Jane and the Canterbury Tale

I gave one convulsive look at the pitiful figure behind me. Then I wrapped my arms about my chest in a vain attempt to warm myself, and began to pace briskly back and forth some yards from the scene of carnage, as vigourous proof against the rain that at last had begun to fall.

Chapter Twenty-Seven Pretty Maids All in a Row

“And knowing this is what we old men fear:

Our only way to ripen, now, is weary Decay.”

Geoffrey Chaucer, “The Steward’s Prologue”

26 October 1813, Cont.

“A dreadful business,” Bredloe observed as his fingers sketched a thoughtful arc over the dead girl’s great wound. “The principal artery is severed, of course, with a single cut. Whoever effected her death acted without the slightest hesitation. A brutal will has been at work here. Poor child! And you found her, Miss Austen, just as she lies?”

“We did not think it wise to shift her in any way, before you had surveyed the ground.”

I said we, because Jupiter Finch-Hatton had very kindly returned up the toilsome slope of the Downs to bear me company after seeing Fanny safely restored to Harriot, who, however silly in most things, might be relied upon to comfort and coddle her niece once the horrid tale had been told. Mr. Finch-Hatton had saddled a horse for this second jaunt—advisable at the time, perhaps, but requiring him now to walk the animal up and down the path lest its limbs stiffen in the chill rain. He had not, therefore, been of much use to me as a companion; but I honoured his chivalrous sentiment all the same.

Hunched some distance from the body, which justly horrified him, was the manservant sent out as guard from Chilham. He had arrived some moments before Mr. Finch-Hatton, but other than a laconic tug of his forelock, had vouchsafed not a word. He looked positively wretched in the rain.

Of Julian Thane there was no sign; he was required at Chilham, perhaps, to support the household.

The coroner flicked me a shrewd glance. “Mr. Knight is from home, I collect?”

“He is in London, sir—upon business that could not be delayed. I expect him returned no later than Thursday, and if fortune is kind, so soon as tomorrow evening.”

“Blast,” Bredloe said with forceful efficiency. “I should have valued his eyes.”

“You may employ mine, sir.”

He studied me. “Indeed. So I might. What have you discerned, Miss Austen, that I should hear?”

“I believe you carry a pocket watch, Dr. Bredloe?”

“I do.”

“And what hour does it tell?”

He frowned at me, but dutifully pulled his watch and chain from his waistcoat pocket. “Half-past two.”

“The messenger from Chilham Castle reached you when?”

“It wanted twenty minutes, I think, before the hour of one o’clock.”

“And you were then at home. Let us say, therefore, that the messenger set out from the Castle at noon, perhaps, and our discovery of the body occurred some fifteen minutes prior to that hour—a quarter to noon.”

“And you have been standing in all this wet for so long a period, Miss Austen?” The physician started to his feet—he had been kneeling by the body. “You shall catch your death of cold! Why has that fool of a Bond Street Lounger not offered you his coat?”

“Because he requires it himself,” I replied. “I have endeavoured to keep my blood flowing with the constant pursuit of exercise. My point, Dr. Bredloe, is that before this rain commenced, and at our discovery of the corpse nearly three hours ago, the blood you see everywhere about you was thoroughly congealed; suggesting that the girl met her death well before the dog alerted us to her presence.”

“Rigour has not yet begun to set in,” the coroner murmured, “and since an interval of some eight hours is usual for its onset, I may judge that the poor child met her death no sooner than seven o’clock this morning. As you so correctly point out, Miss Austen, death can have occurred no later than—we may surmise—eleven o’clock, to allow for the congealing of the blood. Excellently done! That fixes the period to a nicety!”

“A full four hours,” I said dubiously, “during which, any number of individuals might have been abroad on the Downs.”

Bredloe glanced around, took in the roaming Jupiter, and shook his head. “It is a lonely spot, on a lonely path. Did you observe nothing else, Miss Austen, in your pursuit of exercise?”

“I did,” I answered, with an effort at suppressing the chattering of my teeth, which—now that I was brought to a standstill by the doctor’s questions—threatened to o’erwhelm me. “A person stood some time in the soft ground within the coppice, before a second person—Martha, I suspect—approached the place; two sets of footprints are evident, if you should wish to view them.”

Without a word Bredloe followed me the slight distance further into the shelter of the lopped trunks and leafless branches. Perhaps two yards from Martha’s position, the prints were just discernible: half a booted foot, and the faint impression of another, in the moist leaf-mould. Opposed to them were a second person’s prints: smaller in form, and less deeply embedded—the marks of a lighter figure, no doubt a girl of seventeen. So much one might distinguish, before the two sets of prints merged closer to the body.

Bredloe hunched over the impressions. “Impossible to discern whether this was a man or a woman. The two shifted about a trifle, as they talked. And then this person—” he indicated the more delicate prints—“turned away, as tho’ to depart.”

“At which instant the other sprang forward, and struck her down.”

The coroner lifted his eyes from the ground. “Indeed. She knew her murderer—she approached and lingered long enough to speak with him—and was under no apprehension of danger when she bade him farewell.”

My teeth were chattering in earnest now. “W-why lure a suh-suh-serving-girl to her d-death in such a p- place?” I mused. “Why k-kill her at all?”

Bredloe drew a flask of brandy from his pocket and pulled the cork. “Take this, Miss Austen—I insist.”

The draught trailed its flame down my throat. I coughed and sputtered. “Th-thank you.”

Without ceremony, the doctor removed his heavy black frock coat—the symbol of his profession—and cast it over my shoulders. “You’ll do for a few moments; but I must insist you make for home as soon as may be. That fellow—” he indicated Jupiter—“may take you up before him.”

I, to ride pillion before the most dashing blade in Kent! How Fanny and her friends should make sport of us both, behind their hands!

But I said only, “You did not hear my question, I think. Why lure this child to her death? What possible reason can there have been to kill her?”

The coroner’s eyes narrowed. “Does she belong to Chilham?”

“Not at all! She is Mrs. MacCallister’s personal maid, and merely visits the Castle in that capacity. Her home is Wold Hall, in Leicestershire.”

“But her killer is presumably of this neighbourhood—quite possibly of the Castle itself. Our enquiries must begin there. Your brother will agree, Miss Austen, I am sure of it—but as such interrogations belong to his province, and not my own, I shall more fruitfully pursue a nearer duty. You there, sirrah!” he called to the manservant. “Pray carry my compliments to Mr. Wildman, and request a driver and dray, with all possible speed. We must convey this poor soul to the Castle. Do you return with the dray, mind, so that the direction is clear.”

“Very good, sir,” the manservant muttered, and set off with little enthusiasm for his errand.

“You mean to keep her at Chilham?” I enquired.