Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“So, too, must Uncle Moore have been present,” Fanny observed. “Else he should not have been able to repeat what Mr. Lushington then did, or said. Perhaps he and Aunt Harriot were on a visit to Chilham at the time.”

She was correct, of course. Phantom faces rose in my mind, chance guests around a green-baize table, their looks years younger, their frames thinner, themselves shadowy in aspect and purpose—George Moore and Jupiter Finch-Hatton; Stephen Lushington and John Plumptre; Curzon Fiske and his host, James Wildman. A strange assortment of gentlemen—their ages, aims in life, and the means they chose to achieve them … utterly different. …

And the MP had accused Fiske of cheating. Did not such rash words generally end in a meeting at dawn, rather than voluntary exile? I supposed the outcome depended upon the spirit in which the accusation was received. —Not with gloves slapped across the face, but a craven apology?

It came to me then, with a force of conviction unbidden and unquestionable, that the murder perpetrated on the Pilgrim’s Way had its root in that fateful card party—Curzon Fiske’s last hand of whist as an acknowledged Englishman, in the bosom of his neighbours and acquaintance, some three years since. Dr. Bredloe might chuse to believe the affair was simple, and that once the MacCallisters were returned from their aborted honeymoon, he should find his murderer in husband or wife—but I suspected there was more behind Fiske’s death than mere wedding-night violence. The quiet corpse lying cold in the scullery still wielded a malevolent power: it had pitted friend against friend only this evening. The seeds of Fiske’s death were planted, I felt certain, in that company of whist players at Chilham Castle; and whatever they had said or done that wretched night still divided them. Indeed, the apparent peace achieved once Fiske was fled to India was entirely destroyed at his unexpected return—the secret that bound his fellows was sure to spill out, like water overflowing from cupped hands. One among our quiet neighbours had known Fiske was not dead of a fever in Ceylon; one had waited for him to reappear, like a phantasm or bogey from the grave; and one had determined that Fiske should never leave the Pilgrim’s Way alive.…

“That poor man’s death,” Fanny murmured, “has unleashed a nasty spirit in this house. Do you not feel it, Aunt? We are all in discord, as tho’ we breathed a bitter atmosphere. I believe I shall go up to bed early. I have no heart for embroidery tonight.”

“Have you none for whatever apology John Plumptre might make?” I asked, in an attempt to rally her.

She shook her head with a faint smile, and exited the drawing-room.

I did not linger long myself, for when the gentlemen put in their appearance at last, and stood around the tea table when it was brought in, that I might pour out for them and preserve the appearance at least of a cordial country-house evening, the talk was all of hunting—it being the most neutral topic the party might hit upon. John Plumptre, as I had expected, struck the correct note, in remaining firmly upon the path of what was unobjectionable, impersonal, and incapable of giving offence; he talked with determination of hard frosts, stopped earths, thinning coverts, and sound hunters, in which he was heartily joined by my nephew Young Edward, whose unbridled enthusiasm for every form of sport is the most tiresome thing about him. Mr. Lushington, as Keeper of Hounds, might join in with impunity; and my brother the Magistrate observe all with a dispassionate eye. Mr. Moore, upon learning that his lady had already retired, buried himself in a book; and not long thereafter excused himself from the party.

Mr. Lushington surprized me excessively by bending over my hand, and offering the most fulsome compliments on the hospitality of the house, explaining that he found he must depart on the morrow—possibly before breakfast—on urgent business that could not wait. As Mr. Plumptre would also be leaving us in the morning, he, too, said all that was proper when I rose to retire—but I offered him more than the polite nothings I had given our MP.

“Do not be in a hurry to run away from us, Mr. Plumptre,” I suggested. “We enjoy your society so much; and in a difficult hour, the presence of a friend is a solace, not a burden.”

“You are very good, Miss Austen.” He looked a trifle discomposed, as tho’ his cravat were suddenly too tight. “But I know too well that I have hurt where I ought to have healed. I fault myself—indeed, I cannot recall my behaviour at dinner this evening without shame and reproach. I will not say more; there is nothing that may be said, in defence of my ill-judged temper.”

“Which is why you ought to have breakfast with us, Mr. Plumptre,” I returned with amusement, “for much may be forgiven over the morning coffee, particularly if the sun is shining, as I expect it shall be tomorrow. Try to enjoy a good night’s sleep; and know that each new day is a chance to start life afresh. Or so I have always found it.”

“Thank you. I shall.” He bowed over my hand—such a boy, for all his airs and intellect; an uncertain boy with eloquent eyes, who has yet to plumb the mysteries of his own heart or anyone else’s—for all he may study Philosophy.

I took breakfast in my room, on a tray, as befits A lady of my advanced years; fancy me, sitting up in a great bed with draperies, and a brisk fire in the hearth, and a cap on my head as I write in this journal. The breakfast- parlour shall be all the better for my absence, provided Mr. Plumptre and Fanny have the solitary use of it; as the weather is indeed much improved from yesterday, I would expect both Young Edward and George shall already be out shooting, with sandwiches in their pockets, and Edward will have ridden into Canterbury to see to the inquest —

Later this morning

I broke off above, because a sudden shout from the direction of Bentigh and the Lime Walk roused me from my study—a male shout, full and rich with the satisfaction of discovery. I threw back the bedclothes, stepped to one of the Yellow Room’s great windows, and peered through the glass. I could discern nothing. The consciousness, however, that the party of constables prescribed by Dr. Bredloe, as being best suited to a thorough searching of the murderous ground, must already be established on the Pilgrim’s Way, urged me to throw off my wrapper, don a serviceable gown, wash my face and pin up my curls under a suitable cap for day wear, and search out my spencer. I could not allow such a fine morning for a walk to pass in indolence.

Ten minutes’ brisk exercise brought me up with the search party—rough local men, by the look of them, urged to greater endeavour by a stout individual with a sash of office tied about his chest.

“Good morning, Constable,” I said brightly, as tho’ it were the most natural thing in the world for a lady to be nosing about a scene of murder on a bright October day. “I am Miss Austen, sister to Mr. Knight the Magistrate, you know, who lives at this place. How are your men getting on?”

“Well enough, ma’am,” he returned cautiously. “Well enough. I had the honour to speak with the Magistrate myself this morning, in Canterbury.”

“I am sure you were an immense source of comfort to him.” I offered this flattery with a confiding air. “My brother is desirous that everything to do with this sad affair should be conducted according to the absolute letter of the Law—and to know that you are about the search for the spent ball must greatly relieve his mind.”

“It’s kind in you to say it, ma’am.”

I glanced at the several fellows bent over the brush, sweeping it with their hands, which were gloved in rough workman’s leather. “I daresay with such capable fellows, you might be so fortunate as to discover the duelling pistol itself! What a feat that should be! Quite a feather in your cap, Constable …”

“—Blewett, ma’am.”

“Of course.” I beamed at him. He unbent a little.

“You know about the pistol, Ma’am?”

“Oh, yes. I was present, you know, when Mr. Fiske was discovered—and with my brother when the body was first examined. It seems clear that a single ball despatched him, poor gentleman.”

The constable glanced over his shoulder, found no one to be observing him, and said in a hoarse whisper,