“Mr. Prowting summoned me by express last evening to preside over this panel. In the interval between last night and this morning’s proceeding, Deceased was attended by Mr. Curtis, a surgeon who resides at No. 4, High Street, and declared to be Shafto French. French’s wife was summoned, and having viewed the body, named her husband conclusively. Mr. Curtis further gave his opinion that Deceased departed this life several days before the discovery of the corpse.

“I examined Deceased only a few hours ago, and found a man in his late twenties or early thirties, to judge by his teeth and the general character of his limbs; a man fairly wellnourished and in tolerable health. No wound is observable in the body that might account for Deceased’s passing; no blow to skull or limbs could I find. Neither was there any evidence of sickness — no voiding of the stomach or bowels that should suggest the work of poison. I may add that had Deceased suffered apoplexy or some other convulsive fit, we might expect to discover blood at the mouth and nostrils. This I did not find. There was, however, a strong smell of spirits about the corpse — and it has been suggested to me that French may have met his end from excessive drink.”

The coroner paused, his gaze fixed now upon the men of the panel, some of whom were shifting in their seats. It was likely any number had been acquainted with Shafto French from birth; and from the knowing glances being thrown about the room, the man was no stranger to a publick house.

“Deceased’s clothes were doused with a quantity of gin,” Mr. Munro continued in his clear and imperturbable fashion, “and inebriation may have contributed to the clouding of senses that led to his death. But it is my duty to inform this panel that however deeply Shafto French may have drunk before his demise, it was not of alcohol alone. I discovered Deceased’s lungs to be filled with water — a discovery with which the surgeon Mr. Curtis agrees. Deceased met his death by drowning.”

In my mind’s eye I saw with clarity the muddy surface of Chawton Pond, so close to the house in which I had spent the night — its smooth, dark waters not very deep, perhaps, but sufficient to kill a man. Involuntarily, I shuddered.

“How French came to be found in the cellar of a stranger’s house is indeed a mystery,” the coroner continued serenely, “but we must conclude he did not arrive there under his own power.”

A murmur of excited interest surged through the room. Beside me, Mr. Prowting uttered a short bark of dismay and sat up the straighter in his seat. “But that is utter nonsense!” he protested. “Why should someone carry Shafto French to the cottage cellar? Why not leave him in the road for all to see, if he had gone and drowned himself?”

“Is it not obvious, sir?” I enquired gently. “Because someone killed him.”

Letter from Lord Harold Trowbridge to Eugenie, Duchess of Wilborough, dated 2 November 1783; one leaf quarto, laid; watermark device coronet over escutcheon containing post-horn (see Heawood Nos. 2752–62); marked Calcutta to Southampton, by Grace of the Royal Navy.

(British Museum, Wilborough Papers, Austen bequest)

My dear Mamma—

You will be pleased to learn that I received your last bundle of letters — spanning full six months, I perceive, of industrious quill- mending on your part — in one fell swoop, all of them having arrived by various routes about the globe in the hull of the same ship, which put in to Calcutta and disgorged its burdens of Staffordshire dishes, Lancaster woollens, China tea, and good English salt beef to the admiring multitude. The letters found their way to me only after a plodding journey of several weeks, the Governor having trundled us all off to Madras to deal with one Lord George McCartney, a man whose head is as thick as a spotted dog pudding. He stiles himself President of Madras, and has the support of our good Company; but his idiocy in the handling of his subordinates and the native Nawabs alike surpasses all belief. Lord George is everywhere known in London and everywhere liked; but his knowledge of India could not be fitted into my little fingernail, despite which fact he has presumed to interfere in the Governor’s negotiations with the Marathas, in the conduct of the Mysore War, and in the dismissal of General Stuart for systematic disobedience. McCartney went so far as to have the good General bodily removed from his quarters and bundled upon a ship bound for London, complete with his cork leg and some fifty packages. As the General holds his commission at the will of the King, not the Company, Lord George is regarded as having dangerously overreached himself; and the officers under Stuart’s command have threatened to mutiny. Naturally, the Governor was at his most subtle in defusing the situation; but I daresay he shall have to send his lordship packing before too long — or sail for London himself.

I tell you of these trivial matters, by the by — which cannot amuse you a ha’porth, who will be thinking instead of the latest ton on-dits and scandal among your friends — because in truth my heart is breaking. And only you must know that, Mother dear, and repeat the fact to no one. You alone have my counsel, and must forget everything I tell you as soon as the words are read. While travelling in the Governor’s train I chanced upon Freddy Vansittart, en route from a trading expedition in Madras; he looked as well as ever, and is groaning with wealth, as should be natural for one of his wit and luck. He tells me of news from London — in truth, that Horatia is dead in childbed, and the babe with her. I can see it all: St. Eustace grinning like the Devil’s own dog as the screams of labour were torn from her, convinced he had found his revenge at last. O, God — that I had never seen her face! Or touched a hair of her head. I have been the ruin of several lives, Mamma, as I own to my sorrow; my soul is black. Horatia died in torment, and I had no knowledge of it for months after — I sat in the sun while she died, and gazed at the women of Pondicherry.

And still I cannot leave off hating him. It was he who kissed her cold cheek when she breathed her last; and it is in his tomb she will lie forever. She cannot have achieved her twenty-first birthday.

Freddy could tell me nothing of the babe — whether it was boy or girl. Write what you can, when you can — and believe me ever your loving son,

Harry

Chapter 9

What the Cellar Told

Thursday, 6 July 1809

“And so,” my brother concluded, “a verdict was returned of death at the hands of a person or persons unknown?”

“It was — with Mr. Munro adjourning the proceeding, and placing matters in abeyance until Mr. Prowting should inform him otherwise.”

“It is a curious business.” Henry drained his dish of tea and pushed back from the breakfast table. He had appeared at the cottage early this morning agog with the news of yesterday’s inquest, which had spread rapidly throughout the town and was subject to every kind of exaggeration. Henry had been unable to attend the proceeding himself, detained by that bank business which had occasioned his descent on Hampshire; but knowing Jane far better than Mr. Prowting, he was confident I should acquaint him with the particulars.

“Drowning and murder might arise in a country village from any number of causes,” he mused, “jealousy, petty hatreds, a dispute of long-standing between two parties. A woman might come into it — or several women, if you like. But why not leave the body with a great stone tied to its neck, sunken in the pond, to be discovered a twelvemonth hence? Why stow the poor fellow in our cellar, deserted as it may have seemed, to be found the very moment the new tenants turned the key in their door?”