Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Stillroom Maid

“Why should any man throw mud upon his superiors in birth and fortune? From hatred — resentment — a conviction of inferiority. Tivey cannot possibly credit the accusations he has formed. They are in every way absurd. But that will not prevent them from working a hideous change in the peace of this village. And for that I cannot forgive him.”

I cast Lord Harold a sidelong glance. “You speak with real feeling, my lord. I might almost imagine you injured yourself.”

“If you would enquire whether I am a Freemason, Jane, then I shall not hesitate to answer in the affirmative. I have no compunction in proclaiming my pride in an institution that may trace its origins to the Knights Templar themselves; had I lived in the world in the twelfth century, I should have been a Templar in any case.”

“But for the vow of celibacy,” I murmured.

“When the Templars were cast out and denied their worldly powers, their tradition of service to God and country was forced into secrecy, Jane,” Lord Harold continued, “and took upon itself another name. That is why it is death to betray the Masonic Brotherhood; lives once depended upon such protection. The obligations of Brotherhood transcend the ties of nations and their allegiance. If the Monster Napoleon is ever thwarted, my dear girl, it will be due in large part to the work of enlightened men of every country in Europe — and no few of them Masons.”

It was the longest outburst he had yet managed; in his voice I detected something of the Gentleman Rogue, that from his looks, might have been banished forever. I was quietly gratified at having excited so energetic a defence of the gentleman’s realm.

“I understand His Grace the Duke is a member of the local lodge.”

“It was founded in his father’s time. You perceive, now, the cause of my anxiety. The murder of the still-room maid bids fair to involve the Great very far above her station.”

And it was Lord Harold’s practise to defend the Great from harm. “You are afraid, perhaps, that the men of Chatsworth and those of Penfolds Hall are somehow united — not only in being members of a lodge, but in Tess Arnold’s murder?”

“I do not know, Jane. I cannot possibly say. What I may fear, however—”

“Lord Harold,” I attempted, “surely you take too much upon yourself. If the girl were murdered as a traitor to Freemasonry — then what did she hope to betray? The gentry are all members in good standing; and the common folk of the town should never credit Tess Arnold’s story!”

Lord Harold inclined his head; but he remained unconvinced.

“His Grace has been described as far too indolent to stir himself in any cause,” I persisted, “and he was dining at home in company with Andrew Danforth on the night of the murder. Besides — the wounds to the girl’s body did not entirely correspond to those prescribed for ritual execution.”

My companion stared at me in surprise. “Have you been overlistening the ritual yourself, Jane, in a suit of your brother’s clothes?”

“Sir James Villiers supplied the intelligence. Had she been killed by a true Mason, Tess Arnold should have died of a cut throat, and not a lead ball. Very well — a true Mason did not kill her; or not for the reasons described. The Masonic mutilation is by way of subterfuge, visited upon her body after death.”

“By her murderer — or another person altogether?” Lord Harold enquired, with a narrowing of his eyes.

“I cannot say. I believe, however, that it is a diversion — intended to direct our gaze from the true nature of the crime.”

“And what would you have that to be, Jane?”

I lifted my shoulders impatiently. “The Inquest was scuttled by the performance of the Penfolds housekeeper and the maid’s family between them. But we learned this much: Tess Arnold’s situation was compromised, and her subsequent flight may be imputed to her dismissal from the household. It should be Sir James’s first object to learn the cause of the maid’s disgrace.”

“He has done so,” Lord Harold told me.

I looked all my chagrin. “Then he was very remiss in not informing me at once! I have come to depend upon Sir James’s indiscretions. They form the principal matter I possess for consideration. But you will not torture me, my lord. You will not consign me to suspense.”

“Tess Arnold was dismissed because she found her way into Andrew Danforth’s bed. Mrs. Haskell discovered it, and turned the girl away without a character.”

Trust the Gentleman Rogue not to mince words, even with a lady. I was too old an acquaintance to merit the usual deference; we had long adopted the habit of plain-speaking. I revolved the intelligence in my mind. It was, after all, one of the oldest stories in the world, and murder had been done on so slim an account before.

“Tell me a little of Penfolds Hall,” I commanded Lord Harold, “and of the Danforth family history.”

“Charles Danforth is the son of a very respectable man who passed from this life nearly fifteen years ago, leaving a considerable estate in Mr. Danforth’s care. The family is ancient, though untitled, in Derbyshire; and Penfolds itself is a venerable place, dating from the time of Elizabeth. Charles Danforth’s mother was, as I have said, a d’Arcy — the Honourable Anne, a very elegant but fragile woman. She died when the boy was still quite young. Charles was her only child.

“Old Danforth married again not long after his first wife’s death. The second Mrs. Danforth was reckoned a beauty; she was certainly over twenty years his junior; and though perhaps amiable, had not a wit in her head. Andrew was the child of that union, and so delighted his fond parents, that Charles fell into disfavour. Andrew was dandled, spoilt, indulged beyond what was good for him — and raised to believe himself the rightful heir to Penfolds. Charles was sent away to school, and later, to Cambridge. At his parents’ death, he had not seen Penfolds for over a decade.”

“What a dreadful story!” I cried. “That the father should prove so unfeeling to his own child! It is in every way unpardonable!”

Lord Harold shrugged. “Charles Danforth was always of a taciturn disposition, as might repulse the affections of a parent. He was born with a clubbed foot, Jane; and the infirmity, and its singularity, worked early upon his sensibility. It is said that the second Mrs. Danforth — Andrew’s mother — was afraid of the boy, believing his deformity to be the mark of the Devil.”

“Then she was a much stupider person than reputation allows,” I returned crisply. “And Andrew himself? How does he conduct himself towards the usurper of his fortune?”

“With becoming affection,” said Lord Harold. “Without Charles, you understand, Andrew should possess not a farthing. I feel his situation keenly; it is rather like to my own.”

A sidelong glance, to judge how I should take this. I rejoiced in the return of Lord Harold’s wit, and forbore to comment on the sad case of younger sons.

“Do not pretend to being in charity with the fellow,” I cried. “You dislike Andrew Danforth excessively, I feel it in your words. You have said nothing to encourage prejudice; and yet prejudice runs rank throughout your narrative. Because he chuses to dally with his own maids?”

“Young Mr. Danforth’s manners are very pleasing, Jane — I am certain you will find them so. Certainly Lady Harriot enjoys his attentions; and she is nothing if not a discerning character.”

“You believe that he aspires to her ladyship’s hand,” I mused. “If word were put abroad of his liaison with the maid—”

“Who knows what the result might be?”

“It admits enough of doubt, perhaps, to warrant murder — if the gentleman’s case is desperate.”