Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas (22 page)

“It is an image of torture and suffering; nay, of sacrifice. I can only believe,” I said, “that once Lieutenant Gage was known to have been murdered—once the idea of an accident was dismissed—Mary Gambier’s life was forfeit. She could name her blackmailer. She knew that he had schemed for the Treaty. And he knew that she knew. It was merely a matter of time before he struck.”

Chute stared at me, his heavy brows knitted. “Who is this fiend?”

“One of your guests, sir,” I said quite calmly. “Or perhaps your brother. It might even be yourself—although I cannot think why you should kill for information the Lieutenant came to The Vyne expressly to show you.”

“Unless I were very clever,” Chute said slowly, “and meant to use that presumption of innocence to cast the blame on another in my household.” He pounded his fists on his writing table in sudden exasperation. “But it will not do, Miss Jane! Why should the fellow steal the Treaty at all? Of what possible use may it be to any but the principals involved?”

“I will answer that question,” Raphael West interjected—and in as concise terms as possible, related the Admiralty’s fear of a French spy.

“Do you mean to say, man,” Chute exploded when he had done, “that you entered my house under a pretext? That there is not to be a grand picture in Parliament, and that I have spent a tedious deal of time in posing, to no purpose at all?”

“I should never presume upon your kindness in such a way, sir,” West replied. “Nor should I misrepresent my father’s work so grossly. There is indeed to be a picture—and your poses shall form a part in it.”

Chute wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and studied West gloweringly. “Am I and my household suspected of treason?”

It was a bald question enough. A lesser man than West might have shied from it.

“Private communications between Lord Castlereagh and yourself, regarding provisions under negotiation at the Congress of Vienna, have, for some time now, been unaccountably known in Paris and Moscow,” he said. “The contents of your correspondence, which you believe known only to yourself, are read and debated throughout the Continent.”

“Then look to Castlereagh’s staff for your traitor!” Chute exploded. “You do not need to come to Hampshire in search of him.”

“I am afraid, sir,” West persisted quietly, “that we do. A man was lately taken up for stabbing another in a sailors’ tavern in Portsmouth;
and when his pockets were turned out, he was found to have a letter written in French in one of them. When the Navy fellows examined it, they discovered it to be written in cypher—and sent it immediately to the Admiralty. There it was recognised as one of your communications to Castlereagh. And the alarm went up at the highest levels of Government.”

“Damn me,” Chute muttered. He passed his hands over his eyes. “I have been suspected. My honour and fitness for service questioned. Does Castlereagh himself believe me a traitor?”

“I cannot think so. But the disappearance of the Ghent Treaty, while at The Vyne—”

Chute groaned aloud. “How am I to prove my innocence?”

“That is for me to do,” West returned. “I may say that my first action upon learning of the Lieutenant’s death—before any idea of murder arose—was to question your kennel-master, Jobe. He confirmed for me, in complete innocence of my true purpose, that you had spent the interval of Gage’s death among your dogs—under not only Jobe’s eye, but two of his underlings’.”

This was news to me.

“Thank God for that.” Chute grimaced. “You will be suspecting L’Anglois next, as my secretary.”

“And as a man who professes a thorough knowledge of French,” I pointed out.

“His long years of service to the Comte d’Artois, however, make him an unlikely suspect,” West countered. “He is known among Government circles as an ardent Bourbon adherent.”

And he was in London when Mary Gambier died, I thought. I could not believe the two murders unconnected.

“I am relieved to hear you acknowledge it,” Chute said warmly. “I know no harm of Ben. It is true that he draws up my correspondence;
but it is always I who seal and despatch it—and then, only by Express. Can it be possible that our system of publick messengers has been overturned by the Enemy?”

“You forget, sir, that the person who stole your intelligence also stole two lives,” I observed, “and we are agreed that the party must be an intimate of The Vyne.”

“Aye,” Chute retorted bitterly. “Explain that, Mr. West! The Admiralty sends you here, with grave suspicions they did not chuse to share with your host, and two of my guests are murdered! You have neither exposed nor thwarted your French spy—you have only brought violence to my household!”

“And none regrets that more than I,” he replied with a bow. “The traitor is at liberty to kill again. Which urges me to suggest that Miss Austen be conveyed from The Vyne as soon as possible.”

I started, and glared at him.

“Hey?” William Chute said.

“Having been foolish enough to find the wire that brought down Gage’s horse,” West supplied, “having insisted in publick that Miss Gambier’s death was murder—and having supplied evidence of blackmail to Lord Bolton—her fame will have spread all over the house. It will certainly have come to the ears of our murderer. Should she remain at The Vyne, Miss Austen’s life cannot be worth more than a few hours’ purchase.”

THE SIXTH DAY

In vain did I protest that the very publicity attendant upon my actions must serve as the greatest safeguard. In vain did I suggest that by sharing my intelligence, I had inoculated both myself and others against the epidemic of violence. It does not do to be reasonable and sanguine—to trust in the weight of the Law—when the instincts of gentlemen have been roused.

Therefore I did not demur when James announced, upon Lord Bolton’s departure from The Vyne, that all the Austen party must quit the place for Steventon, if he was to have a hope of preparing his sermons for Sunday. To James’s surprize and discomfiture, William Chute did not attempt to dissuade him, but instantly offered the use of his coachman and carriage for the journey home. It had been agreed among the conspirators in the book room that Miss Gambier’s death was to be treated as an accident, and tho’ I had referred to murder in the hearing of Thomas-Vere and others sitting in the library, no further mention of the word was to be made. There was to be no inquest in Miss Gambier’s death, lest the murderer take fright and bolt.

Lady Gambier did not descend to bid us goodbye. Her nephew informed us that they awaited only Lord Bolton’s permission to depart The Vyne, so that they might carry his sister’s sad remains to Bath, where his widowed mother now resided. Jane Gambier—for such was her name—would be wild with grief at the loss of her daughter; she could not yet have received the news, which might arrive only with the body.

Edward Gambier looked decidedly ill this morning, and older than his twenty years. The gay clubman was fled. He pressed my hand most narrowly, and thanked me in broken accents for my kindness to his “poor sister.” He shook James-Edward’s hand with better energy, however, and said he should be happy to meet him again, if he was ever in Town—which must be the apogee of any sixteen-year-old schoolboy’s ambition. Thus our departure was not entirely without its notes of fondness and regret.

“You have been very sly, Jane,” Eliza Chute whispered as she kissed my cheek in the Staircase Hall. “I shall be much surprized if Raphael West is not paying his addresses to you before the week is out.”

She was mistaken, of course—I suspected that if Raphael West had a
tendre
for any among the intimates of The Vyne, it must have been Miss Gambier—there was a harshness in his voice when he spoke of her, that augured pain—but I merely shook my head at Eliza and climbed into our borrowed conveyance. Dusk had barely fallen before we were pulling up before the parsonage door, and Mary was exclaiming how very small everything looked to her, now she had been staying at The Vyne!

Owing to Eliza’s kindness, we had provisions enough in a hamper for a cold collation before the fire last evening, and after desultory conversation, carried ourselves off to bed. The spirits of the Austen party were a little lacking. Cassandra and I shivered our way out of
our gowns—we had not bothered to change for dinner, in such a subdued environment—in a bedchamber quite barren of a fire. Mary, it seemed, had dismissed the servants for the duration of our stay with the Chute family, and they could not be got back again until morning. James had laid a fire in the parlour and banked another in the kitchen—but we should have to make do with our quilts for warmth until morning.

“It is a valuable lesson,” Cassandra observed through chattering teeth, “in the vanities of life—and the complaisance one may feel, on account of very little more than creature comforts—to have glimpsed the ease of a Great House like The Vyne, where so many labour for the indulgence of so few.”

“It is a lesson in parsimony,” I snapped, “and nothing more. You know we were never allowed to sleep cold as children, in this house!”

We determined that Jemima’s next gift, therefore, should be a fur tippet and muff I had fashioned from rabbit fur. Cassandra undertook to deliver them to Caroline’s garret room at dawn, as I had “the inquest to be thinking of.” The mere notion of setting one toe out of bed in the freezing hours of morning was so distasteful that I accepted her kindness without protest, and buried myself in quilts.

I slept fitfully, my limbs cramped, and awoke when Cassandra rose. I lay still in the heavy darkness, listening to the wind moan and cry at the bedchamber shutters, and endeavoured not to think of The Vyne. I ought to be thankful I was safely away from a household that had harboured a murderer. I ought to profit from distance, to consider my fellow-guests with ruthless clarity. But I thought of Raphael West instead.

I knew nothing of his true character. I could judge only that he possessed a keen mind and a penchant for guarding secrets that must make me chary with my trust. The regard I had begun to feel for
him—the pleasure in his conversation and company—was rather a tribute to the friend I had lost some years ago. I valued independence of mind and engagement with the world—Lord Harold had taught me both. Of late, I had been too little doing things, too little abroad. I had allowed myself to retreat into the quiet of the countryside and the world of my novels, and had been content. A few days in the company of Raphael West had reminded me of that other life I had given up: one of conflict and risk, knowledge and power. Comrades and mortal enemies. West had reawakened emotions, in sum, that could only make me restless—and cloud my judgement. If I wished to expose the murderer of John Gage and Mary Gambier, I must push emotion aside—I must deny self. It was as well I was obliged to sleep in a miserably cold room, with the prospect of a similarly cold breakfast.

Feeling thoroughly blue-deviled, I reached for the clothes I had left upon a chair and donned them under the protection of the bedclothes. It was so frigid in the small bedchamber that I could see my breath, and ice coated the panes of the solitary window. Bracing myself for the Arctic currents swirling up my skirts and under my drawers, I got out of bed and broke the ice in the washstand. My cheeks ached where I splashed water on them.

Cassandra came down the passage. “Up already!” she exclaimed, “and dressed! I do not think I can bear it.” She hurled herself back under the bedclothes without removing her dressing gown.

I left her huddled there and descended to the kitchen. I was not too proud to take my breakfast with Cook—if she had returned—before the spit and fire.

I
WAS IN MUCH
better case two hours later, when William Chute’s carriage called for me on the way to Basingstoke. He had brought Raphael West with him. We would both be summoned to provide
evidence at the inquest—“although you are not required to appear, Jane,” Chute said kindly, “if you have not the nerves for it. You may remain secluded in one of the Angel’s bedchambers, and give your evidence to the Coroner in private.”

I thanked the good man, but spared him the knowledge that an inquest was very small beer for a lady of my experience. I did not like William Chute to think me a vulgar jade. He had recovered from his shocks of the previous day, and our conversation with Lord Bolton, to affect an easy good humour during our lengthy journey—Basingstoke being all of nine miles northeast of Steventon. Indeed, The Vyne party had come well out of their way to escort me to the inquest, for Basingstoke is but three miles south of Sherborne St. John. I was acutely conscious of the kindness shewn me, and the inexpressible consideration in refusing to consign me to one of James’s carters or nags—and was fulsome in my thanks. Chute flushed red, and looked conscious, and turned the conversation swiftly to Miss Gambier.

“Now we are able to have a comfortable coze—mind that hot brick near your skirts, Miss Jane—I would be talking over the matter of this sad murder. What is your suspicion of Miss Gambier’s secret, and who in my household should be killing her for it?”