Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“So it did,” my brother said. He paused a moment, his eyes bent on the stone floor of the cell, his expression abstracted. “You have been exceedingly helpful, Sir Davie. I am in your debt.”

“In that case, Your Honour,” Mr. Burbage said, “might my client be set at liberty?”

Edward hesitated, and glanced at me. “I should like him to sign the statement you have recorded, and agree to give evidence, once Mrs. MacCallister is brought up before the Assizes.”

“When are the Quarter Sessions to be held?” Sir Davie demanded, as tho’ much put out. “I am bound on an expedition to the Galapagos in January!”

“I believe we shall not require too much of your time,” Edward assured him. “If you will be so good as to leave your direction with Mr. Burbage, so that we might inform you of the occasion—”

And so the baronet was released, to the evident displeasure of the warden Mr. Stoke; and the baronet at least seemed to find the occasion a source of joy. For my brother and me, however, the outcome of our interview in Canterbury gaol was hardly happy. I dreaded to consider of the scenes that must be played in coming days.

Chapter Twenty-Three The Clean-Shaven Liar

“You’ve got to be careful, Solomon once said:

‘Don’t open your door to every man who asks.’ ”

Geoffrey Chaucer, “The Cook’s Prologue”

25 October 1813, Cont.

“Well, Jane,” my brother said as we paused under the arch of Westgate gaol, “what do you make of this tangled web?”

“Little good,” I replied. “Sir Davie’s account must weave a hempen rope for the unfortunate Adelaide. Did she deny it all, when you charged her last evening?”

“She admitted that the hand on the fragment of paper discovered in Fiske’s coat was indeed her own. Still, she declared she never ventured out to meet the fellow that night—despite setting the assignation.”

“I suppose that is not entirely improbable.”

“Jane! Will you never be done defending the lady? Tho’ she lies, and lies, and lies again?”

I lifted a troubled gaze to Edward’s own. “I cannot find any credible reason for Adelaide to leave James Wildman’s gun behind her. Until you may supply one, I shall persist in believing that it was not her hand that took Fiske’s life.”

“Her mother would be gratified by your loyalty,” he offered abruptly. “She informed me, with considerable hauteur, that she had intercepted her daughter on the point of setting out for her midnight confrontation near St. Lawrence churchyard, and forcibly locked Adelaide into her bedroom—where, later still, the Captain avers he found his wife. Upon his return from his own nocturnal jaunt, one presumes.”

“You do not credit Mrs. Thane?”

He shrugged eloquently.

“Was this her attempt, do you think, to restore Adelaide’s dignity before Captain MacCallister?”

“It may have been,” my brother conceded, his brows knitted, “for I never saw a gentleman more shocked than he; the Captain was deprived of speech for several minutes, once he apprehended that his wife had deceived him—in this clandestine communication, as in so much else. The little matter of her then being taken up for murder was but an incidental blow. For one as deeply in love as MacCallister, each successive day brings its own measure of wretchedness.”

“Will he stand by her, do you think?”

“He has that sort of courage. But it will be an ugly business, Jane. I cannot believe she will escape hanging. I must go to her, now, and put before her the matter of Fiske’s letter, posted in London. It may be that she will deny ever having received it—or, once she apprehends we know of the full extent of her falsity, she may give way entirely and confess.”

“If she does,” I said, “I shall be profoundly surprized.”

“You do not wish to accompany me?”

I shook my head, a reprehensible coward. “I am pledged to Harriot, who is kicking her heels at Moffett’s Confectionary. We are to call upon old Mrs. Milles—Harriot desires it.”

“I shall collect you from the lady’s front door in an hour, then,” my brother commanded, and turned back inside the gaol.

I stood undecided an instant, enquiring in my own mind whether I ought not to see Adelaide MacCallister— whether the face of a friend, and a female at that, should not be infinitely cheering amidst the misery of such a place. Before I had taken a step in either direction, however, the great oak door of the gaol swung open once more, and expelled the solicitor, Mr. Burbage.

He lifted his hat at the sight of me, and bowed. “Miss Austen. It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope Sir Davie did not unduly weary—or appall—you with his reminiscences?”

“Not at all, sir. His stories were extremely entertaining—and I may say, enlightening. Is he gratified to have won his freedom?”

“I daresay. Sir Davie has been in far tighter spots than Canterbury gaol, as no doubt you have surmised.”

“Have you been acquainted with the baronet long?”

“Some years,” he replied. “It is my pleasure to serve so notable an eccentric; Sir Davie makes a decided change from the usual Wills and Marriage Settlements.”

“I suppose you must often support him in tight spots, as you put it—for I recollect, now, where I have seen you before,” I declared, with sudden comprehension. “You attended Saturday’s inquest, did you not?”

“The inquest?” A look of puzzlement came over Mr. Burbage’s countenance, and he seemed to take a half- step backwards. “You would refer to the inquest on Mr. Curzon Fiske’s death?”

“Indeed. You entered the publick room at almost the same moment as Sir Davie—tho’ you did not appear to notice one another. Having made room for Sir Davie on my bench, I had occasion to observe you standing against the wall. But you had whiskers, then, did you not? And are now clean-shaven? I presume that is why I did not recognise you when first we were introduced in the gaol. The light in the cell was exceedingly poor.”

Mr. Burbage’s frown deepened. “I regret that I have not set foot in Canterbury, during the whole course of my life, until this morning, Miss Austen; nor have I ever sported whiskers! I must assure you that you are mistaken.”

My lips parted in surprize, for the solicitor was raising his beaver in a chilly gesture of farewell. I coloured, and managed, “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Not at all,” he replied, and walked swiftly away.

I gazed after him some moments. Absent the confusion of whiskers—merely observing Mr. Burbage from the rear as he strode down St. Peter’s Street—I was more than ever convinced I was correct. The figure, frame, profile—all declared the stranger of respectable appearance, who had taken up a position to the rear of the publick room. I was not mistaken in Mr. Burbage; but for reasons best known to himself, the solicitor preferred to utter a falsehood rather than admit he had been in Canterbury the day before yesterday. I must mention the matter to Edward—Edward, who had waited full two days for the arrival of Sir Davie’s solicitor from London, when it appeared the fellow was already established in the neighbourhood.

And why had he seen fit to rid himself of his beard, if not to defy detection?