“And you were in a position of power over her,” I added smoothly. “Being dependant upon your household for her wages, Jemima could hardly refuse to accept your attentions. Until your sister dismissed her for impropriety.”

A hot flush rose in his cheeks. “I did not ruin the girl then or later. Nor did I get her with child under French’s very nose. But Thrace would say anything to cut out a rival — and so he styled himself in Miss Prowting’s eyes. The silly little fool believes herself in love with him — a man who will never honour her affections as he ought! Thrace is to be an earl one day — he told me so himself. He will never ally himself with the daughter of a provincial nobody, however many times he consents to take dinner at Prowting’s table.”

“I am sure you are right. But Mr. Thrace’s actions suggest an intimacy with Shafto French’s history. Was he at all acquainted with the man?”

“He had met him in the course of the repairs undertaken at the Earl of Holbrook’s estate — Stonings, at Sherborne St. John. He affected to enjoy French’s rough humour and easy ways. I do not think Thrace has lived all his life in the most select society, whatever his present affectations may suggest. I think he was rather more intimate with his labourers than you or I should be. Certainly he undertook to drink with Shafto French of an evening, at the Alton publick houses. I more than once observed him there.”

Blood money, Jemima French had said; and it was the heir as would pay. Shafto French had spoken more freely than he ought of his wife’s adventures in the Hinton household; had Julian Thrace disclosed his private affairs under the influence of drink, and ruthlessly silenced his confidant when the man turned blackmailer?

“Will you not tell us what really occurred on Saturday the first of July, Mr. Hinton?” Edward asked quietly. “For however disappointed in Miss Prowting’s affections, you cannot wish to throw your life away on her rival’s account. I am sure you cannot.”

Hinton glanced at my brother, weighing the odds of silence and disclosure. Speech won out.

“I cannot tell you how French died. I can say only what happened after.”

“Very well.”

He began to pace restlessly about the cell, his boots kicking up a cloud of dust and straw, his hands shoved into his breeches’ pockets. “I had gone out to the prize-fight at Box Hill—”

“Are they still held there?” Neddie interrupted. “I once recall taking in a mill on my return from Winchester, having left the boys at school. Belcher won his match. Who did you see?”

“It was said the Game Chicken would show, but in the end he did not, and we were forced to observe a Basingstoke lad by the name of Crabbe,” Hinton returned dispiritedly. “I had travelled a considerable distance in the hope of seeing Pearce, and was disappointed.[23] I went out to join my friends on Friday, the day before—”

“Your friends?”

“The Wilsons, of Hay House, Great Bookham. Hay Wilson and I were at Oxford together.”

“Of course. And you were staying at Hay House itself? Pray continue.”

“As I said, I went out on the Friday and the mill was to be held at noon Saturday. We were at the Box Hill ground near seven hours—”

“How many rounds did the boy Crabbe go?”

Hinton’s expressionless eyes suddenly lit up. “Nearly nineteen, if you’ll credit it, but in the end he could not be brought up to scratch.”

“Who was his opponent?”

“John Gully.”

Neddie whistled in deep appreciation; I felt myself to be increasingly beyond my depth.

“And so, the fight done,” my brother said, “you retired to Great Bookham for high revel — and only after several hours’ eating, drinking, and conversing of the fight to your mutual satisfaction sought your road home. You must have left Surrey rather late, Hinton. I wonder you did not remain the night with your friend Mr. Wilson.”

“I had promised my sister I would not travel on the Sunday,” he replied in a sulky tone. “She is most attentive to such things; it is the influence of our late father, who was once—”

“—the incumbent of the Chawton living,” Edward agreed with remarkable ease. This reminder of his status — of the fact that it should be Edward who must dispose of the living when next St. Nicholas’s came vacant, at Mr. Papillon’s demise — restored Mr. Hinton to all his former dislike. No amount of shared enthusiasm for the sport of boxing could do away with his resentment of the Squire.

“You made your way back to Chawton,” Edward suggested helpfully, “arriving just barely after midnight, and thus travelling on Sunday, but it is to be hoped in a manner your sister should not discover, being sound asleep in her bed.”

Hinton swallowed with difficulty. “As you say. I rode into Chawton from the south, and found the Street entirely deserted. I was very sleepy, and little disposed to notice much — but the moon was high, and my horse shied at something in the road as I approached the pond. I glanced down, and supposed it to be a man. Naturally, I dismounted.”

“And saw that it was Shafto French?” I enquired. There was a pause. Hinton did not quite meet my gaze. “It was French. He was dead.”

“You are sure of that?” Edward asked.

He nodded. “His body was wet from his waist to his head, and his eyes were open and staring. There was no response when I slapped his cheeks, no pulse in his throat.”

“You did not think to give a shout? To summon help?”

“Mr. Austen—” The spiritless eyes came up to my brother’s own. “I have said that I was sleepy. In truth, I was a bit foxed.”

“I can easily imagine,” Edward said drily. “What would be a boxing match, without Blue Ruin?”[24]

“Exactly so. I was not thinking entirely clearly. I had stumbled on a dead man, and one whom I had everywhere heard was intending to challenge me. — A man I was believed to have wronged. He lay dead at my feet. For an instant, the wildest imaginings coursed through my head. I saw myself accused — disbelieved — thrown into gaol. ”

“... for a murder you did not commit,” I finished. He was rather prescient, our Mr. Hinton; for it had all occurred exactly as he had foreseen.

“I would have sprung upon my horse and galloped for home as tho’ all the imps of Hell were at my back,” Hinton said in a low voice, “but for that wretched gin. I was pretty well topheavy at that point, I may as well own, and was gripped of a sudden with the most extraordinary idea.”

“You thought to make a fool of one enemy,” Neddie suggested grimly, “by making away with another. You determined to place the body of Shafto French in the house intended for the Squire’s family, and thus bring discomfiture upon us all.”

Hinton nodded with painful difficulty. “It sounds mad when you put it that way—”

“On the contrary. It makes perfect sense, to a man disguised by spirits. You might have thrown a charge of murder on the Austen household.”

“I believe I thought only of embarrassing the Squire. I dragged French by the heels towards the cottage—”

“Had you already provided yourself with a key for the purpose, knowing beforehand that you should stumble over the body on your way from Box Hill?” I asked.

“The door was not locked on the Saturday,” he returned simply. “One of Dyer’s men — French himself, perhaps — must have neglected to secure it when work was called that afternoon.”

“But it was locked when I arrived the following Tuesday!”

“—Then young Bill Dyer performed the office when he completed his job that Monday, and chose to say nothing about the neglect to his father.”

“When all the talk of murder arose,” my brother interjected, “the builder saw a further virtue in silence. Mr. Dyer and his son are fortunate that the coroner did not chuse to interrogate them harshly about the keys.”