Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

I related all that I could remember of the grim scene in the shed, though the images it recalled were of so vivid a nature as to cause me to pause now and again in my search for composure. I did not except to recount my first exit from that gruesome place, nor my return; and upon closing my recital, I handed to the magistrate the bloodstained slip of paper retrieved from the maid's bodice.

Sir William settled his spectacles on his nose with a frown, and looked at me over their rims. “This is most singular, my dear, most singular. Two items of evidence, removed from the scene of the crime? I would advise you in future to leave such corpses as you may encounter, completely untouched.”

“But I found the handkerchief before I had reason to wonder at its presence,” I said, “and I foresaw that the body should be brought to the house. In preparing Marguerite for burial, the note might have been lost — by accident or design.”

“By design? You would have the murderer a member of the household?”

“How can it be otherwise?”

He shook his head. “One might perfectly see how it could be otherwise, my dear Jane. A penniless servant girl, abroad in the depths of winter, may readily fall prey to any number of misfortunes, and none of them at the hands of her employers.”

“ You do not credit such coincidence, Sir William.”

He smiled at me in submission. “No, Jane, I do not. It is too much to believe that Marguerite should be found dead upon the very morn that her last missive was received.”

“Her last missive—” I began, but was silenced by his raised hand.

“We shall talk of that in good time. For now, I would read this scrap of foolscap.”

I knew the words by heart, though the hand was unfamiliar to me; it was a fragment of paper only, with a fragmentary sentence, let us meet in our accustomed place was all it said, without salutation or farewell. Its author had not been foolish enough to sign his name, so much was certain.

“It tells us little enough,” Sir William said gruffly, “but that the paper is of excellent quality, and so small as to be passed from one hand to another without notice in public. The fragment lacks a watermark, but it is clearly of pure rag, and purchased at some expense.” He tucked the note into his waistcoat and stroked his chin, his gaze distracted.

“It is an elegant hand, as well,” I observed, “and for my part, I would judge it to be masculine. The diction would suggest a person of higher station than the maid's.”

“I am in agreement, my dear.”

“And now for the maid's final letter,” I reminded him.

Sir William reached into his waistcoat once more and handed me a folded sheet. “This was nailed to the door of the Cock and Bull sometime before dawn,” he told me. “Half the town has read it, and the other half has heard the news. I trust you to make as much sense as I of its meaning.”

To the good Sir—

I have been disapoynted in my hopes of yore justice. And so I must speke out right. Evil is at work at Scargrave Manor. Look among the things of the Lord, and you will find the things of the Devil! Perhaps then you will beleve that Murder has been done, and that it was done by the Countess’ hand. God rest the pore Earl's soul.

Marguerite Dumas

I looked up, my question in my eyes.

“It is as bad as it may be,” Sir William said, his face sombre. “She accuses the Countess of murder before the whole of Scargrave Close, and deigns to sign the accusation. Odd that she was slain so soon after writing it, do not you think, my dear Jane?”

I wrung my hands in consternation. “Can any be so unfortunate as poor Isobel? What are we to do, Sir William? What are we to do?”

“I am directed to search the personal effects of a lord,” the magistrate said. “And since I cannot presume to know exactly of whom the maid writes — whether of an Earl deceased or living — I propose to review both the belongings of Fitzroy Payne, and of the late Lord Scargrave. That should amply serve the purpose, should it not, Jane?”

I SOUGHT ISOBEL IN HER ROOM, AND FOUND HER GONE to the pantry, where all that remained of Marguerite was bathed and freshly clothed preparatory to Christian burial. I requested that the Countess join me in the drawing-room; but words and courage failed me to warn my friend of the outrage she was soon to endure. Isobel read nothing of my dread in my face, and complied with alacrity.

I found the Earl awaiting us in the company of the magistrate. That Fitzroy Payne expected Sir William to address him regarding the maid's foul murder, was obvious by his surprise at that gentleman's hardly referring to it. Sir William lost no time in disclosing the nature of the third letter, to the confounding of the Earl, who had known nothing of the previous notes’ existence. His face, upon learning the history of the letters, was a study in composure; never before have I seen the weight of social education brought to bear upon a matter so grievous and intimate. The Earl did not suffer himself to reproach Isobel for her secrecy, nor did he betray the slightest sensibility to the writer's dark words concerning a grey-haired lord. But his anger at the public nature of the accusations was palpable; and when requested to submit his belongings to the magistrate's penetrating eye, Fitzroy Payne's features stiffened.

“Is the very privacy of our home to suffer from the calumnies of this woman?” he burst out.

“This woman, as you call her, has been silenced; and I cannot believe so brutal a consequence to be unconnected to the activities of her pen,” Sir William rejoined. “To the public eye, her end does but give credence to her assertions; and as such, we must do our best to answer them, and all rumour into the bargain.”

The Earl's hand went to his brow, and he paced rapidly several times before the hearth, a muscle in his jaw working. After a moment, however, and a look for Sir William, he bowed his assent. “My man, Danson, will lay the contents of my apartments at your disposal. “

“My late husband's things remain as yet in his rooms,” Isobel said, her voice barely a whisper. “I shall escort you to them.”

“There is no need to disturb yourself, Countess,” Sir William told her. “The butler shall serve as my guide. And you, Lord Scargrave — do you be so good as to remain here as well. It is best that all parties be within reach while the work is toward.”

“And barred from meddling with our rooms, if I undertake your meaning correctly,” Fitzroy Payne said with a bitter smile; “very well.”

WAITING IS ALWAYS A TEDIOUS BUSINESS, BUT NEVER MORE so than when coupled with apprehension. At Isobel's request, I moved to the pianoforte, and attempted to play for her amusement; but my fingers stumbled more often than is their wont, and despite the holiday season, my selection of airs tended almost exclusively towards the melancholy. It was as I was thus employed that Lieutenant Hearst appeared in the sitting-room, having wearied, one supposes, of striking at balls without an adversary to lend the game spice. He stood at my shoulder, his brows knit, and an unaccustomed gravity in possession of his countenance.

“Sir William has been here?” he enquired, with an effort at diffidence.

“And is not yet departed,” I replied. “He is about his work above, while we await his pleasure below.”

The Lieutenant hesitated, as if debating what to say, and then looked about the room. I ended the minuet of Mr. Mozart's I had struggled to perform, and gave up the piano altogether. As I rose from my place, too restless to seek another seat, Tom Hearst reached a hand as if to stop me.

“The magistrate has found nothing untoward, Miss Austen?”