Free Jane and His Lordship's Legacy by Stephanie Barron

the blanket.”
    “Thrace himself lays claim to no one?”
    “What would be the sport in it, if he did? The betting-book at Tattersall’s is offering odds of seven-to-one for the Viscount; but at Brooks’s Club they will have it all for the Earl.”
    It was extraordinary, I thought as Henry rode off in the direction of Alton, what men could adopt as the point of a wager. Lord Harold’s visage rose suddenly before my eyes—an intimate of Brooks’s Club these thirty years, perhaps. I missed him then sharply and inconsolably; for the Rogue would have taken Mr. Thrace’s measure in an instant.
             
    T HE DAY PASSED SWIFTLY IN ALL THE BUSINESS OF unpacking, my sole relief from the incessant chatter of my mother having come in the form of a visit from Mr. Prowting and his eldest daughter. He came to be important and grave; Catherine brought a gift of eggs and cheese and a palpable desire for conversation.
    “I bear sad tidings, Mrs. Austen,” the magistrate pronounced. “Mr. Munro—Coroner of Basingstoke, and no mere surgeon, but a most accomplished physician in his way, and a creditable player at whist—has arrived in Alton not half an hour ago. He is even now engaged in an examination of the unfortunate person discovered by myself and Miss Austen”—this, with a bow for me—“in your cellar.”
    “And has he decided who the poor fellow is, Mr. Prowting?” my mother enquired with an expression of interest.
    “One Shafto French, as I understand—a nephew of Old Philmore, who is a tenant of Mr. Edward Austen and the freeholder of several cottages in the neighbourhood.”
    “Are the Frenches a respectable family?”
    “They are certainly a prodigious one. You cannot spit anywhere on the ground between here and Alton—begging your pardon, ma’am—without striking a French, or a Philmore, come to that. Good Hampshire stock, all of them, and long-established in the neighbourhood; but Shafto was given to drink and indigence. It is not to be wondered at, after all, that he should end as he did. Still, he leaves a hopeful family behind—and this death will go hard on his wife, Jemima.”
    “Can Mr. Munro say at all how French died?” I asked.
    “Not as yet.”
    “—Nor how he came to be in our cellar?” my mother interposed.
    “Such questions, dear lady, may be answered in good time,” the magistrate replied. “Due to the sad state of the corpse, Mr. Munro gives it as his opinion that the inquest into French’s demise should brook no delay. As magistrate, I should have liked to await the arrival in Chawton of Mr. Edward Austen, whom you have given me to understand is even now on his road from Kent; but in matters of physick I have no authority. I must give way. The inquest is to be held at two o’clock.”
    “Today?” I enquired.
    “Indeed. In less than three hours’ time, in the private parlour at the George. Naturally, I shall be present.”
    “I should like to attend,” I said firmly.
    Mr. Prowting’s eyes bulged from his head, and I am convinced he choked a little as he formed his reply. “My dear Miss Austen, there is not the slightest need. Not the slightest need. Naturally you feel some interest in the man’s history, having found him as you did—”
    “—And some responsibility, as well, to inform the coroner’s panel of what I observed,” I rejoined calmly. “You cannot dissuade me, Mr. Prowting—I am determined to go. I should be very much obliged, however, if you would convey me to Alton in company with yourself.”
    “My daughter, as you see, is a veritable ghoul when it comes to inquests and murder, Mr. Prowting,” my mother observed. “I cannot count the number of panels Jane has attended; and given evidence, too.”
    Catherine Prowting, who overlistened the whole, gave an audible gasp.
    “Many are the hours I have spent in enlarging upon the subject,” my mother continued, “but Jane will not see that no respectable man will take up with a lady who is