“Perhaps her condition will keep her quietly at home for a period.”
“Then she will be less likely to detect us in our cells,” Eliza said decidedly, “when once we have been handed over to the warders. Tuesday is already gone! And we have but two days left before that dreadful man is to return on Friday!”
“I have the matter in hand, Eliza,” I told her gently. “Do not be troubling your head about it.”
“It is my head that is troubling me. It aches frightfully. I believe I shall go up to my room — if you will send Madame Bigeon with a glass of Henry’s brandy … ”
The Tilsons are abstemious folk; they do not regard claret or burgundy as contributing to the elegance of their table — particularly as such luxuries must still be got from France, through the intermediary of a Free Trader.[28] Ladies are to be served with ratafia, or perhaps a small amount of Madeira; and Mr. Tilson was left in solitary state to nurse his decanter of port. I quite sympathised with Eliza’s desire for a snifter in the bedchamber.
I went towards the kitchen, and discovered Manon loitering in a passageway.
“Madame Henri requires a little brandy,” I told her.
“Oui, mademoiselle. On the instant. And you should know,” she added as she turned away, “that I spoke to Druschka this morning. The gentleman whom her mistress found occasion to visit at the Albany was the Earl of Tanborough’s son … one Charles Malverley—”
IT WAS OF MALVERLEY I WAS THINKING THIS MORNING, as I alighted from my hackney in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Sylvester Chizzlewit had summoned me to his door with a missive delivered by courier — an apology and an invitation at once, which I perused in silence over breakfast.
Mr. Chizzlewit could not undertake to bring his interlocutor to Sloane Street, in deference to Mrs. Austen’s delicate health; but if Miss Austen would deign to step round to Mr. Chizzlewit’s chambers, she might learn such intelligence as would shed light on the problem presently under consideration, and every accommodation would be made for her comfort …
On this occasion there was no confusion on the part of the clerks as to my merits or precedence among Mr. Chizzlewit’s clients. I was met in the doorway, relieved of my wrap, and escorted immediately to the private parlour where I had previously gone through Lord Harold’s papers. A fire burned brightly in the grate, tho’ the first of May had banished yesterday’s rain and the weather was fine. I stood near the warmth, and saw in memory Charles Malverley’s face as it had appeared in the publick room of the Brown Bear, Covent Garden.
The classic purity of his features — the beauty of his form — the impression he generally gave, of being one whom the gods favoured … could not the Earl’s son be the very object of Princess Tscholikova’s ardent passion? But he had denied her utterly in death. One might meet her often in certain circles, and perhaps exchange a few pleasantries, he had assured the coroner. I should never say that we were well acquainted.
Malverley had lied — or he had told the truth, and the Princess’s visits to the Albany were a blind for interests she held in another quarter. If the Earl’s son had deliberately uttered a falsehood, however … the construction to be placed upon such reserve could only be a guilty one.
I had remarked the pallor of his looks that morning, but also his extraordinary self-possession before the coroner’s panel. Little could dismay that well-bred gentleman; but then again, Mr. Whitpeace had not troubled to press Malverley too closely on his movements during the hours between one and five o’clock in the morning of Tuesday last. He claimed to have been at his desk during the small hours, diligently pursuing his employer’s interests; but what if he had gone home to the Albany — and found Princess Tscholikova waiting for him in the courtyard? Julien d’Entraigues had seen her there, and remarked upon the desolation of her countenance.
But if Malverley were the Princess’s lover — how, then, to account for the correspondence published in the Morning Post? My limbs burn with the desire to lie once more entangled in your own … There is nothing I would not sacrifice, would not risk … I can hardly write for anguish … It was unlikely the lady should have addressed such phrases to two gentlemen. I must be mistaken. Perhaps the private secretary had seen— and copied — and sold — Lord Castlereagh’s intimate letters for personal gain! Sylvester Chizzlewit had said Malverley was fond of deep play; and thus the young man might have considerable debts of honour that must be satisfied. Had the Princess, shamed before the eyes of the ton, confronted her enemy at his lodgings in the Albany that fateful night — and had Malverley cut her throat?
Why, then, should he have left the body on Castlereagh’s doorstep?
“I cannot make it out at all,” I murmured vexedly. “I require more information.”
“And you shall have it,” Sylvester Chizzlewit said behind me.
I turned, and surveyed the individual he ushered into the room: A man of indeterminate age and weather-beaten appearance, who might have served as Ordinary Seaman on one of my brother’s ships. His stooped shoulders were clad in a patched and faded coat of kerseymere; his trousers were black; and his boots were worn. He nodded deferentially as my eyes swept over him, and turned a round felt hat in heavily-knuckled hands.
“This is Clayton,” Mr. Chizzlewit informed me, “who drives a hackney coach, and is desirous of telling you his story, Miss Austen.”
“Are you the fellow who carried two ladies from Portman Square on Sunday evening?” I enquired eagerly.
Clayton shook his head. “I don’t work Portman Square, miss. That’d be a covey o’ mine named Davy. It was Davy as took you off that night, and when the gentleman come asking his questions, Davy thought o’ me — my story being just as odd, seemingly, as his.”
I looked enquiringly at Mr. Chizzlewit, who gestured towards a chair set at a comfortable distance from the hearth; I sank into it.
“The man Davy did, indeed, convey you and Mrs. Austen from Portman Square to Sloane Street, but he failed to observe anything subsequently but the coins Mrs. Henry pressed into his palm, the night being one without moon, and the vicinity imperfectly lit. He can tell us nothing of the misfortune that befell your sister. In the course of my enquiries among the jarveys, however, I thought to ask whether any man had taken up a fare in Berkeley Place, on the evening of Monday last. I was interested, Miss Austen, in the interval between Princess Tscholikova’s leaving her card at the Castlereaghs’, and the hour in which her corpse was discovered in front of No. 45— a period of some four hours. I had an idea that the lady might have engaged a hackney.”
“Naturally,” I agreed, “it being unlikely she should have walked the streets of London in her evening dress for so long a time.”
“The locale being somewhat infamous, due to the unfortunate death of Princess Tscholikova, I did not have to put my questions very long. Davy — your jarvey — had heard a story of his friend, Clayton, here; and Clayton was very soon introduced to my acquaintance. Pray tell the lady what you saw and heard, Clayton.”
“It did ought to have been brought before the crowner,” Clayton said belligerently, “but that I couldn’t get a place inside the Brown Bear; the house was that full of gentry, an honest man couldn’t set foot over the jamb. I’d have spoke to crowner himself, if I’d found the time — but what with one thing and another, and me not knowing how to find the gentleman, and the press of work — and the panel saying it were self-murder … ”
28
Free trader was a euphemism for a smuggler who brought cargoes from France under cover of darkness, thus avoiding importation duties. At this time, Napoleon’s Continental System — which forbade all trade with England on the part of France or its imperial satellites — still inhibited direct importation of a host of goods. —