“He had the shockingly bad form to marry that woman in the first place,” she replied caustically, “and to challenge my husband in the second. I cannot like him, Jane, however little I love poor Collingforth.”

“We must hope that somebody loves poor Collingforth,” I observed, “for the coroner most certainly shall not.”

Chapter 7

A Canterbury Tale

21 August 1805, cont'd.

NEDDIE AND HENRY RETURNED SOON AFTER BREAKFAST, shaking their heads at the duplicity of men in general, and Constable Pyke in particular. The fellow had drunk the better part of his sovereign in the Hound and Tooth, and was utterly insensible at the appointed hour for meeting. My brothers dallied along the Wingham road for some time, expecting Pyke at every moment. A breathless boy proved their messenger instead — trotting along the hot and dusty road with the constable's regrets. Mr. Pyke was indisposed, and Neddie's errand for nothing.

“Lizzy assured me that you would wish to attend the inquest,” he said to me now, over a cooling glass of lemonade, “and I have returned to Godmersham expressly that Henry and I might convey you into Canterbury in the barouche.”

“You are very good—”

“Do not tell me that you intend to refuse!” He set down his glass with an emphasis that might have shattered a lesser piece. “Am I to be sent on a fool's errand every hour of the day?”

“Of course I should be happy to accompany you into Canterbury,” I said quickly. “I might complete a few purchases towards my toilette, before tonight's Assembly.”

“I see that Lizzy was entirely mistaken in your character,” he returned, amused. “She was convinced you should be drawn to the macabre deliberation as a fly to jam.”

“It is just that I have learned to despise the coroner and his panel, Neddie.”

“You are acquainted with Mr. Wing?”

“Of particular coroners I may say nothing. Mr. Wing, and his merits or detractions, are entirely unknown to me, as I am sure you are aware. It is just that every instance of a coroner's judgement I have seen, has proved so fallacious and, indeed, injurious to the parties concerned, that I dread to countenance another by attending.”

“Strong words, Jane. Unless I am very much mistaken, Mr. Wing and his panel shall return the only conceivable verdict in the present case.”

“—That Mrs. Grey was murdered, and by Denys Collingforth.”

“Can there be any other construction placed upon events?”

“You know full well, Neddie, that there can.”

He was silent a moment.

“Given how little we truly comprehend of what was toward, any judgement at present must be the grossest presumption. What is required is time, and sufficient proofs, if the guilty party is to be charged. That must be true whether Mr. CoUingforth is eventually revealed as that party or no.”

“You are suggesting I should request of Mr. Wing a postponement.”

“As Justice, you might be heard.”

“But Valentine Grey is most insistent that the burial be effected at the soonest moment. In this heat, the decay of the corpse must be advanced; and yet the coroner's panel must view the body before they are empanelled. Any delay will be most unfortunate for all concerned.”[23]

“That is true. You must do as you think best, of course.”

“I must confess that I long for a swift judgement against Collingforth,” he replied with becoming candour. “The man is already fled, and quite unlikely to be discovered; he cannot suffer from the charge. It is the judgement, in fine, that all of Kent expects. Valentine Grey would be appeased. I should feel that I had discharged my duty, and there would be an end to the affair.”

“Until you found yourself lying wakeful at night, besieged with a thousand doubts as to the body's disposition,” I said. “Why was it returned to the race-meeting at all, much less to Collingforth's chaise? That, and an hundred other questions, should plague you until your final hour.”

“God preserve me from a prescient woman!” Neddie exclaimed. He drew his watch from his waistcoat. “Let us summon the carriage, Jane, and set about the wretched business.”

WE MADE OUR WAY DOWN THE CANTERBURY ROAD UNDER a blazing sky, with the Stour very low in its banks, and a haze of insects hovering over the bent heads of the meadow flowers. Already a shelf of cloud hung over the Kentish downs, replete with the false promise of a shower; I knew these clouds of old, and dismissed them as false friends. If Napoleon's hordes had truly embarked for Kent, as the London papers would have it, then Fortune sailed with them. No furious wave should guard the chalk cliffs, or howling wind send the flotilla to oblivion; the French might make the crossing unharassed but for the few leaking, timeworn vessels of the Royal Navy's Channel fleet.

As Neddie's bays jingled their harness, and snorted at the dust, I considered of my brother Frank, and the daily perils he endured. His circumstances must be uppermost in my thoughts, far more than the invasion's threat to Kent; for if the Navy were overwhelmed, and Frank cut down by a French gun, it mattered little what hole we bolted to. The Kingdom would capitulate in a matter of days.

Such a surge of melancholy was unlike my usual spirits, and I detected the effect of the oppressive weather — the lurking, ominous portent of the heat, as though even the air above Kent awaited the thunder of cannon. Activity was the best remedy for such thoughts; but the fever of packing was done, the delights of dressing for the Assembly still ahead; I could hardly do better than to expend my energies in a trip to town.

Canterbury is a place that I have known and admired for almost half my life. Its soaring fortifications, so thick that ten men might walk abreast, and the spires of its venerable cathedral rising above its prosperous shops and houses, must proclaim its storied place in English history. Crowds of the penitent and the hopeful still choke the narrow streets on high holy days, while those who would profit by the pious, hawk their relics and bits of the True Cross under the shadow of the cathedral gates.

It was to the West Gate we proceeded this morning, for tho' the Canterbury gaol is some miles distant, in Longport, the constabulary's offices are housed hard by the gate, in a crabbed and swaybacked Tudor building desperately in want of whitewash. A few steps along the street stood the Hound and Tooth, where the inquest was to be held.

“We shall call for you at White Friars, in two hours' time,” Henry assured me. This was the elegant house belonging to Mrs. Knight, Neddie's adoptive mother, not far from the cathedral close. I was always happy to visit Mrs. Knight, who had shown such good sense in reverting Godmersham to my brother well in advance of her own death; for she had been willed a life interest in the estate, and might have presided in Lizzy's place a decade or more. In Canterbury, however, she might learn all the news of her friends without stirring a step from her door; she had the comforts of ready provision, without the care of an estate.

“White Friars, in two hours' time,” I repeated, and Henry handed me from the barouche. I watched the coachman's impatient progress down the crowded High Street, until the carriage had turned in at the Hound and Tooth's stableyard; then my gaze drifted back along bow-windowed shopfronts and came to rest upon the curtained first floor of Delmar's Rooms. Here was the scene of this evening's ball — where Mrs. Grey, and all her deceits, should be forgot for a time. Tho' my purse had grown thin from so protracted a visit in Kent, I intended to make as fine an appearance as my means and years would allow. A new pair of long silk gloves, at the very least, was quite essential — and perhaps an ornament for my hair. I turned with a little skip of pleasure, and went in search of the linendraper.