“You begin to understand him.”
“I think I begin to understand you both. Or at the very least — what each of you wishes me to understand.”
Here was the steel beneath the velvet glove. My brother would have the gentleman comprehend that he was hardly a fool, to be played with as a shuttlecock between two battledores. He would reserve his judgement until all the facts were fully in his possession, and only then would he act. Neither Mr. Grey, nor the Comte de Penfleur, would be privy to his counsel.
“I do not quite take your meaning, sir. I have been completely open.”
“You have presented a very painful picture, sir, of your private affairs — and one that must have cost you something to divulge. I respect and pity you — for the fortitude which allows such a sacrifice of your natural reserve, and for the calculation that has urged it. But as to openness — there, Mr. Grey, our opinions must part company. I regret to say that you have not been entirely open.”
“Very well.” Grey's accent held an intolerable strain. “Endeavour to show, Mr. Justice of Canterbury, how I have deceived you.”
“The very morning after your wife's death, you were at pains to discover Mr. Collingforth die culprit; and quite ingeniously, the gentleman's flight and various circumstances conspired to prove you right. The inquest delivered him, in absentia, to the Assizes' mercy; and all of Canterbury condemned him as the very worst of men. Leave aside for the moment that his guilt is hardly proved; what is accepted opinion has all the weight of fact in a country neighbourhood, and the Law will always bow to the weight of fact.”
“Why should Collingforth flee the country, if he is innocent?” Grey cried.
My brother chose to ignore him.
“Now that the Comte de Penfleur has appeared to mar the scene, and has had the temerity to speak to the local Justice, you have come in haste to my door. For the first time I learn from your own lips, that the interesting letter written in French was not from your wife's courier, but from her lover — as I was always convinced. You speak feelingly of your marriage; of the hatred the Comte bears you; and to what purpose? — For if Collingforth is yet the man who strangled your wife, the Comte's intentions regarding yourself can be of no further interest to me.”
Grey was silent. I had an idea of the scene: Neddie at ease in his wing-backed chair, fingers bridged before his nose as he regarded the other man; and Grey, stiff and enraged, brought to a halt on the Aubusson carpet.
“You are desperate for a serious diversion, Mr. Grey,” Neddie persisted, “but for the life of me, I cannot think why. What would you protect? — Your own neck? It is hardly at hazard. — Your wife's reputation? She never possessed any. — Your banking concerns? Your position in the estimation of the 'Great'? Perhaps; for it is this that the Comte may yet destroy. I should be deeply gratified, Mr. Grey, if you could be as frank with regard to your business as you have been regarding your wife.”
Mr. Grey must have determined at this point upon quitting the room; there was the slightest rustle from beyond the window, and the sound of my brother rising to his feet.
“I will take what you have said under consideration, Austen,” Mr. Grey said sharply, “but I can offer you nothing further today.”
“Very well. I hope I may always be of service.” A bell rang distantly in the house; poor Russell would be running, I knew, to show the gentleman to the door.
“And Mr. Grey—”
“Yes?” The voice came indistinctly, from the far end of the room.
“I may assure you of one thing. I will find your wife's murderer — and so help me God, I will see him hang.”
The assurance may have been of less comfort than Neddie supposed.
WHEN GREY HAD GONE, I PUT DOWN MY GARDEN TRUG — now overflowing with posies already wilting in the late-morning heat — and stepped through the French windows.
“Is he gone?”
“Safely down the sweep.” Neddie was engaged in the filling of his pipe, an indulgence he never practised before a lady; but I had an idea of his internal disquiet, and forbore to chide him. Tobacco, I believe, may be a spur to thought as much as a comfort to the nerves, and I saw no reason to deny him the remedy at such an hour.
He settled himself in his favourite armchair and studied me with amusement. “How much of our conversation did you overlisten?”
“Nearly all of it. You were aware of my presence?”
“For the last half-hour. Grey may not have perceived you in his pacing about the room, but in following his figure to the garden prospect, I could not fail of detecting yours.” The amusement deepened. “And what is your considered opinion of the fellow, Jane?”
“As you said of the Comte — I quite liked him.”
“Yes,” Neddie mused. “It is a great failing in this line of work, to undertake to admire or pity anyone. He is made of stern stuff, Mr. Valentine Grey, and might be capable of anything.”
“—Of steady industry; of sacrifice in the name of principle; of ruthless calculation in matters of business or state — but is he capable of passion? I cannot believe it.”
“He was eloquent on the subject of his wife.”
“He spoke well,” I conceded, “but more as a man whose passion is dead.”
Neddie shrugged. “So, too, is the object of it.”
“Real love endures beyond the grave, Neddie, as you very well know. Men may remarry; they may cherish a second wife, and a third — but their feelings remain tender in respect of the departed. Mr. Grey's passion did not survive the first few months of his marriage, I suspect. He spoke as a man who has learned a part by rote.”
“You are severe upon him.”
“And yet, I cannot believe him capable of deception in an evil cause. He is the sort of man one instinctively trusts, and expects to perform with integrity. He will return again, I am sure of it — and tell you all you wish to know. His conscience will not allow him to rest, until he has done so.”
“I hope you are not proved credulous, Jane” — Neddie sighed — “for I have gambled a good deal on a single throw. Grey may as readily determine that silence is his truest friend, and deny me the knowledge that must unlock this puzzle.”
The great clock in the hallway began to toll the hour, and Neddie withdrew his watch from a waistcoat pocket. “Behind again,” he muttered, and commenced to wind it. “The Finch-Hattons are expected to dinner, and the sainfoin harvest has yet to be fired.”
“Bother the Finch-Hattons,” I cried petulantly. “What do you make of Grey's portrait of the Comte? There, at least, you must admit he was entirely frank. He went so far as to admit the letter.”
“We may judge, then, that the admission suited his purpose — whatever that purpose may be.”
“I quite long to meet the interesting Comte,” I persisted, as Neddie made for the library door. “Can not you conspire, Neddie, to invite him to take coffee with us some evening after dinner?”
“I shall do better, Jane,” he said with a roguish look. “I shall persuade my elegant wife to set the neighbourhood an example, and pay a call of condolence at The Larches. The funeral is tomorrow, at eleven o'clock; but a Saturday visit on the part of the Godmersham ladies would be admirably in keeping with what is due to Mr. Grey.”
“And so it should!” I exclaimed. “Dearest Neddie, for considering of it!”
“I am always happy to oblige you, Jane, even in the matter of your morbid taste for bones. I confess myself most impatient to learn your opinion of the devious Comte de Penfleur.”