Mr. Middleton had reined in his horse, and deigned to recognise the brother of his landlord in a very abrupt but kindhearted fashion; had suffered an introduction to myself, and welcomed me stoutly to Chawton; had offered up his young friend Thrace to the notice of the Austen party; and avowed that he intended that very morning to call upon my mother and offer his deepest congratulations on her present fortunate state, in possessing the cottage.

“—Tho’ I cannot admire the manner of your welcome,” he observed with a sober look. “My deepest sympathies, Miss Austen, on the distress of your discovery in the cellar. A most unfortunate business — quite unaccountable.”

“And certain to be much talked of,” Miss Benn added in a sprightly fashion.

“We must suppose, however, that the affair will be concluded with despatch. Mr. Prowting is a commendable magistrate when necessity affords him occasion to act; he will already have communicated with the coroner, whom I believe must be summoned from Basingstoke.” The invocation of so august a town conferred a certain weight to Mr. Middleton’s words, and we all fell silent in contemplation of Death and its exigencies. Mr. Thrace, I observed, looked suitably grave; but as he uttered not a syllable, I had no opportunity to judge of his sense. The gentlemen of the Great House went on their way, being bound for Alton and some trifling errands among the tradesmen, but not before Mr. Middleton recollected to issue a general invitation to dine with his party the following evening. As the gratifying notice included Henry and the simpering Miss Benn, we parted in the middle of the Street with satisfaction on all sides.

“I am determined to return to the George with all possible haste,” Henry breathed, “so as to be certain that my partner, Mr. Gray, refuses Julian Thrace’s depredations on the Alton branch. Burglary and corpses are as nothing, I assure you, Jane, when compared to the demands of a Bond Street Beau.”

“You are too cruel, Henry. I suppose many a warm man must be similarly stingy.”

“I am sure I do not wish penury on any of my fellows,” my brother protested as we parted before the cottage door, “but I should feel more sanguine regarding the monies disbursed to Mr. Thrace’s account, did I have an inkling of which peer he purports to belong to.”

“Surely the rumour-mills have supplied a name.”

“They have supplied two, Jane,” Henry returned. “The Earl of Holbrook, who carried Thrace into Carlton House; and the Viscount St. Eustace, who is so ill and bedridden he is said to rarely quit Eustace House in Berkshire. Both men have sired only daughters, and both are as rich as Croesus. Rather than pass their titles and wealth to distant cousins, they think to legitimate babes born on the wrong side of 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.

The 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 longestablished 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 so mad for blood. It is unnatural in a woman. But she will not understand me. She will not listen to reason. I am sure, Mr. Prowting, that you suffer similar trials yourself — being the father of daughters.”

“An inquest cannot be the proper place for a lady,” Mr. Prowting said doubtfully.

“In the present case, sir,” I replied with dignity, “I believe attendance to be my duty. The man was found in this house; and surely we must learn the truth, at all costs, of how he came here.”

The magistrate looked for aid to his daughter; but such a recourse must be useless. Catherine Prowting was pale as death, her hand gripping the back of my mother’s chair; and in an instant she had slipped to the floor insensible. We prevailed upon Mr. Prowting to leave his daughter a little while in our care, and Catherine appeared — when consciousness was regained — not averse to the suggestion. We laid her upon the sopha in the sitting room, and my mother went in search of vinegar-water, while the magistrate patted her hand in loving awkwardness.

“You will never be as strong as your sisters,” he told her fondly. “It is the head-ache, I suppose?”

“Yes, Papa,” she said tearfully.

“Well, well — rest a little in Miss Austen’s care, and then return to your mother. But do not be alarming her with talk of an indisposition. You know what her nerves are.”