The hall was narrow and low-ceilinged, giving a clear view of the kitchen at the building’s rear; there was a sitting room at the front, a dining parlour behind, and an abrupt staircase leading from the hall to presumably two cramped rooms above. This Widow Seward had won as her due after years of inhabiting Chawton Cottage — and I cannot say the exchange was a fair one. Had my brother Edward known to what a hovel he was sending his faithful bailiff’s relict, when he disposed of her cottage elsewhere?

The babe wailed from the direction of the stairs, but Widow Seward affected not to notice. She gestured towards a free chair. “Pray sit down, miss.”

I did so.

“I must thank you for the excellent condition in which we found the cottage,” I said. “Everything was in order — the premises most clean and in good repair. It is a delightful place, and we are most happy to be there.”

“I had heard as you were come to Chawton.”

“I think the whole of Hampshire is now acquainted with the circumstances of our arrival.”

She inclined her head, but did not deign to comment.

“I wonder, Mrs. Seward, whether you can tell me if there is more than one set of keys to the cottage? We collected those left in Mr. Barlow’s keeping, but should like to be assured that all the keys are accounted for. As a matter of housekeeping. I am sure you will understand.”

Her eyelids flickered and her entire spare body seemed to stiffen. “I shall have to think.”

“Of course. I do understand. In a matter of keys, so much is attributable to chance. Some may be lost, others simply mislaid in a chest of drawers; or some lent to friends and relations who neglect to return them. I should assume, for example, that your daughter and son-in-law were in possession of a set — merely to accommodate you during periods of absence from the house.”

“I was never absent,” she said drily. “Chawton has been my home all my life. I was a Gibb before I became Seward, you know — and like the Philmores and Frenches, the Gibbs are everywhere found in this part of Hampshire. It is a very settled place. We do not often have people like yourself, from other parts of the world.”

“I was born but twelve miles from Chawton,” I observed, “tho’ I suppose to some people, that would seem another country. When you have thought about those keys, Mrs. Seward, I should be greatly obliged if you would see that they find their way to the cottage. Otherwise we shall be put to the trouble of changing all the locks.”

“You must do as you see fit, I am sure,” she said austerely, and rose to indicate my interview was over.

I could not congratulate myself that it had been conducted with any success; and I felt certain that one set of keys, at least, was still sitting in this very place — in the keeping of the Baverstocks. As I exited the wretched place, I encountered a young man on the doorstep, and hesitated while he raised his hat in greeting.

“This is Miss Austen, James,” the Widow Seward said in that same colourless tone. “She has just come from Chawton to visit me. Is not that a very great condescension, from the Squire’s family? My son-in-law, Miss Austen — Mr. James Baverstock.”

The young man bowed, with a degree of civility I had not expected in a brewer’s son. “I have already heard much of your party, ma’am, from my uncle.”

“Indeed?” I said. “And have I the pleasure of acquaintance with that gentleman?”

“I fancy only by reputation,” he replied. “He is Mr. JohnKnight Hinton, of Chawton. My mother was his elder half-sister. If you have not yet been introduced to him, you cannot long escape the acquaintance. Good day.”

By the time I arrived at the door of Henry’s establishment, and had been ushered within by Mr. Gray, my brother was some minutes ahead of me and happily immersed in his accounts.

“Ah, there you are, Gray — and I observe you succeeded in having the burglar’s depredations attended to,” Henry said carelessly as his partner entered the room. “You remember my sister, Miss Austen?”

“Indeed I do.” Mr. Gray bowed deeply, welcome on every feature of his face. He was a short, rotund, and beaming man with high colour in his cheeks; his aspect suggested domestic felicity and an unhappy inclination towards gluttony. The two clerks under his management were similarly bobbing their respect in my direction, and appeared so desperate to return to their work that I felt a surge of pity for so much masculine distraction trapped in a single room. Of Bertie Philmore there was no sign; I must assume he was occupied with a window in another part of the bank.

“We are most happy to have an addition to the Austen party in Alton,” Gray assured my brother. “Most happy.”

“Is that fellow nearly done?” Henry demanded, as tho’ much harassed. “One of Dyer’s men, is he not?”

“I believe there has been some difficulty with the glazier,” his partner returned. “Jorrocks has too many claims upon his talents at present to attend to our little room.”

“Nothing the price of a tankard of ale won’t answer. I shall speak to the joiner about it. Come along, Jane.” And with breezy assurance, my brother led me into the bank’s inner office — a spare, whitewashed chamber furnished with a desk, several chairs, and a quantity of ledgers. Bertie Philmore stood by the window that gave onto the building’s side aspect, grimacing with concentration. At his feet were several splintered lengths of wood, and I understood of a sudden how Henry’s privacy had been forced. Not the glass alone, but the entire windowsill had been torn out of its place by the intruder’s violence. Had the Rogue’s legacy done all this?

“Ah, Philmore,” Henry said as he closed the inner door.

“What’s this I hear about trouble with a glazier?”

“Jorrocks is that busy, sir, as he don’t rightly think he can get here today.”

“I cannot run a bank with the windows insecure to the world, Philmore. Is Jorrocks prepared to stand guard on my premises throughout the night, and discourage thieves with the menace of his gun?”

“I don’t know as he ’as a gun, sir, ’cept what might be used for rabbit-hunting.”

“All the same — you take my point.”

The joiner gazed through the bare window, as tho’ in expectation of seeing the glazier on the paving beyond; but as he turned back in evident confusion, his eyes fell upon my face. His own was instantly suffused with red.

“Why, it is the man who gave testimony at the inquest,” I said with spurious surprise. “You were a friend of the Deceased, I believe. Are you happy with the coroner’s result?”

“It’s not for me to say, ma’am.”

Henry made for the door. “I must just speak to Gray on a matter of business, Jane. I shall not be a moment.”

He left me in possession of the room. Bertie Philmore looked as tho’ he should like to follow my brother, but I motioned to him vaguely and murmured, “Pray go on with your work. I should not like to delay you further; my brother is a most awful object when thwarted in his expectations. You were a friend of Shafto French’s from childhood, I believe? His poor widow is very sadly left.”

“As are all those what gave him blunt, ma’am, and shall never see it again,” Philmore said bitterly as he took up his tools once more.

“You do not credit his tale of future riches, then?”

Philmore glanced at me sidelong.

“Mrs. French came to me this morning, to gaze upon the place where her man died. It is clear that she believes the poor fellow was likely to come into funds — and went to his death in the deluded hope of finding them.”

I drew off my gloves with a thoughtful air. “It does seem hard that such a young woman should be left without support of any kind. Unfortunate, too, that you have no chance to retrieve your debt, Philmore. If French’s murderer were to be found, however. if one could but put a name to the man he intended to meet. it is possible affairs might be settled more equitably.”