Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“Hah!” Lizzy snorted. “As tho' any man might comprehend the nature of his wife.”

“—but he had found occasion, in recent days, for a thorough review of her possessions and correspondence.”

“Naturally,” I murmured. “A man of greater courage (or less), should have burned the whole without the briefest glimpse. Mr. Grey is at last revealed as pitiably human! He has probed the wound, and rubbed salt in its depths.”

“Well?” Lizzy enquired impatiently. “And what did he find?”

Like a conjurer, Neddie produced a sheaf of folded rag from within his coat, and presented it with a flourish. His wife visibly recoiled.

“That is her private correspondence? Her husband actually displayed it to you? But how despicable!”

“It is entirely in French,” Neddie replied without a pause, “and, I am assured, entirely from the Comte de Penfleur. It was to prevent the letters from falling into that gentleman's hands that Mr. Grey undertook to read them at all. And what he discovered distressed and confounded him.”

“Then they were lovers,” I said.

“Not in the least,” Neddie replied. “Or if they bore one another any affection, the letters betray little sign. They were partners, Jane, in a very grave collusion — the securing of information regarding the movement of troops along the Kentish coast, for the edification of His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon Buonaparte.”

Henry slapped one hand excitedly against his thigh.

“—Or so Mr. Grey was forced to conclude, after reading these letters,” Neddie added. “He tells me that they are filled with Penfleur's instructions regarding the management of Mrs. Grey's friends — Captain Woodford and Lady Forbes being at the head of the list, and your brother, Mr. Bridges, Lizzy, trailing doubtfully at the end.”

“Edward?” she cried incredulously. “What might Edward possibly have known, that should be of interest to Buonaparte?”

“A very great deal. His friend Woodford, you know, was in the habit of confiding snippets of intelligence to his most intimate friends, that should never have left he officers' mess; and Mr. Bridges must naturally have been the recipient of these. What Woodford might, in a moment of caution, hesitate to impart to Mrs. Grey, his friend had no compunction in relating. I imagine his being privy to the Army's secrets must have greatly increased Mr. Bridges's sense of importance.”

Lizzy drew breath sharply, and looked the most indignant I had ever seen her. “Fool,” she muttered, “he will be the undoing of us all.”

“Lady Forbes, for her part, is a silly little gossip who should have delighted in communicating her husband's schemes,” Henry observed quickly, as tho' to divert Lizzy's attention.

“—Such as the intended troop movement next week between Chatham and Deal,” I added, as comprehension dawned. “All of Kent is in an uproar regarding the disruption of the pheasant-shooting; and Major-General Lord Forbes was quite put out at the report's circulation. Captain Woodford himself cautioned me against speaking too freely.”

“I suppose Mrs. Grey's fascinating card-parties were a means of securing information?” Henry said.

“At first,” Neddie conceded. “But I have an idea that over time, the gaming debts were themselves a useful tool. They secured Mrs. Grey's hold on her unwilling friends. As the possessor of any number of vowels, she might choose to extend her debtors' credit, or even forgive a sum entirely — for a small consideration.”

“How brilliant!” I muttered. “And yet, how dangerous in the extreme. She ran a severe risk, did any of her victims determine to be free of her.”

“It is possible that the lady was subtle enough, that few among them comprehended what she was about. But perhaps one at least perceived her object.”

“Denys Collingforth,” I said.

“Exactly.”

I rose, and commenced to turn the length of the room in considerable perturbation of spirit. “But if Collingforth resisted the lady's power, and threatened to expose her, should not Mrs. Grey have done the murder, rather than end a victim?”

Neddie observed me in silence, his own expression guarded. I puzzled it out still further, and then wheeled to face him. “Do you credit Grey's suggestion that he knew nothing of his wife's activity? Or are the letters all a subterfuge, to place his enemy the Comte in the gravest peril of his life, and clear his own concerns from every stain of treason?”

“That is exactly what I cannot determine,” my brother replied grimly. From the cast of his countenance I knew that I had spoken aloud his governing obsession. “It was to that end — the illumination of Grey's character — that I solicited the opinion of each of you, regarding the man. I cannot make him out at all. Another fellow, upon learning that Collingforth was dead, should have left the matter of his wife's espionage for the grave to swallow — should have burned the evidence at midnight, and rejoiced in the vagaries of Fortune.”

“Unless he feared the Comte's power, in ways we have yet to discover, and thought to place his head in a noose,” Lizzy observed. “Did Grey urge you to arrest the Frenchman?”

“He did not. I told him forthrightly that I could not, in all conscience, place charges on the force of accusation alone; I must peruse the correspondence myself, and form a judgement independent of Grey's. He accepted as much.”

“Mr. Grey is a careful man.”

“I did promise, however, to have the Comte watched.”

“Penfleur had departed already for Dover?” I enquired.

“His carriage was at the door, when at length I emerged from Grey's study; and it was then that the Comte drew me aside, to urge me most passionately to pursue justice in Mrs. Grey's cause. He had reason to believe that Mr. Grey was involved in a very deep game, regarding a delicate situation of international finance; that his arrangements — which reached from the Americas to Spain and Amsterdam — might reasonably be construed as treasonous; and that it was not inconceivable his beloved Francoise had discovered the whole. Mr. Grey had never borne his wife the slightest affection, and when forced to the point, had secured his empire and his reputation through the murder of his wife.”

Henry whistled. “That's playing the matter very close, indeed. The Comte de Penfleur is a cool fellow.”

“Or a very desperate one,” Lizzy retorted calmly. “It is possible, Neddie, to form a simple idea of how the murders were effected. Let us suppose that matters fell out as Mr. Grey has suggested. Denys Collingforth was pressed for what he knew, and pressed by his creditors; he grew tired of living in thrall to Mrs. Grey, and formed a pact with his friend Everett — a shady character, by all accounts — to support him in a dangerous act. He lured the lady to his chaise at the race-meeting with the letter discovered in her riding habit, and informed her of his intention to expose her; when she defied him, he drove out along the Wingham road after the race and killed her. He neglected, however, to discover his letter on her person, and simply disposed of the riding habit entirely as a safeguard against discovery. The Comte de Penfleur arrived the following day, thwarted in his hopes of an elopement and insecure in his liberty. He would have known, from Mrs. Grey's letters, that Collingforth — in whose carriage her murdered body was discovered — was the least docile of her charges. The Comte undertook to buy intelligence of Collingforth's movements, while diverting attention from his own nefarious doings, by suggesting to the Justice that Mr. Grey was the murderer. The cardsharper, Pembroke, reported Collingforth's presence in Deal to the Comte; the Comte despatched his minions (or killed Collingforth himself; the point is immaterial); and poor Collingforth's silence was purchased at the cost of his life.”