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.”
Grey snapped his fingers in irritation. “I give you that for your gold sovereign, Mr. Austen, sir! I fail to understand why you have brooked such delay. Had my wife's murderer been pursued in the first moments, I might have seen him hang; but as it is now…”
“Then I take it you no longer believe Mr. Collingforth responsible, but some other,” my brother observed.
“Collingforth? Who can say? But I will insist, Mr. Austen, that you have been sadly remiss in your duties!”
“Why should Collingforth throttle your wife?”
“You would do well to enquire of him”
“Did he bear her any malice?”
“Malice!” A contemptuous snort. “He had eyes for no one but Francoise. The man is a lecher, a blackguard, and a scoundrel — as everyone in Kent, including his wife, must be aware!”
“And so he killed Mrs. Grey because he was in love with her?”
“I should never deign to call it love.”
“Did she return his … interest?”
“Damn your eyes!” The banker hurled a crystal brandy glass against the stones of his hearth. “The lady lies foully murdered, and you would trample her reputation in the dirt?”'
Neddie was silent an instant. Then he said, “Come, come, Mr. Grey. If all of Kent knows CoUingforth for a scoundrel and a blackguard, they must equally have seen that your wife was what the ton would call fast. She drove her own carriage, bred her own horses, commanded her own card-parties, and was rarely alone — despite the solitude in which you left her. Only consider of the manner in which she was discovered — quite divested of her riding habit, and hardly in her own equipage!”
A choked snarl of fury from Mr. Grey was the only reply. And at that moment, he threw down his glove.
My brother told us that he regarded it steadily. “If I am truly the first to broach such a delicate matter in your hearing, I am sorry for it,” he said, “but depend upon it, I shall not be the last.”
Then he retrieved the glove and secured it in his waistcoat pocket. “Let us put off the matter of satisfaction, sir, until your wife's murderer is brought to heel. There is enough of blood in Canterbury at present, without spilling our own into the bargain. Good day to you!”
Chapter 5
The Talk of the Town
20 August 1805, cont'd.
“AND SO WE ARE TO CONCLUDE THAT MR. GREY'S challenge is not retracted, but merely deferred,” Lizzy observed. “How very tiresome, to be sure.”
Neddie handed her a volume of Montaigne's essays. “I think I may fairly say that the gentleman's bluster is worse than his bite. Do not trouble yourself about duelling pistols, my dear; it shall come to naught.”
“Particularly if the gentleman hangs,” I added thoughtfully. “Such an exhibition as Grey's, Neddie, must give rise to speculation — it has little of real feeling behind it, and too much of contrivance.”
“Spurred by guilt, you would say?” My brother smiled. “Perhaps he merely affects a posture he believes necessary before the world. Grey is, after all, a bereaved husband, and expected to comport himself as such— however little he may grieve for his wife. Such a condition cannot be comfortable. He must suggest outrage, ire, and a desire for vengeance, when, in fact, all he may feel is relief.”
“If he cannot feel what he ought, then guilt is natural and just,” I returned; “but I cannot esteem him for it. Such unnatural behaviour must appear like deceit, and direct the suspicion of the world against him. Have you despatched a constable to London, Neddie, to enquire into Mr. Grey's movements?”
“One of Canterbury's fellows rode with The Larches' groom in pursuit of Grey last night, and remained in Town to discover what he could of the gentleman. I cannot dispute that Grey was in Pall Mall all evening; but I should be happy to learn where he spent the early part of the day. I do not expect Mr. Grey to betray himself so easily, however, Jane. If he had a hand in his wife's murder — for reasons we have yet to divine — he is not the sort of fool to be discovered.”