Monday, 26 August 1805,
near dawn
“I SUPPOSE,” MR. EMILIOUS FINCH-HATTON BEGAN, AS he helped himself to some of Cook's excellent currant jam, “you are wild to know how I come into this tangled business.”
“You flatter yourself, sir,” Neddie replied. “For my part, I should be happy to learn so litde as the manner of Mrs. Grey's death. Your own machinations are immaterial.”
“I should like to know any number of things,” I broke in, “and am not averse to hearing Mr. Finch-Hatton. I rather think we shall come to the matter of Mrs. Grey, in time.”
“Excellent woman!” Mr. Emilious cried. “Lord Harold has assuredly judged you aright.”
“Am I to conclude, then, that Lord Harold is aware of his friend's involvement in an affair of murder?”
“He warned me against you, you know,” Mr. Emilious said by way of answer. “He thought you likely to be my worst enemy, my dear Miss Austen. I endeavoured to make you my friend — but alas, events moved well beyond my ordering of them, with the discovery of those letters. Mr. Grey happened upon the correspondence, I suppose?”
“He did,” Neddie supplied.
Mr. Emilious leaned forward in some excitement, to the detriment of his shirtsleeves, which were smeared with butter. “Did he tell you where he discovered them? For upon my word, the fellows I had hoped might effect it, were quite pitiful in the application!”
“Mr. Bridges and Captain Woodford?” I surmised.
“The very same. I led those two excellent fellows to believe it a matter of some delicacy, that should compromise the lady's reputation before her husband. Woodford agreed in an instant, from concern for his friend Grey; Mr. Bridges, quite naturally, had other motives. He accepted the task for a small consideration. A man whose circumstances are so thoroughly embarrassed, must be open to almost any application. But I believe the two had a falling-out, over the question of the letters' whereabouts; each suspected the other's motives.”
“You are not a man to soil your own hands, I perceive.”
“It was hardly a question of that, Miss Austen, but one rather of efficiency. It would have looked too odd for So they to return to the house, you know, and I had never been an intimate there — but I am getting ahead of myself. Where were the letters discovered?”
“You shall have to enquire of Mr. Grey yourself,” Neddie replied, “for he did not think to tell me. That is, if you possess sufficient courage to meet with Mr. Grey.”
The older man shook his head sadly over his hunk of bread. “I assure you, Mr. Austen, that you have completely misjudged me. I had nothing whatsoever to do with Mrs. Grey's end; except, perhaps, in the precipitation of it. I was never so fortunate as to meet the lady.”
“Tho' you learned much of her, from your associate Mr. Sothey,” I supplied. “You had encountered him before, at George Canning's; perhaps he came to you in some distress, once he knew that he had fallen into the woman's power, and was being employed for her own devious purposes.”
“I, employed by Mrs. Grey?” Mr. Sothey interjected with a bitter laugh. “I fear, Miss Austen, that you have got it the wrong way round.”
I looked from the improver to Mr. Emilious, much struck. “You would mean to say, Mr. Sothey, that you went to The Larches nearly seven months ago, for the express purpose of observing Mrs. Grey?”
“It was for that Mr. Canning ensured my introduction to Grey. I was peculiarly suited to the task, Miss Austen, in being an improver of landscape; Mr. Grey, as you know, has a passion for his grounds, and as a result of his recent marriage, was determined to spend much of his time in Kent. Canning — who, in his capacity as Treasurer of the Navy, is charged with the administration of the Government's Secret Funds — had long suspected the nature of Grey's marriage.[58] He believed the lady's family intended to use its influence with Grey to the detriment of the Kingdom's fortunes. You may well enquire how he came to believe this; let it suffice to say that Canning is familiar with the Comte de Penfleur these many years.”
“And so he sent you, Mr. Sothey, to spy on the Grey household.”
Anne Sharpe moaned softly, and covered her face with her hands. Mr. Sothey's countenance wore a fleeting look of pain; but he kept his eyes averted from his beloved. “He did. I had been in the employ of Mr. Canning for some time — ever since the end of peace had enforced my return from the Continent.[59] My reputation ensured my acceptance among the households of the Great; I was thus in a position to go anywhere, and see everyone. My work, I may say, has proved invaluable to Canning and his clandestine office.”
“Then at Weymouth—” Anne Sharpe began, with a desperate look.
“—at Weymouth I was charged with the cultivation of General Sir Thomas Porterman,” he concluded. “I was not charged with making love to his ward — of that you may be certain. It is to my own detriment, and that of my Government, that I have come to care for Miss Anne Sharpe so deeply; but I begin to think the difficulty will resolve itself, with time.” The bitterness had only deepened in Mr. Sothey's voice; he certainly believed the governess was lost to him.
“Do you mean to say,” my brother enquired, “that the entire seven months you were resident at The Larches, you were working upon the lady of the house? — Endeavouring to win her trust, with the object of defeating the Comte de Penfleur?”
“How succinctly you put things, Mr. Austen, to be sure,” Mr. Emilious returned. “Sothey was charged with winning the lady's confidence, and with supplying her with some information that was … shall we say, less than accurate. Mrs. Grey became Canning's most useful channel for the confusion of the enemy; for her sources were so varied, in comprising half the county, and yet so much in conflict with one another, that the Comte could hardly determine which intelligence to credit, and which to discount. Sothey's being so much a friend to Mr. Grey, and so clearly in his confidence, must argue assurance in his regard; whereas the more suspect among the group — such as Denys Collingforth, a desperate man, and Lady Forbes, a very silly woman — might be dismissed. However much truth they managed to convey.”
“I must congratulate you on a certain brilliance in your conduct, Sothey,” my brother said. “It defies belief. And Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton, I presume, is your superior in Canning's line?”
“Call me colleague, rather,” Mr. Emilious said, “and I am satisfied. Certainly I should never have trespassed so long upon my brother's generosity, by remaining at East-well, had not Sothey required the possibility of a bolt-hole. Should the need of quitting The Larches arise, I was to be depended upon. And in the meanwhile, I may say that I served as his occasional counsel. Little that Mrs. Grey had under contemplation was unknown to me.”
“But to what end?” I broke in. “The matter of Spanish lace?”
Both men stared, then looked at one another in perplexity. “Spanish lace?”
“That is what the Comte de Penfleur was wont to call it. Neddie and I assumed it referred to considerable monies, of which the French government is in daily expectation. We understood from the letters that Mr. Grey was to be influenced by Mr. Sothey, towards the end of procuring foreign funds — possibly in Amsterdam, or in Spain. But we cannot determine whether the monies ever arrived — or whether Mrs. Grey was killed before the plan was effected. Certainly the continued presence of the Comte de Penfleur in England would argue a doubt.”
“As would the failure of the French fleet to invade our shores,” Mr. Emilious returned gravely. “There cannot be an invasion, my dear Miss Austen, without there are funds to drive it. You may be assured those funds — whatever Mrs. Grey may have intended — will never arrive.”
“The funds were drawn from Grey's bank, I presume?” Neddie's countenance was carefully controlled, but his eyes glittered strangely as he looked at me. He was in the grip, I should judge, of a powerful excitement; while for my part, I felt only a curious lethargy — the result, one assumes, of too much conversation and too little sleep.
“Grey's bank? Good Lord, no!” Mr. Emilious laughed. “He was required to offer surety for the funds' transferal, of course — that is the usual way of things, in such matters of international finance — but the monies were to be shipped from the Americas.”
“The Americas?”
“From Spain's colonies, to be exact. You must know that every summer, before the onset of the hurricane season, the Spanish treasure ships set out for Cadiz. They have done so for nearly two centuries, bearing cargoes of silver and pieces of eight.”
“But what has that to do with Mr. Grey?” I cried.
“Very little. Pray hear me out, Miss Austen, and all shall become clear.” Mr. Emilious looked at me sternly from under his elegant grey brows, and I was forced to submit. I wondered, however, how such a man could ever have formed a friendship with Lord Harold. While the one was bruisingly to the point, the other was tedious in the extreme. Both, I must suppose, were assiduous in the marshalling of fact, however; and in this, their talents might be prized.
“According to her treaties with France, signed over two years ago, Spain is required to contribute six million francs each month to the French treasury.”
“But that is incredible,” Neddie cried. “How is half such a sum to be paid?”
“I used the term contribute only loosely, to be sure,” Mr. Emilious replied. “It is the most blatant extortion, at which the fiends of Buonaparte are too sadly adept. But to continue: Spain has failed in its payments for nearly a year, and the French treasury has suffered. There are rumours of bankruptcy, and of an Emperor grown desperate at the cost of power.”
“We have heard those rumours,” I told him.
“Spain offered this year's treasure fleet in payment of its debt. But you may recall, Miss Austen, that we are presently at war with Spain; and that only last summer, a Royal Navy squadron was so daring as to seize the annual shipment from the Americas, to general lamentation in Cadiz. Spain could not sustain such a loss again. The very stability of the Spanish crown must depend upon its fulfillment of Buonaparte's demands.”
“Yes, yes,” I returned impatiently. “But what of Mr. Grey?”
“The Spanish crown approached our Prime Minister, Mr. Pitt. They informed him of the difficulties they faced on every side. They spoke of complicated arrangements. They looked for expressions of good faith. The Government could hardly extend an obvious hand of assistance — no more than it should do on behalf of France. But Mr. Pitt believed that an accommodation might be found.”
“That being?” Neddie enquired. His voice was as taut as a bowstring.
“The result of these delicate negotiations has been that the Spanish treasure was to be transported this year in English vessels commissioned in the Royal Navy.[60] The money was to be received in Amsterdam, by the House of Hope, which undertook to extend a loan to the French government. Mr. Grey's part in all of this, was to indemnify the British ships, in the event of a loss at sea. A minor role, but a necessary one.”
“The House of Hope has recently refused its loan,” I broke in, puzzled. “You told me yourself that Lord Harold was sent to Amsterdam, as Mr. Pitt's envoy. Has the entire matter gone awry?”
“I believe that it has gone exactly as was intended,” Mr. Emilious replied with satisfaction.
“The treasure ships never arrived,” Neddie concluded.
“They struck a reef not far from these shores, and unfortunately were lost. It is a pity that Mr. Pitt chose to consign the treasure to some of the Navy's oldest vessels; but it cannot be helped. With Mr. Grey's indemnification in hand, the Navy might build several new ships of the line, of course, and hardly see themselves the poorer.”
“Unlike Mr. Grey,” I said, remembering Henry's assessment of his household.
“Oh, you need not concern yourself with Grey, Miss Austen. A grateful Crown will make all possible amends, I am sure.”
“And the treasure?” Neddie asked.
“—Is presumed to have been lost with the ships.” Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton's gaze was blandly innocent. “How even Lord Harold intends to smooth those troubled waters, I cannot begin to think. But I shall trust, as ever, in his inimitable powers.”
To my surprise, Neddie almost smiled. “And we have this to thank for the preservation of our peace! They may say what they like of the Tory Pitt — drunkard, idiot, enfeebled dotard — but, by God, he is a man of policy! If England stands another year without a Frenchman on her shores, we shall have Pitt to thank!”
“And now I may inform you of a piece of news I received by messenger yesterday morning,” Mr. Emilious said. “The French are reported to be breaking camp at their Channel ports. The mass of armed troops — nearly an hundred thousand men, who have been rotting along the coast for two years — have been ordered to the Empire's eastern borders. It is almost certain that Buonaparte intends war with Austria.”[61]
“Austria!” I cried. “And is the Comte de Penfleur aware of the ruin of his hopes?”
“We must pray that he continues in ignorance a little while longer,” Mr. Emilious replied. “Else he will be gone from these shores before we find sufficient cause to arrest him.”
Neddie consumed the last of his bread, and pushed back his chair from the table. The look of elation had quite fled from his features. “Gratified as I may be by this frank avowal of all your interests,” he told Mr. Emilious, “I rather wonder at your revealing so much. You have exposed Mr. Sothey as an agent of Government; you have declared yourself to be very nearly the same; and you have disclosed not a little of that Government's policy. To what end, sir? The diversion of our interest? For is it not irrefutable, that Mrs. Grey died as a result of your efforts? Something alerted her confederates to the failure of their hopes. I have not forgot the French courier that was seen at her house the very morning of her death— revealing, perhaps, the nature of her betrayal. Am I not charged, Mr. Finch-Hatton, with the pursuit of her murderer, and the resolution of her death?”
There was a heavy silence about the table. Then Mr. Emilious said, “I trust you will comprehend, Mr. Austen, the impenetrable nature of espionage. We may never know for a fact who killed Mrs. Grey. It is probable, however, that she died at the hands of the Comte de Pen-fleur. Certainly he had reason to believe that she had betrayed him; the promised funds failed to arrive, precipitating his own highly perilous journey to these shores; and he may even have suspected that the lady was a victim of her sources.”
“It was for this that I quitted The Larches on Monday,” Mr. Sothey broke in. “I could not be assured of my own safety, did I remain too long in the household. I learned of the Comte's intended arrival from that selfsame courier you would mention, Mr. Austen — and I freely own, I prepared to depart. Mrs. Grey's fury upon learning my intention, precipitated a public attack—”
“The whip, brought down upon your neck,” I murmured.
“—but even still, I cannot think she understood the extent of my subtle use of her. She believed me to the last, a poor idiot employed for her own devices; it was I, she thought, who had urged her husband to receive the Comte de Penfleur's letter, begging that he should indemnify the Royal Navy's ships — when, in fact, it was Mr. Pitt himself, who proposed the plan.”
“I should not like to be Grey,” my brother said suddenly, “does the Comte ever tumble to the truth of what occurred. We must hope, as you said, that he is yet in ignorance of the truth, or Grey's life should not be worth a farthing.” His voice trailed away suddenly, and he stared fixedly at Emilious Finch-Hatton.
“Those were almost your exact words, Mr. Emilious.” I forced the gentleman to meet my gaze. “—That the Comte must be kept in ignorance a little longer. A Comte in doubt as to the state of the funds was all very well — but a Comte who knew the truth, that he had been betrayed by Mr. Grey and England, should stop at nothing! It was for that — the preservation of his ignorance — that Mrs. Grey was killed.”
There was a terrible pause — one filled with horrified implication, as we each of us glanced at the others around the table — and then Julian Sothey thrust himself to his feet.
“Sit down, boy,” Mr. Emilious charged him in a deadly tone. “I shall deal with this.” Then, in a calmer accent, he said: “As for Mr. Grey's life — you may rest easy on that score. The Comte de Penfleur shall not stir from his rooms, without I learn of it; and Mr. Grey has been called by Mr. Pitt to London on a pretext, expressly for the preservation of his safety.”
“So even Grey is as yet in ignorance of the extent of his folly!” Neddie cried. “I can well comprehend it. What man could endure the knowledge that his colleagues and friends had murdered his wife, as a policy of statecraft!”
“Are you accusing me of murder, Mr. Austen? Consider well, before you do,” Mr. Emilious said sternly. “You cannot hope to prove such a claim; for tho' present at the Canterbury Races, I was under the eye of my unimpeachable brother, and half a dozen others, for the whole of the proceedings.”
“But what of Mr. Sothey? Where was he, at the critical hour?”
The improver's countenance assumed the perfect serenity I had last discerned at the Canterbury Races.
“My man will vouch for me.”
“Your man! Aye, I am sure he will vouch for anything. But I cannot be so certain he will be believed.”
“Come, come, Mr. Austen,” Mr. Emilious interrupted in a placating tone. “Is it not far more likely that the Comte de Penfleur murdered Mrs. Grey? I am certain, for my part, that he murdered Denys Collingforth.”
“On what grounds?” Neddie retorted, his brows knit.
“—Because he intended that Collingforth's murder should look like the work of Mr. Grey, towards whom he has always harboured the most vengeful jealousy. The crime was committed on the very night the Comte knew Grey to be called away on business. Grey travelled alone; no one might vouch for his route; and the man Pembroke, if questioned, should be taught to accuse Grey as his paymaster. Pembroke undoubtedly sent the news of Collingforth's presence in Deal to the master of The Larches; but I would warrant it was the Comte who received it.”
“You know a great deal too much about that man's affairs,” Neddie observed.
“It is my duty to know everything that the Comte holds in contemplation, before he so much as conceives it,” Mr. Emilious flashed. “Arrest the man Pembroke, Mr. Justice Austen, and see if I have not told you rightly!”
There was a faint whimper, as of a small animal run to earth, and Anne Sharpe reached a trembling hand to my arm.
“What is it, my dear? Do you wish to seek your bed?”
She shook her head, and said in a voice so faint as to be almost inaudible, '1 have a duty of my own to perform, or all sleep shall be banished forever.” Then, more clearly, “You asked me whether I had ever had occasion to visit Mr. Sothey in the stables at The Larches. Did that question arise from a particular instance you know of, Miss Austen — or from a general suspicion of my behaviour?”
“A particular instance,” I replied. “A woman with raven-dark hair was seen riding out of The Larches' stables, a few days before Mrs. Grey's death.”
The governess rose unsteadily, as tho' seized with a sickness, and backed slowly away from the table. Her hazel eyes were fixed on Julian Sothey, and the expression of horror in their depths must have filled even him with dread.
“Then it was you,” she whispered. “I thought that I had been dreaming — a trick of the light and my tortured brain. But I have seen it in memory again and again, wearying my thoughts like a child's rhyming song! If you knew the nightmare I have lived in, Julian, you should have fled the country long since!”
“Anne—”
“Do you not know that I have observed you sit your horse an hundred times, during those happy days in Weymouth? Whether you chose to ride sidesaddle, and wear a long red gown, I should know your seat anywhere!”
— Did you see that grey-eyed jade, Neddie, spurring her mount for all she was worth?
— I believe Mrs. Grey s eyes to be brown, Henry.
“Of course,” I said slowly. “Henry saw what we all did not. Your eyes are decidedly grey, Mr. Sothey — and the lady's eyes were brown.”
“I could not believe it true,” Anne Sharpe burst out, “but I know now that I was not mistaken! It was you, Julian, who were astride Mrs. Grey's horse in the final heat; and the lady herself was already dead at your hands!”
The Secret Funds were monies voted annually by Parliament, and set aside for the government's use. No public inquiry as to their disposition was allowed; and while they were commonly used during the Napoleonic Wars for the payment of spies and the active sabotage of Bonaparte's government, in past eras the Secret Funds had defrayed the debts of royal mistresses, or purchased votes in corrupt parliamentary elections. — Editor's note.
Sothey is presumably speaking of the period around May 1803, when the Treaty of Amiens between England and France was broken. — Editor's note.
Alan Schom refers to this remarkable instance of intergovernmental cooperation in Trafalgar: Countdown to Battle, 1803–1805, but the full story behind events is outlined for the first time here. — Editor's note.
Finch-Hatton had early news of the troop pullout, something we may attribute to George Canning and his Secret Funds. As historian Alan Schom points out in Trafalgar: Countdown to Battle, 1803–1805, the French government's bankruptcy forced Napoleon to abandon the invasion of England and turn east to Austria, where he believed an easy land campaign would replenish his coffers. His instincts were richly rewarded. The Austrian indemnity alone at the Treaty of Pressburg amounted to forty million francs. — Editor's note.