“I cannot tell you how French died. I can say only what happened after.”
“Very well.”
He began to pace restlessly about the cell, his boots kicking up a cloud of dust and straw, his hands shoved into his breeches’ pockets. “I had gone out to the prize-fight at Box Hill—”
“Are they still held there?” Neddie interrupted. “I once recall taking in a mill on my return from Winchester, having left the boys at school. Belcher won his match. Who did you see?”
“It was said the Game Chicken would show, but in the end he did not, and we were forced to observe a Basingstoke lad by the name of Crabbe,” Hinton returned dispiritedly. “I had travelled a considerable distance in the hope of seeing Pearce, and was disappointed.[23] I went out to join my friends on Friday, the day before—”
“Your friends?”
“The Wilsons, of Hay House, Great Bookham. Hay Wilson and I were at Oxford together.”
“Of course. And you were staying at Hay House itself? Pray continue.”
“As I said, I went out on the Friday and the mill was to be held at noon Saturday. We were at the Box Hill ground near seven hours—”
“How many rounds did the boy Crabbe go?”
Hinton’s expressionless eyes suddenly lit up. “Nearly nineteen, if you’ll credit it, but in the end he could not be brought up to scratch.”
“Who was his opponent?”
“John Gully.”
Neddie whistled in deep appreciation; I felt myself to be increasingly beyond my depth.
“And so, the fight done,” my brother said, “you retired to Great Bookham for high revel — and only after several hours’ eating, drinking, and conversing of the fight to your mutual satisfaction sought your road home. You must have left Surrey rather late, Hinton. I wonder you did not remain the night with your friend Mr. Wilson.”
“I had promised my sister I would not travel on the Sunday,” he replied in a sulky tone. “She is most attentive to such things; it is the influence of our late father, who was once—”
“—the incumbent of the Chawton living,” Edward agreed with remarkable ease. This reminder of his status — of the fact that it should be Edward who must dispose of the living when next St. Nicholas’s came vacant, at Mr. Papillon’s demise — restored Mr. Hinton to all his former dislike. No amount of shared enthusiasm for the sport of boxing could do away with his resentment of the Squire.
“You made your way back to Chawton,” Edward suggested helpfully, “arriving just barely after midnight, and thus travelling on Sunday, but it is to be hoped in a manner your sister should not discover, being sound asleep in her bed.”
Hinton swallowed with difficulty. “As you say. I rode into Chawton from the south, and found the Street entirely deserted. I was very sleepy, and little disposed to notice much — but the moon was high, and my horse shied at something in the road as I approached the pond. I glanced down, and supposed it to be a man. Naturally, I dismounted.”
“And saw that it was Shafto French?” I enquired. There was a pause. Hinton did not quite meet my gaze. “It was French. He was dead.”
“You are sure of that?” Edward asked.
He nodded. “His body was wet from his waist to his head, and his eyes were open and staring. There was no response when I slapped his cheeks, no pulse in his throat.”
“You did not think to give a shout? To summon help?”
“Mr. Austen—” The spiritless eyes came up to my brother’s own. “I have said that I was sleepy. In truth, I was a bit foxed.”
“I can easily imagine,” Edward said drily. “What would be a boxing match, without Blue Ruin?”[24]
“Exactly so. I was not thinking entirely clearly. I had stumbled on a dead man, and one whom I had everywhere heard was intending to challenge me. — A man I was believed to have wronged. He lay dead at my feet. For an instant, the wildest imaginings coursed through my head. I saw myself accused — disbelieved — thrown into gaol. ”
“... for a murder you did not commit,” I finished. He was rather prescient, our Mr. Hinton; for it had all occurred exactly as he had foreseen.
“I would have sprung upon my horse and galloped for home as tho’ all the imps of Hell were at my back,” Hinton said in a low voice, “but for that wretched gin. I was pretty well topheavy at that point, I may as well own, and was gripped of a sudden with the most extraordinary idea.”
“You thought to make a fool of one enemy,” Neddie suggested grimly, “by making away with another. You determined to place the body of Shafto French in the house intended for the Squire’s family, and thus bring discomfiture upon us all.”
Hinton nodded with painful difficulty. “It sounds mad when you put it that way—”
“On the contrary. It makes perfect sense, to a man disguised by spirits. You might have thrown a charge of murder on the Austen household.”
“I believe I thought only of embarrassing the Squire. I dragged French by the heels towards the cottage—”
“Had you already provided yourself with a key for the purpose, knowing beforehand that you should stumble over the body on your way from Box Hill?” I asked.
“The door was not locked on the Saturday,” he returned simply. “One of Dyer’s men — French himself, perhaps — must have neglected to secure it when work was called that afternoon.”
“But it was locked when I arrived the following Tuesday!”
“—Then young Bill Dyer performed the office when he completed his job that Monday, and chose to say nothing about the neglect to his father.”
“When all the talk of murder arose,” my brother interjected, “the builder saw a further virtue in silence. Mr. Dyer and his son are fortunate that the coroner did not chuse to interrogate them harshly about the keys.”
“Be that as it may,” Mr. Hinton continued, “I found the door to the cottage unlocked. I placed French’s body in the cellar and congratulated myself on my wicked genius. It should be quite the welcome, I thought, for a party of ladies too high in the instep for Chawton. And in the event — I was proved right.”
I could not felicitate him on his triumph.
“When I awoke the next day, with an aching head, and recalled what I had done — I must confess to considerable trepidation. I was prevented from returning to the cottage immediately, due to my sister’s Sabbath conventions — but stole out as soon as it was dark on Monday, and attempted to right the wrong. I found the door, as I have described, locked.”
“And decided that silence should be your best policy,” my brother concluded grimly. “I perfectly understand, Mr. Hinton, tho’ I cannot approve what you did.”
Edward rose and reached for his hat.
“I must offer you my apology, Miss Austen,” Hinton said in a correct but exceedingly cold voice; and bowed. I curtseyed in return, recognising his haughtiness for what it was — the discomfort of a man who knew himself to be in the wrong, and must disguise it at all cost, or die of mortification.
“I hope, Mr. Hinton, that you will consider yourself revenged upon me,” Edward said with all the candour he might have reserved for one of his sons, “—and that in future we may endeavour to be better friends. For my part, I intend to intercede on your behalf with Mr. Prowting. He has merely to consult with Mr. Hay Wilson regarding the hour of your departure from Great Bookham, in order to ascertain the probable length of your journey on the road — and place you happily beyond suspicion. I cannot think it wise to keep you here in the Alton gaol.”
“What of Thrace?”
Edward drew on his gloves. “I no more know than you, Hinton. He may be even now in the act of crossing the Channel to freedom — or caught in the snare of Mr. Prowting’s Law. But I think we can safely assume it was he who forced French’s head beneath the waters of Chawton Pond. The only question remaining to answer is—”
“—Why?” I concluded.
23
Henry Pearce, a prizefighter known as the Game Chicken, was named champion of England in 1805.