Jane and the Genius of the Place: Being the Fourth Jane Austen Mystery by Stephanie Barron Page A
Authors: Stephanie Barron
Ads: Link
Miss Austen, that Denys Collingforth is hardly the only man in Kent who has reason to think ill of the dead.”
“And what was his reason, Captain, for despising her?”
Woodford eyed me uneasily. “That is a question best answered by Mr. Collingforth. I am sure your brother, the Justice, has considered of it.”
“Mr. Collingforth appears to think ill of any number of people,” I observed, as I conducted the Captain to the door. “Had you not been present to prevent it, he should certainly have served our poor Mr. Bridges with violence! You are owed a debt of gratitude in this house, sir.”
“Mr. Bridges is possessed of such happy manners as may ensure his making any number of friends,” Woodford replied, with a bow. “Whether he is equally capable of retaining them, is another matter. Good day, Miss Austen.”
I T WAS ABOVE AN HOUR BEFORE THE CLATTER OF N ED die's horse, pulled up hard before the door, was heard on the sweep. He looked overheated and cross, and entered the house with a rapid step and the briefest of salutations. After an interval of respectful quiet, and the consumption of a quantity of ale drawn from the barrel in the cellar, good humour and volubility returned.
“I have seen Grey,” the Justice announced, as he took up his customary place before the cold library hearth, “and he has seen me. It remains uncertain which of us was most scarred by the encounter—but I shall leave it to you to decide, Jane, when I tell you that the gendeman chose to offer me his glove!” 5
“Good Lord!” Lizzy ejaculated, and set down the books she had commenced packing. “I cannot think when you have been served such a turn before, Neddie!”
“It is unique in my experience,” he admitted, “tho' I am almost ashamed to say as much. Every sprig of fashion is required to have a history of such meetings. It is a poor show I've given you, Lizzy!”
“Pray do not trouble to kill yourself on my account, sir,” she replied serenely, and retrieved the books. “Do you require breakfast and the witnessing of a will at dawn?”'
“Nothing so romantic.” Neddie peered at the spines of the volumes she had selected, and pulled several from the box. “Pray leave these, my dear—they had far better be burned with the sainfoin, I am sure.”
“Beast.”
“What occasioned Mr. Grey's challenge?” I enquired at last, being provoked beyond endurance.
My brother threw himself into a chair and gazed at me idly. “My unwillingness to clap Denys Collingforth in chains, I suspect. But let me relate the whole, I beg, in an orderly fashion. The exercise might do much for the composure of my mind.”
And so the Justice undertook to convey the essence of his morning's work: how he had achieved The Larches just after nine o'clock, and found the master of the house breakfasting serenely in his parlour; how Valentine Grey, a compact, powerful man with weary features and the acutest gaze, had appeared in excellent health, despite his broken night. He had enjoined the Justice to take coffee with him in the saloon, and tho' his spirits appeared a litde disordered, they were in general composed. A man who looked less the part of a mourning husband could hardly be conceived, Neddie assured us; and from that moment forward, he assumed there had been litde of love in the Greys' union.
In the saloon, all was ease and congeniality at first. Grey placidly expressed himself shocked—quite beyond comprehending the event—and wild to see justice done. Neddie said all that was correct and feeling in a man condoling with the bereaved. It was after the coffee, however, when Grey had at last enquired as to the conduct of his wife's case, that the outburst of temper had broken like a thunderclap over my brother's head.
“Do I understand, sir, that you have done nothing to apprehend the scoundrel responsible for her murder? This is not to be borne!” The widower rose and stood menacingly over my brother, who could not conceal
“And what was his reason, Captain, for despising her?”
Woodford eyed me uneasily. “That is a question best answered by Mr. Collingforth. I am sure your brother, the Justice, has considered of it.”
“Mr. Collingforth appears to think ill of any number of people,” I observed, as I conducted the Captain to the door. “Had you not been present to prevent it, he should certainly have served our poor Mr. Bridges with violence! You are owed a debt of gratitude in this house, sir.”
“Mr. Bridges is possessed of such happy manners as may ensure his making any number of friends,” Woodford replied, with a bow. “Whether he is equally capable of retaining them, is another matter. Good day, Miss Austen.”
I T WAS ABOVE AN HOUR BEFORE THE CLATTER OF N ED die's horse, pulled up hard before the door, was heard on the sweep. He looked overheated and cross, and entered the house with a rapid step and the briefest of salutations. After an interval of respectful quiet, and the consumption of a quantity of ale drawn from the barrel in the cellar, good humour and volubility returned.
“I have seen Grey,” the Justice announced, as he took up his customary place before the cold library hearth, “and he has seen me. It remains uncertain which of us was most scarred by the encounter—but I shall leave it to you to decide, Jane, when I tell you that the gendeman chose to offer me his glove!” 5
“Good Lord!” Lizzy ejaculated, and set down the books she had commenced packing. “I cannot think when you have been served such a turn before, Neddie!”
“It is unique in my experience,” he admitted, “tho' I am almost ashamed to say as much. Every sprig of fashion is required to have a history of such meetings. It is a poor show I've given you, Lizzy!”
“Pray do not trouble to kill yourself on my account, sir,” she replied serenely, and retrieved the books. “Do you require breakfast and the witnessing of a will at dawn?”'
“Nothing so romantic.” Neddie peered at the spines of the volumes she had selected, and pulled several from the box. “Pray leave these, my dear—they had far better be burned with the sainfoin, I am sure.”
“Beast.”
“What occasioned Mr. Grey's challenge?” I enquired at last, being provoked beyond endurance.
My brother threw himself into a chair and gazed at me idly. “My unwillingness to clap Denys Collingforth in chains, I suspect. But let me relate the whole, I beg, in an orderly fashion. The exercise might do much for the composure of my mind.”
And so the Justice undertook to convey the essence of his morning's work: how he had achieved The Larches just after nine o'clock, and found the master of the house breakfasting serenely in his parlour; how Valentine Grey, a compact, powerful man with weary features and the acutest gaze, had appeared in excellent health, despite his broken night. He had enjoined the Justice to take coffee with him in the saloon, and tho' his spirits appeared a litde disordered, they were in general composed. A man who looked less the part of a mourning husband could hardly be conceived, Neddie assured us; and from that moment forward, he assumed there had been litde of love in the Greys' union.
In the saloon, all was ease and congeniality at first. Grey placidly expressed himself shocked—quite beyond comprehending the event—and wild to see justice done. Neddie said all that was correct and feeling in a man condoling with the bereaved. It was after the coffee, however, when Grey had at last enquired as to the conduct of his wife's case, that the outburst of temper had broken like a thunderclap over my brother's head.
“Do I understand, sir, that you have done nothing to apprehend the scoundrel responsible for her murder? This is not to be borne!” The widower rose and stood menacingly over my brother, who could not conceal
Similar Books
