“Be that as it may,” Mr. Hinton continued, “I found the door to the cottage unlocked. I placed French’s body in the cellar and congratulated myself on my wicked genius. It should be quite the welcome, I thought, for a party of ladies too high in the instep for Chawton. And in the event — I was proved right.”

I could not felicitate him on his triumph.

“When I awoke the next day, with an aching head, and recalled what I had done — I must confess to considerable trepidation. I was prevented from returning to the cottage immediately, due to my sister’s Sabbath conventions — but stole out as soon as it was dark on Monday, and attempted to right the wrong. I found the door, as I have described, locked.”

“And decided that silence should be your best policy,” my brother concluded grimly. “I perfectly understand, Mr. Hinton, tho’ I cannot approve what you did.”

Edward rose and reached for his hat.

“I must offer you my apology, Miss Austen,” Hinton said in a correct but exceedingly cold voice; and bowed. I curtseyed in return, recognising his haughtiness for what it was — the discomfort of a man who knew himself to be in the wrong, and must disguise it at all cost, or die of mortification.

“I hope, Mr. Hinton, that you will consider yourself revenged upon me,” Edward said with all the candour he might have reserved for one of his sons, “—and that in future we may endeavour to be better friends. For my part, I intend to intercede on your behalf with Mr. Prowting. He has merely to consult with Mr. Hay Wilson regarding the hour of your departure from Great Bookham, in order to ascertain the probable length of your journey on the road — and place you happily beyond suspicion. I cannot think it wise to keep you here in the Alton gaol.”

“What of Thrace?”

Edward drew on his gloves. “I no more know than you, Hinton. He may be even now in the act of crossing the Channel to freedom — or caught in the snare of Mr. Prowting’s Law. But I think we can safely assume it was he who forced French’s head beneath the waters of Chawton Pond. The only question remaining to answer is—”

“—Why?” I concluded.

9 July 1809, cont.

“And what do you think of your neighbour now, Edward?” I demanded as we made our way up the Alton High Street in the direction of the George. “A nice, savoury fellow by way of a clergyman’s son. And he wishes to be Squire of Chawton!”

“As I said: an ill-conditioned pup, for all he is five-and-thirty. But there is no real harm in him, Jane.”

“And no real good either.”

Edward laughed. “I have an idea of the Hinton household as it must once have been: a collection of over-fond sisters and half-sisters; a young boy sent away to school and disliking it as much as any boy could; indulged at his term leave, and petted by the women of the family long after such attention should be necessary; intended, like his father, for the Church. Only young Mr. Hinton has no taste for Holy Orders: He wishes to cut a dash, to be top of the trees as the young bloods would put it; up to snuff, awake upon every suit; a cock of the game. In short: a sporting man of the first stare. Instead, he is a shabby-genteel country gentleman with too little blunt and no opportunity for display — no means to set up his stable or hunt in style; no independent estate other than the Lodge his father left him; and to add insult to injury, the daughter of the most established gentleman in the village spurns his suit for a Bond Street Beau of no family and dubious character. I cannot wonder Hinton took to playing pranks better suited to a boy half his age.”

“Or aspiring to a fortune not rightly his own,” I added thoughtfully.

“It is in the worst order of fretful childishness,” Neddie agreed easily. “Recollect that I have sons of my own, and all of them sighing for the airs of a Corinthian. But in a fellow of Hinton’s years—!”

“Your sons, I hope, will know better how they should get on.”

“My sons were not spoilt from infancy!” Neddie retorted impatiently. “There was never time enough between them to tell one from the other, if you must know! And I thank God for it. They have not lacked for masters or instruction; if they wish for mounts or the means to pursue any peculiar passion, I generally grant their wishes. But my boys earn their rights, by Jove! And not by whining.”

“Well, Squire Austen — and what do you intend to do for the odious Mr. Hinton?”

“Find William Prowting as soon as may be — and suggest the sneering lout be returned to his sister’s leading strings. I have an idea of her contempt for all matters of sport; and think her brother deserves to suffer a little beneath Jane Hinton’s management.”

“For my part, I should not wish such a purgatory on any man.” I could not forestall a shudder, tho’ the morning was warm. “You are a hardened case, Edward. Hinton’s revenge is as nothing to yours. ”

I left my dear brother happy in ordering his dinner at the George, and reflected that there was nothing like a little useful activity to dispel a fit of the megrims. Edward loves Godmersham and the society of Kent — but the perfect serenity of that great estate may throw too profound a veil between my brother and the world. He has endured a winter of isolation, and a summer of slow awakening; the Jack Hintons of life should bring him only good, in the folly of their ways and the absurdity of their cares.

The pleasant summer’s day was drawing in as I walked south towards Chawton, the air grown oppressive and a weight of cloud hovering to the west. We should have thunderstorms by nightfall, and the dusty lanes turned to quagmire; the good turnpike stretches, however, were well maintained between this part of Hampshire and the principal towns of the coast. Henry must long since have reached the Earl’s household at Brighton. How had the former Freddy Vansittart — with his rakehell dark looks, his charm, his easy conversation — taken the news of his daughter’s death?

“Miss Austen!”

I lifted my head at the salutation, my mind recalled from distant wandering — and observed a slight woman with her hair neatly bound beneath a kerchief, and a look of unease around her eyes. Her face must be familiar, tho’ she no longer held a babe to her breast. Rosie Philmore, the laundry maid, and wife of the man who had stolen Lord Harold’s papers. She stood near the verge of the Alton road, her back to Chawton, and curtseyed.

“Good day, Mrs. Philmore. How are your children?”

“Well enough, thank you. I left them in the charge of their grandmother, ma’am, while I walked to Chawton.” She hesitated, and then said in a rush, “I’ve been and gone to visit Old Philmore — but he still is not returned, and no one in the village can say where he is gone, or when he is likely to come back. He has not stopped in Alton in near a week, and my Bert is that put out! Afeared, he is, that summat has occurred to harm the old man.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“It’s not like Old Philmore to leave Bertie in the lurch. Clutch-fisted he may be, and nip-cheese into the bargain, but blood is blood when all’s said and done.”

“I understand. Did you enquire of Miss Benn, at Thatch Cottages? For she is one of Old Philmore’s tenants.”

“And right glad to be shut of him. Miss Benn hardly opened her door to me, lest I had come to collect the rents in the old man’s stead.”

“Have you seen your husband at Alton gaol?”

“I spoke with Bert last night, when I took him a bit of supper.”

“He must be familiar with his uncle’s habits. Can he offer no hint of where Old Philmore might be gone to ground?”

Her work-hardened fingers fretted at the edge of her apron, and her eyes fell. In an instant I understood the poor woman’s dilemma — she did not wish to see her husband imprisoned for years, or even transported to Botany Bay, for an offence that had brought no good to the household; and yet, Bertie Philmore had probably bound her to secrecy when he sent her in search of his uncle. How much did Rosie Philmore truly know of the two men’s adventures?