Jane and the Genius of the Place: Being the Fourth Jane Austen Mystery (39 page)

We gazed at him expectantly. Even Henry set aside his paper.

“I was treated first to an interview with Valentine Grey. He was most uncomfortable, when it came to the point; and told me that he believed his information to be entirely
de trop
, now that Collingforth was dead; but in the interest of justice, he could do no more than his duty. What he would tell me must grossly expose his wife; indeed, the discoveries he had recendy made had quite astonished even himself, who must be thoroughly acquainted with her character—”

“Hah!” Lizzy snorted. “As tho' any man might comprehend the nature of his wife.”

“—but he had found occasion, in recent days, for a thorough review of her possessions and correspondence.”

“Naturally,” I murmured. “A man of greater courage (or less), should have burned the whole without the briefest glimpse. Mr. Grey is at last revealed as pitiably human! He has probed the wound, and rubbed salt in its depths.”

“Well?” Lizzy enquired impatiently. “And what did he find?”

Like a conjurer, Neddie produced a sheaf of folded rag from within his coat, and presented it with a flourish. His wife visibly recoiled.

“That
is her private correspondence? Her husband actually displayed it to you? But how despicable!”

“It is entirely in French,” Neddie replied without a pause, “and, I am assured, entirely from the Comte de Penfleur. It was to prevent the letters from falling into that gentleman's hands that Mr. Grey undertook to read them at all. And what he discovered distressed and confounded him.”

“Then they
were
lovers,” I said.

“Not in the least,” Neddie replied. “Or if they bore one another any affection, the letters betray little sign. They were partners, Jane, in a very grave collusion—the securing of information regarding the movement of troops along the Kentish coast, for the edification of His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon Buonaparte.”

Henry slapped one hand excitedly against his thigh.

“—Or so Mr. Grey was forced to conclude, after reading these letters,” Neddie added. “He tells me that they are filled with Penfleur's instructions regarding the management of Mrs. Grey's friends—Captain Woodford and Lady Forbes being at the head of the list, and your brother, Mr. Bridges, Lizzy, trailing doubtfully at the end.”

“Edward?” she cried incredulously. “What might
Edward
possibly have known, that should be of interest to Buonaparte?”

“A very great deal. His friend Woodford, you know, was in the habit of confiding snippets of intelligence to his most intimate friends, that should never have left he officers' mess; and Mr. Bridges must naturally have been the recipient of these. What Woodford might, in a moment of caution, hesitate to impart to Mrs. Grey, his friend had no compunction in relating. I imagine his being privy to the Army's secrets must have greatly increased Mr. Bridges's sense of importance.”

Lizzy drew breath sharply, and looked the most indignant I had ever seen her. “Fool,” she muttered, “he will be the undoing of us all.”

“Lady Forbes, for her part, is a silly litde gossip who should have delighted in communicating her husband's schemes,” Henry observed quickly, as tho' to divert Lizzy's attention.

“—Such as the intended troop movement next week between Chatham and Deal,” I added, as comprehension dawned. “All of Kent is in an uproar regarding the disruption of the pheasant-shooting; and Major-General Lord Forbes was quite put out at the report's circulation. Captain Woodford himself cautioned me against speaking too freely.”

“I suppose Mrs. Grey's fascinating card-parties were a means of securing information?” Henry said.

“At first,” Neddie conceded. “But I have an idea that over time, the gaming debts were themselves a useful tool. They secured Mrs. Grey's hold on her unwilling friends. As the possessor of any number of vowels, she might choose to extend her debtors' credit, or even forgive a sum entirely—for a small consideration.”

“How brilliant!” I muttered. “And yet, how dangerous in the extreme. She ran a severe risk, did any of her victims determine to be free of her.”

“It is possible that the lady was subtle enough, that few among them comprehended what she was about. But perhaps one at least perceived her object.”

“Denys Collingforth,” I said.

“Exactly.”

I rose, and commenced to turn the length of the room in considerable perturbation of spirit. “But if Collingforth resisted the lady's power, and threatened to expose her, should not Mrs. Grey have done the murder, rather than end a victim?”

Neddie observed me in silence, his own expression guarded. I puzzled it out still further, and then wheeled to face him. “Do you credit Grey's suggestion that he knew nothing of his wife's activity? Or are the letters all a subterfuge, to place his enemy the Comte in the gravest peril of his life, and clear his own concerns from every stain of treason?”

“That is exactly what I cannot determine,” my brother replied grimly. From the cast of his countenance I knew that I had spoken aloud his governing obsession. “It was to that end—the illumination of Grey's character— that I solicited the opinion of each of you, regarding the man. I cannot make him out at all. Another fellow, upon learning that Collingforth was dead, should have left the matter of his wife's espionage for the grave to swallow— should have burned the evidence at midnight, and rejoiced in the vagaries of Fortune.”

“Unless he feared the Comte's power, in ways we have yet to discover, and thought to place his head in a noose,” Lizzy observed. “Did Grey urge you to arrest the Frenchman?”

“He did not. I told him forthrighdy that I could not, in all conscience, place charges on the force of accusation alone; I must peruse the correspondence myself, and form a judgement independent of Grey's. He accepted as much.”

“Mr. Grey is a careful man.”

“I did promise, however, to have the Comte watched.”

“Penfleur had departed already for Dover?” I enquired.

“His carriage was at the door, when at length I emerged from Grey's study; and it was then that the Comte drew me aside, to urge me most passionately to pursue justice in Mrs. Grey's cause. He had reason to believe that Mr. Grey was involved in a very deep game, regarding a delicate situation of international finance; that his arrangements—which reached from the Americas to Spain and Amsterdam—might reasonably be construed as treasonous; and that it was not inconceivable his beloved Francoise had discovered the whole. Mr. Grey had never borne his wife the slightest affection, and when forced to the point, had secured his empire and his reputation through the murder of his wife.”

Henry whisded. “That's playing the matter very close, indeed. The Comte de Penfleur
is
a cool fellow.”

“Or a very desperate one,” Lizzy retorted calmly. “It is possible, Neddie, to form a simple idea of how the murders were effected. Let us suppose that matters fell out as Mr. Grey has suggested. Denys Collingforth was pressed for what he knew, and pressed by his creditors; he grew tired of living in thrall to Mrs. Grey, and formed a pact with his friend Everett—a shady character, by all accounts—to support him in a dangerous act. He lured the lady to his chaise at the race-meeting with the letter discovered in her riding habit, and informed her of his intention to expose her; when she defied him, he drove out along the Wingham road after the race and killed her. He neglected, however, to discover his letter on her person, and simply disposed of the riding habit entirely as a safeguard against discovery. The Comte de Penfleur arrived the following day, thwarted in his hopes of an elopement and insecure in his liberty. He would have known, from Mrs. Grey's letters, that CoUingforth—in whose carriage her murdered body was discovered—was the least docile of her charges. The Comte undertook to buy intelligence of CoUingforth's movements, while diverting attention from his own nefarious doings, by suggesting to the Justice that
Mr. Grey
was the murderer. The cardsharper, Pembroke, reported Collingforth's presence in Deal to the Comte; the Comte despatched his minions (or killed CoUingforth himself; the point is immaterial); and poor Collingforth's silence was purchased at the cost of his life.”

We regarded her with some wonder. As a theory, it was not entirely without merit.

“But why return Mrs. Grey's body to the race-meeting grounds, and risk the gravest complications?” I protested. “Why not leave her in her phaeton on the Wingham road?”

“Because he had secured his friend Everett's word as to his absence from the chaise throughout the racing,” Lizzy said calmly, “and could not be secure if her body were discovered elsewhere. CoUingforth hoped, perhaps, that the incongruity should linger in our minds, and prove his best security of innocence.”

“Admirable!” Neddie cried. “Upon my word, I am ready to accede to it myself!”

“Excepting,” Henry broke in, “for the considerable weight that may lie behind the Comte's words.”

Neddie and I both frowned in perplexity.

“He may have spoken no more than the truth,” Henry persisted.

“Regarding what or whom?” Neddie cried.

“Speak plainly, Henry, for the love of God,” I added, in exasperation.

“In perusing the
Times
, Jane—which you admirers of country life only rarely look into—I have been powerfully reminded that we have entirely ignored the fact of Mrs. Grey's courier.”

Neddie threw up his hands in disgust.

“Her courier?” I prompted.

“—The elusive fellow from France, in green and gold livery, who was charged with the most pressing intelligence. The courier who arrived on the very morning of her death, and may unwittingly have precipitated it.”

“I like your theory not half so well as my own,” Lizzy murmured, and stretched as comfortably as a cat. “It lacks simplicity.”

“We believed it possible that the courier came to warn of a French invasion.” Henry waved his furled newspaper like a martial baton. “But no invasion has occurred. The watchtowers stand unfired. Evacuation is put off. Has it not occurred to you, Neddie, that the news for Mrs. Grey must have been entirely otherwise?”

“Grey himself has said that her family often chose to communicate with her in such a fashion. Perhaps the man was charged with delivering the Comte's final letter—the proposal of elopement we discovered in
La Nouvelle Helotse
.”

“Or perhaps it was in your friend Mr. Grey's interest to suggest as much.”

“I do not understand you, Henry. Why should Grey conceal the nature of his wife's intelligence?”

“Because it threatened the security of his banking concern, his reputation, and, indeed, his very life.”

“What do you know?” Neddie reached unconsciously for his clay pipe, and felt in his pockets for a pouch of tobacco. Lizzy took the pipe from his hand without a word and set it aside.

“I know nothing at all, I assure you,” Henry protested, “—but I might suggest a good deal. Grey is certainly involved in a very deep game, as the Comte has observed. Did you learn nothing from the state of his household?”

“The Larches? I thought it charming.”

Henry snorted.
“Charming.
Perhaps it was. But I should very much like to know, brother, what sort of difficulties the man has incurred, and how he hopes to extricate himself without the most public scandal!”

“Scandal?” Lizzy echoed. “I should have thought the murder of his wife scandal enough for the present.”

“I refer to the conduct of Mr. Grey's business,” Henry retorted. “I had not spent above an hour at The Larches, before I knew that his firm is extended to the breaking point.”

“How can you say so?” I enquired. “Certainly Mr. Grey maintains a considerable estate. The maintenance of the grounds at least must exact a fortune. But his circumstances appeared quite easy.”

“And yet he employs no housemaids,” Henry observed. “Mrs. Bastable is required to perform the slightest office. The condition of the stables, moreover, is appalling—the boxes have not been mucked out since Mrs. Grey's death. When I enquired as to the cause, I was told that the master had refused an order for bedding, and turned away the better part of the stable lads. As a result, it was impossible to discover anything of Julian Sothey's assignation with an unknown lady in the stableyard. No one with the slightest pretension to knowledge had been retained in service.”

“Such a dismissal of staff might be very much to Mr. Grey's purpose, did he intend the sale of Mrs. Grey's string,” I argued, “but I cannot see how it reveals his circumstances to be hopeless.”

“Have you any idea of the quality of the blood in Grey's stables? It will be the sale of the decade. He stands to make thousands of pounds. And from the look of things, I should say that he is desperate for funds.”

“Perhaps he cannot bear to be reminded of his wife's passion for horseflesh,” Lizzy observed, “and merely hopes to dispose of her stock in the most efficacious manner possible. I see nothing of scandal in
this.”

“Then perhaps the London papers shall convince you.” Henry tossed the
Times
onto the sofa beside us. “Examine the notice at the bottom of page three, I beg. It concerns Mr. Grey closely.”

Neddie, Lizzy, and I bent our heads over the sheet, and endeavoured to make it out.

”
'Dutch banks fail to back French securities'
“I read slowly.”
'Government loans feared in default.”

“Read on,” Henry said.

” 'The Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. Pitt, is gravely concerned by yesterday's decision on the part of the House of Hope, Scots bankers resident in Amsterdam, to refuse the French government further security.
2
While the confusion of our enemies is devoudy to be wished, in the halls of commerce as well as on the batdefield, the delicate state of the Imperial treasury must threaten relations of finance throughout Europe, and devolve to this kingdom's ultimate disadvantage. In light of this consideration, Mr. Pitt has sent an envoy to Amsterdam for consultation.' “

I raised my head from the broadsheet. “And how might Mr. Pitt's conduct of business concern Mr. Grey, Henry?”