I could not suppress a smile. “Poor Captain Wood-ford! Duty is a difficult master, in the best of times. We must all suffer from its effects. My unfortunate brother feels his burden as cruelly as yourself, I assure you.”
At that moment, Russell the manservant appeared in the doorway bearing a tray. Woodford's countenance lightened with an expression of relief. The conveyance of the King's orders must be a parching business.
“Pray sit down, Captain,” I said.
He removed his hat, and took a chair, and accepted a glass of lemon-water from Russell. “Little as I enjoy my present orders, I do not envy Mr. Austen his duty. It is one thing to kill another man in battle — that is merely a trick of Fate, the necessity of war. But to murder a woman, in cold blood — and a woman, too, in the full flush of youth! I shall never forget the sight of her dead face as long as I live, Miss Austen.”
“I understand you were intimate with the family,” I offered gently. “You have my deepest sympathy.”
The Captain coloured, and dropped his gaze. “It is true that I have known Grey from our earliest years. We were practically raised in each other's London households and schooled together at Harrow. But as for Francoise — the late Mrs. Grey — my acquaintance was very brief. She had been a bride but seven months.”
“So little.”
“You know, of course, that she was connected to an influential banking family in France.”
“I heard something of it,” I admitted, “but am ignorant of the particulars.”
“Mrs. Grey was the ward of the Penfleurs. They are a powerful and prodigious clan, with branches in every kingdom, and a wealth that approaches fable. There are Penfleurs who are princes in France, and Penfleurs who are counts in Naples; Penfleurs who advise the rulers of German states, and not a few who are essential to the Netherlands. Their resources remain entirely in the family, and their credit extends across continents. But remarkably, there were no Penfleurs in England—”
“Until Francoise,” I said.
“Until Francoise,” he agreed. “I tell you this, Miss Austen, so that you might comprehend the nature of my friend's marriage. It was arranged, I believe, by the elder Penfleur himself, who had the charge of Francoise from infancy; she cannot have been very well acquainted with Mr. Grey, when first she arrived on these shores.”
“Did she come to England, then, against her will?”
“I doubt that Francoise Lamartine ever did anything against her will,” he replied with a faint smile.
But it could not be surprising, I thought, that in the face of such a marriage — exiled by her family and treated coldly by her husband — she had turned to an unknown lover.
“How very tragic,” I murmured. “For so young a woman, and a stranger to Kent, to find her death in so brutal a manner … You had no hint of Mrs. Grey possessing any enemies, I suppose?”
He eyed me over the rim of his glass, then set it deliberately on the table. “You are not of Kentish society yourself, Miss Austen, any more than I may claim to be. We are both of us merely visitors to this delightful place, and care little how its intimates may treat us. But that was not the case with Francoise. I am sure that your sister and brother have told you a little of her reception.”
“But a coldness on the part of a strange society, in itself, should hardly lead to murder,” I persisted. “Surely that is another order of violence altogether, Captain?”
“I have been taught to think so.” He rose, and took up his hat. “A sense of what is due to my friend Grey, Miss Austen, must prevent me from speaking plainly. I may only tell you that his wife's enemies were thick upon the ground. You might look no farther than the lady's own household.”
I gazed at him narrowly. “I cannot believe you would accuse your oldest friend, Captain Woodford, of doing away with his wife. This cannot be what is due to him, as you put it.”
“I, accuse Valentine Grey? Impossible!” he cried. “I merely meant to underline, Miss Austen, that Denys Collingforth is hardly the only man in Kent who has reason to think ill of the dead.”
“And what was his reason, Captain, for despising her?”
Woodford eyed me uneasily. “That is a question best answered by Mr. Collingforth. I am sure your brother, the Justice, has considered of it.”
“Mr. Collingforth appears to think ill of any number of people,” I observed, as I conducted the Captain to the door. “Had you not been present to prevent it, he should certainly have served our poor Mr. Bridges with violence! You are owed a debt of gratitude in this house, sir.”
“Mr. Bridges is possessed of such happy manners as may ensure his making any number of friends,” Woodford replied, with a bow. “Whether he is equally capable of retaining them, is another matter. Good day, Miss Austen.”
IT WAS ABOVE AN HOUR BEFORE THE CLATTER OF Neddie's horse, pulled up hard before the door, was heard on the sweep. He looked overheated and cross, and entered the house with a rapid step and the briefest of salutations. After an interval of respectful quiet, and the consumption of a quantity of ale drawn from the barrel in the cellar, good humour and volubility returned.
“I have seen Grey,” the Justice announced, as he took up his customary place before the cold library hearth, “and he has seen me. It remains uncertain which of us was most scarred by the encounter — but I shall leave it to you to decide, Jane, when I tell you that the gentleman chose to offer me his glove!”[19]
“Good Lord!” Lizzy ejaculated, and set down the books she had commenced packing. “I cannot think when you have been served such a turn before, Neddie!”
“It is unique in my experience,” he admitted, “tho' I am almost ashamed to say as much. Every sprig of fashion is required to have a history of such meetings. It is a poor show I've given you, Lizzy!”
“Pray do not trouble to kill yourself on my account, sir,” she replied serenely, and retrieved the books. “Do you require breakfast and the witnessing of a will at dawn?”'
“Nothing so romantic.” Neddie peered at the spines of the volumes she had selected, and pulled several from the box. “Pray leave these, my dear — they had far better be burned with the sainfoin, I am sure.”
“Beast.”
“What occasioned Mr. Grey's challenge?” I enquired at last, being provoked beyond endurance.
My brother threw himself into a chair and gazed at me idly. “My unwillingness to clap Denys Collingforth in chains, I suspect. But let me relate the whole, I beg, in an orderly fashion. The exercise might do much for the composure of my mind.”
And so the Justice undertook to convey the essence of his morning's work: how he had achieved The Larches just after nine o'clock, and found the master of the house breakfasting serenely in his parlour; how Valentine Grey, a compact, powerful man with weary features and the acutest gaze, had appeared in excellent health, despite his broken night. He had enjoined the Justice to take coffee with him in the saloon, and tho' his spirits appeared a little disordered, they were in general composed. A man who looked less the part of a mourning husband could hardly be conceived, Neddie assured us; and from that moment forward, he assumed there had been little of love in the Greys' union.
19
Edward Austen refers here to a demand for satisfaction in a matter of honor, in which the offended party usually threw a glove at his opponent's feet or, in extreme cases, struck him with the glove across the cheek. An affair of honor was usually settled at pistol-point. If either party killed the other, the survivor could be charged with murder. —