Jane and the Canterbury Tale (34 page)

“Aunt Harriot should certainly be made miserable by it,” Fanny murmured. “What brutes men are!”

I might have told Fanny to hush—poor Jupiter had done his best in a difficult episode, and his frankness argued for praise rather than censure—but my mind was too preoccupied. Mr. Finch-Hatton’s story had supplied any number of people with motives for murdering Curzon Fiske. Moore had
hated, and been cheated, by him and—if, as I suspected, the packets of gold sent quarterly to India were intended to buy Fiske’s silence regarding the shameful card game—had been blackmailed for years by him.

James Wildman might creditably be suspected of a mortal desire for vengeance.

But it was Adelaide MacCallister whose beautiful face rose most forcibly in my mind. What woman, made sport of and abandoned as she had been—losing her child, indeed, in her misery—should not wish to put a bullet through Fiske’s heart?

I had hoped Finch-Hatton might loosen the knot around Adelaide’s neck; but it seemed his account had only tightened it. Why, why, employ James Wildman’s gun?

A few drops of rain wetted my cheek; and with a strong sense of perplexity and depression, I suggested we turn back. But neither Fanny nor Jupiter was attending. They were listening to something else—the high, excited bark of a spaniel some way ahead on the trail.

“Frisk,” Fanny said. “I believe he has found something, Aunt Jane!”

  
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  

26 O
CTOBER
1813,
CONT
.

I
HAD NOT TRULY EXPECTED
F
RISK TO DISCOVER ANYTHING
of note on the trail over the Downs—too many days had passed since the murder, and there had been rain in the interval. But as Fanny, Jupiter Finch-Hatton, and I hastened forward—Jupiter striding ahead of us—I saw that a horseman was endeavouring to control his high-spirited mount, as the spaniel jumped and barked about the animal’s knees. A second glance at the dexterous rider, and I knew him for Mr. Julian Thane.

“Frisk!” Fanny called out in agitation. “Oh, if only the foolish dog is not to be kicked in the head! My brother shall never forgive me if any harm comes to him!”

But as we hastened on, coming within ten yards of the jibbing
horse, Frisk suddenly turned tail and darted back into the long grass that covered the Downs, making with the decided purpose of a bird-dog on point, towards a thin coppice that rose from the hillside.

“By Jove, he
has
found something,” Jupiter declared. He seized the bridle of Thane’s horse, and the plunging beast quieted. “Fresh as paint, ain’t he? Been eating his head off in the stables, I collect?”

“Kindly take your hand from my rein,” Thane said through gritted teeth. “The day I fail to control my horse is the day I cease to ride.”

Jupiter stepped back a pace and cocked an eye at Thane’s stormy visage. “Apologies. No desire to offend, assure you.”

Thane ignored these words and dismounted in a single, elegant movement. “Miss Knight,” he said, doffing his high-crowned beaver; “Miss Austen. Your servant, ma’am.”

I dropped the gentleman a curtsey, too aware that but for my interference his sister might even now be at liberty; he ought to have given me the cut direct, and cantered past our party without so much as a glance. Instead, he stood with his reins gripped tightly in one gloved hand, the other stroking the neck of his horse—a fine, black colt whose looks were as smouldering as his master’s. Thane kept his earnest gaze fixed on Fanny’s blushing countenance; Jupiter might have been so much thin air.

“I was making my way towards Godmersham,” he said with a bow, “with the intent of begging Miss Knight to ride with me. There is not a seat in Kent to rival hers, and no fence she will not attempt.”

“You flatter me, sir,” Fanny returned with a dimple. “My brothers would have it I am both cow-handed and faint of heart!”

“Then they are too severe upon you. What does any brother know of a sister, after all? She is an uncharted country,
dark as Africa.” Thane’s words were careless; but I caught the bitterness behind them. A greater intimacy with Canterbury gaol had not been good for him. “Do you continue your walk, or may I escort you home—and hope for the favor of a gallop?”

“Hardly needs escort,” Jupiter murmured, in his most indolent manner; then he glanced irritably towards the coppice, where Frisk was baying loudly enough to wake the dead. “What
does
that deuced dog mean by sending up such a racket? All the birds in the Kingdom will be flown by now! Must have a word with Young Edward about it—dog’s no use at all for sport!”

“Frisk!” Fanny cried impatiently, and gathering up her skirts, plunged into the tangled grass.

“Miss Knight!” Thane called out, in sudden concern, and glanced from his restive horse to Jupiter, who grinned.

“Escort, is it?” he drawled derisively, and set off after Fanny.

“She stands in no danger from Frisk, Mr. Thane,” I assured him.

But he was not attending to me. His black brows were drawn down in a manner that put me forcibly in mind of Lord Byron; and his intent gaze was fixed on the coppice, where the sudden clatter of wings revealed a flock of crows, rising into the air. Another moment, and Fanny came pelting back to us, her hand holding down her bonnet and her pallor dreadful.

“It is a girl, Aunt!” she panted. “
Dead
. There were birds—tearing at her eyes—”

And my poor Fanny burst into tears.

S
HE WAS NO MORE THAN SEVENTEEN
, I
JUDGED, WHEN AT
last I stood over the sad bundle of bones and cloth that lay
beneath the shade of the coppice. I had comforted Fanny briskly, then persuaded her to hold Thane’s horse, so that he and I might lend our aid to Mr. Finch-Hatton; Jupiter was standing a little aside, now, a lounger no longer, and from the cast of his countenance I suspected he felt sick.

I was faint enough myself, and spots swam continually before my vision, as tho’ I might swoon at any instant. The strong, animal stench of butchered flesh rose to my nostrils, and there was a singing in my ears—as if a scream, suppressed, rang shrilly through my disordered brain. I closed my eyes an instant to steady myself; and then, with a shuddering breath, opened them again and forced myself to see.

The girl’s throat had been cut; the blood that had gushed from the great wound was long since congealed in dark gobbets all about her, and the birds—as Fanny had said—had been at their work. She had been seized from behind, I suspected, and had sunk down onto her knees before falling face-forward into the grass; her arms were flung out as tho’ to embrace the earth that should soon enough enfold her, and her head—so nearly severed from her body—lay at an awkward angle, one eye socket to the sky. A brown-haired, healthy girl with a skin still tanned from summer, in the simple homespun dress of the serving class.

“Martha,” Julian Thane said hoarsely, and fell on his knees at her side, his hand reaching out to touch the huddled figure’s shoulder. “Good God, how shall I tell her mother?”

“You know this child?” I asked.

“Should think he does!” Jupiter turned from where he had been gazing unseeing over the valley and Godmersham, his lazy blue eyes suddenly sharp and focused.

“She is my sister’s maid,” Thane explained. “She came with Adelaide for this wedding, from Wold Hall—where her mother is our housekeeper, and has been since my father’s time.” Thane passed one hand gently over the girl’s snarled
hair, then shuddered profoundly. “Horrible! That any could do this—poor Mrs. Kean—this will kill her, I know it! Oh, God—that we had never come into Kent!”

He buried his face in his hands, and something like a sob escaped him.

“What were you doing here, Thane?” Jupiter demanded suddenly. “When we came upon you, just now, with the dog run mad and your horse plunging? Aye, and what is that blood on your glove?”

Thane stared wildly at him, then glanced down at his hands. In sudden horror, he leapt back from the body and began to tear at the glove, pulling it from his fingers with one shaking hand, then bent to wipe it frantically in the grass.

“Mr. Thane!” I cried.

But the sound of retching was my only answer; Thane was on his knees, overcome with sickness.

Furiously, Jupiter strode forward. “Where is the knife?
Where is the knife
, you rogue?”

“Mr. Finch-Hatton,” I protested, stepping between them. “The girl was killed hours ago—it is nothing to do with Mr. Thane, I am sure! The blood came onto his glove merely because he touched her. I beg of you—do not be so hasty! There is much that we must do, and quickly.”

The rage died out of Jupiter’s face, and he stepped back a pace. Thane was still bent double, breathing heavily, but he managed to croak out, “Do not excite yourself, Miss Austen. Do you not know we are
all
murderers now? It is the Thane disease. My sister has taken it, and the Lord only knows who shall next succumb. I must be a monster myself.”

“Pray strive for calm,” I urged him. “We have need of you, and your horse.”

He rose unsteadily to his feet. “You wish me to carry the dreadful intelligence to Mr. Knight?”

Too late, I recollected that Edward was far from home.

“It had better be Chilham,” I said. “Explain to Mr. Wildman what we have found, and beg him to send for Dr. Bredloe. Then ask that a male servant be sent to stand guard with me over the body, until the coroner should be arrived; and when Dr. Bredloe appears, bring him immediately to me.”

“I should be happy to remain with you, Miss Austen,” Jupiter said.

“No, no—you are to bear Fanny home as soon as may be. Go quickly, Mr. Finch-Hatton! She is probably swooning as we speak! And pray—do something with that dog!”

Jupiter whistled; and Frisk, instantly recognising the command and decision of a Master, opened his jaws in a canine grin and loped obediently to Mr. Finch-Hatton’s side. Jupiter grasped the spaniel’s collar, nodded at me, and without a word for Thane made off immediately towards the path where Fanny had braced herself to hold the mettlesome horse—her heels dug into the dirt and both hands straining at the reins. Thane collected himself enough to join them and take charge of his mount; Jupiter touched Fanny lightly on the shoulder, and after an inaudible exchange of words, she cast a doubtful glance in my direction, and turned away.