Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

In exchange for a copper, a village lad directed me to the home of Lizzy Scratch. It was scarcely more than a hovel, with a great iron pot set to boil in back; here, I supposed, she did her washing. A tide of young humanity milled about the lintel, separated in age by a very few months, and united in their squint-eyed resemblance to their mother, and by the blackness of their skins and clothing; presumably Lizzy only laundered when she was paid to do so. I enquired whether the good lady was yet abroad, and was directed by several jerked thumbs towards the cauldron in the back; and there I found her, red-faced and perspiring in the chill air, turning linen in boiling water with a long ash stick.

“Mrs. Scratch,” I said.

“And who would you be?* She wiped a broad arm across her forehead and peered at me narrowly. “Washin's three shillings the week, less a shilling if you iron it yourself. Leave it on washday — that's Monday — and you can ‘ave the fetchin’ of it by Thursday morn.”

“I have not come about the washing,” I said, “but about Marguerite Dumas.”

She stuck her chin forward, the better to make out my face — I fear she is much in need of spectacles — and her expression abruptly turned belligerent.

“Yore from up t'a big house. I saw you in the thick of ‘em at the Cock and Bull.”

“I am a guest at Scargrave Manor; assuredly,” I said, “and it is for that reason I have come. The family is desirous of returning the maid Marguerite's possessions to her family in the Barbadoes, and I am here to fetch them.”

“You be wantin’ ‘er things,” the laundress said, in a tone of high hilarity.

“I do.”

“For to have the sendin’ of ‘em?”

“It appears the least that one could do.”

Lizzy Scratch threw back her head and laughed uproariously. “Pore Margie,” she said, wiping her eyes, “if she'd a knowed folk set such ‘igh store by ‘er few bits, she'd a took ‘em with ‘er!”

“Have others enquired after the maid's things?” I asked curiously.

“Let's jist say as yore not the first,” she replied. “That magistrate fellow ‘us by, after the inquest, with Mr. Bott alongside o’ him; right put out they was, to find as ‘er things was gone. Made as if to say I'd stolen ‘em, they did, which they'd no right to, no right a'tall. Margie put ‘er bit in the pot while she ‘us ‘ere, she did, and I'll not be robbin’ ‘er after she's cold in the ground.”

“But who could have taken them?” I asked, bewildered.

“Fellah from up t'a big house.”

“A gentleman?”

“Not ‘im as did the murdering of ‘er, if that's what yore askin’,” she said shrewdly. “Twas the servin’ man of that soldier as lives betimes at t'a cottage.”

“I had not known Lieutenant Hearst considered the welfare of the maid,” I said, “but, of course, it is properly the duty of a gentleman of the household.” That it was more properly Isobel's concern, I did not feel it right to impart to the laundress; but I wondered at the Lieutenant's swiftness of action. “When did his man call for the things, did you say?”

“I didn't,” Lizzy retorted, “but I don't mind sayin’. ‘Twas the day Margie met ‘er Maker, that it was; and if I'd a knowed who killed ‘er then, I'd never ‘ave sent ‘er things back to that place.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Scratch,” I said; “you have been more than helpful, and in the midst of your duties as well.” I reached into my purse and retrieved a shilling, which she quickly palmed, eyeing the remaining coins hungrily. My purse is ever slim, and my finances scrupulous — but in such a cause, I felt an added expense well worth my trouble. I drew out another shilling, and held it with an idle air.

“I wonder, Mrs. Scratch, if you recall a pendant locket among the items turned over to the servant.”

“Margie's locket? What you want with that?”

“I understood she prized it highly, and so should especially wish her family to have it. In the jumble of handing her things to the Lieutenant's man, such a small treasure might easily be lost.” I reached for Lizzy's palm and dropped the coin in her hand; in the blink of an eye her fleshy fingers closed over it, and she shrugged.

“‘Tweren't worth much, far as I could see,” she said. “If'n ‘twere, I'd probably a kept it. But since she'd ‘ad it of a man in the ‘ousehold, I figured ‘twas wise to send it back. He might've come lookin’ for it, and the questions ‘ave turned nasty.”

“Assuredly,” I replied, though scarcely recovered from this added revelation. “You knew, then, the identity of the giver?”

“I didn't say that” Lizzy Scratch's eyes narrowed. “Any more than I reckin you do, miss. Margie was very close about her man. Always thought he was an upper servant, I did — that Mr. Danson, as valets the new Earl maybe, or one of the head footmen. But I'm thinkin’ now as it's the new Earl himself, ‘im that was the death of ‘en It makes good sense, don't it?”

MAKING MY WAY BACK TO SCARGRAVE MANOR, I HESITATED before the gate of the cottage in the lane, searching for some sign that the occupants were abroad. I should not wish to meet either Mr. Hearst or his brother; but it was very likely that the one was out walking the lanes, moodily surveying the abyss of human nature, while the other was schooling his hunter over the nearest hedge. Summoning my courage, therefore, I opened the gate and walked purposefully up the path.

Scargrave Cottage was intended as a dower house [33] The dower house traditionally became the home of a widowed lady when her son acceded to his father's tide, and took possession of his ancestral seat. The son's wife would then accede to his mother's title. For example, had Frederick Payne's mother still lived when he became the Earl, she would have been addressed as the Dowager Countess of Scargrave, while Isobel was addressed as Countess. — Editor's note. , but the late Earl having no use for such a place, his mother having long since departed this life when he achieved his title, Frederick Payne turned it over to his sister Lady Julia, as a refuge from the faithless Mr. Hearst. The Hearst boys had grown up under its Tudor eaves; and the Lieutenant spoke with the greatest affection of boyhood rambles among the cottage's blackberry vines. Neatly whitewashed and half-timbered, the place was no doubt picturesque in spring, for a rosebush clung to its lintel, and a fragrant boxwood hedge flourished beneath its leaded panes. In the depths of December however, the garden looked unloved and forlorn.

The housemaid, one Joan by name, bobbed me a curtsey, and informed me that Mr. George Hearst was within. I immediately regretted my impropriety — a woman alone, calling upon a single male acquaintance — but there could be no turning back, and I suffered myself to be led into the cottage's parlour. It bore all the signs of a bachelor's abode — books lining the walls and prints of grouse hanging above the mantel. A distinct smell, part pipe tobacco and part wet dog, hung in the air, despite the crackling fire. Mr. Hearst had been comfortably ensconced over a book, and rose with an air of consternation I fear my own features mirrored.

“Miss Austen!” he cried. “I did not think to see you until the coach should bear us all hence. Has some further calamity befallen the Manor, that you have hastened here in search of aid?”

“Pray calm yourself, Mr. Hearst,” I replied. “I have nothing of an alarming nature to report.”

“Then may I ask you to sit down, and take some tea?” He gestured vaguely about the room, as though to indicate any number of chairs.

I surveyed them hastily. Though of a decidedly comfortable appearance, the Hearsts’ furnishings were of a sort in which a lady should quickly lose herself. I shook my head in the negative. “I merely wished to have a word with Lieutenant Hearst.”