21 September 1804, cont.

SUCH EVIDENCE OF SIDMOUTH'S GUILT COULD NOT BUT BE convincing. I should have felt the merit of its claims more forcibly, however, had I not perceived that some other consideration had silenced his friends and himself, and that the better part of Sidmouth's struggle throughout the proceedings, had been to prevent a matter coming to light, that should assuredly have cleared him of the murder, but at a personal cost he was mysteriously unwilling to endure. Proof of innocence through revelation, was an avenue closed to us; proof of another's guilt must, therefore, be the avenue pursued. I did not stop to ask why I felt myself to be the chosen pursuer; it was a matter that did not admit of choice. Someone had murdered Percival Fielding, for reasons that remained obscure to me; and someone wished the world to believe Sidmouth had done it in his stead. In such a case, could any stand by, and observe injustice triumph? Jane assuredly would not. But what, in fact, was to be done? A bewildering array of paths branched from the ground at my feet, like the turnings of a wilderness maze; how to embark upon the proper way?

“Well,” my father declared, as he stared about the rapidly emptying room; “well, indeed. It might be advisable — do not you agree, my dear Jane — to offer the mademoiselle what assistance we may, for she is decidedly bereft of friends at the moment, and some Christian solicitude should be as balm to her distress.”

“You are all goodness, Father,” I said, somewhat absentmindedly; for my thoughts were employed in the consideration of other matters, against which Mademoiselle LeFevre's indisposition must be weighed as slight. It was imperative not to set a foot wrong at so critical a juncture, when every hour might have bearing on Sidmouth's fate. I bent my thoughts accordingly to a review of the facts, and set aside for the moment all extraneous conjecture.

Geoffrey Sidmouth was assuredly abroad on the night in question, and that he rode his stallion Satan, we knew from the statements of both the surgeon's assistant Dag-liesh and Toby the stable boy. The marks of hoofprints bearing his initials were clearly stamped in the mud by Fielding's body. Therefore, if it were conceivable that Sidmouth was not Fielding's murderer, then I must find that another had stolen the horse on the night in question, while Sidmouth was otherwise engaged; or that someone else from the Grange had ridden forth that night, despite the stable boy's words to the contrary; or that a different animal altogether had been similarly shod, and ridden to its fatal errand. Mr. Dobbin would have it that the blacksmiths in town were above reproach, and that their negatives of having forged such shoes for any but Sidmouth might be taken as truth; but I was not so sanguine. Regardless of the motivations in the case — the mysterious business between the Captain and Seraphine, the presence of white flowers by the corpses, and the matter of the Reverend's identity — the horseshoes were the crux of the affair.

“Will you accompany us, Jane?”

I looked up to find my father already on his feet, my mother by his side, and both serene in the certainty of doing good. Their purposeful faces reminded me that Seraphine had very nearly revealed the nature of her trouble, before fainting away, and that all might be speedily concluded, were she now persuaded to speak. I rose from my seat without a word, and followed hastily in my father's train.

POOR SERAPHINE LAY PROSTRATE IN A CHAMBER ON THE LION'S FIRST floor, her wild mane of hair flung out on the straw mattress, a compress to her head. One of the inn's maids-of-all-work leaned mistrustfully in the doorway, torn between the claims of gossip-mongering and those of legitimate work; but the subject of her baleful study might almost have been turned to stone, so oblivious was Mademoiselle LeFevre of anyone's presence. She stared fixedly at the ceiling above her head, her lips moving continuously in what might pass for a prayer — but knowing a little of Seraphine, I rather imagined it to be a curse. Her hatred for Sidmouth's enemies, and her driving need for vengeance, should be fearful to behold; and I respected as well as feared her for it. I would not care to find myself on the wrong side of her will.

“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” my father said gendy, as he approached her doorway, “but we would wish to offer some consolation in your distress. Is there aught that any might do, to ease the discomposure of your mind? Some sustenance, perhaps, or a conveyance home to the Grange?”

“Mr. Austen!” my mother cried. “The poor thing cannot be left to her own devices in such a house! So lonely as it finds itself, in the very midst of the downs, and so melancholy in its current atmosphere! Such reflections, as must overwhelm her! I am sure, Mademoiselle, that you should better come to us. We might send our Jenny to the Grange for your things, and make you as comfortable as can be.” My mother appeared well satisfied with her speech, until a moment's reflection brought the inevitable cloud.

“—Providing, that is,” she added, “you do not mind making shift to room with Jane. For, you will understand, we have but two bedchambers. It would be some return,” she concluded, brightening, “for your kindness in taking our family in, not a few weeks ago, after our own dreadful misfortunes — though I should not like to suggest that being overturned, and being charged with murder, are at all the same thing.”

“You are very good, Madame Austen,” Seraphine replied, her gaze steadfast upon the pale plaster above, “but it is not in my power to accept your invitation.”

“Not in your power? But, my dear — how can it not?”

“Mother—” I said, in an attempt to intervene, “Mademoiselle LeFevre may wish for the reflection so necessary at such a time, and so dependent upon solitude.”

“Indeed, madame, I have obligations that must be met — the needs of a farm being unrelenting — and though I value your kindness and consideration” — at this, the angel's eyes slid downwards to meet our own — “I must decline your entreaty to remove from the Grange.”

“Well!” my mother declared, dumbfounded.

I recollected, then, the midnight landing from the smugglers’ cutter, and the muffled burden borne up the cliffs at Seraphine's direction. Was an unknown fellow even now recovering from his wounds beneath the Grange's roof? Was this why Seraphine could not desert her post in Sidmouth's absence?

“As you wish, my dear,” my father said, with a mild nod, “but may we offer you some other relief?”

“Pray for me, my good sir,” Seraphine replied, “and for my cousin, Mr. Sidmouth. I fear that neither of us shall be long for this world.”

I glanced at my father, and motioned the maid from the doorway. “Fetch a pot of tea for the mademoiselle, and be quick about it,” I said. “How long should the lady have lain here, without a drop of restorative by her? I cannot believe you did not think of it before.”

“There's no tea to be had,” the maid replied, without shifting from her place. “Stores'uv been low these three days past, and what wit’ the ‘quest today, tea'uv been all drunk up.”

“Then do you run to a shop and purchase some, you stupid girl,” I said briskly, and handed her a few shillings. “Be off with you.”

The slattern dropped a curtsey, and scurried away, her expression turned sour. I seized the opportunity of her absence to close the chamber door as firmly as I might. I did not choose for the entirety of Lyme to overlisten my conversation with the mademoiselle.

“Your cousin's circumstances are so very bad,” I observed, as I turned back towards the bed with an effort at complaisance — for I was curious how my apparent indifference might provoke the lady, and what turn of conversation it should bring. “I wonder that he bothered to deny his guilt at all, considering how many are the proofs against him.” Without waiting for a reply, I looked to my father. “When, sir, did you declare to be the next sitting of the Assizes?”