Stephanie Barron: Jane and The Wandering Eye

I observed all this from the vantage of a drawing-room window, having grown intolerably weary of turning about the overheated room in attendance upon the Law. If Simon, Marquis of Kinsfell, was to be credited — for such, I had learned, was the Knight’s full title — then the chairmen must have observed the murderer in the act of leaping from the anteroom window. The prospect of that apartment gave out onto Laura Place, in company with the window at which I now stood. It should be a simple matter to question the fellows assembled below—

But I had only to entertain the thought, before it was superseded by another. Had the chairmen observed a figure to exit the Dowager’s window in considerable stealth, should not they have given chase? One had only to shout out “Thief!” in any street of the city, and a crowd of willing pursuers was sure to form, intent upon the rewards of capture. But no hue or cry had arisen from below — and thus a faint seed of doubt regarding Lord Kinsfell must form itself in my heart.

A sudden hush brought my gaze around from the window — the constables were arrived, two grizzled elders more accustomed to calling out the watch than attending a murder among the Quality — and with them, Mr. Wilberforce Elliot.

He was a large and shambling man, got up in a wine-coloured frock coat, much stained, and a soiled shirt. His neckcloth was barely equal to the corpulence of his neck, and in being forced into service, had so impeded the flow of air to his lungs, that his countenance was brilliantly red and overlaid with moisture. But Wilberforce Elliot was an imposing figure, nonetheless, in that room arrayed for frivolity — a figure that stunned the assemblage to a devout and listening stillness.

“Your Grace,” the magistrate said, as he doffed his hat and bowed. A clubbed hank of black hair, thick and dirty as a bear’s, tumbled over one shoulder. “Your humble servant.”

“Mr. Elliot,” the Dowager Duchess replied. “You are very good to venture out at such an hour.”

“It is nothing, Your Grace — I had not yet sought my bed. May I be permitted to view the body?”

Eugenie inclined her head, and gestured towards the anteroom. After an instant’s hesitation, and the briefest survey of the appalled onlookers, Mr. Elliot made his ponderous way to the dead man’s side.

I let fall the window drape, and joined my party at a little remove from the anteroom itself, but affording an excellent prospect of the interior through the opened connecting doors.

“What a devil of a man to intrude upon the Dowager’s misery,” my sister Eliza whispered. “He might be Pantagruel from the Comédie Française! But I suppose the Duchess is familiar with such characters of old.”

“Eliza!” Henry muttered fiercely in his wife’s ear. “I have told you that oaths cannot become a lady!”

With a sigh and a grunt, Mr. Elliot forced his bulk to a creaking posture by Mr. Portal’s head. A quick twitch of the covering linen; a shrewd appraisal; and a forefinger bluntly probed at the dead man’s chest.

“And where is the knife?”

Dr. Gibbs cleared his throat and glanced at Lord Kinsfell. The Marquis sat with bowed head and slumped shoulders, his attention entirely turned within. The physician reached for the bloody thing, which had been laid on a napkin by one of the footmen, and handed it to the magistrate.

“Ah, indeed,” Mr. Elliot said through pursed lips. “A cunning blade, is it not?”

No reply seemed adequate to this observation, but none was apparently deemed necessary.

“And you, sir, would be—?”

“Dr. Gibbs, of Milsom Street,” the Moor replied. “I have the honour to attend Her Grace.”

“Then I venture to suppose that you will declare the gentleman dead, will you not, Dr. Gibbs? What a quantity of blood there is, to be sure!”

Mr. Elliot sat back upon his massive haunches, and surveyed the body with a rueful look. “To come to such a pass, and in such a suit of clothes! I fancy you should not like to end in a similar fashion, eh, Gibbs? — A similar fashion , d’you see?” The corpulent magistrate laughed heartily. “Aye, that’s very good.”

A sudden whirl of skirts brought the black-haired Medusa furiously to his side.

“Mr. Elliot — if that is how you are called — I would beg you to comport yourself with some decency and respect! A man has been foully murdered — and you would make witticisms upon his attire? It is intolerable, sir! I must demand that you apologise immediately!”

“Apologise?” Mr. Elliot heaved himself painfully to his feet, and regarded Maria Conyngham with penetration. “And to whom must I apologise, pray? For the gentleman in question is beyond caring, my dear. And now tell me. Are you not Maria Conyngham, of the Theatre Royal?”

“I am, sir.”

“Enjoyed your Viola most thoroughly. Now be a good girl and stand aside. Your Grace!”

“Yes, Mr. Elliot?”

“I should like an account of this evening’s amusement.”

The Dowager glanced about her helplessly.

“I shall tell him, Grandmère,” interjected the Lady Desdemona. She had been seated near her brother, her hand on his, and now rose with an expression of fortitude, her countenance pale but composed. “Mr. Portal is the manager of the Theatre Royal, whose company we intended to celebrate this evening. The masquerade was some hours underway, when we were so fortunate as to enjoy a recital from Macbeth , performed by Mr. Hugh Conyngham—”

“Mr. Conyngham is where?”

“At your service, Mr. Elliot,” the actor replied, stepping forward.

“And in the recital you were positioned where?”

“In the drawing-room opposite, before the fire.”

“The assembly regarding you?”

“Of course.”

“And Mr. Portal was—?”

Lady Desdemona broke in with an exclamation of annoyance. “But that is what I am telling you!”

Her brother stood up abruptly. “Mr. Portal was within the anteroom where his body now lies. I know this, because I thrust open the door in the midst of Mr. Conyngham’s speech, and found him expired upon the floor. His assailant must have escaped through the anteroom window.”

Lord Kinsfell’s eyes were blazing as he conveyed this intelligence to the magistrate, but he swallowed painfully at its close; and I guessed him to labour under an excess of emotion all the more pitiable for its containment.

Mr. Elliot’s gaze swept the length of the Knight’s figure. “Do I have the honour of addressing the Marquis of Kinsfell?”

“You do, sir.”

“Heir to the Duchy of Wilborough?”

“I may claim that distinction.”

“—and possessor of the knife that murdered Mr. Richard Portal?”

A hesitation, and Lord Kinsfell bowed his head. “The knife has long been in our family’s possession, yes. It is a decorative blade from Bengal, bestowed upon my father by the directors of the East India Company.”

The magistrate looked puzzled. “Might any person have come by it so readily as yourself, my lord?”

“I must suppose so. The knife was generally displayed upon the mantel of this room.” Lord Kinsfell gestured to a small platform made of teak, ideal for the positioning of a decorative blade, now forlorn and bare above the fireplace.

“Am I correct, my lord, in assuming that you pulled the blade from Mr. Portal’s breast?”

A muffled cry broke from Maria Conyngham.

“I did, sir,” Lord Kinsfell retorted, with a glance for the actress, “but I was not the agent of its descent into Mr. Portal’s heart.” He passed a trembling hand across his brow. “I was discovered in the attempt to aid or revive him only — and should better have pursued his murderer.”