The thought of Lord Harold’s chest, broken and discarded with all its contents, flamed within me. I must have it back.

“Mrs. Philmore,” I said gently, “I dislike to see you in such trouble. I fear for the well-being of your little ones. If there is any way in which I may help you, be assured that I will attempt it.”

“That is kind in you. But a woman did ought to stand by her husband, ma’am. You’re not to know, being a spinster lady—”

“You cannot make your husband’s case worse than it is already, by speaking; for his silence has already placed him in Alton gaol. Do you wish to find Old Philmore?”

“It’s Bert as is hankering after the old man!” she cried.

“He’s that worried — thinks his uncle was taken ill on his road, or been killt — or something worse.”

— Something worse being, no doubt, Old Philmore’s delighted release from all his Hampshire cares, through the spoils of burglary of which Bertie Philmore now had no share. The nephew, I saw, was torn between a very real anxiety for the man who had long served him as parent, and the jealous regard for his own interest, which the uncle might long since have betrayed. Sitting alone in his cell, hour after hour, his thoughts could not be happy ones. He must suffer the delusions of the forgotten: seeing first in his mind’s eye the image of his uncle’s corpse, trampled and abandoned in some woodland hole; and then again, the picture of his uncle in a far distant land — the West Indies perhaps — and surrounded by every luxury.

“Mrs. Philmore, you know that your husband and Old Philmore stole a valuable chest from my cottage. I must assure you most earnestly that the papers within, which you have already described, cannot save your husband’s life or contribute to the well-being of his family. The person who wished them stolen — the person I believe hired your husband and Old Philmore — is lately dead.”

She emitted a shriek, and pressed her hand in horror to her lips. “Dead? —The gentleman from Stonings is dead?”

“Gentleman?” I returned, my thoughts swiftly revolving.

“Did your husband say that he was hired by a gentleman?”

Too late, she saw her error. She stepped backwards, as tho’

in retreat. “He might have said something. I don’t know what. Not really.”

“A gentleman from Stonings wished the papers stolen?” It was not impossible, after all. We now knew that Julian Thrace had a taste for low company, and was much given to drinking with Dyer’s builders; I had found in this a ready explanation for Shafto French’s murder. But why not for the theft of the chest, as well? Thrace would have learned of Lord Harold’s bequest in much the way Lady Imogen knew of it, and was quick enough to apprehend the danger its contents might pose. He had ample knowledge of our invitation to dinner at the Great House, for he had been present at the very moment of Mr. Middleton’s issuance of it. He might all too easily have secured the services of Bertie Philmore on the night in question, and delayed our arrival home by his elaborate telling of fantastic anecdotes, and his prolonged losses at cards.

And yet — I had thought Lady Imogen so happy yesterday morning, as tho’ she possessed the key to her entire future. If Julian Thrace had been the one to seize the papers, how had she come by her certainty? He should have destroyed the evidence of his birth, and attempted to hide the truth from the Earl and all his household. The very last person Thrace should tell was surely Lady Imogen.

“If it is Mr. Thrace you would mean,” I said to Rosie Philmore, “I fear for Old Philmore’s life. Thrace has two murders already to his account, and is believed to have fled the country.”

The woman frowned. “I know of no Thrace, ma’am. ’Twas not of him my Bertie spoke. My man was hired by the master of Stonings — that Major Spence, what walks with a limp — to rob ye of your chest.”

9 July 1809, cont.

I related nothing of all I had learned among the cottage circle tonight, but allowed my sister to talk of the beauties of the surrounding country — in which she had walked a little with the dog Link, so that he might become acquainted with his neighbourhood. “It is full of dells and hills, Jane — a rolling, varied country quite unlike the flat monotony of Steventon in which we were raised—” I listened to a letter from Fanny, which had followed Cassandra on her journey from Kent, the post having no concern for the delays imposed by broken axle-trees and the ostlers at Brompton’s Bell. And I was made privy to all the minute concerns of Edward’s household, which Neddie should never bother relating and which Cassandra has not yet learned to give up: how the four youngest children — Charles, Louisa, Cassandra-Jane, and Brook-John — are as yet in the charge of Susannah Sackree, the beloved Caky of the nurserywing, while the elder girls — Lizzy and Marianne — are not to be sent away again to school, Marianne having most bitterly despised her exile from the rest of the family. The two eldest boys, Edward and George, are to return to Winchester in the autumn term, and then Fanny may well obtain some peace and quiet — a governess being to be hired for Lizzy and Marianne, a tutor for young Henry and William. Of the tutor in particular Cassandra had great hopes: he was a nephew of the Duke of Dorset, only lately having quitted Cambridge, and intended for the Church. She only hoped he should not fall in love with Fanny, as she is barely out— as such things may be determined in Kentish society. There could be no question of a real London Season for Fanny; Edward’s spirits were not up to the hiring of a house in Town.

“Good God,” I murmured. “And to think that poor Fanny is expected to manage all this! I wonder she could consent to part with you, Cass — despite the allurements of our six bedchambers and numerous outbuildings. Shall you miss Kent exceedingly?”

She flushed pink, and returned some small nothing regarding the insignificance of her own contribution, and the worth of Fanny’s talents. I recalled to mind a picture of Godmersham as I had myself left it only a short while ago — the elegance of its apartments, the plasterwork above the mantel in the entry hall, the marble floors, the pleasing aspect of the high downs behind the house. In the environs of Canterbury one meets with only the most liberal-minded and cultivated of friends; no Ann Prowtings or Miss Benns for Cassandra’s edification. Kent is the only place for happiness, after all; everybody is rich there, and my brother’s household not excepted. I must endeavour to remember that Cassandra’s spirits might be a trifle low in coming months, until she has grown accustomed once more to the simplicity of our arrangements.

My mother announced over our Sunday meal of buttered prawns and cold beef that she had quite given up her scheme of retrieving the Rubies of Chandernagar. Mr. Thrace’s guilt she had taken to heart, and regarded it as a sure sign of duplicity in everything the man had said; for how else must she account for the failure of her searches? Mr. Papillon’s sermon on the evils of avarice had proved no less salutary. She should not like the Companion of My Future Life — for so she persisted in regarding poor Mr. Papillon — to believe his prospective mother-in-law a hardened sinner. Then, too, she had happened to catch Sally Mitchell laughing with the baker’s boy about the eccentric habits of her mistress, and was most discomfited to find that she had broken three fingernails in digging.

We left her after dinner to all the pleasures of a hot bath in the washroom, and sat down to compose a few letters: Cassandra to Fanny, and I recounting what I could of Chawton events to my friend Martha Lloyd.