“That does not seem very likely,” Lizzy replied. “I must believe we refine too much upon the gold button. It may have nothing whatsoever to do with Mrs. Grey's brutal end — she might have lost it in a trifling way, when Jane and I observed her to enter the chaise well before the final heat.”
“Very true,” Neddie said thoughtfully, “but it must rob my observation entirely of its honour, my dear!”
“One thing is certain,” I added. “Mrs. Grey cannot have removed the habit herself. Such a quantity of buttons running from neck to waist should require the offices of a maid — or an intimate friend.”
“We must assume, then, that she received assistance,” Neddie said briskly, “—and that she knew whoever killed her.”
“But why remove the gown at all?”
I stared at Henry wordlessly. “I am all astonishment that a man such as yourself — a Sporting Gentleman, and a man of the world — requires the explication of a spinster. Having heard a little of Mrs. Grey's reputation, surely you may form an idea of the circumstances.”
My unfortunate brother opened his mouth, blushed red, and averted his gaze, to my profound amusement.
“As to that — I believe I shall await the coroner's report as to the state of the body,” he replied. “But you mistake my meaning, Jane. I am perfectly well aware that a riding habit may prove an impediment to certain types of sport, and it is possible that Mrs. Grey divested herself of the garment with exactly the intention you suspect. But why remove the habit from the scene of the corpse's discovery? Why not leave it where the body was found? — If, indeed, the lady was even killed in Collingforth's chaise. And if she was not… how should her murderer transport a corpse, dressed only in a shift, under the eyes of all Canterbury?”
I had asked myself a similar question only yesterday. “I had believed the point was moot. We must assume that the murderer shifted the chaise — either to intercept Mrs. Grey on the Wingham road, or to transport her cooling body.”
“Pretty tho the plan may be, dear Jane, it cannot explain the disposal of the habit. Why should the murderer bother to thrust the thing under a hedgerow, if it bears no sign against himself?”
“Then let us dispute the matter less,” Neddie broke in, “and examine the habit more.”
He fetched his quizzing glass from the desk, and pored over the scarlet stuff. Lizzy ran her fingers thoughtfully along the hems, as tho' calculating the cost of its gold frogging, while Henry began to count the trail of buttons rather hurriedly under his breath. I merely stood by and surveyed their endeavours with a bemused expression. At length Neddie perceived my inactivity, and looked up.
“Yes, Jane?”
“It is the custom for ladies who ride, as you know, to carry nothing on their persons, not even a reticule. Their hands must necessarily be reserved for the control of the reins. And yet Mrs. Grey, travelling alone yesterday as she did, must have carried some provision about her. There are no pockets let into the seams of this gown; therefore I suggest you look for one concealed in the interior — perhaps within the lining.”
“Excellent thought!” my brother cried, and seized the gown immediately.
“Not at the waist, dear,” Lizzy advised him, “for it should never do to carry coins below the breast. I would survey the bodice itself.”
And there, in an instant, we found what we were seeking — a small pocket of cloth, let into the bodice's lining, quite invisible from the gown's exterior and only large enough to hold a trifle. Mrs. Grey, it seemed, had employed it to conceal a piece of notepaper. Any coins or bills she might have held had long since disappeared.
“Quickly, Neddie,” Lizzy cried, with something closer to animation than I had ever observed in my brother's wife, “spread it out so that we all might see.” The note was dated hurriedly, and rather illegibly, 19 August 1805 — the very date of yesterday's race-meeting.
Ma chere Francoise —
You must know that I am a man run mad. If you do not consent to hear me, I will have but one recourse. Oh, God, that I had never seen your face! The Devil himself may assume just such a form, and move with such wanton grace, and yet remain the very soul of evil. I shall be waiting in my chaise before the final heat is run. A word, a look, will tell me all — my salvation or destruction, equally in your hands.
It was signed Denys Collingforth.
“Good God!” Lizzy ejaculated, and sat down abruptly in a chair. “So it is all a pack of lies! Collingforth did communicate with Mrs. Grey at the race-meeting, and the result was her furtive visit to the chaise. He must have seen her there. They must have spoken. And when she refused to meet his demands, he killed her in a rage!”
“You forget,” I said gently. “We all observed her, large as life, an hour after the visit to Collingforth's chaise.”
“What is that?” Lizzy snapped her fingers dismissively. “The scoundrel merely awaited her departure, and pursued her along the Wingham road. We have divined it all an age ago — we merely lacked sufficient proofs. The cowardly rogue, to discover her corpse himself, and protest an innocence that must be the grossest falsehood!”
“But why divest the lady of her habit?” Henry persisted. “I cannot find the sense of it. Did he suspect her to retain the tell-tale note, he might merely have searched the body for it. Depriving Mrs. Grey of her clothing, without destroying the letter, can have served him nothing.”
“Perhaps he could not conceive of the cunning bodice pocket, and in his haste, merely disposed of the clothing as a surety,” I suggested.
We were silent a moment in contemplation.
“I cannot like it,” Neddie declared, and commenced to turn before the library's windows. “As my dear Lizzy has said, the note must strike at the very heart of motive. Whether he speaks of unrequited love — or unforgiven debt — Collingforth betrays an ungovernable passion; and the violence of his feeling might well have ended in murder.”
“You must expose him to the coroner, I suppose?” Lizzy enquired faintly.
“I have no choice.”
“But you will inform Mr. Collingforth of your discovery before tomorrow's inquest,” I said. “Common decency would urge such a small consideration. He must be afforded a chance to explain himself.”
Neddie did not immediately reply, but stood in a sombre attitude before the open windows. No breeze stirred the dark hair that fell artlessly across his brow; and if he perceived a little of the twilight scene beyond the glass, it was not reflected in the blankness of his gaze. Heavy thought, and warring duties, and the weight of care sat hard upon my brother's countenance. Then at last he wheeled and crossed to his wife.
“I fear, my dear, that regardless of the hour I must ride out to Prior's Farm, and destroy Collingforth's complaisance entirely. It is too grave and too ugly a business, to await the inquest in the morning.” He kissed her hand and looked to Henry. “Will you ride with me, brother? I cannot like the Kentish roads at present. Between the unknown murderer and the French invader, a man might find his death in any number of ways.”
“I should ride with you in any case,” Henry retorted, “as you very well know. But I wonder, Neddie, where you think to find Mr. Collingforth. As I intimated at dinner, he is believed to have fled.”
“We must begin at Prior's Farm, and follow where the trail might lead. Do not sit up in expectation of our return,” Neddie called to his wife, “for we shall be very late upon the road.”
Wednesday
21 August 1805
WE DID NOT SIT UP IN EXPECTATION OF MY BROTHERS' return, but tho' I followed the mistress of Godmersham to bed in an hour's time, neither could I sleep. The unhealthy excitement of the past two days quite robbed me of tranquillity, and so I took up my pen and the little book of unlined paper I keep always about me, and set down this account of the day. My candle-flame barely flickered in the torpid air, and but for the scratch of the nib in the breathless room, the great house was unnaturally quiet. I had not doused the light a half-hour, however, before the hallooing of the porter at the gate, and the clatter of horses' hooves on the sweep, announced the gentlemen's return.