Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Stillroom Maid

“And does your commission generally give you so much trouble?”

He grinned — an easy, languorous expression not unlike a hound’s. “There has not been a serious offence in the vicinity for years, Miss Austen. The duties of Justice are more honoured in the breach than the observance. We may account Tess Arnold’s murder the result of an extraordinary run of bad luck.”

“Have there been other incidents, then, predating this murder?”

“Not in Bakewell itself,” Sir James replied. “But the owner of Penfolds Hall — Mr. Charles Danforth — has suffered grievous misfortune in recent months. He has lost no less than four children, the last a stillborn son. His wife passed away a fortnight after her lying-in.”

“It is a wonder the people of Bakewell do not believe him cursed,” I murmured.

“Ah — but they do! And the maid’s murder will be taken as further proof of it.” Sir James looked to my cousin. “It is a most distressing business, whatever the cause. It seems your passion for angling, Mr. Cooper, has placed us all at the center of a maelstrom. What have you to say for yourself?”

Mr. Cooper opened and shut his mouth without a word escaping him. It was fortunate, I thought, that no hymn sprang forth.

“A maelstrom,” I repeated. “Has news of the girl’s murder spread so quickly?”

“Recollect that it was market day, and all the countryside gathered in town,” Sir James replied. “If there is a resident within twenty miles of Bakewell yet in ignorance of the events, I should be greatly surprised.”

“Is Mr. Tivey so little to be trusted?”

Sir James hesitated. “Michael Tivey is well enough in his way — a good surgeon, and a better blacksmith — but he is also a native of this country, reared in all the superstition and ignorance for which these hills are known.”

“And what does superstition argue, Sir James?” I enquired.

“Tivey would have it the girl was killed in sacrifice — that she was butchered like a spring lamb to appease a vengeful god. He is crying out in every publican’s house against the heretics who walk among us — against infidels, and idolators, and destroyers of respectable faith. In short, Tivey would have it that Tess Arnold was murdered by Freemasons.”

“Freemasons!” I cried. And was bereft of further speech.

A Freemasons’ lodge is so much a part of life in a country village — a gathering place for local gentlemen, and a focus for their benevolent works — that it might rival the Church in sanctity. Indeed, not a few of the most distinguished clerics in the Church of England espouse the Brotherhood’s Christian principles; to be a politician is almost synonymous with membership; the Prince of Wales has lent the order an air of Fashion; and advancement in the world of the professions, whether in London or the counties, might well turn upon the influence of one’s fellow Masons. In short, the lodge is the most powerful of gentlemen’s clubs — than which, in England, little else is more powerful. The idea of a surgeon-blacksmith inciting public opinion against such a creditable institution strained the bounds of belief.

“Freemasons,” Sir James repeated with a hint of irony in his voice. “I suspect the local lodge has rejected Tivey as a member. However excellent his hands with horses and broken sinews, he is not what our Derbyshire gentry would like to call one of ourselves; and so he seizes this opportunity to paint us all with a grisly brush. He shall certainly do some damage, to be sure — there are many enough among the Bakewell rabble who are willing to believe the rankest sort of nonsense.”

“But Masons have long been regarded as pillars of respectability,” objected my cousin Mr. Cooper. “I do not mean to say that this was always the case; there was a time, indeed, when God-fearing folk understood the Brethren to have formed a dark cabal, a sort of heretical sect, and the Masonic affection for obscure symbols did not recommend their cause. But such ignorance must be a thing of the past. To be a Freemason is to be recognised as a decent and benevolent fellow — and one who moves in the first circles. Even so exalted a gentleman as my esteemed patron, Sir George Mumps, is not above joining a lodge. He pressed me most flatteringly only last winter to become a member; but, however, I could not spare the time from my parish duties. It is impossible that a Mason should be connected with so disgraceful an affair as the maid’s murder — and if such accusations were to reach Sir George’s ears, I am sure he would refute them most indignantly!”

“But as Tivey has seen fit to point out, there is a ritual execution prescribed for traitors to the lodge,” Sir James replied, “and the maidservant’s case is very like in nearly every particular. Tivey has published the nature of the girl’s wounds in Bakewell’s streets, and many are now crying revenge against the Secret Brotherhood.”

“In what way does the maid’s case appear similar, Sir James?” I enquired.

“When a man betrays his brother Masons, he is to be executed in a rather grim and unhappy manner. His throat is slit, his bowels cut out, and his tongue torn from his mouth. You see the resemblance to Tess Arnold’s case.”

“But for the throat-cutting,” I murmured, “and the addition of a lead ball to the forehead. And do you credit Mr. Tivey’s accusation?”

Sir James shrugged expressively. “I am a member of the Duke’s lodge myself, Miss Austen. I cannot be considered impartial. But I may attest that the maidservant’s name was never broached in our proceedings, and that no formal decision was taken to murder her in this way. What a rogue Mason may have done, however …”

The Justice allowed his thought to trail away; the conclusion was evident enough. Sir James Villiers was placed in a most awkward position. As a Mason in commission of the peace, he must judge the very institution of which he was himself a member — a fact that should not be lost upon the common folk of Bakewell. The matter of the maid’s brutal end should become a cause for politics.

“The Duke’s lodge, you say?” Mr. Cooper’s interest had been swiftly regained. Here was influence to rival Sir George Mumps’s.

“His Grace the Duke of Devonshire has long been a member of two lodges — the Prince of Wales’s, which he attends while resident in London; and the Bakewell Brotherhood founded by his father, the fourth Duke.”

“But a woman should never be admitted to either,” I observed, “unless she went disguised as a man.”

Sir James surveyed my countenance narrowly. “You have hit upon the very point, Miss Austen, that most supports Tivey’s wildest suppositions. Tess Arnold was arrayed as a gentleman on the night of her death; and I will not disguise that her master, Charles Danforth, is a Mason like his neighbours. It is our custom to go masked into certain of our ceremonies; and with her face concealed, the girl might credibly have passed for an absent Brother.”

“And did the local lodge convene that night?”

“It did,” Sir James replied. “But certainly not among the rocks above Miller’s Dale.”

“Was Charles Danforth present?”

“I believe that he was. His brother, Andrew, however, did not appear, having an engagement to dine at Chatsworth that evening.”

“—Though the Duke is a fellow Mason?”

Sir James smiled. “Indolence marks nearly every endeavour in which His Grace is engaged, Miss Austen. It should not be extraordinary for the Brotherhood to meet, and Devonshire to remain comfortably at home.”

I rose restlessly and took a turn about the room. What possible interest could a mere maid have felt in the proceedings of gentlemen? As Sir James acknowledged, Freemasons cloaked their meetings in an air of mystery. They trafficked in rituals and signs. Had Tess Arnold attempted to pierce the veil as a sort of joke? But I could not believe she had stumbled upon the idea herself. Someone — some man, who might possibly have supplied her extraordinary clothes — had suggested the plan; and it was probably he who killed her.