“Wherever did you meet with such a woman?” I enquired, bewildered.

“She came to Mrs. Davies's kitchen door, just after breakfast, and asked for Frank.”

“How very unfortunate,” I breathed.

“Mrs. Davies felt it her duty, she said, to summon me — Captain Austen being from home.” Mary's countenance was scarlet; she must have presented just such a picture of consciousness and mortification in our landlady's kitchen. I apprehended, now, the source of those tears I had suspected in the poor girl's looks, her misery and thoughts for her mamma.

“And did she state her business?”

“She would not, though I pressed her most severely. I thought at the time that she was simply surprised to find that Frank had a wife — that he had suggested otherwise, on a previous occasion in her … company. But I wonder—”

“You did not learn her name?”

Mary's eyes slid away. “I suppose in common decency I should have requested it, Jane, but I will own that I was so dumbfounded by her appearance that I wished only to be rid of her. I told her that Captain Austen was from home, and that if she refused to disclose her business with my husband, she must seek him on another occasion. She wrung her hands, and insisted that she was in terror of her life — she looked most pitiful, Jane — but in the end, I shut the kitchen door, and she took herself off.”

I could imagine the scene without considerable effort. Young Mary — unequal to the display of pride that Mrs. Davies would require — sailing past our landlady with her chin quivering, to spend the remainder of the morning in her empty bedchamber.

“Do you think it possible,” Mary enquired of me, “that this person sought Frank with regard to Chessyre?”

“Anything, in this sordid business, is possible,” I replied with unhappy candour. “Frank was open in his effort to secure the Lieutenant, the night before the man's death; from my brother's account, he searched the quayside for some hours, asking directly for Chessyre. Any with ears to hear and eyes to see, would know that the one man was concerned with the other. “

Mary did not reply. She appeared lost in sorrowful reflection; the young bride's quick remorse for hasty judgement, I presumed.

There was the sound of a distant door thrust open, and the murmur of voices quick and low; then a decisive thud in the passage to the street as the house turned its back upon Mr. Pethering. Another instant, and my brother strode into the room, his countenance considerably lighter than it had been when we parted.

“I do not believe we have the slightest cause for worry,” he declared without preamble. Mary, my love, have you been dreadfully disturbed in spirits? I must beg your pardon for occasioning anxiety, and lay the whole before you without delay.”

“Spare your breath, Frank,” she replied with energy, “for I am well-acquainted with the business.”

My brother shot me a look of hurt surprise; he had not believed me so unreliable a confidante; but Mary hastened to disabuse him.

“Would you take me for an ignorant child? Am I to remain unconscious of a subject that has engrossed the better part of my acquaintance these many months, solely because my husband did not chuse to speak of it? Fie, Frank! That you could credit me for a goose! I wonder at your opinion of my understanding.”

Frank begged forgiveness; Mary wept a little into her square of lawn; and I was spared a further indulgence of bridal humours, by the urgency of the matter at hand.

“Pray tell me, dearest Frank, what that dreadful man Pethering would lay at your door,” Mary begged.

“He had hoped to disturb a desperate murderer in his plans for flight,” my brother answered calmly, “but was forced to conclude, from my sanguine air and excellent head, that I had nothing to do with the Lieutenant's sorry end. I pointed out that any number of lodgers in this establishment might vouch for my presence last evening; and proceeded to inform the magistrate that I thought it likely the man was killed in a brawl.”

I raised my brows at this, but elicited not the slightest notice.

Tethering required an explanation for the presence of my card among the man's things, and I told him that I had called upon Chessyre at the Dolphin during the course of Tuesday morning. I fancy he already knew as much. What he hoped to learn was the substance of my express to Tom Seagrave.”

“And did you disclose it?” I asked.

Frank hesitated. “I had no choice, Jane. Pethering warned me that he shall soon call a coroner's panel to enquire into Chessyre's death; and I shall be forced to give evidence. I could not very well lie to the man in my own home.”

“You might have pled the constraints of honour, and purchased your friend a few more hours!” I protested. “The magistrate now knows what the Frenchman saw. And what he saw is motivation for murder enough!”

“What Frenchman?” Mary cried, bewildered.

“I am done with preserving Tom Seagrave!” Frank retorted. “He has not been open; he guards all in a cloud of secrecy; he impugns the disinterest of his friends. It is not enough that I should be suspected of dangling for a ship; I must now be expected to lie for him! I wonder you can suggest it, Jane!”

My brother rose, and quitted the room with a bang of the door. Mary stared after him in perplexity.

“Frank is to have a ship} Why did he say nothing of this to me?”

“Perhaps we should start with the Frenchman,” I sighed.

Chapter 14

A turn for the Worse

Friday,

27 February 1807,

I AWOKE NOT LONG AFTER SEVEN O'CLOCK TO THE SOUND of a fist hammering at the front door.

My ears strained through the dawn stillness for the issue of so much commotion — caught the tramp of sleep-dulled feet along Mrs. Davies's lower passage — the murmur of conversation — the thud of the heavy oak. There was an instant's silence, and then the same ponderous tread of a woman long past her prime, mounting the steps and making for my brother's bedchamber.

Another express. From Portsmouth, perhaps?

Mrs. Davies would not be pleased to have lost her final hour of rest in the presentation of Captain Austen's mail.

I threw back the bedclothes and stretched my warm feet to the cold drugget. There was little point in attempting further sleep; I had tossed throughout the night, my dreams consumed by a dimly-lit room and the glittering, half-opened eyes of a whispering Frenchman. There was something he meant to tell me — some message he sought to convey — but either the noise in my head was too great for hearing, or his French was become suddenly unintelligible. I could not make out the sense of his words.

Must I always translate for you? Etienne LaForge enquired wearily. Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.

I drew my dressing gown about my shoulders. The palest light seeped through the clouded windows; a bank of heavy fog pressed down upon the house. It was an hour for lying curled in a huddle of warm blankets; but I could not be easy in my mind. The Frenchman's words haunted me. Was I a fool to accord such weight to the spectres of fancy? Perhaps in my younger days I might have shrugged off this nocturnal warning; but the wages of experience are caution. I have learned that what waking thought may not penetrate, the slumbering mind will illumine. I am hardly the first to credit the notion — the English language is replete with aphorisms that would urge a troubled soul to retire with worry, and find comfort in the dawn. For are we not “such stuff / As dreams are made on, and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep”?[17]

Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.