“And then, around February when your flirtation with her ladyship had reached a desperate point, Thrace arrived to take the ton by storm. Did you apprehend immediately, Major, that you should be left with only the lady and her debts, did Thrace’s claim to paternity prevail?”
Charles Spence walked deliberately to a table near the window where a decanter of brandy was placed. He poured himself a drink, then turned with courtesy to the Earl, whose affable countenance had acquired an expression of fixed attentiveness.
“My lord?” the Major enquired.
“I should like to wait for the ale,” he returned with a dismissive wave. “Pray continue, Miss Austen. I am devilish fond of stories, particularly when they concern people I know. I should like to hear how this one turns out.”
I inclined my head. “Mr. Thrace was poised to deprive Major Spence of all expectations. Poised, as well, to strip Lady Imogen of property vital to her survival — the jointure of Stonings. Rather than commanding the full power of an earldom and the lady’s income upon your marriage, Major, you were now forced to fight for the right to remain the Earl’s steward — until such time as Thrace should appoint his own. Outright hostility to the prospective heir could only harm your chances. And so you played a deep game — preserving the appearance of dedication to Lady Imogen; establishing the right to call Thrace your friend, and consort with him on terms of easy intimacy; and fomenting, whenever possible, the discord and rivalry between the half-brother and sister.”
Spence tossed off his brandy and grimaced as it coursed down his throat. “Like all ladies’ stories, I fear this one is a horrid romance,” he observed calmly. “We shall presently be treated to a skeleton in a tower and a tomb behind a veil. Cannot I lead you to your beloved daughter, my lord, and continue this entertainment at a moment better suited for the Gothick?”
“It was from Lady Imogen, I collect, that you first learned of Lord Harold’s papers,” I said.
“Harry’s papers?” The Earl glanced at me in a startled fashion. “Thought he left them to some light o’ love by way of payment for services rendered. Heard it from Wilborough myself. Poor old fellow expects to be petitioned with blackmail at every moment. Dashed odd of Harry, my opinion! Must have been devilish smitten with the gel.”
“Lord Harold left all his papers to me,” I replied with what I thought was commendable command of countenance. The Earl’s expression of shock was so blatant as to border on the insulting. “Lady Imogen had learned so much from the gossip of the ton in the months following Lord Harold’s death. She knew that his lordship had long been intimate with you, my lord — that the two of you had endured several years’ exile on the Subcontinent together, at about the time Julian Thrace was born. I imagine that is when your daughter conceived of her plan to steal the documents, with the hope that she might find in them the truth of Thrace’s parentage. And she recruited you, Major Spence, as her champion.”
“I would that she had,” he returned evenly. “I might have spared her a brutal and senseless death.”
“Nothing Lady Imogen could say or do would spare her that, ” I observed, “for you had already concluded it to be necessary. When she came to you here at Stonings, and proposed a dangerous gamble — the theft of the papers on the very day of their arrival in Chawton — she came to a man she had long known for a renegade. The sort who should never be parted from his treasure without a fight. And you agreed to help her. You had already determined to use the papers to throw guilt upon Julian Thrace — and thus be rid of all your enemies at a single blow.”
Spence threw back his head and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound; and from the corner of my eye, I observed Edward to move quietly between myself and the steward, his gaze watchful.
I continued. “I imagine it was while you conversed with Lady Imogen — perhaps in this very room — that you were overheard in your plans by Shafto French. He was at work in some part of the building that afforded an opportunity to eavesdrop, perhaps; the gallery that runs along the front part of this room, or one of the neighbouring apartments. French must have taxed you with his knowledge, and was satisfied with promise of payment; he told his wife that he expected to come into blood money, and that it was the heir as would pay. I thought, quite naturally, that it was Thrace he implied; and that mistake could only strengthen your case against the gentleman, once you had covered him in guilt for Lady Imogen’s murder. But I run ahead of myself — I beg your pardon, my lord.”
Holbrook waved his hand distractedly; a soft knock on the door announced Rangle’s appearance with the desired tankard of ale. He waited while the Earl drank the entire draught in a single gulp, bowed as tho’ unconscious of any strain in the atmosphere, and retired once more.
“Ah!” Holbrook said brightly. “That’s better! All the mud of England might have been caught in my throat! And so Charles arranged to pay off the man who would have split on him, I collect, and proceeded to murder my Immy?”
“Exactly so. You are admirably succinct, my lord. I perceive now why such a depth of friendship obtained between yourself and Lord Harold. The Major arranged to meet Shafto French near Chawton Pond on the very evening Julian Thrace was expected to dine at Chawton Great House. I recollect that Spence was said, by Thrace’s own admission, to have been otherwise engaged that evening. Having ridden on horseback from Sherborne St. John to Chawton alone, and back again, Thrace could bring no witness as to his actions along the route. He might protest his innocence when charged with French’s murder all he liked; he could offer no evidence that he had not killed the man.”
At this point, my brother interrupted. “You must have been greatly discomfited when French’s body was not found, Spence.”
“I am sure I should have been,” the steward replied acidly,
“had I killed him.”
“What motive did you intend to offer for Thrace’s violence?
Were Lord Harold’s documents — which you thought to secure in my brother’s banking branch in Alton on the Monday — to be found among Thrace’s things? In the event, you had neither a body nor a wooden chest to show for all your efforts; and so we proceed to the second chapter of our story.”
“Good God!” Spence cried. “I pray it does not run to a third! Is this not tedium enough, my lord, for one morning?
You have had your refreshment; pray let me carry you to your daughter’s chamber.”
“I collect that French’s body was found, however,” the Earl said testily, “or you should not have known to suspect Spence in his murder.”
“I discovered his corpse myself; but that is another story. For the nonce, it is enough to know that the poor man was drowned while Thrace was in Chawton. The Thursday following, one of French’s mates forced an entry to my cottage, and stole Lord Harold’s papers — which have still not been recovered. We believe the man to have had a confederate: one Old Philmore, who has also disappeared.”
“A confederate?” Spence objected. “But—”
“—You believed Old Philmore to have acted alone,” I replied, “and are astonished to learn that in silencing the old man, you failed to end his tale entirely. I am sorry to disappoint you, Major Spence; but so it is. Philmore’s nephew is even now in Alton gaol, and weakening in his loyalties.”
For the first time, Spence betrayed his fear. He turned restlessly about the room, his gaze abstracted, as tho’ debating what best he should do. He came to a halt behind the great desk, staring out the windows at the driving rain.
“I was very stupid, when all is said and done,” I admitted. “I thought from Lady Imogen’s looks on the Saturday that she was privileged in the knowledge of her own triumph. I thought Thrace was vanquished by Lord Harold’s proofs — that he knew himself exposed as an imposter. I actually believed he might have arranged her ladyship’s race and subsequent fall, in the faint hope of suppressing all knowledge before the Earl should learn of it. In short, I behaved in exactly the fashion you might have hoped from all our party, Major Spence. You were a consummate plotter — and I was your dupe.”