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

for the dead woman's presence in his chaise; he was remarked himself to have been distant from it for the better part of the morning, and only returned with the object of departing. He seemed ready to regard the affair as the work of his enemies, and named Mr. Bridges and Captain Woodford as the persons most likely to be accountable for it! You may imagine the sensation this caused in more than one breast; but Neddie bore with the insult admirably, as is his wont, and the uneasy moment passed.
Our brother is too assiduous to discard the political motive, however, merely because another, and more attractive one, presents itself. But Neddie has owned that it is possible that Mrs. Grey's killer— whatever his motive for her death—would wish the world to believe Collingforth responsible. So deep a purpose must argue against the random work of an enemy of the French; and Neddie is forced to the conclusion that he must probe the stuff of Mrs. Grey's life, to learn the reason for her death. The burden must give rise to anxiety. A gentleman less disposed to invade the privacy of a lady cannot be found in all of England!
But to continue—
Neddie enquired narrowly as to Mr. Collingforth's movements—heard the corroboration of his friends—and after a protracted interval, in which he debated the most proper course, enjoined the gendeman to remain in the neighbourhood for the present. The unfortunate Collingforth was then sent home in the charge of his intimate acquaintance, Mr. Everett—a gendeman quite unknown to Kent—while his grisly chaise Neddie retained for a time, to allow of a thorough inspection.
Within the body of the carriage, our brother found litde of moment; neither Mrs. Grey's habit, nor a hint as to the identity of her murderer. One gold button from the habit, however, had worked its way between the seat cushions. There it might have lain forever, and forever unremarked, had Neddie not exerted himself to search the interior fully. The presence of the thing must prove suggestive: Are we to conclude that Mrs. Grey was stripped of her clothing in the chaise itself?
Provocative as this gilt trophy might be, however, it is as nothing to those Henry retrieved from Mrs. Grey's phaeton. And now I approach the heart of the matter, Cassandra, and must urge you again to discretion.
The contents were few, and readily observable to the eye—a lap robe against the dust; a hamper of provisions, quite empty; the gold plate presented by the sweepstakes officials; several posies bestowed by the more gallant among her acquaintance; and a novel in the French language.
Henry, of course, seized upon the novel—and proclaimed it to be of a scandalous sort, such as only his wife, Eliza, might scruple to entertain. It is called La Nouvelle Heloise , and I believe is rather shocking— however, the book can be no more surprising than what it was found to conceal. For tucked between two leaves of the volume, Cassandra, was a letter.
Even Neddie's cursory French was equal to the seizing of its meaning. He perused it once—checked several phrases with Henry—and retained the original for further consideration. Mrs. Grey, it seemed, had conducted a correspondence with a gendeman not her husband—and had formed a plan of elopement intended for this very night. The two were to meet at Pegwell Bay, where a boat was to bear them to France. What remains at issue, my dear Cassandra, is the identity of the amorous gentleman. For no signature was appended to the missive. Might it have been from Collingforth, himself?—And the lady's purpose divined by a jealous rival, who killed her and placed the blame upon her lover? Mr. Bridges, perhaps, or Captain Woodford? (The latter notion must strike everyone but Denys Collingforth as absurd.)
Or were Mrs. Grey's intentions betrayed to her deluded husband? Mr. Valentine Grey was from home this week; but perhaps a timely warning, anonymous or otherwise, drew him back to Kent in an outrage of feeling. It