“Tha’rt Mrs. Augusta Haskell?”

“I am, Michael Tivey, as tha’ve known since Tha’ wert in leading strings.”

Mr. Tivey made no gesture of acknowledgement to this sally.

“And Tha’ keeps house up t’a Hall?”

“These three-and-twenty year.”

“Deceased was employed by Tha’?”

“She were.”

“In what position?”

“Stillroom maid.” Mrs. Haskell shifted in her seat and allowed her eyes to drift over the three women grouped at the front of the room; a curious lapse, I thought, in her iron self-command. She looked almost uneasy.

“And could’ee relate for the panel what Tha’ told Sir James Villiers on Tuesday, ma’am?”

“I said as how I’d dismissed Tess Arnold without a character,” she declared, “and good riddance to a bad seed.”

A slight murmur, as the wind sighing through the trees, made its way through the inquest chamber. Of indignation or surprise, I could not tell.

“Though Tess Arnold had been in thy employ some years?” Mr. Tivey persisted.

“Twelve year or more. Ever since she were twelve year old.”

“And though she had been raised as a child on the Penfolds estate?”

“I did what I had to do,” Mrs. Haskell returned defiantly, “and I’ll not be beggin’ pardon of anybody.”

“And because of it, our Tess were murdered,” came another voice — chill, bereft, and filled with suppressed violence. The stony-eyed girl rose to her feet and pointed a trembling hand directly at the Penfolds housekeeper. “Because of thy unfeeling heart and malicious soul, Augusta Haskell, my sister were cast out of her home and sent abroad in the dead of night, without even the clothes she earned upon her back. She were cast out, and died a brutal death alone and far from aid. Because of Tha’! May her unquiet ghost haunt thy sleep, Augusta Haskell, and cry vengeance for what Tha’ did! May Tha’ never find another night’s peace, until the end of thy days!”

The girl’s cry fell in the midst of total silence, and the manner in which she uttered it gave her imprecation all the weight of a curse. I felt a cold finger trail along my spine, and sensed a greater power than Sir James Villiers’s take command of the chamber.

Augusta Haskell’s countenance turned ghastly and her lips went blue. She pressed a gloved hand to her bosom. “My heart — oh, Lord, my heart—”

And then her eyes rolled Heavenward, and she slumped insensible to the floor.

The furor that then ensued was indescribable. Mr. Tivey might pound with his hand in vain, for the hubbub went on unceasing; several of the empanelled jury rushed to Mrs. Haskell’s aid; and still others moved to adjure the Arnold girl. But I judged that they were a little afraid of her — and when she stared defiantly at one man, and moved to guide her mother towards the door, the wall of townsfolk fell back. A parting was made, and a fearful silence fell, broken only by the sound of the third woman’s weeping. The three passed like a cabal of Furies from the room. An air of menace — or was it grief? — moved with them, and stirred the dust long after they were gone.

The Coroner’s Inquest was adjourned, for pursuit of further information, and the crowd of the curious gladly filed outside into fresh air and sunlight.

I was perhaps one of the few who noticed that Mrs. Haskell had been prevented, by the depth of her fear and a strategic swoon, from publicly disclosing the cause of the stillroom maid’s dismissal.

28 August 1806, cont.

“YOU ACQUITTED YOURSELF WELL, MISS AUSTEN.” Sir James Villiers appeared before me in all the splendour of yellow pantaloons and a striped waistcoat, his fair hair carefully disarranged. “And without the display of nerves or sensibility so many young ladies should have thought necessary! I feel myself moved to offer you refreshment. Shall we adjourn to Mr. Patter’s front parlour, and send the maidservant in search of victuals? I should like to discuss the particulars of this extraordinary case.”

“Though I am as much a friend to an innkeeper’s larder as any man,” interposed my cousin Mr. Cooper, “I confess, Sir James, that we cannot quit these premises too soon for my taste.” Mr. Cooper’s first experience of a Coroner’s Inquest had been an unhappy one; his brown eyes were deeply shadowed, and an unaccustomed frowziness distinguished his sparse hair. “I cannot feel easy in Miss Austen’s association with this unfortunate affair. I must beg to remove myself and my party from Derbyshire at the nearest opportunity, Sir James, and cannot apprehend why you believe it in your power to thwart my wishes—”

“My dear Mr. Cooper,” exclaimed Sir James, “pray do not let us quarrel! Circumstances at present are disagreeable enough. I suggest you find comfort in a spot of angling, and throw off the cares of this sordid world in fresh air and exercise. Your friend Mr. Hemming will undoubtedly oblige you — if he can be found.”

“Fishing!” Mr. Cooper cried indignantly. “You would have me to fish, when the whole world is run mad? I should rather spend an interval on my knees in the parish church. I am sure that someone should consider of his God.”

“Very well,” returned Sir James briskly, “then I may recommend most highly the offices of Mr. Dean, the rector of All Saints, should you desire a companion in your spiritual ablutions. But I am most anxious for Miss Austen — she appears in danger of swooning” — this was purest fabrication on the Justice’s part, although the closeness of the crowded room at such a season was considerable — “and I cannot think it wise for her to forgo a nuncheon. You will find Mr. Dean at The Elms, Mr. Cooper — a lovely little stone cottage directly across from the churchyard. He is sure to be at home, and happy to welcome a fellow man of the cloth. Do not neglect the Vernon Chapel in the South Transept. The tombs are quite fine. Come along, Miss Austen!”

And so I was led, without chance of argument, towards the neat front parlour of Jacob Patter, publican, while my cousin stared after, open-mouthed.

THE TABLE HAD BEEN LAID WITH A CLEAN WHITE cloth and a tray of victuals — cold roasted capon, fresh Derbyshire cheese of the blue-veined variety, and the cherished Bakewell puddings of my sister’s preference. Next to these stood a pitcher of ale and one that proved to be filled with ginger beer. Sir James drew forth my chair and I settled myself with a sigh.

“You are very good to think of my comfort, Sir James,” I told him. “I am afraid my cousin is not at present equal to consideration of anything but his own misery. He must be overwhelmed by present events, and cannot offer an accurate picture of his true character.”

“We are not all the masters of every circumstance that life presents,” Sir James replied equably. “I am sure that Mr. Cooper is a very good sort of man, in his own neighbourhood and his own church particularly.”

“Among the people of Hamstall Ridware I believe my cousin is esteemed and valued,” I replied. “His character is unblemished and his conduct entirely respectable. If he is unequal to the present horror, so much the better. I should not like to meet a man who could view Tess Arnold’s corpse with equanimity.”

“Could I despatch him to his rectory without comment tomorrow, I should do so,” the Justice declared, “and all his party with him. But I fear the kindness would not be worth the talk it should occasion in the town. I must beg you to remain a little in Derbyshire, Miss Austen, until the present affair is concluded.”