In the saloon, all was ease and congeniality at first. Grey placidly expressed himself shocked — quite beyond comprehending the event — and wild to see justice done. Neddie said all that was correct and feeling in a man condoling with the bereaved. It was after the coffee, however, when Grey had at last enquired as to the conduct of his wife's case, that the outburst of temper had broken like a thunderclap over my brother's head.
“Do I understand, sir, that you have done nothing to apprehend the scoundrel responsible for her murder? This is not to be borne!” The widower rose and stood menacingly over my brother, who could not conceal his surprise.
“I am afraid, Mr. Grey, that I am less hasty than yourself. I cannot apprehend a man before I know his name.”
“But it is obvious! Collingforth is the man. My poor wife's corpse was discovered in his chaise!”
“In such matters, the obvious may prove a doubtful guide,” Neddie returned steadily. “Mr. Collingforth's movements are vouched for by his acquaintance. It seems almost impossible that he should have murdered your wife on the Wingham road, and returned her body to his own chaise. I fear we must look farther afield for the responsible party.”
Valentine Grey commenced to pace the length of the saloon in agitation, then halted before French windows giving out onto the gardens, one hand pressed to his brow.
“Can you offer any reason, sir, for your wife's brutal end?” Neddie enquired.
“How can any man be expected to explain such a horror! She must have fallen into the clutches of a fiend!” Grey wheeled to face him, an expression of agony on his countenance so at variance with his earlier behaviour, that Neddie must confess himself amazed. “Can you bear to contemplate it, man? A lady alone — unprotected— quite disregarded by those in whom she placed her trust—”
“Her trust?”
Grey's next words had all the viciousness of a challenge. “Do not deny, man, that she was hated by the entire neighbourhood! Those who should have embraced and protected her as one of their own, rejected her from the first. Do not think I was ignorant of the coldness in which she lived. I saw all, I knew all — and it tore at my heart!”
“Your wife, Mr. Grey, was not entirely one of Kent's own,” Neddie countered. “She was a Frenchwoman. In such times as these, her end must be suggestive.”
“An act of war, you would say?” Grey laughed harshly. “Impossible. Francoise did nothing to excite a peculiar hatred.”
“And yet she is dead,” Neddie observed bluntly. “Is it so unlikely that she should be killed by a fool? A simple-minded fellow who resented her triumph at the races, as he resented French victory on the battlefield? Such an one may have thought to strike at the Monster by murdering your wife.”
Grey merely snorted.
“You have failed to propose an alternative, Mr. Grey,” my brother burst out in exasperation.
“Because there is none that I may offer.”
“You can think of no one who might bear your wife ill-will?”
“That is for yourself to determine, Mr. Austen, as the embodiment of the Law. I am told you are the Justice in these parts. Why, then, do I find you at such a loss? Is it perhaps because my wife was merely a French lady, that you exert yourself so little?”
Neddie admitted that he began to grow angry. I am sure that he flushed, and controlled himself only with difficulty. But when at last he spoke, it was with admirable coolness. 'You have every reason to vent your anger at me, my dear sir. I should far rather you expressed yourself thus in the privacy of this room, than in the public venue of your unfortunate wife's inquest. It was exacdy my hope that we might speak in private before that distressing event, which is to occur on the morrow, as there is a matter of some delicacy I had hoped you might resolve.”
Mr. Grey went pale. “What the Devil do you mean?”
“I refer to the letter discovered among your wife's effects after her death.”
“Letter? What letter?”
Neddie presented the indelicate note from the unknown seducer. Grey read it through with commendable swiftness — he was clearly an adept at the French language — and then crumpled it in his fist.
“I could offer you an hundred such, Austen. There is nothing so very unusual in this”
“Indeed?” Neddie rejoined, somewhat surprised. “Mrs. Grey was often in the habit of eloping with gentlemen not her husband?”
Had Valentine Grey thrown down his glove at that moment, he might perhaps have been forgiven. Instead, he merely looked all his outrage, and endeavoured to explain.
“That note is nothing more nor less than a message from one of her French couriers, man. He was undoubtedly sent from her family in Paris, and expected to arrive by packet at the dead of night. It is the custom for couriers to travel in this way, for fear of a cruising Navy ship with little regard for matters of safe passage. But in the event, he was before his time, and met with my wife in this very room, the morning of the race-meeting.”
“A courier?” Neddie repeated. “What sort of courier, if I may presume to enquire?”
Grey's impatience was evident in his countenance. “It is a common practise, I assure you, in banking circles— particularly those with branches throughout Europe. Timely intelligence of world events, as you will understand, is vital in matters of finance. My wife was the ward of a powerful French family, the Penfleurs, who in company with other banking houses, such as the Hopes and the Rothschilds, command a service of couriers they may despatch at a moment's notice. Such men carry letters of safe passage across warring borders, and may venture where another might fear to tread.”
“A man with intelligence direct from France?” Neddie cried.“ — And this man met with your wife on the very day of her death?”
“Indeed. The housekeeper informed me of the fellow's appearance upon my arrival this morning. But he had long since returned whence he came.”
“You have no notion of his news?”
“None whatsoever.” Grey affected unconcern.
“But is not such a coincidence extraordinary?” Neddie persisted.
“It was the custom for Francoise's family to correspond in this expensive fashion. A private courier is more certain than the mails across the Channel, at such a time.”
“I see.” Neddie studied the banker's face acutely. “And you did not encounter him along the road?”
“I?” Grey was taken aback. “What should I be doing on the coast road yesterday morning? I was quite fixed in Town, and had been for some weeks. It was your express, which found me at my club late last night, that drew me from Pall Mall as fast as wheels and horseflesh could carry me. I stopped at my lodgings only to collect my man and a change of clothes.”
And Grey's man, if he was still to be found, would certainly swear as much, Neddie thought. There was the express rider, too, who could speak to Grey's presence at his club — and any number of honourable clubmen who would have witnessed his play at hazard or loo. But whether Mr. Grey's movements for all of Monday might be accounted for, was open to question.
“I wonder if the courier might be located,” my brother had mused aloud.
“Neither the courier,” Mr. Grey burst out, “nor this note establishing a meeting-place, can have the slightest bearing on my wife's death, Mr. Austen! She was hardly murdered on the shores of Pegwell Bay, but in the middle of a crowded race grounds, where someone must have seen something to the purpose! Did you make enquiries among the spectators? Or despatch a constable to all the major coaching inns, where a miscreant might have taken shelter?”
“One such is even now beating the underbrush about the Wingham road, in search of your wife's riding habit,” Neddie replied. “I have offered a gold sovereign to the first man who discovers the gown.”