A Jane Austen Encounter (8 page)

“Richard—” She came to her feet in one swift bounce. “It’s Edith’s letter. It has to be. Or the chest of papers she mentions. This proves there’s something to it. We’ve got to find them.” Her words shocked herself as much as they did her hearer.

“Elizabeth, what are you saying? I was just going to suggest that we get out of here before something else goes wrong.”

Elizabeth caught her breath. So they had been thinking exactly the same thing. But no, she was sure her reaction to flee was wrong. “We’re on to something. I know it. Let’s go find Arthur. I wonder who else he told about the letter. Or Muriel, or Gerri. Somebody let the cat out of the bag and now the lion hunters have moved in.”

Richard barked a short laugh, really more just a release of tension. “What a quick-grown feline. But I think I agree. Let’s go back to the Centre. It seems to be the focus.”

“I hope Arthur’s still there. I have a few questions for him. I wonder if the police thought to search
his
room. And Gerri—why was she so quick to implicate you? Was she protecting Arthur?” Now that Elizabeth started, she could think of quite a few questions she would like to ask a lot of people.

But when they got back to 25 Gay Street and she stormed her way up the stairs to the office, she found more people than she had counted on. Indeed, she glimpsed Arthur on the far side of the room. But he was fully occupied in a struggle to protect the neat stacks of papers on his work table as what appeared to be a horde of people milled around the tiny space.

As might be expected, Muriel Greystone was at the center of the hubbub. “All right, everyone. So good of you to come so quickly. But I knew the press would want to be in on the ground floor. Let me introduce you all.” She looked toward the door. “Ah, the doctors Spenser. Perfect. Now,” she indicated a tall, silver-haired man wearing a white turtleneck, “this is my old friend and publisher Paul Exeter from Albion Press and,” she turned to a jeans-clad woman with her long hair pulled back in a clip, “this is Beth from
The
Bath Chronicle
. She’ll be able to get the story out right away. Isn’t that right, Robert?”

The assistant director stood just outside the door, wringing his hands. “Really, Dr. Greystone, I don’t—that is, this is most premature . . .”

Elizabeth moved so she could speak to Robert quietly. “What is she doing? Is this a press conference? A publisher? What’s to publish?”

Robert shook his head. “She asked if she could use Claire’s office to talk to some friends. I had no idea. Claire will have a fit. She’s very careful that everything we release to the press be polished. The Centre has worked hard to build a reputation for excellence. Can you do anything with her?”

Elizabeth laughed at the idea of anyone reining in Muriel Greystone. “I doubt it, but I’ll see what I can do.” Muriel was introducing the young blond newspaper reporter to Arthur and ordering him to answer her questions as Elizabeth edged her way to the tall, distinguished-looking man with his back to the bookcase. “You’re Muriel’s publisher?”

“Paul Exeter, Albion Press.” He held out his hand.

“Elizabeth Spenser,” she returned. She didn’t see any reason not to use a direct approach. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not sure. We’ve published Dr. Greystone for years, so when she rang and said she had a monumental find that would impact on her upcoming book . . .”

Elizabeth smiled. “You thought it best not to argue.”

He returned her grin. “That’s about the size of it. Our offices are in Bathwick, just across the river, and I thought it might be a good experience for our interns.” He indicated two young people in the corner behind Claire’s desk. “Jack and Polly. Keen to learn the publishing business. Students of Muriel’s at St. Frieswide’s. At least, Polly was, and she recommended Jack.”

“Albion Press?’ Elizabeth asked.

“Bit of a pun, that. Of course, Albion’s an old name for England, but an Albion press was an early hand printing press. A real contrast to today’s all-electronic approach, but it emphasizes our main market niche— history.”

“What do you publish?”

“Textbooks, biographies, scholarly work. We’re launching a new line of facsimiles of historical documents. I understood Muriel wanted to offer us something in that line. I don’t quite understand why she brought the
Chronicle’s
crime reporter into it.” He nodded toward Beth.

“What is Muriel’s new book about?”

“Ah,
Analysing Jane
—an analysis of Jane’s style and how she worked. I’ve seen the rough draft. An examination of Jane’s rewrites of
Persuasion
and
Pride and Prejudice
. I thought it was nearly finished, but she said she’ll now be adding a chapter on
The Watsons
.”

Muriel, her trademark purple blouse shimmering in the light from the window, called for their attention again. She held up the box from the end of the work table and told about its donation, then went on to mention a few of the items lying out on the table. “Unfortunately, the most interesting of my discoveries has gone missing, but I assure you I will recover all in time for Albion Press to include a facsimile in my book.”

“Her
discovery?” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t comment further. “So are you interested? Will you publish the facsimiles? If she finds them, that is.”

Paul shook his head. “Possibly. But it’s early days. This seems most unorthodox.”

“Exactly what I think,” Elizabeth agreed. “I wonder what she hopes to gain by such grandstanding.”

“Occupying the ground so no one else will take credit for the find. Typical.”

Elizabeth was startled by the caustic tone in the newcomer’s voice. “Gerri, I didn’t realize you were here.”

Before Geraldine could reply, Muriel rapped on the table for attention. “So, that’s the story to this point. I knew you would all want to be in on the excitement. You can be assured I’ll keep you updated as the documents are studied more closely. And when we recover the letters, of course. I’m sure they’ll turn up. Merely misplaced or in the possession of someone simply wanting to study them for academic purposes, no doubt.” She looked around the room meaningfully, her eyes resting on Arthur, Geraldine, Robert, Elizabeth, and Richard each in their turn. “I pledge to work tirelessly for the recovery of this valuable find for the literary world, and I shall personally lead the undertaking. The Jane Austen Quest, I’m calling it.” As she spoke the last, she looked aside at Beth’s notes to be certain the reporter had recorded the title correctly.

Red-faced, Robert pushed his way forward. “Dr. Greystone, I really must protest. Nothing has been established. All this publicity—it could be very harmful . . .”

“Nonsense. Exactly what you need. You’ll see—when the article comes out in the
Chronicle
, it’ll double your visitors. Especially if the national press picks it up—and they will. You mark my words. And you, Paul,” she turned to the publisher. “Double our print run, eh?”

“But what about the police enquiry?” Elizabeth asked.

“Precisely my point,” Muriel replied. “No sense in someone else trying to take credit for the find or to sell it on now that it’s known as stolen property.”

Elizabeth didn’t catch Robert’s muttered reply. But the look he shot at Muriel should have been enough to make even that redoubtable lady take a step backward.

Chapter 8

BY COMMON CONSENT THE next morning, Elizabeth and Richard gave the Jane Austen Centre a wide berth and Elizabeth more than once found herself looking around her to be sure Muriel didn’t waylay them for some scheme—scholarly or promotional—of her own devising. This Sunday was their last day in Bath. Tomorrow they would be going on to Chawton—with Muriel in charge of the tour by prior arrangement. So Elizabeth was determined that today would be just hers and Richard’s.

They began with Holy Communion at the Abbey. The unbroken sweep of the long nave, the pale golden stone arches leading to rich fan-vaulting high overhead, the midmorning light streaming through the intricate stained-glass east window and the gentler light falling from the high clerestory windows made Elizabeth feel she must be worshiping in paradise itself. When the organ pealed forth and the choir began an anthem, Elizabeth relaxed and knew she could give herself over to the beauty and peace such worship engendered.

Especially the beauty of the language of the Prayer Book. Just such language as formed Jane’s own spirituality and that of her whole family. Jane was the granddaughter of a clergyman, the daughter of a clergyman, and had two brothers in the clergy. But the rest of the family was equally devout. Elizabeth smiled as she recalled that Jane’s brother Francis, while stationed in Ramsgate, became known as “the officer who knelt in church,” an indication of his piety. Following his example, Elizabeth slipped to her knees.

The pealing of the organ accompanied them down the aisle after the final “Thanks be to God.” The bright sunlight made Elizabeth blink as they entered the Abbey yard with the bells ringing from the tower high over their head. She took a deep breath and squeezed Richard’s arm. “Ah, what could be lovelier than a Sunday in England?”

The ringing changes accompanied them like a waterfall of sound as they crossed the yard and entered the Grand Parade. They paused, leaning on the stone balustrade, to look down into the beautifully landscaped Parade Gardens below them lining the banks of the River Avon. They moved on, walking slowly and dodging the other passersby as necessary, for surely all the world was out strolling the streets of Bath and the banks of the Avon on this perfect midsummer day.

“Ready for lunch yet?” Richard asked.

“Not yet.” But as she answered, Elizabeth spotted a small shop displaying scrumptious-looking pastries and sandwiches in its window. “Let’s buy something to take with us. We can have a picnic when we get hungry.”

They did just that, then crossed Pulteney Bridge lined on both sides with flower-bedecked shops and continued on up to Laura Place. The street here divided in a diamond shape to allow for the great circular fountain in the center. Richard consulted his informative map. “Ah, this is the widest street in Bath. By 1800, this side of the river had become the most fashionable part of the city. At that time, houses here cost £300. Today they’re around four million pounds.”

“Goodness.” Elizabeth calculated. “More than six million dollars.”

“At least,” Richard agreed. “Little wonder Jane thought houses here would be above their price, even though her father very much fancied something in the area.”

Beyond Laura Place, they entered Great Pulteney Street. “Jane settled the Allens and Catherine Morland here very comfortably.” She smiled; the characters from her favorite novels were as real to her as historical people. Sometimes she even had difficulty recalling whether a certain place brought back a scene from Jane’s novels or her letters—whether something happened to one of Jane’s characters or to the authoress herself. But then, it probably didn’t make too much difference, since Jane never wrote about a place she didn’t know personally.

Richard entered into her fancy. “Yes, this would be perfect for Catherine. And little wonder the fortune hunters thought her a great heiress, living here.”

A group of men walked past them and Elizabeth smiled, noting how much better-looking Richard was to her eyes than any other man on the street—a thought that called to her mind Anne Elliot so readily picking out Captain Wentworth from among a group as she and Lady Russell drove by. Anne was in a frenzy to know what Lady Russell would say as he passed directly in the path of the lady’s intent gaze. She could only imagine Lady Russell’s astonishment at finding him so unchanged after so many years.

At last Lady Russell turned from the window to announce that she had been looking for some window curtains a friend had described to her, but she had failed to distinguish them. Elizabeth renewed her smile. Little wonder
Persuasion
was her favorite novel.

As they walked up the street, Elizabeth was particularly taken with the apartments below ground level. The occupants had created tiny green wells of the stone stairs and the few square feet before their door by filling the area with pots of ferns, flowers, and vining greens. One even held a miniature palm tree. Elizabeth paused, leaning on the iron railing, and drew her water bottle from her bag. As she drank, she heard a murmur of voices from the apartment window which stood open to the greenery below her. She jerked to attention. Did someone mention a letter?

Richard started to say something, but she held her finger to her lips, straining her ears to hear more. Could she have lighted on the home of the thief? How could she find out who lived there? Would it prove to be someone they knew? Someone who worked at the Centre? An accomplice of Arthur’s? Had she recognized the voice? Was it male or female? What about that Jack and Polly who turned up with the publisher?

The latch clicked on the door beneath her. Elizabeth looked around wildly. Where could she hide? She must see who emerged. But she didn’t want to be seen. “The map, Richard,” she hissed.

“What?”

“Give me your map. Quick!”

He handed her the folded sheet. Elizabeth held it over her face. The door closed. She heard feet on the paving stones. She peered over the top of the map. A young woman in jeans and a bright shirt tripped lightly up the steps with a white envelope in her hand. She smiled at Richard as she made her way up the street to the pillar box.

Elizabeth folded the map and handed it back to Richard.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

She thought of denying all and saying she merely wanted to look at the map, but Richard knew her far too well. She sighed. “Call it the Catherine Morland syndrome.”

He grinned. “Ah, expecting body parts in an old trunk?”

“A trunk that actually contained a laundry list?” She returned his grin. “Something like that. But I did hear right. It
was
something about a letter.”

“We’re taking a day off from all that, remember?” Richard put an arm around her shoulders. At the top of the street, they came to Sydney Gardens and turned left into Sydney Place. Outside No. 4, they stood looking up at the home where Jane Austen lived for perhaps three years. This time it was a white door, but topped, like the others they had observed, with the inevitable fan light. One thing was different, though—this townhouse was surrounded by scaffolding.