Jane and the Genius of the Place: Being the Fourth Jane Austen Mystery (45 page)

“I believe that it has gone exactly as was intended,” Mr. Emilious replied with satisfaction.

“The treasure ships never arrived,” Neddie concluded.

“They struck a reef not far from these shores, and unfortunately were lost. It is a pity that Mr. Pitt chose to consign the treasure to some of the Navy's oldest vessels; but it cannot be helped. With Mr. Grey's indemnification in hand, the Navy might build several new ships of the line, of course, and hardly see themselves the poorer.”

“Unlike Mr. Grey,” I said, remembering Henry's assessment of his household.

“Oh, you need not concern yourself with
Grey
, Miss Austen. A grateful Crown will make all possible amends, I am sure.”

“And the treasure?” Neddie asked.

“—Is presumed to have been lost with the ships.” Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton's gaze was blandly innocent. “How even Lord Harold intends to smooth those troubled waters, I cannot begin to think. But I shall trust, as ever, in his inimitable powers.”

To my surprise, Neddie almost smiled. “And we have
this
to thank for the preservation of our peace! They may say what they like of the Tory Pitt—drunkard, idiot, enfeebled dotard—but, by God, he is a man of policy! If England stands another year without a Frenchman on her shores, we shall have Pitt to thank!”

“And now I may inform you of a piece of news I received by messenger yesterday morning,” Mr. Emilious said. “The French are reported to be breaking camp at their Channel ports. The mass of armed troops—nearly an hundred thousand men, who have been rotting along the coast for two years—have been ordered to the Empire's eastern borders. It is almost certain that Buonaparte intends war with Austria.”
4

“Austria!” I cried. “And is the Comte de Penfleur aware of the ruin of his hopes?”

“We must pray that he continues in ignorance a litde while longer,” Mr. Emilious replied. “Else he will be gone from these shores before we find sufficient cause to arrest him.”

Neddie consumed the last of his bread, and pushed back his chair from the table. The look of elation had quite fled from his features. “Gratified as I may be by this frank avowal of all your interests,” he told Mr. Emilious, “I rather wonder at your revealing so much. You have exposed Mr. Sothey as an agent of Government; you have declared yourself to be very nearly the same; and you have disclosed not a little of that Government's policy. To what end, sir? The diversion of our interest? For is it not irrefutable, that Mrs. Grey
died
as a result of your efforts?
Something alerted
her confederates to the failure of their hopes. I have not forgot the French courier that was seen at her house the very morning of her death— revealing, perhaps, the nature of her betrayal. Am I not charged, Mr. Finch-Hatton, with the pursuit of her murderer, and the resolution of her death?”

There was a heavy silence about the table. Then Mr. Emilious said, “I trust you will comprehend, Mr. Austen, the impenetrable nature of espionage. We may never know for a fact who killed Mrs. Grey. It is probable, however, that she died at the hands of the Comte de Penfleur. Certainly he had reason to believe that she had betrayed him; the promised funds failed to arrive, precipitating his own highly perilous journey to these shores; and he may even have suspected that the lady was a victim of her sources.”

“It was for this that I quitted The Larches on Monday,” Mr. Sothey broke in. “I could not be assured of my own safety, did I remain too long in the household. I learned of the Comte's intended arrival from that selfsame courier you would mention, Mr. Austen—and I freely own, I prepared to depart. Mrs. Grey's fury upon learning my intention, precipitated a public attack—”

“The whip, brought down upon your neck,” I murmured.

“—but even still, I cannot think she understood the extent of my subtle use of her. She believed me to the last, a poor idiot employed for her own devices; it was I, she thought, who had urged her husband to receive the Comte de Penfleur's letter, begging that he should indemnify the Royal Navy's ships—when, in fact, it was Mr. Pitt himself, who proposed the plan.”

“I should not like to be Grey,” my brother said suddenly, “does the Comte ever tumble to the truth of what occurred. We must hope, as you said, that he is yet in ignorance of the truth, or Grey's life should not be worth a farthing.” His voice trailed away suddenly, and he stared fixedly at Emilious Finch-Hatton.

“Those were almost your exact words, Mr. Emilious.” I forced the gentleman to meet my gaze. “—That the Comte must be kept in ignorance a little longer. A Comte in doubt as to the state of the funds was all very well—but a Comte who knew the truth, that he had been betrayed by Mr. Grey and England, should stop at nothing! It was for that—the preservation of his ignorance—that Mrs. Grey was killed.”

There was a terrible pause—one filled with horrified implication, as we each of us glanced at the others around the table—and then Julian Sothey thrust himself to his feet.

“Sit down, boy,” Mr. Emilious charged him in a deadly tone. “I shall deal with this.” Then, in a calmer accent, he said: “As for Mr. Grey's life—you may rest easy on that score. The Comte de Penfleur shall not stir from his rooms, without I learn of it; and Mr. Grey has been called by Mr. Pitt to London on a pretext, expressly for the preservation of his safety.”

“So even Grey is as yet in ignorance of the extent of his folly!” Neddie cried. “I can well comprehend it. What man could endure the knowledge that his colleagues and friends had murdered his wife, as a policy of statecraft!”

“Are you accusing me of murder, Mr. Austen? Consider well, before you do,” Mr. Emilious said sternly. “You cannot hope to prove such a claim; for tho' present at the Canterbury Races, I was under the eye of my unimpeachable brother, and half a dozen others, for the whole of the proceedings.”

“But what of Mr. Sothey? Where was
he
, at the critical hour?”

The improver's countenance assumed the perfect serenity I had last discerned at the Canterbury Races.

“My man will vouch for me.”

“Your man! Aye, I am sure he will vouch for anything. But I cannot be so certain he will be believed.”

“Come, come, Mr. Austen,” Mr. Emilious interrupted in a placating tone. “Is it not far more likely that the Comte de Penfleur murdered Mrs. Grey? I am certain, for my part, that he murdered Denys Collingforth.”

“On what grounds?” Neddie retorted, his brows knit.

“—Because he intended that Collingforth's murder should look like the work of Mr. Grey, towards whom he has always harboured the most vengeful jealousy. The crime was committed on the very night the Comte knew Grey to be called away on business. Grey travelled alone; no one might vouch for his route; and the man Pembroke, if questioned, should be taught to accuse Grey as his paymaster. Pembroke undoubtedly sent the news of Collingforth's presence in Deal to the master of The Larches; but I would warrant it was the Comte who received it.”

“You know a great deal too much about that man's affairs,” Neddie observed.

“It is my duty to know everything that the Comte holds in contemplation, before he so much as conceives it,” Mr. Emilious flashed. “Arrest the man Pembroke, Mr. Justice Austen, and see if I have not told you rightly!”

There was a faint whimper, as of a small animal run to earth, and Anne Sharpe reached a trembling hand to my arm.

“What is it, my dear? Do you wish to seek your bed?”

She shook her head, and said in a voice so faint as to be almost inaudible, '1 have a duty of my own to perform, or all sleep shall be banished forever.” Then, more clearly, “You asked me whether I had ever had occasion to visit Mr. Sothey in the stables at The Larches. Did that question arise from a particular instance you know of, Miss Austen—or from a general suspicion of my behaviour?”

“A particular instance,” I replied. “A woman with raven-dark hair was seen riding out of The Larches' stables, a few days before Mrs. Grey's death.”

The governess rose unsteadily, as tho' seized with a sickness, and backed slowly away from the table. Her hazel eyes were fixed on Julian Sothey, and the expression of horror in their depths must have filled even him with dread.

“Then it
was
you,” she whispered. “I thought that I had been dreaming—a trick of the light and my tortured brain. But I have seen it in memory again and again, wearying my thoughts like a child's rhyming song! If you knew the nightmare I have lived in, Julian, you should have fled the country long since!”

“Anne—”

“Do you not know that I have observed you sit your horse an hundred times, during those happy days in Weymouth? Whether you chose to ride sidesaddle, and wear a long red gown, I should know your seat anywhere!”

—
Did you see that grey-eyed jade, Neddie, spurring her mount for all she was worth
?

—
I believe Mrs. Grey s eyes to be brown, Henry.

“Of course,” I said slowly. “Henry saw what we all did not. Your eyes are decidedly grey, Mr. Sothey—and the lady's eyes were brown.”

“I could not believe it true,” Anne Sharpe burst out, “but I know now that I was not mistaken! It was you, Julian, who were astride Mrs. Grey's horse in the final heat; and the lady herself was already dead at your hands!”

1
The Secret Funds were monies voted annually by Parliament, and set aside for the government's use. No public inquiry as to their disposition was allowed; and while they were commonly used during the Napoleonic Wars for the payment of spies and the active sabotage of Bonaparte's government, in past eras the Secret Funds had defrayed the debts of royal mistresses, or purchased votes in corrupt parliamentary elections.—
Editor's note.

2
Sothey is presumably speaking of the period around May 1803, when the Treaty of Amiens between England and France was broken.—
Editor's note.

3
Alan Schom refers to this remarkable instance of intergovernmental cooperation in
Trafalgar: Countdown to Battle, 1803-1805
, but the full story behind events is outlined for the first time here.—
Editor's note.

4
Finch-Hatton had early news of the troop pullout, something we may attribute to George Canning and his Secret Funds. As historian Alan Schom points out in
Trafalgar: Countdown to Battle, 1803-1805
, the French government's bankruptcy forced Napoleon to abandon the invasion of England and turn east to Austria, where he believed an easy land campaign would replenish his coffers. His instincts were richly rewarded. The Austrian indemnity alone at the Treaty of Pressburg amounted to forty million francs.—
Editor's note.

26 August 1805, cont'd.

W
HAT HAPPENED NEXT WAS TOO SWIFT FOR THOUGHT.
Emilious Finch-Hatton leapt from his seat, and would have seized Anne Sharpe by the neck, had not Mr. Sothey been before him; she cried out, and cowered behind the spare form of the improver. Sothey contrived to hold Finch-Hatton at bay, while the latter muttered imprecations through his teeth.

“Fool! She'll have your neck!”

“I care nothing for life, Finch-Hatton,” Sothey cried, “if I have not the love of this woman. Can you have understood me so little?”

“I have understood you not at all. I thought you a man of sense, of coldest calculation—not a weak-hearted fool, to be played upon by a girl!” Mr. Emilious wheeled away from his confederate and thrust a kitchen chair violently towards the wall. He seemed oblivious to the look of appalled fascination on my brother's countenance; I, who had long understood what he was, could appear more sanguine.

“You must demand a vow of silence from her, Sothey,” he muttered. “Everything—your life, and possibly Grey's— depends upon it!”