Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

He rang for wine, and when it had been brought, consumed a little in silence. It was Henry who related the history of the perch phaeton, its scandalous novel, and the letter it contained; and when he had done, I puzzled a moment over the matter.

“Like you, Henry, I cannot incline towards one theory or another,” I declared at last. “We must attempt to ascertain whether Mr. Valentine Grey was indeed in London at the moment of his wife's end — and whether he had reason to suspect a dangerous entanglement with The Unknown. It would not go amiss, either, could we put a name to the lady's lover. But until such things are laid plain, it must all be conjecture. And injurious conjecture at that.”

“So we thought as well,” Neddie said from his corner. “And having concluded our inspection of the phaeton, despatched the greys to their stable under the watchful eye of the tyger, and charged the Canterbury constabulary with the safekeeping of the carriage — Henry and I proceeded to pay a call upon The Larches.”

“The Greys' estate? No wonder, then, that you were so long detained!”

“Indeed. We have tramped through half the neighbourhood in pursuit of justice, and found not a hint of it within fifteen miles of the coast. It has all fled to London, I suppose, out of a terror of French cavalry.”

“And did you discover Mr. Grey in savage looks, with pistols at the ready and his housekeeper for hostage, intent upon the defiance of the Law?”

“Hardly. Imagine our surprise, my dear sister, to find Grey as absent as foretold, and the house in possession of strangers.”

“Strangers?” I echoed, intrigued.

“Perhaps that is not the correct word,” Henry broke in hastily. “But they certainly could not be considered as forming a part of the household.”

“Enough of riddles!” I set down my wineglass with decision. “I am not young Fanny, to be diverted at a word.”

“Can not you guess whom we found in the saloon, rifling the dead woman's desk for all they were worth?” Neddie's eyes glinted with something too acute to be called amusement.

“I cannot,” I retorted helplessly. “I never heard of Mrs. Grey until this morning, and cannot hope to name her intimates.”

“Captain Woodford and Edward Bridges,” Henry said apologetically, “and both of them much the worse for wine.”

“Good God!” I cried; and then, “How can you look so roguish, Neddie? Think what this must mean for Lizzy, if Mr. Bridges's name should be linked in scandal to Mrs. Grey's! And Captain Woodford, too — of whom Harriot has such hopes! It does not bear thinking of.”

“I believe it is my Lizzy who has hopes of the gallant Captain,” he amended. “Harriot's feelings, like those of any modest young lady, must be presently in doubt. I cannot be expected to consider of Harriot, if she will not consider of herself.”

“Pray, pray, be sensible, Neddie!”

“You disappoint me, Jane,” my brother replied drily. “You do not show the proper relish for intrigue. I had expected more, from Henry's account of your doings in Bath last winter. I thought you quite enslaved to a dangerous excitement.”

If I threw Henry an evil look, and received an air of insouciance in return, I may perhaps be forgiven.

“Captain Woodford we may explain,” I managed eventually. “I understand that he has been on terms of intimacy with Mr. Grey from boyhood, and might naturally wish to be present when the gentleman returned. Perhaps he hoped to shield his friend from the full weight of such terrible news. And Mr. Bridges might merely have accompanied him.”

“Tho' they travelled in separate equipages, and seemed distinctly out of charity with one another.”

This must give me pause.

“Captain Woodford would have it that they had come to condole with Mr. Grey,” Henry threw in, “tho' he could tell us nothing about that gentleman's movements, or when he was expected from London. And poor Mr. Bridges was decidedly red-faced and mumchance — either from the effects of wine or the ruin of his hopes, for I know him to have backed the Commodore to a shocking extent. At first he suggested he would condole with Grey as well, until Captain Woodford abused him to his face for a blackguard and a liar. It would have ended in Bridges calling the Captain out, had Neddie not intervened.” [13] To call a man out was to challenge him to a duel. — Editor's note.

“How very singular,” I said slowly. “Captain Woodford and Mr. Bridges, to have had a falling-out. They seemed the best of fellows, when last I had the pleasure of conversing with them.”

“At the race-meeting itself, Jane?”

“Tho' well before the murder of Mrs. Grey. Our party met with the two gentlemen in the interval before the heats. They seemed most companionable, and joined in their good wishes for the Commodore's running.”

“As well they might,” Henry retorted gloomily. “Much good it may do them.”

“Perhaps the betting aroused their enmity,” Neddie mused. “Or Denys Collingforth's insults. He fairly accused them of Mrs. Grey's murder — and before all of Kent.”

“But would that cause either to drive post-haste to The Larches?” I protested. “You spoke of rifled desk drawers, Neddie. Certainly you were in error there? The two were surely not despoiling Mrs. Grey's things?”

My brothers exchanged a long look; then Neddie shrugged. “Their appearance at our entrance had all the suggestion of uneasy interruption, Jane. Woodford was bending over the desk, while Mr. Bridges was intent about the lock of one drawer. Whether either man had divined its secrets, I cannot say; but I am certain that was their purpose.”

“And could the housekeeper tell you nothing of their coming?”

“Only that they had burst upon her all unawares, when she was already prostrate with grief at her mistress's passing; that they insisted upon admission to the house, and vowed that they would wait for Mr. Grey.”

“And so she left them to peruse the contents of her mistress's desk,” I muttered. “A considerable liberty.”

“I must believe that Mrs. Bastable — the housekeeper— was quite accustomed to seeing my brother Bridges and the Captain at The Larches. To her there was nothing extraordinary in their being granted the freedom of the house.”

We considered this unfortunate conclusion in silence a moment, while the willows sighed gendy along the banks of the Stour in the darkness. The sound, so generally soothing, drifted through the open French windows like a whisper from the grave.

“Do you apprehend the nature of Mr. Bridges's intimacy with the Greys, Neddie?” I enquired at length.

He shrugged. “It was neither so very great, as to be called intimate, nor so trifling as to pass for the barest acquaintance. Edward would have it that Mrs. Grey was very fond of cards, and when her husband was absent on business in Town, she would often send round to various gendemen in the neighbourhood, that they might make up her whist table.”

“Mr. Bridges played at cards at The Larches?”

“Then no doubt he lost,” Henry added.

“It is his chief talent.” Neddie rose and turned restlessly before the bare hearth. “But I confess to some anxiety at his presence in that house, and at such a time. I feel scarcely less on Woodford's account. They are both of them honourable fellows — as the behaviour of gentlemen is usually construed.”

“Meaning, that they are amiable, good-humoured, feckless sportsmen who should not be trusted with their quarter's pay,” I finished. “Either they intended to retrieve their vowels from Mrs. Grey's desk, or some other piece of incriminating paper has given rise to anxiety. [14] A gentleman's vowels were his IOUs — signed with his name, and binding as a debt of honor. — Editor's note. A love letter? An indiscretion, too desperate to be revealed to the lady's husband?”