We descended once more by the hillside path, and found that Lizzy was already come in search of us. I was glad of her company on the return to the house; her elegant remarks were a foil for silence. Reflection, however, availed me nothing. I was plagued with questions on every side, for which experience could provide no answer.
“SO GREY CAN BE CHARMING WHEN HE CHOOSES,” Neddie said thoughtfully, when the dinner things had been cleared away and we had assembled in the library. Henry had taken up the London Times; Lizzy was established over the teapot; and I had begun to pick desultorily at my work. Neddie, however, was restless; he paced before the empty hearth like a man who badly wanted occupation. Had he been of a reading turn, I should have instantly recommended Werther. It is remarkable how much service even a dissatisfying book might render— tho' not, perhaps, in the manner its author intended.
“How did you like him, Jane?” he enquired, coming to a halt by my chair.
“Very much. He is not a man to recommend himself on first meeting, perhaps — but one whose character rewards with more persistent application. He was gracious in conversation and frank in his remarks; there was neither haughtiness nor vulgarity to despise in his manners. I cannot believe him capable of a conscious deceit; but even had I witnessed nothing of the scene in the saloon, I should suspect him to be familiar with violence. He is ruthless in matters of principle, I should think, and in the safeguarding of his own concerns.”
“This is a formidable picture, indeed!” Neddie cried. “How, then, Jane, do you account for his ingenuous belief in Sothey's character?”
During the course of our return to Godmersham, I had conveyed the substance of my conversation with Grey. “Either Mr. Grey is more adept at dissimulation than I should give him credit for being, or he knew nothing of Mr. Sothey's dalliance with his wife.”
“We have only Mr. Brett's malicious tongue to credit for the idea, after all,” Neddie mused.
“Then why the whip against the neck, in the middle of the Canterbury Races?” Lizzy protested.
I shrugged. “Perhaps the lady was surfeited with the American azalea. But I admit, Neddie, that I cannot make the matter out at all. I must learn more of Mr. Sothey, before I may judge rightly.”
“And you, Lizzy?” my brother enquired, turning to his wife. “How did you find Mr. Grey?”
“I liked him well enough,” she said languidly, “for another woman's husband. He is too lacking in drollery and wit for my taste; but his coat was very well made, and the gloss on his Hessians unexceptionable.”
“Henry?”
My brother glanced up from his newspaper and frowned at us all. “To the praise of unexceptionable Hessians, what may I possibly add?”
“Very little, of course,” Lizzy rejoined smoothly, “your own being incapable of comparison. No man who persists in valeting himself, can expect to rival Mr. Grey. Henry must take as his example my brother, Mr. Bridges— who has driven himself to the brink of ruin, in pursuit of a well-polished boot. I have quite lost count of the number of men Edward has engaged to dress him, or the various formulas of blacking and champagne, assured to bring his leathers to a mirror-brightness. It is not the most noble of callings, perhaps; but as a means of passing time, it may serve as well as any other.”
“Enough of Henry's boots,” I cried. “You delight in teasing us, Neddie. You know very well that we are all agog to learn how Mr. Grey received the news of Collingforth's murder. Did he betray any prior consciousness? Is it likely he was privy to the deed?”
“As to that—” My brother's eyebrow lifted satirically. “Mr. Grey had the poor taste to congratulate me on the unfortunate fellow's death, and said that he was very well pleased with the swiftness of English justice. He then offered me a brandy, despite the heat of the afternoon — as tho' we had accomplished nothing more dreadful than the blooding of a fox.”
“And how did you answer him?”
“I refused the brandy, of course.” Neddie threw himself into his favourite chair, not far from the open French windows, and raked one hand through his hair. “But truth to tell, Jane, I felt deuced uncomfortable. Grey's complaisance surpassed everything; he was as easy as tho' the wretched business were entirely resolved, despite the questions that must arise to torment one. I pointed out that Collingforth's guilt was in no wise proved — that the complications of the chaise and the timing of his wife's death could not be gainsaid, and urged Grey to be less sanguine. But he replied that he had no doubt that Collingforth was responsible, and had found his just deserts at the end of a knife.”
“And the Comte de Penfleur?”
“He served himself the brandy without recourse to Grey.”
“Neddie!”
“I observed his hand to tremble as he unstoppered the decanter. I should say that the Comte was greatly put out. He surmised that the matter would be concluded with Collingforth's murder, and the truth of Mrs. Grey's end remain forever uncertain.”
“He is determined in his belief that Grey was responsible,” I said, “tho' he is loath to accuse him directly.”
“Ah! Not so loath as you assume,” Neddie cried with satisfaction. “Now we come to the intriguing part — the scenes enacted with the gentlemen in private.”
We gazed at him expectantly. Even Henry set aside his paper.
“I was treated first to an interview with Valentine Grey. He was most uncomfortable, when it came to the point; and told me that he believed his information to be entirely de trop, now that Collingforth was dead; but in the interest of justice, he could do no more than his duty. What he would tell me must grossly expose his wife; indeed, the discoveries he had recendy made had quite astonished even himself, who must be thoroughly acquainted with her character—”
“Hah!” Lizzy snorted. “As tho' any man might comprehend the nature of his wife.”
“—but he had found occasion, in recent days, for a thorough review of her possessions and correspondence.”
“Naturally,” I murmured. “A man of greater courage (or less), should have burned the whole without the briefest glimpse. Mr. Grey is at last revealed as pitiably human! He has probed the wound, and rubbed salt in its depths.”
“Well?” Lizzy enquired impatiently. “And what did he find?”
Like a conjurer, Neddie produced a sheaf of folded rag from within his coat, and presented it with a flourish. His wife visibly recoiled.
“That is her private correspondence? Her husband actually displayed it to you? But how despicable!”
“It is entirely in French,” Neddie replied without a pause, “and, I am assured, entirely from the Comte de Penfleur. It was to prevent the letters from falling into that gentleman's hands that Mr. Grey undertook to read them at all. And what he discovered distressed and confounded him.”
“Then they were lovers,” I said.
“Not in the least,” Neddie replied. “Or if they bore one another any affection, the letters betray little sign. They were partners, Jane, in a very grave collusion — the securing of information regarding the movement of troops along the Kentish coast, for the edification of His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon Buonaparte.”
Henry slapped one hand excitedly against his thigh.
“—Or so Mr. Grey was forced to conclude, after reading these letters,” Neddie added. “He tells me that they are filled with Penfleur's instructions regarding the management of Mrs. Grey's friends — Captain Woodford and Lady Forbes being at the head of the list, and your brother, Mr. Bridges, Lizzy, trailing doubtfully at the end.”
“Edward?” she cried incredulously. “What might Edward possibly have known, that should be of interest to Buonaparte?”
“A very great deal. His friend Woodford, you know, was in the habit of confiding snippets of intelligence to his most intimate friends, that should never have left he officers' mess; and Mr. Bridges must naturally have been the recipient of these. What Woodford might, in a moment of caution, hesitate to impart to Mrs. Grey, his friend had no compunction in relating. I imagine his being privy to the Army's secrets must have greatly increased Mr. Bridges's sense of importance.”