Jane and the Canterbury Tale

Whether Fanny found sleep readily enough, or tossed and turned on her unhappy bed, I was determined to wait for Edward—and having built up my fire, and exchanged my carriage dress for a warm wrapper, I sat at the writing desk in the Yellow Room and recorded the day’s events in this journal. The clock in the Great Hall had not long chimed the quarter-hour past nine, when I was rewarded by the sound of approaching hooves; Edward, gone round to the stables. He would gain the house in a few moments’ time by the back way, and no doubt summon Johncock to require his supper; and if I knew my brother at all, he would take it in his book room, rather than the awful majesty of the empty dining parlour.

I waited until the clock had chimed the half-hour, then opened my door as noiselessly as possible. A glance along the corridor revealed Fanny’s white face, peeping from the doorway of her own bedchamber; she, too, was clad in a dressing gown and slippers, and looked absurdly youthful beneath her night cap. She hesitated an instant, then stepped into the passage and joined me, the candle she held trembling slightly in her hand. “You intend to speak to Papa? May I come with you?”

I might have spared her one sleepless night out of two, by shielding her a little longer from the evils of the world; but she was twenty, after all, and could hardly be urged back to bed, like a child recovering from nightmare.

“Of course. I told you I valued your opinion.”

We found the Magistrate devouring a plate of cold fowl and cheese, washed down with a tankard of ale. The fire in the book room was blazing, and he had lit several branches of candles, as tho’ he intended to work long into the night. But there were no papers or books before him; the work, I collected, should be done entirely in his brain.

“Jane. Fanny. You ought both of you to be in bed.”

“Pshaw,” I returned briskly. “It is not yet ten o’clock.” But the weariness in Edward’s voice reminded me that he had been travelling on the London road until nearly dawn, and what little sleep he had snatched before our shared breakfast—days ago, it seemed—had long since been spent in hard riding between Chilham, Canterbury, and home.

“I am relieved to know that you were not met with pikes and broadswords at the Castle; and that they have let you go again, without demanding an exchange of hostages.”

His lips quirked at this sally; but his expression of sadness did not materially change. “The family were kindness itself, and treated me with a forbearance I ought not to expect, having gaoled two of their members within the week. It was all I could do to refuse to dine with them—the mere thought was as a mouthful of ashes to me! To accept the hospitality of one of my oldest friends, when I feel myself to be the merest scrub! It was damned awkward, Jane, I do not mind saying—damned awkward, and I hope I shall never again be forced to a similar exertion of duty, however long I may live!”

“Poor Papa.” Fanny perched on the edge of his desk, hope warring with anxiety in her countenance. “Did you speak to Mr. Wildman, sir? Did you learn anything to the purpose?”

“I learnt a good deal.” Edward’s eyes narrowed as he took his last bite of fowl, and washed it down with a draught of ale. “But nothing I learnt can hope to lighten Thane’s case. If anything, it merely confirms it.”

Fanny paled. “How is this?”

He gazed at her levelly. “Your aunt asked a pertinent question, my child. The one question, indeed, likely to tie Curzon Fiske’s murder to that of the maid. In default of heirs male, Mr. Wildman’s estate goes not, as I might have expected, to his brother’s sons—but entirely to his young cousin, Julian Thane. Wildman told me he thought it only just to provide for Thane in the eventuality his son James predeceased him, because his nephews will richly inherit from his brother, who is an even warmer man than Wildman himself. He confided, moreover, that Wold Hall was grossly encumbered with mortgages in Thane’s father’s time, and cannot possibly provide the kind of income that expensive young buck requires. With his pockets entirely to let, Thane was unlikely to prove acceptable to any heiress, either—not even to our own Miss Knight, the principal young lady in the neighbourhood. The added knowledge that his mistress, Martha, was soon to present the world with a pledge of her affection, should have blasted his marriage prospects entirely.”

Fanny looked about wildly, searching for reason in my countenance she could not discover in her father’s. “You cannot mean to blame me, and any … interest … Mr. Thane might have shewn me, for the murder of that unfortunate maid?”

“Fanny! No, no, child—do not think it!” The distress in Edward’s countenance was painful. “You can have nothing to do with so sordid a business!”

“But I have to do with it,” she said tremblingly. “I encouraged Mr. Thane’s attentions. Indeed, I was gratified by them. Whatever his faults—whatever his crimes may prove to be—he will remain in my memory as the most … engaging gentleman I have ever known.”

“Dear God,” Edward said.

Fanny’s chin rose. “I cannot believe him capable of murder, Father. And I do not see why Mr. Wildman’s Will has anything to say to the purpose! He is not in default of heirs male. James is perfectly well!”

“But James only narrowly escaped,” I reminded her gently. “Some one tried to tie a noose around young Wildman’s neck—by leaving his pistol near Curzon Fiske’s body. Had James hanged for it, Julian Thane might expect no less than a castle—and twenty thousand a year!”

Chapter Thirty-Three There’s a Way

“Lo, what tricks and deceiving subtleties

Women can use! They’re always busy as bees,

Buzzing and humming tales for men to believe,

And up and down, around the truth they weave.…”

Geoffrey Chaucer, “Epilogue To The Merchant’s Tale”

Friday, 29 October 1813

Fanny took breakfast on a tray in her room this morning, and I confess I was inclined to imitate her example, for the sleep I might have trusted to cure my tiresome cold proved elusive last night. My mind was too busy weaving and discarding theories of murder, tho’ all my cherished notions had proved useless thus far. I had never met Old Mr. Wildman’s nephews—they live, I believe, in London, on the fruits of the sugar trade. One is a Colonel of Hussars, or some such; the particulars do not signify. But I had taken a powerful fancy to the unknown Colonel. My intimacy with the entire Wildman family is so limited, indeed, by my infrequent journeying into Kent, that I could not be expected to know any real truth of them—and certainly not in what manner Old Wildman’s Will had been drawn. There is a decided fascination to the notion of the Absent Heir: the unseen hand wielding both gun butt and knife. He ought ideally to have been an expensive young man, who held his uncle’s life cheap, and might be expected to remove the obstacle of his cousin James with a ruthless and cunning efficiency. I confess I had cast the Colonel—whose name, I think, is Thomas—in the role of chief conspirator; for a soldier, you know, will generally have a high tolerance for bloodshed, and might be depended upon for a steady shot on a night of limited moon. He might just as well have killed Curzon Fiske, and left his cousin James to swing for it.[13] The little matter of his having not the slightest reason to murder Martha Kean, I had conveniently set to one side.

It was not to be, however; Edward had blasted all my hopes of the Absent Heir with the stunning news that