Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“Sir Davie.” My brother confronted the baronet. “I can no longer waste precious time in canvassing your reminiscence. Pray have the goodness to explain when you landed in England with Fiske, and how you came to have that pouch of tamarind seeds in your possession.”

“The tamarind exerted a powerful fascination upon Fiske’s mind,” Sir Davie murmured dreamily. “He found the fruit to be only tolerable—there are any number of exotic plants native to the Indies that produce a more pleasing commestible—but the tamarind figured as a potent symbol in Fiske’s philosophy. The seed, you know, may lie dormant for years in the absence of rain; and yet, when once refreshed by the sweet elixir of water, will send out green shoots with a vigour and a will. Fiske saw in this the constant renewal of hope, the resurgence of life … and the enduring nature of love, regardless of neglect or the appearance of ruin.”

“Adelaide,” I said. Of course.

“Precisely. She seems to have been no mere Anne or Mary. Having fled Ceylon without detection—having secured a fortune in gold within his coat—having in the person of myself, a friend whose loyalty sprang from the obligations of gratitude, and who should never betray him—Fiske determined to take ship for England’s shores, and try what felicity the renewal of his attentions to his estranged wife might bring.”

“When was this?” Edward demanded harshly.

“Some three months ago. The voyage home from India is a tedious trial, even without the occasional alarums of shipboard struggle, our Indiaman being subject to the intermittent French salvo. More than once I was myself obliged to man the twelve-pounders in the bow, your merchant seamen being nothing so adept as the hearties of the Royal Navy. But, however, we were fortunate to arrive unscathed; and in London, parted company for an interval, so that Fiske might discover his wife’s present whereabouts, and send her a line to prepare her for the unexpected joy of his arrival.”

“He wrote to Adelaide?” I broke in.

“Should not you have done the same, after an interval of three years?”

I exchanged a swift glance with my brother. Here was another instance of Adelaide’s prevarication; she had insisted she believed Fiske to be dead. She had prepared for her wedding, however, in the apparent knowledge that it was bigamous. My heart sank.

“But are you certain such a letter reached her? How did Mr. Fiske divine where she was?” I pressed.

“I am afraid that is owing to me,” Mr. Burbage supplied. “Mr. Fiske called upon me some five weeks ago, at the advice of Sir Davie, whose solicitor I have been for a period of years, tho’ heretofore our acquaintance has been largely conducted through a protracted correspondence, much interrupted by the vagaries of distance and occasional disaster. Having acquainted me with the particulars of his history, Mr. Fiske retired to a respectable inn not far from the Thames riverfront, while I endeavoured to learn what I could of his wife and her family, the Thanes. Mr. Fiske was able to supply me with the direction of their country seat, whence I repaired; and through circumspect enquiries in the villages surrounding Wold Hall, swiftly learnt that Mrs. Fiske, having been informed of her husband’s death and having undergone a lengthy period of mourning, was upon the point of a highly- advantageous marriage. I returned to London, and imparted these particulars to Mr. Fiske.”

“And how did he receive the intelligence?” Edward asked.

“With sorrow and chagrin. His exact words, I believe, were: Hoisted by my own petard, Burbage. He was fully alive to the irony that events which had once urged his apparent decease, had now told against him—in allowing his wife to proceed, in all innocence, with the next chapter of her life.”

“But he did write to her,” I persisted. It seemed so material a point, I required to be convinced.

“So I believe. It was in that letter he advised Mrs. Fiske that he could not walk abroad under his true name without fear of prosecution for debt—and that she should look for the delivery of a peculiar token, as notice of his coming.”

“The tamarind seeds,” I said.

“Precisely,” the solicitor replied.

Oddly, it was the face of Julian Thane that rose most forcibly in my mind at that moment—the dark, elegant countenance animated with sudden violence, as he wheeled upon his sister in the drawing-room at Chilham Castle, the day after the discovery of the corpse. Fiske sends you his calling card, he had said, in outrage that she had not told him of the silken pouch’s delivery; and I guessed, sharply, that he, too, had known of Fiske’s survival; that Thane as well as his sister had read that ominous letter, and awaited the return of one thought to be dead. Had all the Thanes propelled Andrew MacCallister down the aisle of St. Mary’s in reckless disregard for the proprieties? And what had they hoped to gain, from such stubborn indifference to the truth?

The truth need never have been known, a voice whispered within, if they had managed to kill Fiske sooner.

I sank back against my hard wooden chair, a sensation of dread curling in my stomach. Despite every mark against them, I had learnt to like the Thanes too much.

“Sir Davie,” my brother said in a weary voice—having revolved, no doubt, every dark thought that had spun in my own mind—“pray tell me, at last, how you came to be at Chilham Wednesday night?”

“Nothing simpler,” the old seaman replied. “Burbage learnt of the wedding, and where and when it was to be. Fiske saw that his wife meant to brave it out—she never so much as acknowledged his letter, nor attempted to meet with him, tho’ he sent her his direction in London. He determined to give her a shock, therefore, on her wedding night. But he preferred not to test the memories of all those at Chilham, by descending in the flesh upon the wedding-party. He still owed too much to his creditors in England to be entirely comfortable with full exposure. And there was some other matter—an old scandal he refused to disclose—an affair of honour that prevented him from entering Kent with precisely that measure of easiness he should have desired. And so he went as a common labourer, and I as the seaman I have always been, and we agreed that I should deliver the tamarind seeds, being unknown to the lady. I was to wait for Mrs. Fiske’s reply; Fiske had enclosed a small slip of paper in the pouch, informing her she was to seek me in the back garden, on the lower terrace, once all the household was abed.”

“I did not glimpse that paper,” I said regretfully. “When the pouch was opened, I saw only a spill of seeds.”

“And if she had not appeared?” Edward demanded.

Sir Davie shrugged. “Fiske should probably have given it up as a bad business—and commenced to blackmail the lady. She had certainly left herself open to such an action, however deplorable; and Fiske regarded her in no very amiable light. The desire to punish her for indifference was hard upon him. Yes, I believe I may say that Mrs. Fiske—Mrs. MacCallister, if you will—should not have enjoyed a moment’s peace from that night forward. Poor mite.”

“And she met you in the back garden?” Edward’s tone was very hard; I guessed that considerable emotion roiled in his breast. Pity for Adelaide—or disgust for Fiske—I could not say.

“She sent her maid. The unfortunate child was frightened out of her wits at the commission, and the sight of me did nothing to support her courage. She thrust at me a knot of paper, and ran as fast as her legs might carry her back to the safety of the Wildman keep.” The baronet smiled reminiscently, displaying very bad teeth indeed.

“And what did you then?”

Sir Davie’s gaze lifted to my brother’s. “I walked directly into the village of Chilham, where Fiske awaited me at the publick house; gave him the missive from his lady-love, and put myself to sleep on a straw pallet in the stables. One of the stable boys will no doubt remember me, for I disturbed him upon my entrance.”

“Which was at what hour?”

“Perhaps midnight. I cannot precisely say. The wedding revels were still in full force at the Castle when I left.”

And so Adelaide had communicated with Sir Davie well before the interview between Captain MacCallister and his batman, and the subsequent departure of the two men with their roll of banknotes intended to buy Fiske’s silence. It was a wonder all three did not collide upon the path over the Downs in the dead of night, coming or going.

“And when you awoke?” Edward prompted Sir Davie.

“I proceeded to walk towards Canterbury, by easy stages, and was so fortunate as to be taken up by a grocer’s dray a few miles out of Chilham. Fiske and I had agreed to meet at the Little Inn, when once his business should be concluded—but he never came there. Only his corpse appeared, on the Friday, with the coroner behind it.”