Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

The coroner fairly pounced. “Did you partake of either my lady?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Did any in the household?”

“I do not believe so.”

Fitzroy Payne's brows were knit in perturbation. As I gazed at the Earl, Tom Hearst leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear. Beyond them sat Mr. George Hearst, so clearly absorbed in his own thoughts that he must have heard little of what passed before him. He might better have escorted restive Fanny back to the Manor, since neither was engaged by the proceedings.

Mr. Bott's dry voice demanded my attention. “And who, my lady, assembled the plate of sweetmeats?”

“The plate and toddy were brought to my husband by my late maid, Marguerite.”

“Were you within the room at this time, my lady?”

“I was, sir, attending to my husband's comfort.”

“And was anyone else of the household permitted into your presence?”

“All but the maid had sought their beds.”

“Indeed. The maid, your ladyship says.” Mr. Bott looked to his jury with a barely perceptible nod. “And did Lord Scargrave consume his sweetmeats and milk, my lady?”

“He did.”

“And did his condition improve?”

Isobel hesitated, and looked for me.

“Did it improve his condition, Lady Scargrave?”

“It did not,” Isobel said faintly. “Within a very short time, he progressed from pain to vomiting, and his deterioration was swift.”

“How short a time?”

“A quarter-hour, perhaps a half-hour; I could not undertake to say.”

“And when did you send for Dr. Pettigrew?”

“The village surgeon we assayed first, believing the Earl's illness to be of a common nature; but within an hour the man declared himself unfit for the management of his lordship's case. It was then decided that we should send for Dr. Pettigrew.”

The memory of that terrible night overcame me — the Earl's moans banishing sleep from the house, and my own fearful shuddering as I lay alone in the massive mahogany bed, awaiting Isobel's summons.

“What hour of the clock would this have been?”

“I should put it at about half-past one.” Isobel swayed slightly in her chair, and then recovered; but that the strain of public exposure told upon her was evident.

“And Dr. Pettigrew has testified that he arrived before dawn.”

“I believe it was nearly five o'clock. By that time I had roused my dear friend, Miss Austen, who kindly sat vigil with me by his lordship's bedside.”

At this, the coroner's sharp eyes fell upon me, and I blushed — cursing my susceptible cheeks all the while.

“And your husband passed away not long thereafter?”

Isobel dropped her gaze. “He was dead at sunrise.”

A shifting among the chairs of the jury; I studied the twelve men's faces, and read discomfort in their souls. Behind me the assembled townsfolk began to murmur.

Mr. Bott once more took up his mallet, and achieved a disgruntled peace. “I would ask you, Lady Scargrave, whether you recognise the item I am now presenting to you.” He held out a fine scrap of lawn.

“I do,” Isobel said steadily.

“And could you name it for the jury?”

My friend's eyelids fluttered and she drew a shaky breath. “It is a handkerchief of Swiss lawn, embroidered with my initials, and forming one of a dozen purchased with my wedding clothes in Bond Street last August.”

“Thank you, my lady. You may stand down.”

I saw all too clearly what the pinch-faced man at the long table intended; he had shown the jury as plain as day that the Earl had eaten nothing that others had not consumed as well but for the sweetmeats; and that these were administered in his wife's presence only — excepting the maid, who was now dead. Further elucidation was hardly necessary.

Next to be called was Sir William himself; and he described for the jury's edification the anonymous letters, not neglecting to advise them that it was Lady Scargrave herself who had summoned him with news of the first — a point, I thought, that should be taken in Isobel's favour; for had she guilt to hide, surely she should have as soon burnt the note as called the magistrate? The townsfolk at my back knew of the letter nailed to the door of the very tavern in which we sat; but the intelligence of two other threatening notes, received by the Countess and held in secret, fell upon them with all the suddenness of a spring storm.

Mr. Bott made swift work of their startled ejaculations and flurried conversation. His hammer rose and fell. Then he turned to my friend the magistrate, and sniffed audibly. “The first note, Sir William, instructed her ladyship that the second should be sent to you?”

“It did.”

“And when the Countess summoned you to Scargrave the very day of her husband's interment” — how imperious and unfeeling the odious little man made Isobel seem — ”she declared herself convinced that the maid was the author of the letters, and entreated your help?”

“She did.” Sir William sought my eyes, and must have read my indignation in them, for his own dropped to his lap, abashed.

And so there we had it, courtesy of Mr. Eliahu Bott — the Countess was cunning, indeed. Aware that the second letter with its damning accusations must certainly fall into Sir William's hands, and unable to anticipate its effect, Isobel had cleverly assumed a guise of sincere bewilderment and named the maid as her accuser. I felt my hopes of any of my friend's actions being placed in a favourable light, as unlikely of gratification; and suddenly despaired of her future.

For the first time, Fanny Delahoussaye seemed aware of the cruel drama played out before her; her blond curls were bent to Madame's ear, plying her with questions. Her mother's face was grim, and her black eyes snapped. Fitzroy Payne was in an agony of restless dread to judge by his expression; his arms were folded over his chest, his countenance was stormy, and he looked almost as threatening as Beelzebub himself. That he longed to throw the offending coroner the length of the kingdom, I readily discerned, and prayed his better self should master the impulse.

The next witness caused a sensation in the tavern-room, being a stranger to all present, and bearing with him something of the incensed and sacred; he was declared to be Dr. Percival Grant, and once sworn, he turned a benign and cherubic face upon the assembly, as though invited to join a picnic on the lawn.

“Dr. Grant, to what university do you belong?”

“I am a tutor at Cambridge, my good sir, and attached to Christ College.”

“And what is your field of scholarly interest?”

“I have made botany my life's work, with a particular interest in the tropic plants of South America and Africa.”

A stir of amazement greeted this, and a general puzzlement as to the man's purpose in these proceedings.

Mr. Bott produced a folded piece of linen with all the majesty of a conjurer. “Can you name for us the seeds which I now place before you, Dr Grant?”

The cheerful gentleman leaned forward eagerly. “They are the nuts of die Barbadoes tree, which is found in the West Indies, in some parts of South America, and in parts of Africa as well.”

“And have you seen these nuts before?”

“I assume them to be the same ones presented to me for analysis by Sir William Reynolds.”

Another wave of sound as the crowd began to heed the direction of Mr. Bott's questions.

“And after studying them, what did you conclude?” the coroner enquired, his quill at a rakish angle.

“That they were indeed Barbadoes nuts.”

“And what is the effect of Barbadoes nuts on the human body, Dr. Grant?”

The scholar cherub smiled all around. “They are a severe toxin, my good sir; and when taken even in small quantities, will produce death in very little time.”