Jane and the Wandering Eye (11 page)

“I went directly to the gaol upon my arrival in Bath,” he replied. “Simon will not remain there long—the inquest is to be held on Friday, the conclusion of which must be beyond question; and he will then be conveyed to Ilchester, to await the Assizes.”

An inquest. But of course. I knew too much of the painful rectitude of coroners’ juries to believe them capable of imagination regarding events. Once such simple men as the coroner should summon were told that Lord Kinsfell was found standing over Mr. Portal’s body with a knife in his hand, they must return a verdict of wilful murder against him.

“And how are the Marquis’s spirits?”

“Too low, I fear. He was much sunk in melancholy and despair, and was arrayed, as yet, in the garb of a knight. My first object upon returning to Laura Place, was to charge a servant with an exchange of clothes.” Lord Harold turned abruptly to his greatcoat, and fished among its pockets. “And now we come to the chief of this murder’s oddities, Miss Austen. Pray attend to what I am about to show you.”

He drew forth a small object wrapped in brown paper, and laid it in my lap. “Open it, if you please.”

I undid the parcel with eager hands. And there, winking dully in the candle-flame, was the portrait of an
eye—
dark grey, heavily-lashed, and fully as arresting as the roguish ornament my dear Eliza had borne about her neck. It was an oblong pendant the size of a guinea, strung on a fine gold chain, and quite surrounded by seed pearls—beautiful, and undoubtedly costly. I lifted the thing and dangled it before the candle, at a loss for explanation. The eye returned my regard, as stormy in its expression as paint and art could make it.

“My nephew tells me he found this resting on Portal’s breast, quite near his wound, as though left by his murderer in silent witness. Simon hung it undetected about his own neck, and succeeded thus in bearing it away to the gaol.”

“But why did he not leave it for Mr. Elliot to discover?” I exclaimed. “For surely this miniature can have nothing to do with Lord Kinsfell! Indeed, its existence might divert suspicion from his head!”

“I cannot offer an explanation.” Lord Harold’s voice was heavy. “But I surmise that Kinsfell has not told us
all.
No more intelligence of the portrait or its meaning could I wring from his lips, than the plea that it be prevented from falling into the magistrate’s hands—and from this, I must assume he would shield another, to whom the portrait points. He consented to place it in my keeping solely out of fear of its discovery while he remains in gaol.”

“And does he expect you to shield that person also? Or are you at liberty to solicit the magistrate, where Lord Kinsfell would not?”

“Having failed to entrust the eye to Mr. Elliot
then
, we cannot with impunity reveal it now,” Lord Harold said thoughtfully. “Mr. Elliot would be forgiven for believing it a foolish fabrication, and accord it no more significance than the anteroom’s open window. No, Miss Austen—if we are to fathom the portrait’s significance, we must do so ourselves.”

“Only consider, my lord, the wonder that its disappearance must have caused,” I murmured. “Our murderer expected the portrait to be revealed—to point, perhaps, to the incrimination of another. But not a sign of the bauble has the magistrate seen!”

“Then we may hope the villain’s anxiety will force his hand,” Lord Harold replied with quiet satisfaction.

I turned the portrait again before the candle-flame,
and felt the movement of the eye’s gaze as though it were alive. “It
is
a lovely thing, and must be dearly bought. I should think it far beyond the means of most.”

“The setting is very fine, the pearls are good; and the portrait itself is excellent. I have known Mr. George Engleheart to charge upwards of twenty-five guineas for a similar likeness—and that would never encompass the jeweller’s bill. Such a bauble would indeed be well beyond the reach of the common run. It is to Engleheart in London I must go, Miss Austen—for I believe he keeps a log-book of his commissions; and if this pendant fell from his brush, he will have recorded the identity of its subject. Such knowledge should be as gold, in revealing the meaning of Portal’s death.”

“Stay!” I cried, and sprang to my feet. “Of what use is London, when the foremost painter of such miniatures is already come to Bath?”

Lord Harold surveyed me narrowly. “Of whom would you speak?”

“Mr. Richard Cosway! I made his acquaintance this very morning, while promenading in the Pump Room. He intends a visit of some duration—three months, I believe. I have only to enquire of my sister Eliza, and his direction is known!”

“Capital. We shall call upon him tomorrow—let us say, at two o’clock. Have you leisure enough to pay the call?”

“My time is at your disposal, my lord.”

“That is very well, Miss Austen, for I would beg another favour of you. There is an additional visit I feel compelled to make.”

Lord Harold sat down beside me and reached for my hand. The intimacy of the gesture quite took my breath, and I fear my fingers trembled in his grip. He said, “We must go to the Theatre Royal, as soon as ever may be. I expect the magistrate to search Mr. Portal’s lodgings, but
I do not think he will soon consider the manager’s offices at the theatre itself. A perusal of Portal’s private papers might tell us much.”

“His papers?” I said with a frown. “Surely there can be no occasion for such an abuse of privacy.”

“I have known a good deal of blackmail, my dear Miss Austen,” Lord Harold said drily, “and I cannot help but observe the marks of its effect throughout this unfortunate history.”

“Blackmail!” I cried, freeing my fingers from his grasp.

“I sense it everywhere in Richard Portal’s sad end. Lord Swithin’s anxiety regarding some letters, overheard by yourself in the Pump Room; Lord Kinsfell’s argument with Portal, and his assertion that the man was a blackguard; his own reluctance to speak fully of events that evening; and now, the curious portrait, returned like a bad penny to Portal’s breast. Blackmail, Miss Austen—as plainly as such dark arts may be seen!”

“I confess I had not an idea of it,” I said.

“You must understand that the practice is familiar to me through long association. I have employed it myself,” Lord Harold said equably, “when no other tool would serve; and have been in turn the object of necessitous importuning—a mad decision on the blackmailer’s part, for never was there a fellow with so little regard for public opinion, or so great a contempt for its deserts, as Harold Trowbridge.”

“A more hardened object I cannot conceive.” I was amused despite the gravity of his words.

“But tempting, regardless.” He jumped up and began to turn restlessly before the fire. “I have, in the past, acted in ways that may be judged reprehensible. I have sacrificed the reputations of my confederates, my mistresses, my dearest friends, in pursuit of those ends that
have,
to my mind alone
, required such sacrifice. I have cared nothing, in short, for how my character is judged—except as regards one particular: That I am held in trust and esteem by certain men in high Government circles. It is as lifeblood to me, in ensuring the continuance of that activity which—alone among the pursuits of my life—is capable of stirring my interest, and of relieving the unutterable tedium of my existence.” At this, something of animation enlivened Lord Harold’s tone; but it was the animation of coldest anger. “Should any man attempt to queer my relations with the Crown, or with the very small number of men who direct its concerns, I should be entirely at his mercy. That, to date, has never occurred; and I pray God it never shall. I could not answer for myself in the eventuality.”

One glimpse of his set features was enough, and I averted my gaze. Lord Harold overset—Lord Harold denied his life’s blood of peril and intrigue—was Lord Harold divided from his very soul. I should not like to be within twenty paces of any man who attempted it.

“But my familiarity with the blackmailer’s art has at least taught me this,” he continued. “Among those who can profess no stern disregard for public views or public morals, it is the aptest means of persuasion. More lives have been ruined—more spirits broken—from a fear of idle gossip and report, than are numbered on Napoleon’s battlefields, Miss Austen. Portal’s death may be the result of a similar campaign.”

And if it were, I thought, the tide of scandal should reach even so far as a ducal household. “I comprehend your meaning, my lord. I shall be happy to assist you by whatever means are within my power.”

He reached for his hat, and smoothed its fine wool brim. “Will you do me the very great honour of attending the theatre tomorrow evening, Miss Austen, in the Wilborough box?”

“With pleasure,” I replied.

“It will require—forgive me—a certain subterfuge on your part.”

“I am at your service, my lord.”

“You will understand that any in the Trowbridge family must be known among the company. Even had Simon
not
been taken up in Portal’s death, our intimacy with the Conynghams—our attention to the Theatre Royal—must make us too familiar; and at present a tide of ill-feeling is directed against us all. But as for yourself—”

“Of course. What would you have me do?”

“I intend a visit to the wings upon the play’s conclusion. It is my hope that you might then create a small diversion—a faint, a mishap, something along the female line—that should draw the attention of the principal parties.”

“And in the flurry, you shall investigate the manager’s rooms?”

“Exactly.”

I bowed my head to disguise a tide of mirth. “I have always dreamed of performing in the Theatre Royal, Lord Harold. To tread the boards was the dearest ambition of my vanished girlhood. I may hope to do you credit.”

“You have never failed me yet. It will be something merely to parade you in the box.”

There was a grimness to his tone I readily understood. All of Bath must be hoping for a glimpse of the notorious Trowbridges, so deeply and publicly embroiled in a violent murder; and the appearance of the Earl of Swithin in Bath must only fan the flames of speculation. “You hope, then, to show the scandal-mongers your bravest face?”

“And damn their eyes.”

“Sir!” I cried. It has not been my province to know
much of swearing, however I may subject my creatures to it.
⁸

“Tut, tut, my dear Miss Austen—do not grow missish on me, after all we have sustained!” Trowbridge seized his greatcoat and gloves. “Expect me tomorrow at two, about the interrogation of Mr. Cosway!”

Chapter 5
A Call in Camden Place