Stephanie Barron: Jane and The Wandering Eye

At his feet lay the White Harlequin.

The face still wore its mask, but behind the lozenge of velvet the eyes were sightless and staring. Blood pooled slowly on the Duchess’s Savonnerie carpet, as though the man called Portal had wished to exchange his white-patterned stuff for the rival Harlequin’s red.

I raised one hand to my lips to stifle a scream, and with the other, gripped Madam Lefroy’s arm. She tensed beneath my fingers.

A woman brushed past me with a flash of black curls, and fell in supplication at the Harlequin’s feet. The Medusa, Maria Conyngham. With shaking fingers she snatched at the dead man’s mask. “Richard! Oh, Richard!”

The voice of a bereaved mother, or an abandoned wife — the soul of a woman destroyed by grief. The crowd parted to admit Hugh Conyngham to the hushed circle, and he knelt at his sister’s side.

“Dead!” she cried, and fell weeping on his breast.

“Kinny?”

The voice, clear and sweet as a child’s, was the Lady Desdemona’s. She stood just behind Hugh Conyngham, on the edge of the crowd. The pallor of her face was extreme. But in her composure and the intensity of her dark grey eyes I saw something of the fierce Trowbridge will. Without even a look for the murdered Harlequin, she crossed to the Knight.

“Kinny, what have you done?”

“Nothing, Mona! I swear it! I found him just as you see!”

“Then show me what is in your hand!”

Her brother started, and released the thing, which fell clattering to the parquet floor — a bloody knife, chased in gold, as curved and deadly as a scimitar.

12 December 1804, cont.

THE UPROAR OF THE ASSEMBLED GUESTS WAS SWIFT AND sudden. The Dowager Duchess of Wilborough screamed, the Knight was wrestled into a chair, and not a few of the guests made swiftly for the door — being disinclined, one supposes, to a meeting with the constables that evening, and all the tedium it should require.

For my part, I had not the slightest hesitation in remaining. The murder of the White Harlequin had rendered Lord Harold’s business irrelevant; but he should assuredly be summoned now from London, and my observation of all in the Wilborough household should be as gold. My thoughts were suddenly diverted, however, by Anne Lefroy’s seeking a chair, her pallor extreme. Madam can never rely upon a physical courage in the face of blood, and I feared she should faint. Where were Henry and Eliza? A swift glance for a tower of birds’ nests and ship models — and I waved my sister to my side.

“Do you look to Madam Lefroy,” I enjoined, “while I attend to the murder.”

“But of course.” Eliza was all efficiency. “Henry! A glass of water, if you please — or better yet, brandy! And quickly!”

I returned to the anteroom doorway, and there found the Knight in the midst of an outburst.

“But do observe the open window! I assure you, whoever committed this dreadful deed has jumped to the paving below! Quickly, Jenkins — to the street, or he shall escape us entirely!”

The man Jenkins hesitated, bewildered, and glanced to the Dowager Duchess.

“Go, go — and take Samuel with you!” she urged him. The footman dashed for the stairs.

The massive Moor, his face blackened with burnt cork and his turban formed of a lady’s cashmere shawl, pushed his way to the fore of the pitiful scene.

“My name is Gibbs,” he said, “and I have the honour to act as Her Grace’s physician. I must be permitted to examine the gentleman.”

“It is Mr. Richard Portal,” Maria Conyngham told the doctor. She was weeping still, but struggled for composure. “He is our company’s manager. Your physick will avail him nothing, however. The knife blade found his heart.”

“Hush now, Maria,” her brother said, and drew her to his bosom.

Dr. Gibbs dismissed the pair with a glance and bent to the unfortunate Portal. He felt of his wrists and neck, then laid an ear to the blood-soaked breast. And at last, with surprising gentleness, the physician removed the black velvet mask.

All evidence of the Harlequin’s former gaiety was fled. The expression of agonised horror that still gripped his countenance was distressing in the extreme. Richard Portal was revealed as a not unattractive gentleman, but well past his first youth; his brown hair was touched with grey, and his complexion reddened by exposure or drink. Dr. Gibbs closed the staring eyes, and arranged the lifeless limbs in an attitude of dignity; and then he turned to look at the Dowager.

Eugenie was huddled on a blue and gold settee. Lady Desdemona stood at her side.

“A constable should be summoned, Your Grace,” Dr. Gibbs said quietly. “Elliot, the magistrate, is to be preferred, of course — but at this hour—”

As though conjured by his words, a bronze clock on the mantel began to chime. It had just gone two.

“I did not kill him, Gibbs,” the Knight burst out, straining in his captors’ grip. “You must believe me! I did not do this thing!”

“Be quiet, Simon.” The Dowager Duchess’s voice was weary. “You must save your words for the magistrate, my dear.” Gripping the knobbed head of her cane, she rose a trifle unsteadily, patted Lady Desdemona’s hand, and progressed towards the doorway. Her gaze she kept studiously averted from the dead man on the carpet. The hushed crowd of guests parted like a tide to permit her passage, then closed again around her.

“Your Grace,” Dr. Gibbs called after Eugenie in a commanding voice. “Your Grace, I must beg your indulgence. Would you have the body removed?”

The Duchess halted in her stride, but did not turn. “Leave him, Gibbs,” she replied. “Mr. Elliot will wish to view everything precisely as it was found. Later we may consider what is due to Mr. Portal — but for the nonce, I must summon the constables and despatch a letter to the magistrate’s residence. Are you acquainted with the direction?”

“I am, Your Grace,” Dr. Gibbs replied. “Mr. Elliot resides in Rivers Street.”

“Very well. I shall write to him directly. But I must beg that no one depart this house until the constable or Mr. Elliot arrive.”

The doors closed behind the Duchess — and that part of the assembled masquerade, that had not fled at the first instance of blood, commenced a dispirited milling about the drawing-room. I surveyed the ranks hastily, and could find no trace of Madam Lefroy’s acquaintance, the Red Harlequin, or of the bearded Pierrot who had conversed at such length with Maria Conyngham. Some fifty guests arrayed in motley nonetheless remained. Most eyes were careful to avoid the pathetic figure felled upon the exquisite carpet, or the group of actors despondent at its feet; and Dr. Gibbs was so good as to summon a footman, and request some bed linen, for the composure of the body.

“Jane.” Madam Lefroy raised a shaking hand to my arm. “I must leave this place at once. At once! I cannot bear the pall of death! I find in it a terrible presentiment!”

“More brandy, Henry,” Eliza said tersely, “and perhaps some smelling salts. Enquire of Lady Desdemona.”

My brother hastened away, and I knelt to Madam Lefroy.

“Dear friend,” I said softly, “you must rally, I fear. Indeed you must. For we none of us may quit the household until the constables have come. At the first opportunity, I assure you, we shall summon a chaise and attend you home.”

She closed her eyes and gripped my fingers painfully.

FOR THE CONSTABLES’ ARRIVAL WAS REQUIRED PERHAPS A quarter-hour, the streets being all but deserted at that time of night. At the approach to Laura Place, however, the party encountered some difficulty — the way being blocked by an assemblage of chairmen in attendance upon the rout, and expectant of any amount of custom when it should be concluded. The news that a murder had occurred within, was incapable of deterring these hardy souls, who had braved a night of snow and considerable cold in pursuit of pence; and it was with a clamour of indignation, and the most vociferous protests, that they suffered the constables to clear them from the stoop.