Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

“But this is madness!” Fitzroy Payne rose forcefully to his feet, his calm deserting him at the last. “Madness, I tell you!”

We were all of us struck dumb. When a quiet man is moved to passion, it seems the very earth will shake; and at the violence of the Earl's words, Scargrave Manor trembled. Tom Hearst moved to stand tall behind his cousin, and the two faced Sir William with all the strength of their ancestors rising in the blood.

“I swear to you on my honour as a gentleman,” the Earl cried, in a fevered accent, “on the reputation of the proud family of which I claim a part, that I have not seen the girl Marguerite since the day after my uncle's death.”

“And the nuts found among your possessions, my lord?” Sir William's voice was as mild as the dusk beyond the windows.

“If they did cause the Earl's death—”

“If they did, assuredly.” The magistrate turned and strolled towards the door, as though the Scargrave men suggested no belligerence. “For that, we must await the word of the good doctor:”

“—even if it be that those foul seeds struck him a mortal blow, it can have nothing to do with me,” Fitzroy Payne asserted. “I have known nothing of their existence until the moment you showed me them.”

“Very well, my lord,” Sir William said, and bowed to the entire room.

“You must believe me!”

The magistrate's gaze was on the Earl, and I was struck by die grimness of my old friend's countenance. “I greatly fear; Lord Scargrave,” Sir William said, “that you plead with the wrong man. It is the coroner you must convince.”

27 December 1802

I MUST CONFESS TO A FEELING OF LASSITUDE AND melancholy in the three days that have followed my discovery of the maid's body, a mood I may perhaps attribute to the sleeplessness that has marked my nights. Images of the murdered girl — her white-rolled eyes and lolling head, the necklace of gore that encircled her throat — fill up my sight when I would close my eyes; and so I lie wakeful in the December dark, intent upon discovering the hint of footsteps in the gallery. It seems, however; that the spectral First Earl is possessed of discernment in his mourning; tonight he does not deign to recognise the passing of a mere servant with the show that preceded her death. In my present state, however, I cannot find it in me to feel apprehension at his possible coming; even fear is swallowed up in my general malaise.

It was a poor sort of Christmas, despite my quiet pleasure in a letter and a holiday box I owed to my dear Cassandra — containing fifteen yards of a lovely pink muslin for the making up of a new gown. After church in Scargrave Close, Isobel kept to her room for much of the day, while Lord Scargrave sought the freedom of the out-of-doors, walking Scargrave's surrounding parkland for hours and returning only with the falling dusk. I was left to the company of Tom Hearst, whose every attention was monopolised by the lively Fanny Delahoussaye, and to his brother George — who though returned from London, appeared little recovered from his bad humour of Christmas Eve. The cleric wasted many hours in silent contemplation before the fire, brows drawn down over brooding eyes.

I bent myself to the pianoforte, music being the one solace for my nerves, but was eventually forced to break off by Miss Delahoussaye, who called me to attention long enough to pronounce us all a sad sort of company for Christmastide. She proposed some simple amusement — play-acting in the parlour, perhaps, or the arrangement of tableaux vivants , neither of which activity was suited to our mood or situation.

“There is Fanny!” Madame Delahoussaye exclaimed indulgently; “so gay, no trifle can burden her light spirits; so full of good humour, that one forgets all one's cares!”

“I should hardly call murder a trifle,” George Hearst remarked in his mordant voice, “though if one is so disposed, all that is serious in life may be ignored by a steady pursuit of frivolity.”

“La, George, you are a stick,” Miss Fanny observed. “I wonder the murderer has not seen fit to send you off, out of sheer ennui. But never mind. We shall amuse ourselves the better without you.”

“As is generally the case,” Mr. Hearst replied, “though I count it no dishonour. Since you find amusement in everything, Miss Delahoussaye — even what is serious or tragic — stimulating your ability to laugh must be considered a talent very much in the common way. I confess I pride myself on rarer qualities.”

“There must be a store of old clothes about, in such an ancient seat as this,” Fanny said, paying him no heed; “I am sure Lieutenant Hearst would delight to see me arrayed as Marie Antoinette, and parade himself as the Sun King.”

Madame appeared startled, and surveyed her daughter narrowly. “I should sooner wish you to have the ordering of your history, my dear,” she said, “for some several generations separate the two.”

Fanny shrugged with elegant disregard. “Pooh, Mamma! When one is play-acting, it makes no odds. I shall call for Mrs. Hodges, and turn the attics topsyturvy.”

“Pray do not, Fanny,” Madame said sharply. “We should sooner hear your lovely voice raised in song — and to deprive us of your presence would be a cruel piece of work. I am sure,” she said, “that Lieutenant Hearst agrees.”

I was surprised to hear her appeal in such a case to a man she despised, and concluded that fancy dress was indeed abhorrent to her. But Miss Fanny was all smiles in an instant, and I must give up my place at the instrument. In truth, I cared little, and soon sought the privacy of my room; for she would persist in singing boisterous carols of the season, in an ill-considered display of liveliness.

Yesterday, Sir William presided over the removal of the late Earl's coffin from the great stone sarcophagus in Scargrave Close churchyard, and saw it entrusted to Dr. Pettigrew, the London physician. In this he was attended by Eliahu Bott, the Hertfordshire coroner a trim little fellow with a perennially dyspeptic look. The inquest is called for this afternoon, and all are to attend. I myself must offer testimony of the finding of Marguerite, and feel no little trepidation at the prospect. And so my life is as suspended as indrawn breath, awaiting that relief of tension that I pray the inquest will bring.

Sir William himself has grown remote in speech and aspect; he has ceased to impart what ever he knows of the case to me, treating me rather with a gentle and solicitous concern that inspires only fear. That he knows some ill of Isobel and Fitzroy Payne — that he believes them, in fact, to be guilty of both murders — I have surmised. Lacking that affection for the Countess born of close acquaintance, or that respect for the character of the new Earl I persist in harbouring, Sir William is unfettered in his judgment; and so I anticipate his harshness with regard to the inquest and fear for its outcome. His duty as magistrate for the district compels him to prove my friends’ guilt [30] Our notion of a defendant being innocent until proven guilty is relatively recent. Until 1848, a magistrate was not charged with a presumption of innocence on the part of the defendant, or with the objective consideration of evidence, but merely with constructing a case against the accused. Until 1837, a lawyer for the accused was not allowed to query witnesses or cross-examine them, and not until the turn of the century was the accused allowed to testify on his or her own behalf. — Editor's note. ; and in gathering what may tell against them, he is assiduous as ever in his days at the King's Bench. That he was absent some few days in London, in search of witnesses for the coming panel, I learned from his dear lady upon calling at the house in the Scargrave carriage; and her own gravity of manner, and pitying look, did little to cheer my hopes of a happy outcome.