Jane and the Canterbury Tale (23 page)

“Men of the jury,” he said, “the Magistrate has requested an adjournment of this proceeding, so that the present confusion might be thoroughly penetrated. Do you agree to such an adjournment, with the inquest to be resumed at a later date, under the Magistrate’s advising?”

There was an uneasy silence. One member of the panel—a man of middle years, with the stalwart looks of those who spend their days in the fields, lifted his hand hesitantly to his forelock. “Begging yer pardon, Crowner, but what about the corpus? Adjourn howsoever long you like, but there’ll be a stink.”

“Having entered into the record my examination of Deceased,” Dr. Bredloe said, “and having required the panel to view Deceased’s remains, there can be no bar at present to Christian burial. Proper interment need not wait on the resumption of the inquest—provided the Magistrate concurs.”

The Magistrate concurred.

In addition, he ordered his constable to take Sir Davie Myrrh, late of Ceylon, into custody on the suspicion of murder; and so the seaman was led away to Canterbury gaol.

“I
T IS ALTOGETHER AN IMPENETRABLE BUSINESS,
” G
EORGE
Moore observed, as our carriage rattled along the road to Godmersham. His countenance was considerably lighter than it had been on our journey out to Canterbury; either his errands in the Cathedral Close, or his estimation of the inquest, had cheered his humour. We were forced to a tête-à-tête, Edward having determined to follow his new-found oddity to Westgate, where the gaol was housed, in order to interrogate him more closely. He should not have been doing his magisterial duty otherwise; but deemed it unlikely the man should relent, and speak without his lawyer. The mystery of Sir Davie Myrrh would have, perforce, to await that fellow’s arrival—an event that could not occur before Monday at the earliest.

I glanced through the carriage window; we had covered but two miles of the distance to Godmersham, and a tedious interval lay before us. Mr. Moore had drawn a small leatherbound volume from his coat, and was preparing to immerse himself in its pages; Aeschylus’s
Prometheus
, I observed. I pursed my lips, unwilling for my curiosity to alienate the gentleman further, and bring down a rain of strictures upon my head—but I might never have so perfect an opportunity to question him again.

“Such matters are always impenetrable,” I began, “when the parties involved are less than frank.”

“You would refer to that deluded seaman, I presume.”

Mr. Moore had been treated to a summary of the business from Julian Thane, having missed the episode himself.

“Yes—the seaman, naturally … and poor James Wildman, of course. One could perfectly discern that he did not wish to speak frankly of Curzon Fiske. I must suppose that partiality for his cousin Adelaide sealed his lips; but there is a history, there, begging to be told.”

“I suspect you know little of the matter, Miss Austen, being a stranger to Kent, and most of the people in it.”

It was a snub; a decided snub; Mr. Moore meant to quell my pretensions as thoroughly as tho’ I had been Miss Clewes, and throwing out lures to Jupiter Finch-Hatton. But my gambit succeeded in this: the clergyman closed his book.

I regarded him coolly. “The history of Fiske’s final wager will have to be canvassed, of course, however unpleasant the exercise must prove. Your calm good sense will be invaluable to my brother, Mr. Moore—for you were one of the party at Chilham Castle, were you not, when all the gentlemen played at whist for pound points, and Mr. Lushington accused the dead man of cheating?”

“The events of that night can have nothing to do with Fiske’s death, Miss Austen.”

“The man was
murdered
, Mr. Moore,” I returned in exasperation. “A violent act does not arise in a vacuum; it requires profound emotion to spur it on—hatred, for example, or a desire for vengeance. Add to this that Fiske was killed by a pistol belonging to Chilham Castle, in the very neighbourhood he fled three years before, and the likelihood increases that the two episodes are linked.”

“By one of the whist players, you would suggest. You forget, I think, that we all presumed Fiske to be dead—and were dancing at his wife’s wedding when he died.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “The fact of his murder proclaims
that one among you knew that he was alive. Perhaps Fiske corresponded with an old acquaintance.”

Mr. Moore’s eyes narrowed. “Is the exchange of letters now enough to hang a man?”

“Certainly not. One would have to detect in such letters a spur to violence. Or perhaps another discovered an innocent correspondence, and was moved to murder on the strength of his secret knowledge—that Fiske lived, and was returned to Kent. This can all be merest speculation; but I am persuaded you will perceive the value to the Magistrate of a clear narrative of events: The fatal whist-party, the accusation of cheating, and Fiske’s flight. That should do much to throw light on the murder, and I can think of no one better suited to supplying such a narrative than yourself, Mr. Moore. You will know how to divide emotion from fact, and offer an account untinged by personal emnity.”

The sharpness of Mr. Moore’s looks increased; his brows drew down, and his lips compressed.

“You flatter me, Miss Austen.”

“Do I, sir?” I affected surprize. “Then my portrait of your character must be flawed in its chief points. It has been my habit to regard you as prizing a profound understanding above all else.”

“That is self-evident.” He drew himself up. “But what right you assume to question me regarding that abhorrent occasion—or advise me on my present course of action—I fail to apprehend.”

I offered a bewildered gaze. “Have I done so? I intended merely to suggest that Edward must be distinctly indebted to your assistance. However, if you mean to persist in being
private
about the affair, Mr. Moore, I must assume that you regard it with uneasiness.”

“On that question I may put your mind at rest, Miss Austen,” he retorted with obvious dislike. “There is nothing
in my life, I am thankful to say, that I regard with uneasiness; I am so much in the habit of interrogating my conscience, and acting according to its dictates, that I am a stranger to moral ambiguity. I would advise a thorough canvassing of
your
conscience in future as a useful aid to conduct.”

“Come, come, Mr. Moore.” I could not disguise the amusement in my voice; it
would
break out. “Hypocrisy is a quality in a gentleman—particularly a cleric—that I cannot endure! Three years since, you so far disregarded your conscience as to
gamble
with a hardened gamester you admit to having thoroughly disliked—and for so breathless a sum as pound points! How reckless of you, to be sure! I perceive that even the most correct of men—in Holy Orders, and with a reputation to consider—may lose his head from time to time. Some profound emotion, rather than Reason, must account for it; but the question that will invariably arise, is this: Was it
ardent love
for Adelaide MacCallister—or
profound hatred
for her husband?”

Mr. Moore was now quite white about the lips, and it was with difficulty that he controlled his temper. “Your strictures, Miss Austen, are distasteful, and unbecoming in one whose rôle in life ought to be submissive and retiring. I owe you no explanation of my conduct, and your presumption in demanding it—in speculating upon the nature and motives of actions long past, and in which you had no part—is repugnant. I decline utterly to discuss the matter further; you do not deserve such notice.”

He reopened his book, and made a poor pretence of reading it; and I sighed a little at my failure as I returned to gazing out the carriage window. Such men as may be unmoved by flattery, wit, calculation, or humour are beyond the reach of my powers; and Mr. Moore was certainly one of these.

  
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  

S
UNDAY
, 24 O
CTOBER
1813

M
R
. S
HERER, OUR EXCELLENT AND MOST
R
EVEREND
M
R
. Sherer of St. Lawrence Church, whose sermons so frequently envigour the flagging Christian spirit, is vicar also of Westwell—a neighbouring village in Kent—and from this multiplicity of livings, which any clergyman’s wife must rejoice in, as ensuring the Sherers’ worldly comfort and survival, has come a peculiar evil, in that Mr. Sherer is forced to quit his excellent vicarage here at Godmersham, and repair to Westwell for a period of
full three years
—the curate charged with supplying Mr. Sherer’s duties in that place having failed to suit the parishioners so well as they should like. The complaints that have come to Mr. Sherer’s ears in recent months have so alarmed that assiduous gentleman, that nothing will do but the curate must be got rid of. What the poor fellow’s
crimes may have been—a disinclination for sermon-making, a persistent stutter, or perhaps too glad an eye to the ladies of Westwell—I cannot tell; Mr. Sherer will not speak of them, but only look grave, while Mrs. Sherer casts up her eyes to Heaven.

“These young men, Miss Austen, ought not to consider Holy Orders, if the vocation is
not
upon them,” she says, with all the vicarious complaisance of one who has married an Emissary of Providence. “Too many are simply out for
all they can get
.”

“And if they are, who can blame them?” Mr. Sherer observed heavily as he quaffed my brother’s sherry, tea being too dangerous an offering for the Sabbath. “The world offers such young men but poor examples of clerical life! If one were to credit the world of Fashion, we are all scoundrels and renegades! Only consider the insults to which the Divine Work of Holy Orders is subjected, among the novelists and playwrights of the stage!”

“Oh, the
stage
,” Mrs. Sherer returned dismissively. She is a plump woman with protuberant blue eyes, much given to fondling the bugle beads that adorn her bodice, of which she is inordinately proud. “If you look for respect for the Cloth, my dear, among the swaggerers of Covent Garden, I despair of you! But surely there are many admirable portraits of the Clergy in works of literature? I do not speak of
novels
—”

“I beg you will not utter the word, my dear,” Mr. Sherer declared, with a look of pain, and a hand pressed to his brow. “When I consider of the hectic success of that vulgar work—you know the one I would mean, that all the young ladies hereabouts are forever consulting—and the shameful picture of its clergyman, so very
worthy
a young man I thought, and feeling just as he ought about his Patroness—so quick to apologise whenever his natural feelings outstripped his good sense—”