Jane and the Stillroom Maid (5 page)

“He will certainly be claimed,” Mr. Hemming said sternly. “This is no itinerant labourer you might anatomise, Tivey. You have a gentleman in your hands.”

“That’s as may be. Tha’d best take him along to the Snake and Hind. Jacob Patter will give me the use of his scullery.”

A murmur of debate and excitement swelled around us. No one present could be in doubt as to the nature of the blacksmith’s direction; the Snake and Hind was a coaching inn at the head of Water Street, and Jacob Patter its proprietor. Mr. Tivey intended the use of the scullery as a resting place for the dead. It was there he would examine the corpse, with the curious of Bakewell struggling for a view through the chinks in the publican’s shutters. We were, I thought drily, rather remote from civilisation in the depths of Derbyshire.

“Damn Tivey and his love of sensation,” Mr. Hemming muttered. He had returned to the gig and now offered his hand. “I might have passed the matter off with credit, but for his indiscretion. Pray forgive me, Miss Austen, for deserting you at such a time. Have you courage enough to attempt the town on foot, or shall I send Mr. Cooper as escort?”

“Mr. Cooper had far better attend you to the Snake
and Hind,” I replied. “The offices of a clergyman must be in greater demand
there
than at The Rutland Arms. I shall be quite all right, I assure you.”

My cousin did not look as though he appreciated my sacrifice.

26 August 1806, cont.
∼

A
CRUSH OF THE POPULACE MILLED ABOUT THE STREETS
of Bakewell in happy confusion: farm women and domestic servants bustling with purpose and large twig baskets; young boys singing the praises of tin and soap and bristle brushes made of boar. There were cheese sellers and egg sellers and a man who held a pair of squealing piglets high for inspection; and I should have enjoyed the hurly-burly of market day, were it not for the picture of horror that still lingered in my mind. A profusion of odours mingled in the August heat—the sweat of men and of horses, the deep mustiness of sheep’s wool. Roasting sausage and spoiling hay. Bruised peaches. And the smell of butcher’s blood.

It was everywhere in the folds of my light muslin gown and the damp curls of my hair, that warm, sweet, engulfing odour from the heights of Miller’s Dale. I felt a wretched desire to be sick, and steadied myself against a hitching post.

There is a madman loose in the hills
. Only this could
explain the savagery visited upon the poor fellow lying among the rocks. The attack seemed very nearly inhuman, as though a wild beast had come upon the gentleman unawares, and torn him asunder.

That he
was
a gentleman, I had no doubt. His clothing was well-made, and near enough in style to my fashionable brothers’ to suggest that he was a person of some means. A traveller such as ourselves, perhaps. An admirer of the beauties of the Peaks. Certainly not an angler, for there had been no sign of abandoned tackle. But what traveller wandered alone through hill and dale, so far from Bakewell, and without an equipage or a mount? And where were his party—the friends who might have put a name to his broken form?

Not a traveller, then. A person long familiar with the Peaks. An excellent walker, who had come from a farm or a nearby estate in the first light of morning and mounted the path above the Wye by slow degrees, lost in heavy thought, until he achieved the heights—and a meeting that had brought his death.

“Jane!”

It was my sister Cassandra’s voice. I turned and espied her in the doorway of the confectioner’s opposite, waving a gloved hand. Her chestnut curls peeked demurely from a lace cap, and the cut of her gown was sober; for the briefest instant I might have been gazing upon the image of my mother, drawn from life a score of years ago.
How old we are become
, I thought, and waited for the passage of a waggon before traversing the paving stones.

“You must sample one of Mrs. Carver’s puddings,” my sister urged. “Only think—they are called Bakewell puddings, and are peculiar to the region. I have been enjoying mine this quarter-hour, but I am certain Mrs. Carver would not hesitate to bring another for yourself.”

I sank onto a stool in a corner of the close room and placed my head in my hands. “I could not bear the sight of food at present.”

“What has happened?” Cassandra enquired. “I did not look for you in Bakewell until the dinner hour, at least. Are you unwell, Jane?”

Her gentle hand was upon my shoulder. A great weariness had me in its grip, and it was enough to rest there amidst the warm smells of pastry and jam and say nothing. But Cassandra would have an answer.

“Where is my cousin?”

“With the blacksmith.”

“Has Mr. Hemming’s pony thrown a shoe?”

“The blacksmith, Cassandra, is also the surgeon. There has been … an accident.” I raised my head and looked at her; she was all anxiety.

“Mr. Cooper,” she breathed in horror.

“No.” I gripped her wrist in reassurance. “A person quite unknown to us all. A gentleman, rather young, with blond curls and the face of an angel. He had the look of a poet about him—rather as Cowper ought to look, and never could. He was murdered, Cassandra.”

“Murdered! Oh, surely not—”

“It was horrible.” I shuddered with all the force of memory. “A great wound to the temple from a lead ball, and his bowels entirely cut out. His tongue had been severed, and there was a welter of blood about the rocks. I shall never forget the cawing of those crows—”

A stifled scream alerted me to the presence of Mrs. Carver behind her counter, and to the rising tendency of my own conversation. It would not do to cause a fit of public hysterics.

Cassandra’s right eyebrow rose in reproof. “It sounds to be a scene drawn straight from a horrid novel,” she observed. “One of Mrs. Radcliffe’s. Only it should have been in Italy, several centuries ago, and the victim a wandering prince. Take some tea, Jane. I find that it is delightfully restoring, despite the heat of the day. Or perhaps Mrs. Carver might compound a cordial.”

“When she is done imparting the news of murder to her neighbours,” I replied.

T
HE
R
UTLAND
A
RMS IS A FINE, MODERN BUILDING OF
stone commanding the top of Matlock Street, with all of Bakewell falling away before it. A posting-house named The White Horse was formerly upon the site, but some two years since the Duke of Rutland, who owns the land upon which the old inn sat, pulled down the building and threw up this new one, to our infinite satisfaction. I find myself in possession of an airy bedchamber overlooking Matlock Street, where every carriage of consequence is subject to my view; and as the principal London stages must change horses here before proceeding on to Manchester, the parade of the fashionable, the frivolous, the indigent, and the wary must be a source of constant amusement. Add to this the luxury of a snug upstairs parlour set aside for our party’s use, and the wild beauty of the surrounding country—and we are considerably more comfortable than we should have been among the victims of whooping cough.

My cousin Mr. Cooper did not return until our dinner was very nearly laid—which at The Rutland Arms occurs at the grand, unfashionable hour of four o’clock. I was sufficiently recovered to quit my bedchamber and join Cassandra and my mother in the parlour a few moments before Mr. Cooper alighted wearily from George Hemming’s trap. Heavy dark clouds had rolled in from the hills, ominous with the threat of rain; thunder bruited in the distance. The air was oppressive and increasingly close—hardly uncommon of an August afternoon. Today, however, I read portents in the storm. The natural order had been violated—a man despatched as one might butcher a calf—and all of Heaven knew it.

My mother was attempting to mend the lace on one of her caps; she had drawn her chair quite close to
the window in a vain search for available light. At the sound of carriage wheels in the cobbled street below, she set down her muslin and peered through the storm-darkened panes.

“Well. There he is at last, Jane,” she said, “and not a hint of a corpse about him. I do hope the inn boasts a laundress. The smell of blood can be most persistent.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. I had ordered a bath myself upon returning to The Rutland Arms, and scrubbed my skin raw.

“He does not bring his friend with him,” she observed. “Pity. I had marked out Mr. Hemming for one of you.”

“Thank you for my part of the favour, Mamma, but I do not wish to spend the rest of my days in Derbyshire,” Cassandra said plaintively. “Although a trifle advanced in years, and undoubtedly given to the wearing of flannel during the winter months, Mr. Hemming will do very well for Jane. She may learn to prepare any manner of fish in five different ways, and exclaim continually over the glories of the Peaks.”

“I think I might be equal to the latter,” I mused, “did the gentleman consume his fish himself.”

The door to the hall was flung open, and Mr. Cooper appeared. My cousin’s hair was disarranged and his countenance drawn and pale. His good worsted suiting was smeared with dark stains that could only be blood.

“Dear ladies,” he said faintly, and bowed.

“My poor Edward.” My mother’s accent was more brisk than fond. “Pray take a chair. The roast shall be sent up presently. Unless you should prefer a cold dinner today on account of the juices,” she added obscurely.

“It makes no odds,” Mr. Cooper replied absently, “my appetite is fled. I commend your Christian charity, however, for considering of it, Aunt. My cousin has informed you of the sad events of this morning?”

“You must know that Jane loves nothing so well as a tale of murder,” my mother replied comfortably. “I blame her father, Mr. Cooper. George Austen was an excellent man and an accomplished sermonist—quite lauded in his day, and besieged with offers of publication, which he would not hear of, except insomuch as his fame contributed to his supply of students, for he was always disposed to the tempering of young minds—particularly when their patrons were generous with board, and paid on time. But where was I?”

“You were about to say, ma’am, that my father disposed me to relish a tale of murder,” I supplied.

“And so he did. All that novel-reading of a winter’s eve! The more horrid the better. And she has gone from bad to worse, Mr. Cooper—she practically chuses her friends from among the intimates of the dock. First it was the Countess of Scargrave, who must place herself in Newgate for poisoning of her first husband; and then it was Lord Harold’s nephew, the one who shall inherit the Dukedom. Not to mention French spies. I should not be surprised to learn that Jane has taken up with Whigs,” she added darkly, as though this was tantamount to running naked through the streets, “and no respectable man will have her
then
.”

“Lord Harold?” my cousin enquired, with a faint line between his brows. The allusion to the fifth Duke of Wilborough’s second son was lost upon him.

“Well you may look shocked,” my mother retorted, with a triumphant air. “You see, Jane, how that man’s reputation has preceded him? Even in the rectories of Staffordshire, his name is uttered with dread!”

At this juncture the serving girl put in her appearance, bearing high a covered tureen. All discourse was naturally suspended some moments. Sally laid the cloth, set out the various dishes, and waited until we should be seated. When she had served us all, I gave her leave
to quit the parlour. Left to himself, I believe my cousin should never have considered of it. He appeared insensible to everything but a brown stain upon the tablecloth, which he studied earnestly. His plate he left untouched.