Murder Most Austen (2 page)

Turning his attention back to us, the man asked, “I gather you are a fan of the dear lady, Miss Jane Austen?”

“We are,” Aunt Winnie replied, brushing back her trademark red curls.

“Well then, we are well met!” he replied with a practiced smile. “For I don’t think you will meet anyone who reveres Miss Austen or her work more than I.” He twisted his long body in his seat, the movement producing nary a crease in his perfectly pressed tan slacks. “May I introduce myself? I am Professor Richard Baines and this is … one of my graduate students, Miss Lindsay Weaver.”

Lindsay nodded somberly at us. She was a tiny little thing, her pixie features not being limited to her face alone; her thick blue cardigan and wool skirt practically swallowed up her small frame. She wore no makeup, but her complexion was nevertheless clear and smooth, and her jet-black hair was cut short with thick bangs that skimmed the top of her glasses.

“I am Winifred Reynolds,” replied Aunt Winnie, “and this is my great-niece, Elizabeth Parker.” I produced a weak smile.

“And are you on your way to the Jane Austen Festival in Bath?” Professor Baines asked.

“We are,” I answered.

“Excellent! We are, as well. I attend every year, of course. In addition to being a professor of English literature, I’m a frequent lecturer at many of the Jane Austen regional societies.”

“I see,” Aunt Winnie replied. “And how do they generally react when you tell them that Austen was not only an atheist but a Communist to boot?”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “Some don’t like it, of course. They see it as a heresy of sorts. Others, of course, are able to catch a glimmer of the truth. It is to those advanced minds to whom I chiefly address my papers.”

“Uh-huh, and do you mind sharing the basis for this rather astonishing revelation that Jane Austen, daughter of a clergyman and by all accounts a God-fearing Christian woman, was actually an atheist, Rich?” Aunt Winnie inquired. I glanced at her in bewilderment. Why was she engaging this man in conversation, especially since it was clear he was a complete dolt? Then I saw the answer. She had finished her Elizabeth Peters paperback and was looking for a new form of entertainment. Inwardly, I groaned. A bored Aunt Winnie was always a daunting prospect.

“It’s Richard, actually, and I’d be happy to enlighten you,” replied Professor Baines. “Through Miss Austen’s character Mr. Collins in
Pride and Prejudice,
we can perceive her true feelings for the church and the clergy. Mr. Collins is, of course, a buffoon and a hypocrite. He is no man of God, which was Miss Austen’s way of saying that
none
of the clergy are men of God. They are
all
quacks and charlatans.”

Well, if Aunt Winnie was going to play, then I saw no reason not to join, particularly when Jane Austen was the subject. I mentally buzzed in to the game:
Alex, I’ll take “The Clergy in Austen” for $800.

“I agree with you that Mr. Collins is a fool,” I said, “but he’s just one of the many examples of clergymen that Austen presents us with. We also have Mr. Tilney in
Northanger Abbey,
who is sensible, kind, and wise.”

Not posed in the form of a question, perhaps, but still correct.

Professor Baines and Lindsay, however, exchanged glances of sympathetic derision. “I thought exactly as you did, Elizabeth,” Lindsay said kindly but knowingly, “until I realized, thanks to Professor Baines, that Mr. Tilney is an even bigger hypocrite than Mr. Collins. Mr. Collins is a fool, but Mr. Tilney is an educated man, and so his crime is more the worse.”

“His crime?” Aunt Winnie asked, her artfully enhanced brows drawn together in confusion. “What crime did poor Mr. Tilney commit?”

“Poor Mr. Tilney, indeed! Why, madam, he helped his father cover up the crime of murdering his mother! He was an accessory after the fact!” Lindsay exclaimed.

I stared at her in horrified amusement. “But his mother wasn’t murdered!” I interjected. “That is the whole point of
Northanger Abbey
—to illustrate the dangers of an overactive imagination.”

“No, that’s what you are
meant
to think,” said Professor Baines. “That’s the cover story that Austen wrote to hide her true tale—one of murderous deeds and the sins of hiding them. Did you never notice that it’s called
NorthANGER Abbey
? Austen is very angry about her topic. It is no coincidence that Mr. Tilney is one of the most heinous of all Austen’s villains.”

“Mr. Tilney?” I repeated in disbelief. “But that’s absurd! He’s … he’s … well, he’s Mr. Tilney!” Inarticulate perhaps, but true. Aunt Winnie patted my hand in silent commiseration.

“It most definitely is
not
absurd,” Professor Baines replied testily. “There is much more than meets the eye in Austen, especially with regard to her antiestablishment views about the church. Take for instance Mary Crawford’s comment about the clergy in
Mansfield Park.
Do you recall what she said? ‘A clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish—read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.’” He smiled smugly at us. “How do you explain
that
passage, if not as a condemnation of the church?”

“I think that you are forgetting that Mary’s not the heroine—Fanny is. Mary’s words were meant not as a jab at the church but as evidence of her own selfish character,” I said. “Remember, in the end Mary is revealed to be a woman of indifferent morals.”

Professor Baines shook his head. “You are incorrect. That’s how she’s portrayed in the film adaptations, perhaps, but not in the book. You just have to know where and how to look for it. You are like so many of my younger students. You rely only on Hollywood’s interpretation of Austen’s works to form your opinion.”

“I don’t, actually,” I said, not knowing whether to laugh or scream. “I’ve read each of her novels many times over—
Mansfield Park
included. And I’m sorry, but I don’t see any evidence to support what you are saying.”

“Well, it takes a special kind of reader to see the clues,” he said.

“‘There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome,’” Aunt Winnie quoted rather pointedly.

Professor Baines arched his eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that mine is a propensity to hate everybody?”

“No, of course not,” Aunt Winnie answered with a saccharine smile. “Only to willfully misunderstand.”

The flight attendant finally arrived with the champagne. After dispensing the glasses, she returned to the kitchen area. Professor Baines regarded the pale bubbles in his flute suspiciously before lifting it in a kind of salute. “Although we may disagree on Austen’s intended message,” he said, “we can at least agree that we enjoy her work.”

Aunt Winnie lifted her glass in turn and tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Agreed.”

Professor Baines’s aristocratic nose wrinkled as he brought the glass to his mouth, but then with a what-the-hell smile, he gamely took a large sip. Lindsay was less daring. Her face pulled into an expression of indecision; she reluctantly took a teensy sip before quickly setting the glass back down on her tray table. Professor Baines patted her hand with understanding. “I grant you that it is not a
tête de cuvée,
but we must make do,” he said sympathetically.

Catching Aunt Winnie’s eye, I indicated my glass. “It is tolerable, but not bubbly enough to tempt
me,
” I whispered.

She grinned. “Good God, man! I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom!” Then, to prove her point, she downed half the glass.

I took another sip without complaint. But then it was rare that I was in such poor humor as to not give consequence to free champagne slighted by pompous pseudointellectuals. Putting my glass down on the tray, I picked up the latest issue of
SkyMall
with feigned interest. I hoped that my apparent fascination with lawn-aerating shoes would deter Professor Baines from continuing the conversation, but he persisted in trying to prove his point. “You have to understand that the general opinion of Austen is incorrect,” he said.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Really?

“‘Where an opinion is general, it is usually correct,’” countered Aunt Winnie.

Professor Baines ignored her and kept talking. “I think that much of the conventional wisdom regarding Austen’s work comes from our perception of her chaste, quiet life. Had she been a different kind of woman, her works might be viewed differently. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not necessarily,” I answered, reluctantly putting down the magazine. “Take Hemingway, for instance. He was a bullying, alcoholic misogynist, but knowing that doesn’t change his Nick Adams stories and their theme of redemption through dignity in deeds.”

Professor Baines shot me an indulgent smile as if I were a petulant child. “That’s different, of course, because Hemmingway was a man. Hopefully, you’ll figure that out when you’re a little older.”

Okay, now he had gone too far.
Because he was a man?
He was officially in the boat with Fredo. Aunt Winnie put a restraining hand on my wrist. I paused and put my shoe back on.

Professor Baines continued on, unaware. “That’s why I’m so excited to deliver my latest paper. Finally, I will provide the proof that Jane Austen wasn’t merely writing clever little romances. After much research and by breaking the codes apparent both in her letters and works, I believe that I have finally discerned something truly shocking, something that the literary establishment doesn’t want you to know.” His voice dropped ominously. “In fact, what I’ve discovered is nothing short of a bombshell.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt it is,” Aunt Winnie replied, lowering her voice in turn. “But don’t tell me. Let me guess.” She leaned forward, her face serious. “You’ve discovered that Edward Ferris rather ‘enjoyed’ the company of horses, haven’t you?”

While I attempted to mop up the champagne I’d spit all over my chin and sweater, Professor Baines’s mouth twisted in annoyance. Despite his obvious irritation, however, he was determined to go on and impress us with his discovery. “I have uncovered proof—although coded proof—that Jane Austen did not die from Addison’s disease or tuberculosis.” Pausing dramatically, he said, “Jane Austen died as the result of syphilis.”

After making this preposterous proclamation, he leaned back in his seat, clearly pleased with himself and his so-called discovery. I’m not sure what effect he expected this “bombshell” to have on us, but I doubted it was the one he got. After a brief moment of stunned silence, I began to giggle. Then Aunt Winnie joined in. Then we couldn’t seem to stop. It was like when you’re in church and you know you shouldn’t laugh but that somehow makes it all the funnier. Soon tears were streaming down my face, and Aunt Winnie was snorting inelegantly and muttering, “Capital! Capital!”

“This is no laughing matter!” Professor Baines exclaimed angrily. Next to him, Lindsay glared indignantly at us on his behalf.

“I’m sorry, but what you are proposing is ludicrous!” Aunt Winnie finally said when she got her breath. “Honestly, I don’t know how you think that’s even remotely possible. But, Rich”—Professor Baines winced—“I can tell you this, if you plan on presenting that paper during the festival, you are going to find yourself on the wrong side of an angry crowd.”

“The uninformed masses do not frighten me,” he replied coolly. His earlier spirit of magnanimous condescension had vanished. His eyes had sharpened while we were giggling until his pupils were tiny black dots anchored in icy blue pools. It would seem that Professor Baines did not like having his “shocking discovery” so openly mocked, especially in front of one of his adoring students. And he
really
didn’t like being called “Rich.”

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” he said stiffly. “I can see now that your mind is closed to that which you do not wish to see. I will trouble you no more.” With that he turned his back to us and resumed his lecture to Lindsay.

Aunt Winnie shook her head and wiped the moisture from her eyes. “I’ll tell you this much,” she said to me in a low voice, “if he gives that paper at the festival, he’ll be drawn and quartered.”

“Which is, I believe, what happened to Mrs. Tilney,” I whispered back.

For the next hour Aunt Winnie and I tried to outdo each other with outrageous perversions of Austen’s novels. I thought I had her with my “discovery” that Louisa Musgrove didn’t jump down the stairs but was pushed by Anne Elliot, until she topped me with her revelation that Jane’s cold at Netherfield was actually the clap.

After a while we both fell asleep, neither of us giving any more thought to Professor Baines and his fate once he presented his thesis. Of course, we knew that whatever it was, he wouldn’t be drawn and quartered—even though, as Jane herself might opine, his name was Richard. No one was going to do that in this day and age.

CHAPTER 2

I must endeavor to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve.

—PERSUASION

T
HE NEXT MORNING
my eyes were bleary, my neck was stiff, and I had a nasty taste in my mouth. But I didn’t care. I was in London! Well, on a plane, on the tarmac, at London’s Heathrow Airport, but that still was—in the lingo of a true Anglophile—a brilliant way to start my day.

As we departed the plane and made our way to the baggage area, we passed through an area that looked identical to the opening and ending scenes in
Love Actually.
I stupidly found myself looking for Hugh Grant, Emma Thompson, and, God grant me, Alan Rickman. Some dreams never die.

After we retrieved our luggage from the carousel, I headed for the ladies’ room to freshen up. Just because I wasn’t going to let the nasty taste in my mouth ruin my morning, that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to do anything about it. I had just retrieved my travel toothbrush from my purse when Lindsay exited one of the stalls, looking pale and wan. She headed for the sink, where she turned on the taps and began splashing water on her face. Once done, she looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror. Meeting my eyes, she dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment, and I gathered she was still upset at the less than serious consideration with which Aunt Winnie and I had received Professor Baines’s important “bombshell.” However, in spite of her lack of enthusiasm at seeing me, I could see that she wasn’t feeling well. I took a tentative step toward her. “Are you okay?” I asked.