Henry obediently held out his shoe for the magistrate’s observation. Mr. Prowting placed a pair of tongs from heel to toe, and then applied the span to the mark in the dirt. Henry’s foot was a full inch longer and perhaps a quarter-inch wider.
“It will not do,” our neighbour decreed sadly. “Clearly there has been a third set of well-made boots in this place that cannot be accounted for. I do not regard the marks of the labourers who removed French’s body — they are all about, but clearly distinguishable in their heavy soles and hobnails from this. It is as Mr. Munro observed — tho’ I did not like to credit it at the time. Shafto French was brought here already dead, and hidden of a purpose. And by a gentleman! It does not bear thinking of, Miss Austen. I had made certain the drowning was an accident — a terrible mishap born in the heat of fisticuffs between French and one of his fellows.”
“—Bertie Philmore, perhaps?”
“—Tho’ his wife was prepared to lie about the business. I made certain we should have the truth from Philmore in time. But it will not do.”
I almost pitied Mr. Prowting as he crouched with his tongs in his hands, ample stomach uncomfortably swelling over the band of his breeches; he had certainly comprehended the trouble that the marks presaged. Only a handful of persons in the neighbourhood of Chawton and Alton could be described as gentlemen — and most of these should have known of the cottage’s desertion. The magistrate was faced with the unhappy duty of suspecting some one of his neighbours — or subjecting all of them to an examination of their footwear.
“Mr. Prowting, are you aware of any dispute that may have existed between French and some one of the gentlemen hereabouts? A small thing, perhaps, that grew to ugliness over time?” I enquired.
The magistrate preserved a thoughtful silence, his fingers loosely grasping his tongs. “I should have thought nobody in these parts could have put a name to the fellow’s face! French was a common labourer, merely, and much of a piece with all the rest — shiftless, drunken, of no particular account. I confess, Miss Austen, that I am at a loss to explain the entire episode.”
“And yet: he must have held enormous significance to one of our neighbours,” I persisted gently. “Shafto French was fearsome enough to be lured to the pond, and violently killed there.”
“What I do not understand,” Henry said, “is why the fellow was put in the cellar at all! Why not leave him, as Mr. Prowting has suggested, exactly where he lay? It is probable French was drowned after midnight, and that no one was abroad to observe the deed. Why not allow the body to be discovered in the morning?”
“Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully, “because the murderer required time.”
Mr. Prowting looked at me with a frown. “What do you mean to say, Miss Austen?”
“Perhaps the murderer wished French’s body to be discovered several days after death, to confuse the public knowledge of exactly when murder occurred. Perhaps he was safely distant from Chawton for most of the period in question — the period of French’s disappearance — and by hiding the body, wished to delay discovery and thus divert our attention from the Saturday night in question. It is unfortunate for our murderer, then, that the last sighting of French at the Crown Inn should have been so exact, and his absence throughout the Sunday and Monday noted. Our murderer cannot have anticipated this.”
Mr. Prowting was staring at me in an incredulous fashion.
“Miss Austen,” he said accusingly, “I do believe you are a blue- stocking!”
“Certainly not, sir!” I protested in an outraged accent.
“But her understanding is regrettably excellent,” my brother added with a sigh. “It is to this we may attribute her refusal to enter the married state, despite the many opportunities that have offered.”
I chose to ignore his impudence. “Mr. Prowting, you have long been a neighbour of Mrs. Seward’s. Can you tell me whether she entrusted a spare set of keys to this cottage, to you or any other friend in the village?”
“Good Lord,” he muttered. “Worse and worse. You cannot even allow it to be Dyer’s fault!”
“In the interest of furthering the truth,” I admitted delicately, “I cannot. You will admit the appearance of the body in this place becomes more explicable if someone other than simply Mr. Dyer was in possession of a set of keys.”
“The Sewards did not honour me with their confidence. Being your brother’s steward and a close man by nature, Bridger Seward was jealous of his trust. But his widow may have given the means of entry into other hands, after her husband’s death, and forgotten to retrieve them once she quitted the cottage.”
“Then I suppose I must speak to Mrs. Seward. I do not like to think of a set of keys to this house continuing to wander about the countryside. I should sleep far better if they all came home to roost.”
Henry’s eyes met mine over Mr. Prowting’s head with a sombre expression. Both of us were thinking of the same thing: Lord Harold’s Bengal chest, now hidden beneath my bedstead.
“Pray tell me, sir — Where does Mrs. Seward now reside?”
“In Alton, with her daughter Mrs. Baverstock. The Baverstocks have long been brewers, and their establishment sits on the High, just opposite the Duke’s Head.” The magistrate rose, dusting off his hands. “I cannot say that this is a happy discovery, Miss Austen. I should rather these marks to have remained obscured. The suspicion of a neighbour in so grave an affair as murder must be a most distasteful business.”
“But justice, my dear sir, is owed to the lowly as well as the great.”
From his looks as he parted from my door, I doubted that Mr. Prowting agreed with me.
After a brief nuncheon, Henry informed me that he was required in Alton that day, and had already tarried too long.
“Would you allow me to ride pillion, Henry? I feel it incumbent upon me to pay a call of mourning.”
“But you’ve already seen the widow, Jane!”
“And had Shafto French no friends to grieve at his sudden passing?” I demanded indignantly.
“More likely creditors filing to the door in search of payment. No wonder his unfortuate wife fled to Chawton this morning as soon as may be.”
“Very well — if you are so unfeeling and so selfish, I will walk to Alton.”
“Of course you may ride pillion,” he retorted impatiently.
“Only do not be clutching at the poor horse’s neck in that odious way. You look such a flat when you do.”
“I have never been a horsewoman,” I admitted despairingly.
“Have you a riding habit?”
I shook my head. A made-over gown of Lizzy’s had served to carry me through Canterbury Race Week four years before, but that was long since consigned to the scrap basket, and should probably form a part of my mother’s scheme for a pieced coverlet before long.
“I daresay you are going to force an acquaintance on the Widow Seward, as well. You mean to pursue this murder,”
Henry said, his gaze narrowed. “You will not let matters rest. I blame Lord Harold, Jane — he has had a most unfortunate influence on your headstrong nature.”
“Bertie Philmore knows more than he admitted.”
“Undoubtedly. But must you be the one to tell him so? Why cannot you allow our neighbour Mr. Prowting to do his duty?”
“Because he shall undoubtedly do it so badly, Henry!
Jemima French deserves some justice, does she not? Consider all she has lost!”
“A lout of a husband who drank, and boasted, and owed the world his living before it reached his pocket.” My brother looked away, a muscle in his jaw working. “There has never been any justice for people of French’s class. You know that, Jane.”
“But I cannot stand idly by, and watch a wrong go unrighted. Recollect, Henry —I saw the dead man’s face. Or what remained of it.”