Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

That she had been murdered in the shed was readily apparent, for had she been dispatched elsewhere and secreted in the hay under cover of darkness, the marks of her blood must surely have been registered on the snow that lay everywhere about. It had ceased falling by the previous night's supper; and the blood was too fresh, by my judgment, to have been spilt very long past.

It was then that I became sensible of the import of the footprints that I had first noted leading towards die shed; and bent to study them more closely. That the one foot was Marguerite's own, seemed clear; and that the other represented a man's larger boot, was equally obvious; but beyond this I could tell nothing. Was the man's print that of a poor labourer or a wealthy gentleman? The bright morning sun had warmed the snow just enough to soften the imprint of both shoes, leaving an outline that revealed nothing of the leather surfaces themselves.

I stood up and craned for some view of the groom, James; he appeared as I did so, a dark speck on the hill above the paddock fence, waving gaily. I raised my hand in return, and with new determination ducked back into the hut.

If the girl had been summoned to her death, she might yet bear the missive somewhere about her person, and so posthumously identify her murderer. That a man bent upon silencing her would also have surmised as much, I acknowledged, but deemed the search no less worthy. When James arrived, Marguerite should become the property of the law, with all the hullabaloo and confusion such a gruesome discovery necessitated; I had best undertake the duty alone, and quickly.

I allowed myself a moment to adjust to the poor light, drew a quick breath against the sickening smell of blood, and determined not to glance at the poor maid's face as I reached for the pockets of her gown. She lay twisted on her back, thrusting one hip upward and guarding the other; and I confess I was forced to wrestle with her corpse the smallest degree to obtain access to the nether side; but it was for nought. Her pockets were empty.

I hesitated an instant and considered the ways of country folk. Where would a simple girl secrete a letter; safe from prying eyes? In her bodice, of course.

Her coarse nankeen gown was a fearful thing, while the linen of her shift was rucked up and stiffening with blood; I bethought me of my gloves, and removed the right, the better to preserve it from stain. And, God help me, I reached into the upper edge of the dead woman's shift and felt briefly around her corset, closing my eyes as I did.

It was there, the faintest edge of folded paper lodged against the whalebone, and holding my breath, I plucked it out between two fingertips. Just time enough to tuck it into the pocket of my cloak and wipe my hand on some unspoilt hay. Then I drew on my glove once more and ducked through the doorway, my terror on my face, to meet James the groom.

24 December 1802, cont.

SOME HOURS LATER, WHEN SIR WILLIAM REYNOLDS HAD been summoned and had seen all there was to be seen in that terrible shed, Marguerite's poor body was borne away to the Manor by some stout fellows of the home farm. She was placed upon the oak settle in the butler's pantry, a sheet covering her still form, and Mrs. Hodges set about making her body decent — though how the housekeeper retained the use of her wits, in the midst of the furore the maid's murder created, I cannot think. The Scargrave household was in the throes of Christmas preparation, despite its deep mourning; and a partly-stuffed goose, its neck hanging at an unfortunate angle, was Marguerite's companion in death.

I sat before the fire in the drawing-room, quite alone, for at the news of Marguerite's sad end, Fitzroy Payne had offered his assistance to Sir William, while Isobel had hastened to the side of Mrs. Hodges. Their duties fulfilled, the Earl and the Countess had then retired to their respective sanctuaries — Payne to the library, and Isobel to her room. Fanny Delahoussaye, being a fashionable miss, had fallen into fits upon hearing of Marguerite's discovery; her mother even now attended her above stairs, with a basin of gruel and pursed lips, while Fanny played the victim. Mr. George Hearst was gone to London, on some errand of a private nature — it was for this he had retained the mighty Balthasar — while Lieutenant Hearst, summoned from the cottage at the body's discovery, had decamped to hit billiard balls in the smoking room.

My thoughts were disturbed by Cobblestone the butler, who flung wide the sitting-room door. The poor man's countenance was ashen; the appearance of a corpse in his pantry had routed his spirits entirely. Behind him stood my good friend Sir William Reynolds, and at the sight of his benign white head, I felt all the force of my late misadventure rush upon me. My eyes filled with tears.

“Miss Austen,” Sir William said, hastening to my side, “my poor, dear Jane.” He took my hand in his leathery old grasp and patted it gently. “Since it was your unfortunate lot to discover the murdered maid, my dear. I had hoped to speak with you at some length. But you must tell me whether your nerves can bear it.”

I managed a smile. “My nerves have benefitted from quiet and contemplation, Sir William. Several hours’ distance from events have brought some peace of mind.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” he said, pulling a chair close to the fire, “for I fear I must return you to your unhappy experiences of the morning. What took you to the paddock in the first place?”

I told him of my apprenticeship in riding, and my determination to bridle the horse alone; of Lady Bess's hesitation at the gate, and the mare's horror of that end of the field.

“And there was no outward sign of anything amiss?”

Without a word, I handed him the scrap of fabric I had found by the paddock gate.

“A handkerchief?” he said quizzically.

“It bears Isobel's initials.”

“So I observe. The C is for her maiden name?”

“Collins,” I said. “Her father was English, her mother a Creole by the name of Delahoussaye.”

“Ah, yes — related, no doubt, to the impertinent miss who would have nothing to do with barristers,” he said. “But of what import is the handkerchief?”

“I found it by the paddock gate, before I discovered the maid,” I told him. “And though it pains me to avow it, the article cannot have been there long. We must declare it to have fallen once the snow had ceased — well after supper last evening. But it was not frozen, as it might have been had it lain out all night; nor yet was it soaked through, as any fabric lying on melting snow should be. I put its appearance at very little before the murder itself.”

“Very well,” Sir William said, “the Countess lost her handkerchief by the savaged body of her maid, who had accused her of the murder of her husband. We shall attempt to draw no conclusions from the fact.”

“It is possible that another obtained the handkerchief, and placed it where it might be found, with the intent of throwing suspicion upon Isobel.”

“It is possible, yes.”

“There were but two sets of footprints leading to the body, and one of those was the maid's,” I continued. “The other was formed by a man's boot.”

“Perhaps the Countess wore her husband's shoes,” Sir William said mildly, “the better to counterfeit her appearance.”

“It is absurd!” I cried.

“It is as acceptable as the notion that someone dropped her handkerchief by the gate,” the magistrate rejoined with equanimity. “You must own it to be at least possible , my dear Jane. Now, tell me of the finding of the maid, with your usual sense and power of organisation.”