“Collingforth's chaise,” Henry broke in. “Might it not have been Sothey the stable lad saw, entering the carriage?”
“We cannot judge the particulars on so slight an impression,” I countered, “nor yet on the evidence of a man like Mr. Brett. He is consumed by the desire to injure a rival — and jealousy working on a weak mind may produce every sort of evil. We must divine the truth as best we can. A direct approach to Sothey, however, is impossible at present; let it suffice to know him better by degrees.”
“Unhappily, we lack sufficient time,” Neddie said briskly. “Denys Collingforth is fled, and cannot feel the hangman's rope; but if I am not to appear a fool before my neighbours, and the Lord Lieutenant of Kent himself, I must conclude the matter swiftly. I would not have Collingforth charged guilty in Sothey's place — however charming the fellow's Blue Books — if he is guilty of having strangled Mrs. Grey.”
Trust Neddie to place his finger on the point.
“Then I would advise a visit to The Larches' stable-yard,” I told him. “One groom or another may have observed something to our advantage — Sothey's assignation with the unknown lady, or perhaps Mrs. Grey's discovery of it later.”
“Indeed,” Neddie said thoughtfully. “And as we are to pay our call of condolence at The Larches on the morrow, perhaps you, Henry, might manage a visit to the stables — being a notable devotee of the turf. I might profitably occupy Mr. Grey's attention, while you interrogate the grooms.”
But all thought of Mr. Sothey and The Larches was driven from our heads at our return to Godmersham. A constable had been stationed in the central hall some hours, patiently awaiting our arrival; and the news he bore was shocking in the extreme.
Denys Gollingforth had been found along the London road, a few miles from the town of Deal. His throat had been cut, his pockets emptied, and his body sunk with a stone at the bottom of a millpond. Two unfortunate boys, intent upon a swim, had discovered him there — to the horror of their mothers, and the routing of their sleep.
Saturday,
24 August 1805
MY OWN REPOSE WAS SIMILARLY BANISHED, AS THO' A spectral presence hovered about the bed curtains, its wakeful eye trained upon my tossing form. Lord Harold paraded through my dreams, arrayed in court dress and apparently deprived of the power of speech; my father, too, appeared as he had been in my earliest youth — a laughing, lively fellow who talked enough for ten. Perhaps it was his voice that so consumed Lord Harold's; he persisted in reading aloud from Oliver Goldsmith, to the persecution of my senses. I threw back the bedcovers at last, and sat up in the darkness; the great house was utterly still, but for the settling groan of its deepest timbers, and the whisper of a mouse in the wainscotting.
Had Lord Harold prevailed in Vienna? Was he even now upon the wing of his return? Were we likely ever to meet again?
And what of his intimate friend, Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton? A curious, deceptive, and engaging fellow. He had undertaken to sound my depths, during the course of dinner, for purposes as yet obscure; but I should dearly love to know his meaning. Besieged as he was with convivial relations, Mr. Emilious was unlikely to ride over from Eastwell before Monday, when I should be gone to Goodnestone Farm; that was most unlucky. I must put the gentleman and his intrigues entirely out of my mind.
Having done so, however, I found sleep no less destroyed by thought. From Eastwell Park it was but a step to our arrival at Godmersham, and the shocking intelligence of Collingforth's murder that had greeted us; and on this, my mind might well be occupied for the remainder of the night. Who had done away with Denys Collingforth? A footpad, encountered at random along the London road? The unsavoury black-clad friend, Mr. Everett, who had vanished from Canterbury without a trace? Or the self-same person who had struck down Mrs. Grey?
For that Collingforth had never strangled the lady was my heartfelt conviction; his own sudden death was too implausible in the event. He had been killed to ensure his silence, perhaps — or by an avenging hand, that could not feel certain he would hang. And of a sudden, I remembered Mr. Valentine Grey's hasty departure for London Thursday night, the very eve of his wife's interment — an extraordinary journey, conceived on the spur of a messenger's summons. Had the man been paid to shadow Denys Collingforth? And having found him, rode like the wind to inform his master, Mr. Grey?
Was it Grey's hand that had slit Collingforth's throat, and weighted his body for the millpond?
The hope of sleep could not lie in such a direction; only one remedy could commend itself. With a sigh of despair I took up my candle, opened the bedchamber door, and lit my wick from the taper left burning all night in the hall. No other recourse was left me: I must immerse myself in the pages of Werther, until utter insensibility should descend.
MY BROTHER NEDDIE WAS AFOOT ALMOST BEFORE THE first light had broken. I was roused from my slumber by the sound of men shouting, and the clatter of horses' hooves. When I dashed to my bedroom window, it was to survey a scene of ordered chaos in the stable area below. The rain had commenced once more in earnest, and was driving down in great tearing sheets that churned the yard to mud. Neddie was mounted and intent upon his departure, Henry was being heaved into the saddle by an under-groom, and Mrs. Salkeld stood in their midst holding aloft a swinging lantern. Neddie took from her outstretched hand a steaming cup of what could only be coffee, returned it with thanks, and wheeled his horse.
They would be bound for Deal, some ten miles distant, and a small coaching inn called the Hoop & Griffin, where Denys Collingforth lay cold and lifeless on a bare plank table. Then there would be the tedious work of informing the coroner, settling a date for the inquest, and visiting the thankful widow — conducted in all the mire of dirt and wet. Later should come the hours of fruidess questions, the vexation of never putting name or face to the man's murderer.
I shuddered, and went back to bed.
“I BEG YOUR PARDON, MISS AUSTEN,” ANNE SHARPE SAID from the open doorway some hours later, “but I could not help enquiring — your visit to the Finch-Hattons was pleasant, I hope?”
Tho' the governess could know nothing of the death of Denys Collingforth — having already retired by the late hour of our return, and being unlikely to have encountered anyone charged with the intelligence before breakfast — a feverish light animated her countenance. Her hazel eyes were too large in her white face.
“Pray come in, my dear, and sit down,” I cried. 'You look decidedly unwell. I am sure you must have passed a wretched night!”
“I… that is to say, the ill effects of the rain … I have never been a creature to endure the sound of thunder. It invariably gives rise to… migraine.” She pressed a hand against her temple and swayed slightly. I moved to her at once, and helped her to a chair.
“You should not be out of bed,” I said firmly.
“No — you are too kind — but it is nothing, truly. I shall be vastly better in a moment, I am sure.”
“You were wise to decline the party at Eastwell, for your own sake as well as Fanny's. You could not have sustained the jolting of the carriage, much less the punishment of conversation.”
“Punishment, indeed,” she whispered, and closed her eyes against the thought.
“We none of us slept very well last evening,” I added, with some anxiety for the faintness of her looks. “Our party returned only before midnight, and to news of a dreadful nature. Mr. Collingforth has been found — quite dead. My brothers rode out before dawn to view the body.”