly called for Mary and carried her off for a visit to Highfield House — and he held a scrap of paper in his hands. His forehead was furled in puzzlement or dismay. I judged him to be perusing his missive for a second time.

“What is it?” I enquired as I came to a halt in the doorway. Whatever headlong rush of accusation and argument I had intended was quelled. “A letter from Tom Seagrave? Has he repented of his harsh words?”

Fly shook his head. “The note is from Tom's wife — and I am afraid I cannot make it out at all. She writes remarkably ill, Jane — a most impenetrable fist If I judge correctly, she seems to think her boys have run away to sea! But that is absurd!”

He tossed me the single piece of paper. I took it with a sense of foreboding, and scanned it swiftly. Louisa Seagrave's handwriting was almost illegible: whether from the weight of her anxiety, or the effects of Dr. Wharton's Comfort, the words were cramped into a scrawl. The meaning, however, was clear enough.

“Naturally they have run away to sea,” I retorted, and thrust the letter back at Frank. “What boy of pluck would fail to do the same? With a father consigned to gaol and a mother enslaved to opium, I should be moved to risk even so dreadful an institution as the Navy myself. You shall probably find them aboard that Indiaman riding at anchor in Southampton Water.”

“The Star of Bengal?”

“I caught a glimpse of them on the Quay not an hour since. They wore cockades and dark blue cloaks, Frank, and each carried a seaman's chest upon his shoulders.”

“Devil take them both!” he burst out. “Young cubs! That ship is due to sail with the evening tide!”

“Naturally. Charles and Edward are not Lucky Tom's sons for nothing. They meant to be long gone by the time their mother discovered their absence. Poor little souls — they shall be disappointed!”

But my brother did not vouchsafe a reply. He was already pulling on his boots.

FRANK WAS GONE FROM MRS. DAVIES'S ESTABLISHMENT a full two hours and thirteen minutes by the mantel clock, during which time I turned about the room in restless impatience, my brain divided between a natural concern for the welfare of the litde Seagraves, and the most active anxiety on Etienne LaForge's part Every minute spared for Charles and Edward, must be another moment of liberty denied the Frenchman. I attempted to bend my activity to the completion of a small garment for Mary's child — I took up and set down no fewer than three books — and still my gaze would travel inevitably to the ticking clock.