Free Jane and the Genius of the Place: Being the Fourth Jane Austen Mystery by Stephanie Barron Page A

heat of the August night, and my candle's flame dipped and staggered with every stirring of the air. Something there was that hovered over Godmersham—a gathering of violence above my head, that stiffened the very draperies and turned the midnight light to sulphur. Relief might come with the rain— and afterwards, a litde sleep; but until the storm should break, I must seek comfort in composition.
    When I am parted from my dearest sister by the vicissitudes of Fate or the beguilements of pleasure, it is my inveterate custom to relate the particulars of each day in a newsy, comfortable letter. Two such women, of advancing years and modest society, may generally have very little of importance to communicate; but the habit of conversation, long deferred by absence, will find relief in the written word. A great deal of nothing, therefore, has flown back and forth between Goodnestone Farm and Godmersham Park during the interval of Cassandra's visit to Lady Bridges. I may attest to a voluminous correspondence, regarding such litde matters as the progress of young Edward's cold; my continued improvement at the game of shutdecock; the opinion of Mr. Hall, the elegant London hairdresser, as to the best arrangement of my coiffure and several good jokes regarding Henry's infatuation with his lamentable horse.
    But this evening I had matters of a far graver nature to relate, although some part of Mrs. Grey's sad history must already be known to Cassandra—for Mr. Edward Bridges, who could hardly be ignorant of it, should have borne the intelligence to the Farm before me. My sister must as yet be denied the full history of the lady's tragic end, however, for my brothers returned from the race grounds very late this evening, and the details of their grim work were imparted only to myself—Lizzy and the children having already retired.
    You will know, I am sure, of the horrible events that occurred at our race-meeting , I wrote at last.
I have hastened this letter in the knowledge that you must be suffering under the gravest anxiety for the safety and well-being of all our dear family— but be assured that we are all perfecdy well. Miss Sharpe, the governess, was taken ill at the sight of the corpse; but Lizzy and I were hardly tempted to the dramatic, and even Fanny comported herself with admirable coolness. Our brother Neddie was decision and probity itself; he was admirably supported by Henry, and bids fair to conduct the business with despatch. There are further particulars in the matter, however, that will affect those very near to you: Mr. Edward Bridges, his friend Captain Woodford, and, of course, our dear friend Harriot, who must feel for the welfare of both. I thought it wisest to apprise you of matters—and will trust to your discretion in this, as in all things.
Neddie suspected at first that Mrs. Grey's murder might have been spurred by a hatred for the French, she being a citizen of the Empire, a fact that hardly smoothed her entry into Kentish society. Had she been killed along the road and left to the chance discovery of a passerby, that notion might have served admirably; but her being found in Mr. Denys Collingforth's chaise—a fact you will have learned already, in company with most of Kent—must entangle the affair considerably.
Mrs. Grey was seen to depart the race grounds a full hour before her corpse was discovered, quite palpably in the middle of it! Our brother Henry succeeded in locating Mrs. Grey's lost phaeton only two miles along the road to Wingham—her matched greys had been tethered to a tree, and were standing quite docilely at the verge, enjoying the shade. How she came to be torn from her equipage, and returned to the race grounds, is the greatest mystery; the disappearance of her riding habit is another. Neddie has employed a team of local men to search the hedgerows near the phaeton's stand, quite convinced that the scarlet gown was discarded in the underbrush.
Collingforth himself cannot account