Jane and His Lordship's Legacy (21 page)

A hot flush rose in his cheeks. “I did not ruin the girl then or later. Nor did I get her with child under French’s very nose. But Thrace would say anything to cut out a rival—and so he styled himself in Miss Prowting’s eyes. The silly little fool believes herself in love with him—a man who will never honour her affections as he ought! Thrace is to be an earl one day—he told me so himself. He will never ally himself with the daughter of a provincial nobody, however many times he consents to take dinner at Prowting’s table.”

“I am sure you are right. But Mr. Thrace’s actions suggest an intimacy with Shafto French’s history. Was he at all acquainted with the man?”

“He had met him in the course of the repairs undertaken at the Earl of Holbrook’s estate—Stonings, at Sherborne St. John. He affected to enjoy French’s rough humour and easy ways. I do not think Thrace has lived all his life in the most select society, whatever his present affectations may suggest. I think he was rather more intimate with his labourers than you or I should be. Certainly he undertook to drink with Shafto French of an evening, at the Alton publick houses. I more than once observed him there.”

Blood money,
Jemima French had said; and
it was the heir as would pay. . . .
Shafto French had spoken more freely than he ought of his wife’s adventures in the Hinton household; had Julian Thrace disclosed his private affairs under the influence of drink, and ruthlessly silenced his confidant when the man turned blackmailer?

“Will you not tell us what really occurred on Saturday the first of July, Mr. Hinton?” Edward asked quietly. “For however disappointed in Miss Prowting’s affections, you cannot wish to throw your life away on her rival’s account. I am sure you cannot.”

Hinton glanced at my brother, weighing the odds of silence and disclosure. Speech won out.

“I cannot tell you how French died. I can say only what happened after.”

“Very well.”

He began to pace restlessly about the cell, his boots kicking up a cloud of dust and straw, his hands shoved into his breeches’ pockets. “I had gone out to the prize-fight at Box Hill—”

“Are they still held there?” Neddie interrupted. “I once recall taking in a mill on my return from Winchester, having left the boys at school. Belcher won his match. Who did you see?”

“It was said the Game Chicken would show, but in the end he did not, and we were forced to observe a Basingstoke lad by the name of Crabbe,” Hinton returned dispiritedly. “I had travelled a considerable distance in the hope of seeing Pearce, and was disappointed.
²
I went out to join my friends on Friday, the day before—”

“Your friends?”

“The Wilsons, of Hay House, Great Bookham. Hay Wilson and I were at Oxford together.”

“Of course. And you were staying at Hay House itself? Pray continue.”

“As I said, I went out on the Friday and the mill was to be held at noon Saturday. We were at the Box Hill ground near seven hours—”

“How many rounds did the boy Crabbe go?”

Hinton’s expressionless eyes suddenly lit up. “Nearly nineteen, if you’ll credit it, but in the end he could not be brought up to scratch.”

“Who was his opponent?”

“John Gully.”

Neddie whistled in deep appreciation; I felt myself to be increasingly beyond my depth.

“And so, the fight done,” my brother said, “you retired to Great Bookham for high revel—and only after several hours’ eating, drinking, and conversing of the fight to your mutual satisfaction sought your road home. You must have left Surrey rather late, Hinton. I wonder you did not remain the night with your friend Mr. Wilson.”

“I had promised my sister I would not travel on the Sunday,” he replied in a sulky tone. “She is most attentive to such things; it is the influence of our late father, who was once—”

“—the incumbent of the Chawton living,” Edward agreed with remarkable ease. This reminder of his status—of the fact that it should be Edward who must dispose of the living when next St. Nicholas’s came vacant, at Mr. Papillon’s demise—restored Mr. Hinton to all his former dislike. No amount of shared enthusiasm for the sport of boxing could do away with his resentment of the Squire.

“You made your way back to Chawton,” Edward suggested helpfully, “arriving just barely after midnight, and thus travelling on Sunday, but it is to be hoped in a manner your sister should not discover, being sound asleep in her bed.”

Hinton swallowed with difficulty. “As you say. I rode into Chawton from the south, and found the Street entirely deserted. I was very sleepy, and little disposed to notice much—but the moon was high, and my horse shied at something in the road as I approached the pond. I glanced down, and supposed it to be a man. Naturally, I dismounted.”

“And saw that it was Shafto French?” I enquired.

There was a pause. Hinton did not quite meet my gaze. “It was French. He was dead.”

“You are sure of that?” Edward asked.

He nodded. “His body was wet from his waist to his head, and his eyes were open and staring. There was no response when I slapped his cheeks, no pulse in his throat.”

“You did not think to give a shout? To summon help?”

“Mr. Austen—” The spiritless eyes came up to my brother’s own. “I have said that I was sleepy. In truth, I was a bit foxed.”

“I can easily imagine,” Edward said drily. “What would be a boxing match, without Blue Ruin?”
³

“Exactly so. I was not thinking entirely clearly. I had stumbled on a dead man, and one whom I had everywhere heard was intending to challenge me. —A man I was believed to have wronged.
He lay dead at my feet.
For an instant, the wildest imaginings coursed through my head. I saw myself accused—disbelieved—thrown into gaol . . .”

“. . . for a murder you did not commit,” I finished. He was rather prescient, our Mr. Hinton; for it had all occurred exactly as he had foreseen.

“I would have sprung upon my horse and galloped for home as tho’ all the imps of Hell were at my back,” Hinton said in a low voice, “but for that wretched gin. I was pretty well top-heavy at that point, I may as well own, and was gripped of a sudden with the most extraordinary idea.”

“You thought to make a fool of one enemy,” Neddie suggested grimly, “by making away with another. You determined to place the body of Shafto French in the house intended for the Squire’s family, and thus bring discomfiture upon us all.”

Hinton nodded with painful difficulty. “It sounds mad when you put it that way—”

“On the contrary. It makes perfect sense, to a man disguised by spirits. You might have thrown a charge of murder on the Austen household.”

“I believe I thought only of embarrassing the Squire. I dragged French by the heels towards the cottage—”

“Had you already provided yourself with a key for the purpose, knowing beforehand that you should stumble over the body on your way from Box Hill?” I asked.

“The door was not locked on the Saturday,” he returned simply. “One of Dyer’s men—French himself, perhaps—must have neglected to secure it when work was called that afternoon.”

“But it was locked when I arrived the following Tuesday!”

“—Then young Bill Dyer performed the office when he completed his job that Monday, and chose to say nothing about the neglect to his father.”

“When all the talk of murder arose,” my brother interjected, “the builder saw a further virtue in silence. Mr. Dyer and his son are fortunate that the coroner did not chuse to interrogate them harshly about the keys.”

“Be that as it may,” Mr. Hinton continued, “I found the door to the cottage unlocked. I placed French’s body in the cellar and congratulated myself on my wicked genius. It should be quite the welcome, I thought, for a party of ladies too high in the instep for Chawton. And in the event—I was proved right.”

I could not felicitate him on his triumph.

“When I awoke the next day, with an aching head, and recalled what I had done—I must confess to considerable trepidation. I was prevented from returning to the cottage immediately, due to my sister’s Sabbath conventions—but stole out as soon as it was dark on Monday, and attempted to right the wrong. I found the door, as I have described, locked.”

“And decided that silence should be your best policy,” my brother concluded grimly. “I perfectly understand, Mr. Hinton, tho’ I cannot approve what you did.”

Edward rose and reached for his hat.

“I must offer you my apology, Miss Austen,” Hinton said in a correct but exceedingly cold voice; and bowed.

I curtseyed in return, recognising his haughtiness for what it was—the discomfort of a man who knew himself to be in the wrong, and must disguise it at all cost, or die of mortification.

“I hope, Mr. Hinton, that you will consider yourself revenged upon me,” Edward said with all the candour he might have reserved for one of his sons, “—and that in future we may endeavour to be better friends. For my part, I intend to intercede on your behalf with Mr. Prowting. He has merely to consult with Mr. Hay Wilson regarding the hour of your departure from Great Bookham, in order to ascertain the probable length of your journey on the road—and place you happily beyond suspicion. I cannot think it wise to keep you here in the Alton gaol.”

“What of Thrace?”

Edward drew on his gloves. “I no more know than you, Hinton. He may be even now in the act of crossing the Channel to freedom—or caught in the snare of Mr. Prowting’s Law. But I think we can safely assume it was
he
who forced French’s head beneath the waters of Chawton Pond. The only question remaining to answer is—”

“—Why?”
I concluded.

Chapter 21

The Faithful Wife

9 July 1809, cont.
~

“A
ND WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR NEIGHBOUR NOW,
Edward?” I demanded as we made our way up the Alton High Street in the direction of the George. “A nice, savoury fellow by way of a clergyman’s son. And
he
wishes to be Squire of Chawton!”

“As I said: an ill-conditioned pup, for all he is five-and-thirty. But there is no real harm in him, Jane.”

“And no real good either.”

Edward laughed. “I have an idea of the Hinton household as it must once have been: a collection of over-fond sisters and half-sisters; a young boy sent away to school and disliking it as much as any boy could; indulged at his term leave, and petted by the women of the family long after such attention should be necessary; intended, like his father, for the Church. Only young Mr. Hinton has no taste for Holy Orders: He wishes to cut a dash, to be
top of the trees
as the young bloods would put it;
up to snuff, awake upon every suit;
a cock of the game. In short: a sporting man of the first stare. Instead, he is a shabby-genteel country gentleman with too little blunt and no opportunity for display—no means to set up his stable or hunt in style; no independent estate other than the Lodge his father left him; and to add insult to injury, the daughter of the most established gentleman in the village spurns his suit for a Bond Street Beau of no family and dubious character. I cannot wonder Hinton took to playing pranks better suited to a boy half his age.”

“Or aspiring to a fortune not rightly his own,” I added thoughtfully.

“It is in the worst order of fretful childishness,” Neddie agreed easily. “Recollect that I have sons of my own, and all of them sighing for the airs of a Corinthian. But in a fellow of Hinton’s years—!”

“Your sons, I hope, will know better how they should get on.”

“My sons were not spoilt from infancy!” Neddie retorted impatiently. “There was never time enough between them to tell one from the other, if you must know! And I thank God for it. They have not lacked for masters or instruction; if they wish for mounts or the means to pursue any peculiar passion, I generally grant their wishes. But my boys earn their rights, by Jove! And not by whining.”

“Well, Squire Austen—and what do you intend to do for the odious Mr. Hinton?”

“Find William Prowting as soon as may be—and suggest the sneering lout be returned to his sister’s leading strings. I have an idea of her contempt for all matters of sport; and think her brother deserves to suffer a little beneath Jane Hinton’s management.”

“For my part, I should not wish such a purgatory on any man.” I could not forestall a shudder, tho’ the morning was warm. “You are a hardened case, Edward. Hinton’s revenge is as nothing to
yours.
”

I
LEFT MY DEAR BROTHER HAPPY IN ORDERING HIS DINNER AT
the George, and reflected that there was nothing like a little useful activity to dispel a fit of the megrims. Edward loves Godmersham and the society of Kent—but the perfect serenity of that great estate may throw too profound a veil between my brother and the world. He has endured a winter of isolation, and a summer of slow awakening; the Jack Hintons of life should bring him only good, in the folly of their ways and the absurdity of their cares.

The pleasant summer’s day was drawing in as I walked south towards Chawton, the air grown oppressive and a weight of cloud hovering to the west. We should have thunderstorms by nightfall, and the dusty lanes turned to quagmire; the good turnpike stretches, however, were well maintained between this part of Hampshire and the principal towns of the coast. Henry must long since have reached the Earl’s household at Brighton. How had the former Freddy Vansittart—with his rakehell dark looks, his charm, his easy conversation—taken the news of his daughter’s death?

“Miss Austen!”

I lifted my head at the salutation, my mind recalled from distant wandering—and observed a slight woman with her hair neatly bound beneath a kerchief, and a look of unease around her eyes. Her face must be familiar, tho’ she no longer held a babe to her breast. Rosie Philmore, the laundry maid, and wife of the man who had stolen Lord Harold’s papers.

She stood near the verge of the Alton road, her back to Chawton, and curtseyed.

“Good day, Mrs. Philmore. How are your children?”

“Well enough, thank you. I left them in the charge of their grandmother, ma’am, while I walked to Chawton.” She hesitated, and then said in a rush, “I’ve been and gone to visit Old Philmore—but he still is not returned, and no one in the village can say where he is gone, or when he is likely to come back. He has not stopped in Alton in near a week, and my Bert is that put out! Afeared, he is, that summat has occurred to harm the old man.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“It’s not like Old Philmore to leave Bertie in the lurch. Clutch-fisted he may be, and nip-cheese into the bargain, but blood is blood when all’s said and done.”

“I understand. Did you enquire of Miss Benn, at Thatch Cottages? For she is one of Old Philmore’s tenants.”

“And right glad to be shut of him. Miss Benn hardly opened her door to me, lest I had come to collect the rents in the old man’s stead.”

“Have you seen your husband at Alton gaol?”

“I spoke with Bert last night, when I took him a bit of supper.”

“He must be familiar with his uncle’s habits. Can he offer no hint of where Old Philmore might be gone to ground?”

Her work-hardened fingers fretted at the edge of her apron, and her eyes fell. In an instant I understood the poor woman’s dilemma—she did not wish to see her husband imprisoned for years, or even transported to Botany Bay, for an offence that had brought no good to the household; and yet, Bertie Philmore had probably bound her to secrecy when he sent her in search of his uncle. How much did Rosie Philmore truly know of the two men’s adventures?

The thought of Lord Harold’s chest, broken and discarded with all its contents, flamed within me.
I must have it back.

“Mrs. Philmore,” I said gently, “I dislike to see you in such trouble. I fear for the well-being of your little ones. If there is any way in which I may help you, be assured that I will attempt it.”

“That is kind in you. But a woman did ought to stand by her husband, ma’am. You’re not to know, being a spinster lady—”

“You cannot make your husband’s case worse than it is already, by speaking; for his silence has already placed him in Alton gaol. Do you wish to find Old Philmore?”

“It’s Bert as is hankering after the old man!” she cried. “He’s that worried—thinks his uncle was taken ill on his road, or been killt—or something worse.”

—Something worse
being, no doubt, Old Philmore’s delighted release from all his Hampshire cares, through the spoils of burglary of which Bertie Philmore now had no share. The nephew, I saw, was torn between a very real anxiety for the man who had long served him as parent, and the jealous regard for his own interest, which the uncle might long since have betrayed. Sitting alone in his cell, hour after hour, his thoughts could not be happy ones. He must suffer the delusions of the forgotten: seeing first in his mind’s eye the image of his uncle’s corpse, trampled and abandoned in some woodland hole; and then again, the picture of his uncle in a far distant land—the West Indies perhaps—and surrounded by every luxury.

“Mrs. Philmore, you know that your husband and Old Philmore stole a valuable chest from my cottage. I must assure you most earnestly that the papers within, which you have already described, cannot save your husband’s life or contribute to the well-being of his family. The person who wished them stolen—the person I believe hired your husband and Old Philmore—is lately dead.”

She emitted a shriek, and pressed her hand in horror to her lips. “
Dead?
—The gentleman from Stonings is dead?”

“Gentleman?” I returned, my thoughts swiftly revolving. “Did your husband say that he was hired by a
gentleman
?”

Too late, she saw her error. She stepped backwards, as tho’ in retreat. “He might have said something. I don’t know what. Not really.”

“A gentleman from Stonings wished the papers stolen?” It was not impossible, after all. We now knew that Julian Thrace had a taste for low company, and was much given to drinking with Dyer’s builders; I had found in this a ready explanation for Shafto French’s murder. But why not for the theft of the chest, as well? Thrace would have learned of Lord Harold’s bequest in much the way Lady Imogen knew of it, and was quick enough to apprehend the danger its contents might pose. He had ample knowledge of our invitation to dinner at the Great House, for he had been present at the very moment of Mr. Middleton’s issuance of it. He might all too easily have secured the services of Bertie Philmore on the night in question, and delayed our arrival home by his elaborate telling of fantastic anecdotes, and his prolonged losses at cards.

And yet—I had thought Lady Imogen so happy yesterday morning, as tho’ she possessed the key to her entire future. If Julian Thrace had been the one to seize the papers, how had she come by her certainty? He should have destroyed the evidence of his birth, and attempted to hide the truth from the Earl and all his household. The very last person Thrace should tell was surely Lady Imogen.

“If it is Mr. Thrace you would mean,” I said to Rosie Philmore, “I fear for Old Philmore’s life. Thrace has two murders already to his account, and is believed to have fled the country.”

The woman frowned. “I know of no Thrace, ma’am. ’Twas not of him my Bertie spoke. My man was hired by the master of Stonings—that Major Spence, what walks with a limp—to rob ye of your chest.”