Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

“Of what importance is this in the present case, Mr. Crawford?” Seraphine enquired.

“Could you imagine, Mademoiselle, the tempests of emotion — of agonised doubt — undergone in the privacy of my study, on the very heels of the Captain's death, you should not look so harshly upon an old friend.” Mr. Crawford threw himself down into an easy chair, his short legs extended before him and his hands resting upon his considerable stomach. His bald head shone with the effort of his communication. Miss Crawford had said that her brother spent the day of Fielding's discovery closeted in his study, with a bottle of claret for companionship; and I understood now the cause. Crawford had debated at some length before conveying his intelligence to Lyme's justice, as evidenced by the two full days between the Captain's death and Sidmouth's apprehension.

“I was the first man summoned to the scene by the boy who found Fielding's body,” Mr. Crawford continued, “and for Sidmouth's purposes, there could not have been a worse coincidence. For I could not help but observe the hoofprints all round the Captain's still form, despite the trampling that his own horse had effected, in fleeing the very spot; and the fact of those initials — stamped deep in the mud at Fielding's very head — spoke more eloquently than even the blood upon the ground or the lily lying white upon his chest.”

“Lily?” I cried, in sudden horror. The self-same flower had been found at the foot of Bill Tibbit's scaffold, at the very end of the Cobb. I little doubted, from Mr. Crawford's looks, that he was beset by similar fears. Had Sidmouth killed them both, and left the flowers as an inexplicable token?

“This is absurd,” Seraphine spat out contemptuously. “Geoffrey is the very last man to kill another in so brutal a manner. You have been imposed upon, Mr. Crawford — and imperiled my cousin's life as a consequence.”

“My dear Mademoiselle,” Mr. Crawford said, with a pitying look, “who else but Sidmouth should have been riding such a horse?”

“Anyone,” I broke in, “who hoped to incriminate him.”

Crawford's face evidenced his confusion. “In order to throw suspicion far from the murderer himself, you would say?”

“Of course. Had you killed Captain Fielding, Mr. Crawford, should not you do the same?”

The ghost of a smile o'erspread the gentleman's features, and he nodded in acquiescence. “Perhaps, Miss Austen — though I should not place the blame upon my dearest friend.”

“Assuredly not. You should choose your dearest enemy. And we may assume that Fielding's murderer has done as much.” I rose to take a turn before the drawing-room fire, aware of the hope that dawned on Mademoiselle LeFevre's features. “I am more than ever of this opinion, I declare — for had Sidmouth wished to murder Captain Fielding, he is quite unlikely to have ridden Satan to the scene, from suspicion that the horse's hooves should be identified.”

“But of course!” Seraphine cried, her countenance all animation.

“You may well have the right of it, Miss Austen,” Mr. Crawford said, with a doubtful accent, “yet you do not account for the heat of passion. Your claims may only bear weight did the Captain's murderer plan his crime beforehand. But did the Captain meet his end of a sudden — in the midst, for example, of a fight all unlooked for, between two men of hot temper — the matter of his mount's shoes may have escaped the murderer's attention altogether.”

Seraphine was cast down again in a moment — from a sudden conviction, perhaps, that the case was quite likely as Crawford had supposed. Geoffrey Sidmouth, as my own mind imagined it, was very creditably thrown into the role of sudden assassin, when the spur of his temper was placed in consideration.

“But would a man moved to such a sudden mortal blow carry a lily about his person, or leave it by the Captain in token of his sins?” I cried. “Depend upon it, Mr. Crawford. We are all grossly imposed upon. There is more to the matter than meets the eye.”

“You may well be proved correct, Miss Austen,” Mr. Crawford replied, his dejected form speaking all his misgiving, “but the Captain is unlikely to have known two men who bore him such enmity, as we know Sidmouth to have felt.”

I could not charge Mr. Crawford with the betrayal of his friend, as Seraphine had done; he spoke only as Mr. Dobbin and the coroner might, in presenting the evidence at Fielding's inquest — and for any light to be thrown upon the matter, even the most distasteful of possibilities must be accorded a measure of thought. The darkest matters between the two men should be fully canvassed and understood, did we hope to find Fielding's murderer.

“Mademoiselle LeFevre,” I said tentatively, with a look for poor Seraphine, whose face was lost in her kerchief, “I have no wish to increase your distress, for the idle satisfaction of my own curiosity; but it would appear that a better understanding of the affairs between your cousin and Captain Fielding, might materially improve Mr. Sid-mouth's case. Is it in your power to reveal the cause of his profound dislike?”

Her angelic head came up, and her eyes sought mine with pain. “I do not know — I am not certain what may safely be said. I must speak with Geoffrey first.”

“It turns upon the Captain's nickname, does it not?” Mr. Crawford gently enquired. “Le Chevalier. He won it through some service to yourself, I had understood.”

“Service? Service? Is that what he called it?” Seraphine threw back her head with bitter laughter. “The English have a curious way with language, do they not? Mr. Crawford speaks of duty, when he should say betrayal, and Captain Fielding — Captain Fielding spoke when any man of honour should better have remained silent. From the services of our friends, my cousin and I have both of us been reduced to misery.” She rose in a single fluid movement, swung her red cloak about her form, and turned to Mr. Crawford a countenance as remote as heaven.

“Thank you, Mr. Crawford, for the indulgence of your time; but I fear I must return now to the Grange. There is much to be done, and one less pair of hands to do it; and I hold my cousin's concerns too dear to neglect his business in his absence. You will forgive me.”

Mr. Crawford cleared his throat, and sank his chin in his cravat, and seemed at a loss for words.

“May I offer my company, Mademoiselle, and my assistance?” I enquired.

Seraphine only shook her head. “You are kindness itself, Miss Austen, but I should like to be alone at present. We will speak again, I hope, in a few days’ time.”

That she envisioned some meeting by the Golden Lion, in the midst of Sidmouth's inquest, I little doubted; and felt a deep foreboding. A look for Mr. Crawford convinced me that the gentleman was similarly lost in thought; but he roused himself sufficiently to order his carriage, a measure of solicitude for which I was thankful, having walked my fill of Dorset's hills for one morning.

Our few moments’ journey was rendered tedious enough in being passed in virtual silence, before Seraphine was deposited on the Grange's doorstep; and at the coachman's turning his horses’ heads, I had a final glimpse of her — pale, upright, and clothed in fire, as she toiled her lonely way through the courtyard.

20 September 1804

in & wee hours

I COULD NOT SLEEP, TONIGHT, FOR TOSSING AND TURNING IN THE grip of tortured thoughts — all that I observed and witnessed today being fresh upon my mind. A thousand expressions and attitudes paraded before my wearied eyes— Mr. Sidmouth's warmth, as he handed the boy Toby his crutches; the face of Seraphine, as she stared across the sunlit Channel towards France; her tears, in considering Captain Fielding's mysterious behaviour towards herself; and her raging loss in the face of Sidmouth's seizure. Mr. Crawford, too, would not be banished from my mind — for such a heavy burden did he bear, in debating, as he must, his friend's guilt or innocence!