Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

But to continue—

Neddie enquired narrowly as to Mr. Collingforth's movements — heard the corroboration of his friends — and after a protracted interval, in which he debated the most proper course, enjoined the gentleman to remain in the neighbourhood for the present. The unfortunate Collingforth was then sent home in the charge of his intimate acquaintance, Mr. Everett — a gentleman quite unknown to Kent — while his grisly chaise Neddie retained for a time, to allow of a thorough inspection.

Within the body of the carriage, our brother found little of moment; neither Mrs. Grey's habit, nor a hint as to the identity of her murderer. One gold button from the habit, however, had worked its way between the seat cushions. There it might have lain forever, and forever unremarked, had Neddie not exerted himself to search the interior fully. The presence of the thing must prove suggestive: Are we to conclude that Mrs. Grey was stripped of her clothing in the chaise itself?

Provocative as this gilt trophy might be, however, it is as nothing to those Henry retrieved from Mrs. Grey's phaeton. And now I approach the heart of the matter, Cassandra, and must urge you again to discretion.

The contents were few, and readily observable to the eye — a lap robe against the dust; a hamper of provisions, quite empty; the gold plate presented by the sweepstakes officials; several posies bestowed by the more gallant among her acquaintance; and a novel in the French language.

Henry, of course, seized upon the novel — and proclaimed it to be of a scandalous sort, such as only his wife, Eliza, might scruple to entertain. It is called La Nouvelle Heloise , and I believe is rather shocking — however, the book can be no more surprising than what it was found to conceal. For tucked between two leaves of the volume, Cassandra, was a letter.

Even Neddie's cursory French was equal to the seizing of its meaning. He perused it once — checked several phrases with Henry — and retained the original for further consideration. Mrs. Grey, it seemed, had conducted a correspondence with a gentleman not her husband — and had formed a plan of elopement intended for this very night. The two were to meet at Pegwell Bay, where a boat was to bear them to France. What remains at issue, my dear Cassandra, is the identity of the amorous gentleman. For no signature was appended to the missive. Might it have been from Collingforth, himself? — And the lady's purpose divined by a jealous rival, who killed her and placed the blame upon her lover? Mr. Bridges, perhaps, or Captain Woodford? (The latter notion must strike everyone but Denys Collingforth as absurd.)

Or were Mrs. Grey's intentions betrayed to her deluded husband? Mr. Valentine Grey was from home this week; but perhaps a timely warning, anonymous or otherwise, drew him back to Kent in an outrage of feeling. It should not be unusual for a man to work his vengeance upon his wife, and charge her lover with the murder.

Denys Collingforth, however, did not comport himself like a lover. Nothing of anguish was in his looks as he contemplated the ravaged corpse of Mrs. Grey. If anything, he appeared the reverse of all that a lover should be. So why deposit the body in his chaise? Or, in the final consideration, was the letter in the novel merely a subterfuge of Mrs. Grey's cicisbeo , who intended her end rather than her escape? [12] A cicisbeo was the acknowledged lover of a married woman. In some circles the term was used platonically, to signify a male escort. — Editor's note.

The latter seems hardly likely. A disgruntled lover should rather have strangled the lady on the strand at Pegwell in the dark of night, than in the midst of a race-meeting. The letter, for the nonce, must be merely suggestive. It tells us only that one among her friends believed her unhappy enough with her marriage and Kent, to entertain the notion of flight.

Neddie has determined, as you may comprehend, to examine the husband acutely. Mr. Valentine Grey was sent for by express, and is expected at The Larches every moment.

HERE I PAUSED IN MY LETTER TO CASSANDRA, AND SAW again in memory my brother's weary face. It was after ten o'clock when he and Henry returned from the race grounds, and we had the comfortable library entirely to ourselves. Henry threw himself onto a sofa and yawned hugely; Neddie stood in thought by his desk. I had determined not to plague them with questions, being content myself to rest a few moments in my favourite room.

The library, with its five tables, two fireplaces, countless volumes, and eight-and-twenty chairs, is in the newest part of the great house. The first Mr. Thomas Knight added two wings, east and west, nearly thirty years previous; and tho' the entire family is wont to live in the generous space, summer or winter, spurning the chilly grandeur of the more formal drawing-rooms, it sometimes happens that I command the library in splendid solitude. This is a richness not to be carelessly forsworn; for in a house that boasts the frequent presence of nine children — their number increasing with a stupefying regularity — solitude and peace are luxuries dearly bought. But my brother's goodness admits of few limits; he comprehends my need for daily reflection, and the delight I take in the house's privacies; and shoos his numerous progeny to the garden when “Aunt Jane requires her rest.”

“And so you are not abed.” Neddie swung round and peered at me from his place by the unlit hearth. “I am glad of it, Jane. I should soon drive poor Henry mad with my mutterings; he has borne with them too long today.”

“Not a bit of it.” Henry eased off his top boots with a sigh. It should not be remarkable if the feet were swollen, after hours of imprisonment in such fashionable footgear. “I shall be all attention to the despicable business, once I have heard from Jane how the Commodore does.”

“He was sold to the knacker not three minutes before your return,” I told him with conscious cruelty, “and I doubt he shall make a better meat than he has a race-meeting.”

“For shame! The lad was merely weighted too heavily. And he does not like the dust. Give the Commodore a splendid wet muck and he will tear the course to blazes. But truly, Jane — you saw he was looked after?”

I sighed. “A bucket of oats and an hour's rubbing-down. Your groom would hardly do less; I believe he led the nag at a walk the full seven miles between the meeting-grounds and Godmersham, Henry. You have no cause for fear.”

“Not for fear, perhaps,” Neddie observed, as he flung himself into a chair, “but his concern nonetheless does our brother credit. Yours is a most forgiving nature, Henry; you lose your fortune and mine in backing the beast, and yet are anxious to know whether it ate its dinner well. Were I disposed to transgress and disappoint, I should wish to fall into your hands. I might then be assured of a gende reckoning.”

“Unlike the unfortunate Mrs. Grey,” Henry observed. “She certainly met with more brutal treatment.”

Neddie regarded him quizzically. “You incline, then, to the theory of a husband pushed past endurance?”

“I incline to nothing,” he protested. “She might as readily have been strangled by a broken gamester, mad with backing the wrong horse!”

“Better to have strangled the Commodore, then,” I murmured.

Neddie bent his gaze upon me. “What say you, Jane, to Henry's notion?”

“I may say nothing, until I command a greater knowledge of the particulars. Why should you believe Mr. Grey the culprit? Was not he far from the scene, in London?”

Neddie laughed abruptly. “She is as sober as a judge, our sister! If it is particulars you fancy, Jane, then you shall have them. I could not suffer you to remain in ignorance, when all the world will soon be talking of the matter.”