Jane Austen Mysteries 08 Jane and His Lordship's Legacy (4 page)

Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 23

Another lady might have been humbled by a sense of shame and mortification; I confess I felt only indignant. "And what is his lordship's family, pray, that I should consider their opinion in a matter so sacred as a gentleman's dying wish?"

"Nothing," the solicitor returned with surprising mildness.

"It is for me, as their man of business, to dispose of disappoint-ment and outrage. I have been doing so, for all the Wilborough clan, for some six decades. I was but eighteen and a clerk in my father's chambers when the Fifth Duke proposed to marry a chit from the Parisian stage; and the furor over the marriage ar-ticles
then
may fairly be described as incredible. Instability and caprice have characterised all the family's habits, against which Lord Harold's lamented passing and general way of life may al-most be called respectable. It has always been for the firm of Chizzlewit and Pauver to support the family and maintain a proper appearance of decorum before the
ton;
there our influ-ence--and indeed, I may add our interest--ends, Miss Austen."

"What is the nature of the legacy?" I demanded.

"It is this." The solicitor drew a piece of paper--ordinary white foolscap, such as might be found in the public writing desk of an inn--from his leather pouch. Was it possible that this was Lord Harold's Will, penned in his own hand? I felt my heartbeat quicken, from an intense desire to glimpse that beloved script--but the solicitor did not offer the paper to me.

Instead, he took a pair of spectacles from his pocket and set them carefully on his nose. With a dry rasp of the throat, he be-gan to read.

"To my dear friend, Miss Jane Austen of Castle Square, Southamp-
ton, I leave a lifetime of incident, intrigue, and conspiracy; of adven-
ture and scandal; of wagers lost and won. To wit: all my letters, diaries,
account books, and memoranda, that she might order their contents
and draw from them a fair account of my life for the edification of
24 ~ Stephanie Barron

posterity. There is no one in whose understanding or safekeeping I place
a higher trust; no one whose pen is so well-suited to the instruction of an
admiring multitude. With such matter at hand, not even Jane may fail
to write. I should like her to entitle the work 'Memoirs of a Gentleman
Rogue.' Miss Austen is to be the sole beneficiary of all proceeds from the
publication and sale of the aforementioned work, to which my surviv-
ing family may have no claim. Neither are they to attempt to prevent its
publication, upon pain of pursuit by my solicitors in a court of law."

Mr. Chizzlewit raised his eyes from the paper and studied me drily.

At such a moment, in contemplation of his own death, much might have been said. But it was like Lord Harold to utter not a syllable of assurance or endearment; not for him the maudlin turn upon Death's stage. He had probably believed this testament would never be read--but in the event it was, had been all business as he wrote: brisk, ironic, cynical to the end.

"Once the protests and objections of the family were laid aside--once all talk of contesting the Will's provisions in court was at an end--I attempted first to fulfill the bequest in Southampton," Mr. Chizzlewit said, "but learned that you had already quitted that city. It has been some weeks since I was able to trace you through your brother, Mr. Henry Austen of the London banking concern, and fixed the very hour you would be arriving in Chawton."

"Good God," I murmured blankly. "Is this a joke?"

"I fear not."

I rose from my seat and took a turn about the room, agita-tion animating my form. "All his papers--! His most intimate accounts--! He must have been quite mad!"

"So His Grace conjectured. The Sixth Duke should rather have burnt the lot, than seen such a legacy pass into the hands of a stranger. Blackmail is the least of the ills Wilborough fore-bodes."

Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 25

"Well may I believe it." At the thought of the outraged peer and his anxieties, I could not suppress a smile. "How is it that so much as a fragment of Lord Harold's papers has survived His Grace's wrath?"

"Lord Harold, being of a peripatetic habit, formerly made the chambers of Chizzlewit and Pauver the repository of his documents," the solicitor answered primly. "It has been a heavy charge. Our premises have been violated no less than four times in the past decade, as we believe with the specific object of robbing Lord Harold of his papers, requiring us to stoop to an almost criminal ingenuity: to greater measures and vigilance--as well as the addition of a variety of locks. I must warn you, Miss Austen, that there are many who would not hesitate to incur bodily injury in order to secure a glimpse of these papers, or to excise their own names from mention within them. It is a pow-der keg you observe before you, ma'am, in the form of a Bengal chest. I do not envy you the responsibility of shepherding his lordship's legacy."

"May I refuse it?"

Mr. Chizzlewit scrutinised me in silence.

How could I refuse it?

All the mishaps and alliances, the seductions and great pas-sions--the acts of heroism or cowardice that might be con-tained within that Bengal chest! --Written, without flinching, in Lord Harold's own hand. It was possible he had even set down something of his sentiments towards
me.

Of a sudden I was tempted to fall on my knees before the iron hasps and force them with my fingernails.

"I am empowered in the present instance only to discharge my duty," Mr. Chizzlewit rejoined. "What you do with the papers is your own affair. Read them--burn them--despatch them by the London stage to His Grace the Duke of Wilborough.
I
do not care."

26 ~ Stephanie Barron

But Lord Harold had cared very much indeed.
With such
matter at hand, not even Jane may fail to write.
Lord Harold had been determined to influence my future, however little of it he might hope to share.

The elderly solicitor reached for his walking-stick and, with one hand braced on my mother's table, thrust himself to his feet. I was struck of a sudden by the devotion that had kept him sedulously in pursuit of his duty, when another man of his ad-vanced years should have been already nodding by the fire.

"Mr. Chizzlewit, you have my deepest gratitude," I said soberly.

"No thanks are necessary." He stared at me as though I had uttered an impertinence. "I was honoured by his lordship's con-fidence. We are all of us diminished by his foul murder."

And pressing a heavy lead key into my palm, he wordlessly bowed.

The interview, I perceived, was at an end.

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Chapter 4

Of Knights and Villains

4 July 1809, cont.

~

"Letters!" my mother exclaimed in horror upon her return, unmindful of Mr. Prowting at her elbow. "What kind of a man leaves his paramour
letters
? A cottage perhaps, in a good situation--an annuity of a thousand pounds for the remainder of your days--but a bundle of papers not worth the ink smeared over them? Was the Rogue
mad,
Jane?"

"Never more so," I replied. "Have you enjoyed your walk, Mamma?"

"Fiddle my walk!" She rounded on Mr. Prowting. "You will have heard, I am sure, of Lord Harold Trowbridge--a Whig and an adventurer, for all he was the son of a duke; not content with having his fingers in every Government pie, and spoiling them all, but he must break my poor girl's heart! I can only say, 28 ~ Stephanie Barron

Mr. Prowting, that murder is too good for him. He was born to be hanged!"

"So I apprehend, ma'am, from the London papers," the magistrate said stiffly. "I had not understood that you were on terms of acquaintance with the gentleman-- For so we must call him, in deference to his birth. That
at least
remains unim-peachable."

"And a good deal of money the old Duke must have laid down to make it so," my mother retorted shrewdly.

I chose to ignore this impertinence, in deference to the heaviness of her disappointment, and turned instead to the magistrate. "His lordship's Bengal chest is of considerable size, Mr. Prowting. Would you be so kind as to assist me in secur-ing it?"

Mr. Chizzlewit's warning had not been lost upon me. Lord Harold's enemies were numerous and determined; death alone should not quiet their fears. I had weighed the merits of hen-house and privy as unlikely objects of a thief's interest, but set-tled instead upon the depths of the cottage as being more convenient to hand. Our present abode having once served as an alehouse, it must be assumed that the cellars were commodi-ous and in good repair. A double-doored hatch protruded from nether region to yard, undoubtedly for the purpose of rolling barrels of ale within; but this could be secured from below by a stout bar. I might sit upon Lord Harold's papers like a hen upon an egg, a priest upon a crypt, alive to every threat of violation.

"I am entirely at your service," Mr. Prowting said with a bow.

A foetid air rose from the damp and musty space as I de-scended the narrow stairs, a tallow candle held aloft.

"You will require a manservant," the magistrate declared.

He was puffing from exertion, the wooden casket clutched pre- Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 29

cariously in his arms. "I shall take upon myself the task of secur-ing a likely fellow from Alton."

"He must be called William or John, mind. I depend upon that." A scuttling of feet greeted my flame, and for an instant I hesitated on the bottom step. "Does the history of our former alehouse encompass smuggling, Mr. Prowting?"

"Every alehouse in the country must. Your brandy will not serve, unless it comes by stealth from France. But that is no Gen-tleman of the Night, Miss Austen. You will also be wanting a dog, I think--a stout little terrier to clear your cupboards for you."

In the glow of the tallow I observed several dark and stealthy forms stealing from a heap of sacking that filled one corner of the cellar.
Rats.
Decidedly rats. I repressed a shudder and quitted the final step, the fitful play of my candle throwing grotesque shadows about the stone walls.

"Pah--we must open the hatch." Mr. Prowting set the chest heavily on the sandy floor, and heedless of the dust and cob-webs that must adorn it, reached for the wooden bar that se-cured the double doors set into the cellar's ceiling. In an instant they were thrust wide, and light and air streamed down from the pleasant summer afternoon above like a benediction of Providence.

"Ah,"
the magistrate breathed with satisfaction. "That shall soon mend matters. The atmosphere was better suited to a tomb--"

He broke off, mouth sadly agape, eyes fixed on the cellar corner. I turned my head to follow his gaze, and to my shame let out a cry. The bars of sunlight shafting through the open hatch revealed the pile of sacking to be something more: the figure of a man, laid out in all the rigour of death.

"Good God!" Mr. Prowting moved with surprising swiftness to the corpse.

30 ~ Stephanie Barron

The unfortunate wretch was clothed as a labourer--from village or field--and from the strength of his form, had been in the prime of life. His arms were slack by his sides and one leg sprawled akimbo, as tho' he had dropped off to sleep of an af-ternoon; but his countenance was unrecognisable.

The rats, I judged, had been feeding upon it some time.

"Quite dead," Mr. Prowting murmured.

"But how did he come here?" I exclaimed. "The house was shut up!"

The magistrate's looks were blank. "Mr. Dyer of Alton will have possessed a key."

Of course. The builder and his improvements. "Do you know this poor man at all? Is he one of Dyer's men?"

"With such a visage, who can say? How is his own mother to know him?" Prowting stared down at the ravaged figure. "A dreadful business. And on the very day of your arrival--for the Squire's sister to make such a discovery--"

"It is a pity Mr. Chizzlewit is already gone," I observed. "We might otherwise have sent word to the George and summoned a carter. The body should be removed to the inn in expectation of the coroner. I am sure my brother would wish it."

My neighbour appeared to return to his senses from a great way off. He studied me strangely. "You are not overpowered by the sight, Miss Austen?"

"I am sadly lacking in delicate sensibility, Mr. Prowting. I have lived too long in the world."

His gaze sharpened and he drew me towards the stairs.

"There is likely to be some unpleasantness these few hours. You will wish to retire, I think; and will be very welcome in Mrs.

Prowting's drawing-room."

"But, sir-- How did the unfortunate die?"

"A fit, perhaps."

"What sort of fit strikes down a healthy man?"

Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 31

"There is a strong stench of spirits about the corpse," Mr.

Prowting said abruptly. "I think it very likely he died of exces-sive drink, Miss Austen. And now, if you would be so good--"

I bowed my head, and went to break the news to my mother.

"You are no stranger to Hampshire, I collect, Mrs.

Austen?" enquired the magistrate's wife as she served herself from a dish of chicken and peas. Dinner at Prowtings had been delayed until the fashionable hour of seven o'clock, from all the necessity of a corpse's removal. Mr. Prowting had found oc-casion to stand for two hours in the street, while a crowd of gawking village folk materialised to observe the proceedings.

Word of the gruesome tragedy had spread like wildfire through every tenant's cot, but no one appeared in the guise of anxious mourner--no woman stood with wringing hands and suckling babe to claim the Dead as her own. I observed this, and drew the obvious conclusion: the corpse did not belong to Chawton.