We were silent some moments in horror. Mr. Lawrence’s head was sunk in his hands. But at last Lord Harold broke the stillness. “Tell me, Mr. Lawrence, of Miss Siddons’s childhood friend — Maria Conyngham,” he said. “You attempted to secure her affections?”

“Attempted — and succeeded,” the painter retorted with contempt.

“But surely you must have known that her brother was once in love with the younger Miss Siddons?” I cried.

“I did not,” Lawrence said, with faint surprise. “Maria Siddons would have it that she had never loved anyone before myself.”

“And perhaps, indeed, she did not,” I mused. “For certainly she gave up Hugh Conyngham without a pang. In the gentleman’s breast, however, there were stronger emotions.” I regarded the pendant eye portrait with mounting trepidation, as the murderous scheme declared itself in my mind. “Forgive me, Mr. Lawrence, for so invading your privacy — but can you tell us when you ended your attentions to Miss Conyngham?”

“The moment I learned of Sally’s death. In August, perhaps, of last year.”

Nearly eighteen months ago.

“And did she meet the affair’s end with composure?”

“Tolerably so. There was a period of recrimination — of tears and threats — but I am accustomed to these of old.” The first horror of revelation being now past, Mr. Lawrence smoothed his dishevelled locks with a hand that barely trembled. “I have recently vowed, Miss Austen, to pay my respects in future to married ladies alone; they are far steadier in their attachments, and demand of one a great deal less.”

Was Isabella Wolff, then, so retiring? I considered the turbanned beauty, and thought it rather unlikely. Mr. Lawrence’s callousness should have enraged me, had I not seen evidence of its extent throughout the conversation; but for an instant, at least, I understood the emotions that had moved the Conyngham pair. The torment of brother and sister — the desire for revenge so heated in the bosoms of both — had grown and festered with time. They had waited for the proper moment; had secured their positions in Bath; and had plotted the scene of Lawrence’s destruction, with the pendant eye as silent witness.

“You are aware, sir, that the Conynghams were raised in the bosom of the Siddons family,” I observed. “Is it so unlikely that certain of Mrs. Siddons’s possessions might have passed to Hugh or Maria?”

“With both of her daughters claimed by the grave, Mrs. Siddons might well regard the Conynghams as even dearer than before,” the painter replied with a shrug. “It should not be remarkable for the lady to convey some memento mori into their keeping.”

One thing only remained a puzzle. Given their intimacy with Richard Portal, how had the Conynghams mistaken one Harlequin for another?

“I wonder, Mr. Lawrence, whether you have recently received any communication from Miss Conyngham?” Lord Harold interposed.

“A single note, nothing more.” Lawrence stood up, and fished among a pile of papers scattered upon a table. “Harnley has made a poor job of packing, I see — but he is greatly distressed about the attack in Cheap Street a few nights ago, and should have bolted to London before this, had I not restrained him. Ah, yes — here it is.”

He held out an unsealed letter, crossed with a feminine hand. “Miss Conyngham required me most urgently to attend Her Grace’s rout,” he said, “so that we might converse privately. She was most pressing in her request that I should meet her in the little anteroom, while the attention of all was engrossed with her brother’s recital.” As he spoke the words, a look of comprehension came into his eyes. “The anteroom — but it cannot be that Maria—”

“And did you meet her there?”

“I did. But as soon as I entered the room, I perceived Miss Conyngham slipping behind a door in the corner opposite, and so I followed her there. She returned to the drawing-room by a back hallway, and I did the same, on the assumption that she no longer wished to speak with me.”

“And did you observe Mr. Portal in your passage through the room?”

“I did. He lay in a heavy slumber upon the settee.”

Lord Harold pocketed the actress’s letter, and retrieved the pendant. “Whatever Miss Conyngham’s duplicity or malice, they can be as nothing to yours, Mr. Lawrence. Were I even remotely attached to the lady, I should be compelled to demand satisfaction. Your behaviour to one in her circumstance and position is nothing short of outrage; though it is of a piece, I collect, with your general treatment of the fairer sex.”

He reached for his hat and gloves, intent upon taking leave of the painter. His hooded eyes were inscrutable as ever, but in his tone I detected an admirable command of anger.

“But it is of no account,” Trowbridge continued, as he escorted me to the door. “The lady has others to act in my stead. And much as I should like you to relate the whole to Mr. Wilberforce Elliot, the magistrate, I must undertake to speak on your behalf. Make for London with the greatest possible speed, by all means, Mr. Lawrence — for your life is not worth tuppence in Bath.”

Chapter 16

The Importance of Appearances

19 December 1804, cont.

“IT IS CLEAR, MY DEAR JANE, THAT WE HAVE BEEN CHASING the wrong hare,” Lord Harold said, as we regained the street. “For all his ingenuity at blackmail, Mr. Portal was never the object of murderous attack. It was another Harlequin — a Harlequin arrayed in red instead of white—who was meant to end on the knife.”

“But who, my lord, struck the murderous blow? For though he surely spoke Maria as he died, Portal could not have meant to name Miss Conyngham. She should have known him regardless of disguise; and Mr. Lawrence did not discover a murdered man in following her through the passage. Maria must refer to the eye portrait of Miss Siddons.”

“So much is obvious,” Lord Harold replied. “It was merely Miss Conyngham’s role to lure the painter to the anteroom. She may have panicked, in finding a slumbering Portal already in command of the place, and fled immediately — Lawrence followed hard on her heels — but the man intended to kill Lawrence could not know of the mistake. He merely stabbed the Harlequin at hand, and left the portrait on his breast.”

“Lord Swithin, perhaps, or the man Smythe,” I said.

“But without a confession from one of them, we cannot hope to prove it.” Lord Harold shook his head. “I intend, however, to place Miss Conyngham’s letter in the magistrate’s keeping, and divulge to him the whole of this extraordinary interview.”

“Mr. Elliot is returned, then, from Portsmouth?”

“He is. It was to hear the summary of his labours that I was called away from Laura Place this morning.”

“Do not keep me in suspense, Lord Harold, I beg! What of Swithin’s ships? Was either the man or his hired tilbury remarked upon the quay?”

“They were not,” the gentleman replied. “From the experience of your brothers, Jane, I must assume you to be cognizant of the traffic about the Portsmouth slips — the embarkation of passengers and crews — the sudden mooring and as sudden sailing of a multitude of vessels. A wearisome business Mr. Elliot found it; and all for naught. At least three Indiamen had put in last week, but all belonged to the Honourable Company; their crews being dispersed on a hard-earned shore-leave, Mr. Elliot could discover nothing of whether any bore news of Swithin’s ships. And of the gentleman himself, and his flying visit to the town, our magistrate saw no sign; for Swithin did not put up at an inn, and one fellow among so many is unlikely to be remembered.”

“That is very bad for the Earl,” I said.

“Mr. Elliot had other news, as well. His man Warren discovered something in London of the discarded tiger pin.”