We had come to a halt before the door of Henry’s banking establishment, in Henrietta Street; here our ways must part. My brother, however, was in no hurry to be rid of me. “Such a string of hunters as were sold at Tatt’s, Jane, when his lordship stuck his spoon in the wall! His matched greys went to his nephew the marquis, I believe.”
This sudden glimpse of Town Life as the Rogue had led it — drives in the Park, no doubt with a string of females to equal his taste in horses, hunting parties in Leicestershire, mornings in a Belcher handkerchief among the members of the Four-in-Hand Club — was so vivid and painful as to bring a lump to my throat. I could not speak for a moment, then managed with tolerable composure: “At what hour would a fashionable gentleman of a certain age be likely to tool his chestnuts through the Park?”
“Let us say — four o’clock.”
“It will do very well. Are you at leisure to stroll with me at that hour, Henry? Or shall affairs of business claim you?”
“I am always at leisure,” he retorted as he hailed me a passing hackney, “to watch you embroil yourself in trouble, Jane.”
AS MY HIRED CONVEYANCE PULLED UP BEFORE NO. 64 Sloane Street a quarter-hour later, I was gratified to observe a gentleman in the act of descending the few steps to the flagway: Sylvester Chizzlewit, neat and elegant as a pin. He helped me alight — insisted upon paying off the jarvey — and offered his arm as tho’ the distance from street to threshold were too precarious for a lady to suffer unaided. The solicitor could not be more than seven-and-twenty, but his well-bred ease suggested a man long schooled in service to the ton. I felt an hundred years old.
“How fortunate that I was not a moment previous,” he murmured. “I should then have missed you, Miss Austen, and left only my card.”
I disposed of my pelisse and hat while Manon took Mr. Chizzlewit’s walking-stick, her eyes decorously cast down.
“Is Madame Henri at home to visitors?” I asked.
“I shall enquire.” Manon bobbed a curtsey; she was rarely so schooled in the rôle of servant, preferring to regard herself as a trusted lady’s companion. Perhaps some odour of the Law clung to the solicitor’s person, and urged her to appear the pattern-card of respectability.
I led Sylvester Chizzlewit into the front drawing-room, where the looking-glass Eliza had borrowed for her party still winked above the mantel. A fire burned in the grate, in defiance of spring. As Messrs. Skroggs and Black had left a palpable chill on the household, the crackling glow was comforting.
“Your haste in answering my plea is a mark of generosity I must regard with gratitude, Mr. Chizzlewit.”
“The tone of your missive, which I read but an hour ago in chambers, suggested that haste was vital,” he observed.
“Won’t you sit down?”
He waited for me to take one of Eliza’s Louis XV chairs, then disposed himself on a settee. “I collect you wish to discuss a matter of some delicacy.”
“As the affair concerns not only myself, but my nearest relations—”
I broke off as the drawing-room door opened to admit Eliza, unwontedly correct in a sober gown of grey Frenched twill. A square of lawn was clutched in her right hand, and her countenance bore all the marks of a sleepless night; but she was, as ever, remarkably handsome. At the sight of Mr. Chizzlewit’s elegant figure, her mouth formed a breathless O.
“I hope I do not intrude,” she said with melting solicitude.
“Impossible, my dear Eliza. Pray allow me to introduce my acquaintance, Mr. Sylvester Chizzlewit, to your notice. Mr. Chizzlewit, my sister — Mrs. Henry Austen.”
“My friends are permitted to call me Comtesse,” she said kindly, extending her hand. “You cannot be Barty Chizzlewit’s son? I was used to know him very well, but we have not met this age.”
“He is my grandfather, ma’am.”
“Then we are in excellent hands,” Eliza said. “I am excessively diverted! Barty Chizzlewit’s grandson! He once served me nobly in a mortifying little affair — the attempted sale of a packet of my letters — but it does not do to be talking of my salad days. I was a sad romp, I fear. And has Jane told you about those horrid men from Bow Street that would have us taken up for murder?”
Sylvester Chizzlewit’s eyebrows soared. “She has not, Comtesse — but I stand ready to receive your confidences! I have been bored beyond reason for the past twelvemonth at least — but I might have known that bosom friends of Lord Harold Trowbridge could never disappoint. I am at your service, ladies. Whom have you killed?”
“No one at all!” Eliza cried.
“Mr. Chizzlewit is merely playing off his humours,” I said firmly. “Sit down, Eliza, and give him a round tale, if you please.”
And so, between us, we imparted the whole: How a Frenchwoman of dubious morals had deposited a treasure in gems in Eliza’s lap; how we had sought the opinion of Mr. Rundell; how he had betrayed us to Bow Street; and how astonished we were to find that the jewels belonged to none other than the late Princess Evgenia Tscholikova.
“I did not credit the tale of self-murder from the very moment I learned of the Princess’s death,” I confided to the solicitor, “but I regarded Lord Castlereagh as the object of scandal — that it was he who should be suspected of the lady’s murder. I bent my thoughts to considering of Lord Castlereagh’s enemies—”
“Did you, indeed?” Sylvester Chizzlewit’s looks were satiric. “Yours is an unusual character, Miss Austen. Few ladies should have bent their thoughts to anything but repugnance. But I am forgetting: You were an intimate of Lord Harold’s. Naturally you are unlike the common run of females.”
I coloured. “Princess Tscholikova’s killer ought to be hidden among the coils of politics — if, indeed, Lord Castlereagh is the scandal’s intended victim— and it was under this spur that I consulted Lord Harold’s papers in your chambers yesterday. I hoped he might have recorded a rogues’ gallery of the Whig Party — those most likely to oppose Lord Castlereagh. But to discover, upon my return to this house, that it is I who am to be blamed for a stranger’s violent death—!”
“We are granted a week — but six more days — to clear ourselves of suspicion,” Eliza said mournfully. “And that man Skroggs was so bold as to suggest that my excellent husband might have cut the Princess’s throat — when Henry was wholly unacquainted with her! It was I who met her some once or twice at Emily Cowper’s, and chanced to nod when our paths crossed in Hans Place.”
“I fear you are mistaken, Eliza.” I clasped her hand. “Henry informed the coroner’s panel that the Princess required of him a loan a few days before her death — and that he refused her. He blames himself for the lady’s despair.”
“No!” She looked all her consternation. “But he has said nothing to me of this.”
“We have not been overly frank with Henry ourselves. You must know, Mr. Chizzlewit, that my brother is as yet in ignorance that Bow Street has come upon the house.”
The solicitor gave a gesture of dismissal. His lively countenance had sobered during the course of our recital, and he appeared as one deep in thought, rising from the settee to turn slowly before the fire, chin sunk into the snowy folds of his cravat.
“I was used to know an intimate of the Viscount’s household — one Charles Malverley,” he mused.
“Lord Castlereagh’s private secretary! He also was present this morning at the Princess’s inquest.” I straightened in my chair, all interest. “Did you know it was he who attended the discovery of the body — at five o’clock in the morning?”