For that Collingforth had never strangled the lady was my heartfelt conviction; his own sudden death was too implausible in the event. He had been killed to ensure his silence, perhaps — or by an avenging hand, that could not feel certain he would hang. And of a sudden, I remembered Mr. Valentine Grey's hasty departure for London Thursday night, the very eve of his wife's interment — an extraordinary journey, conceived on the spur of a messenger's summons. Had the man been paid to shadow Denys Collingforth? And having found him, rode like the wind to inform his master, Mr. Grey?
Was it Grey's hand that had slit Collingforth's throat, and weighted his body for the millpond?
The hope of sleep could not lie in such a direction; only one remedy could commend itself. With a sigh of despair I took up my candle, opened the bedchamber door, and lit my wick from the taper left burning all night in the hall. No other recourse was left me: I must immerse myself in the pages of Werther, until utter insensibility should descend.
MY BROTHER NEDDIE WAS AFOOT ALMOST BEFORE THE first light had broken. I was roused from my slumber by the sound of men shouting, and the clatter of horses' hooves. When I dashed to my bedroom window, it was to survey a scene of ordered chaos in the stable area below. The rain had commenced once more in earnest, and was driving down in great tearing sheets that churned the yard to mud. Neddie was mounted and intent upon his departure, Henry was being heaved into the saddle by an under-groom, and Mrs. Salkeld stood in their midst holding aloft a swinging lantern. Neddie took from her outstretched hand a steaming cup of what could only be coffee, returned it with thanks, and wheeled his horse.
They would be bound for Deal, some ten miles distant, and a small coaching inn called the Hoop & Griffin, where Denys Collingforth lay cold and lifeless on a bare plank table. Then there would be the tedious work of informing the coroner, settling a date for the inquest, and visiting the thankful widow — conducted in all the mire of dirt and wet. Later should come the hours of fruidess questions, the vexation of never putting name or face to the man's murderer.
I shuddered, and went back to bed.
“I BEG YOUR PARDON, MISS AUSTEN,” ANNE SHARPE SAID from the open doorway some hours later, “but I could not help enquiring — your visit to the Finch-Hattons was pleasant, I hope?”
Tho' the governess could know nothing of the death of Denys Collingforth — having already retired by the late hour of our return, and being unlikely to have encountered anyone charged with the intelligence before breakfast — a feverish light animated her countenance. Her hazel eyes were too large in her white face.
“Pray come in, my dear, and sit down,” I cried. 'You look decidedly unwell. I am sure you must have passed a wretched night!”
“I… that is to say, the ill effects of the rain … I have never been a creature to endure the sound of thunder. It invariably gives rise to… migraine.” She pressed a hand against her temple and swayed slightly. I moved to her at once, and helped her to a chair.
“You should not be out of bed,” I said firmly.
“No — you are too kind — but it is nothing, truly. I shall be vastly better in a moment, I am sure.”
“You were wise to decline the party at Eastwell, for your own sake as well as Fanny's. You could not have sustained the jolting of the carriage, much less the punishment of conversation.”
“Punishment, indeed,” she whispered, and closed her eyes against the thought.
“We none of us slept very well last evening,” I added, with some anxiety for the faintness of her looks. “Our party returned only before midnight, and to news of a dreadful nature. Mr. Collingforth has been found — quite dead. My brothers rode out before dawn to view the body.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and she clutched at my wrist almost painfully.
“Is Mrs. Austen yet emerged from her apartments?”
“I do not believe so. You wished to speak with her?”
“It is nothing — a trifle. Any hour will do. But Mr. Collingforth — it was suicide, I presume? He was driven to take his own life, from the bitter knowledge of his guilt?”
“A man may perhaps slit his own throat,” I replied, “but he is unlikely to then tie a stone to his legs, and trundle himself into a millpond. No, Miss Sharpe, I must believe that poor Collingforth was murdered, like the late Mrs. Grey — tho' for reasons that are as yet obscure to us.”
The governess shuddered visibly. “Good God! That I might be allowed to forget! That dreadful woman—”
“Miss Sharpe—”
“You do not know how her face has haunted me,” she cried, staring up at me blindly. “Like a demon, or a witch, in her bloodred dress.”
I stared at her, aghast. Something more than a dread of violent death was at work in Miss Sharpe — some thing that touched quite nearly on Mrs. Grey herself. I remembered, of a sudden, the little governess's marked reserve at the race-meeting, and her horrified regard for the lady's corpse. Had not her present fever commenced as Mrs. Grey's life ended? — Perhaps they had met before, in Town, when Anne Sharpe was more the lady's social equal, and the girl had despaired at meeting with her again in such reduced circumstances.
“Can not you tell me what this is all about, Miss Sharpe?” I enquired gently.
The governess stiffened, and regained something of her composure. “You are very kind, Miss Austen,” she replied, “but I assure you I merely suffer from the head-ache.”
“Then Dr. Wilmot should examine you.” I turned briskly for the door. “Mrs. Austen wishes to consult him in respect of young Edward, who is not at all improved in his fever; and if the physician is summoned on behalf of one, he might as well have the dosing of us all!”
Miss Sharpe half-rose from her seat and clutched at my arm. “I beg of you, do not disclose my indisposition to Mrs. Austen. That, of all things, I could not bear.”
“But, my dear—”
“Can you not perceive that she already believes me decidedly unsuited to the governance of her children?” Miss Sharpe cried fiercely. “She thinks me a poor, troublesome creature, too delicate for the trials of education. I do not know why she has endured me this long. I shall be turned out without a reference, before a twelvemonth is complete; and how I shall manage then, when all my friends have deserted me—”
“You must calm yourself, Miss Sharpe.” Alarm sharpened my tone, and she winced as tho' a blow had been struck. I sank down by her chair. “Indeed, you distress yourself unduly. I am certain that my sister can find nothing to abhor in your considerable talents; she speaks very highly of your accomplishments, and is full of admiration for your success with Fanny — whom we all know to have arrived at a most trying age. You are to be congratulated, rather than dismissed!”
The governess shook her head, and all but stopped her ears at my words, as tho' I had subjected her to the most thorough abuse; she declared herself unworthy of such kindness, and very nearly intent upon giving notice, so acute was her sense of failure. I attempted to reason with her further; but at length, determined that the wisest course was to put her to bed — and thither she was sent, with orders to take some tea on a tray, and a stern injunction not to set forth until her spirits were entirely recovered.
When I had seen her safely into her bedchamber, I sat a little while in my own; and considered of Miss Sharpe. Broken rest or a case of the migraine could hardly explain so elevated a condition of nerves. She looked quite wild, as tho' all peace was fled from her heart forever. She had certainly been most unwell since the day of the race-meeting. Was that a mere matter of unlucky coincidence — or the working of a deeper evil? She could have had nothing to do with Mrs. Grey's end. The very notion was repugnant — and fantastic in the extreme, for Miss Sharpe had been seated opposite myself for the duration of the heats. Something in the day, however, had destroyed all her complaisance. Only the next morning, she was ardent in her desire to exchange Kent for London. Her disappointment at the failure of the French to overrun the country must be instructive.