Chapter Twenty-five
JANE WAS FAIRLY certain that the servants at Cannar Hall, which was the name of Mr. Crampton’s country estate, would tell them that Mr. Crampton was not at home, that he was off in London, because everyone who was anyone was in London during the spring, and Jane couldn’t think it would be any different in this case.
Mr. Crampton was the sort of man who straddled both the world of the respectable gentry and the ton. He had no title, but he was quite wealthy. He had inherited his fortune and also added to it by investing in trade.
They were informed Mr. Crampton was at home, so they were shown into a sitting room on the lower level of his estate, which was vast with vast gardens and grounds.
The sitting room was all done up in blues.
The walls were blue. The carpets were blue, though a different shade.
And the couches and chairs were all also in various shades of blue.
Jane sat gingerly on a blue chair while Byron walked around the sitting room, touching the frames on the paintings on the walls. The frames were not blue.
“So,” said Jane, “since he hates you, ought I do the talking?”
“I never said he hated me,” said Byron. “In fact, I said that everyone loves me.”
“What did you do to injure this man?” said Jane.
“I shan’t repeat that. It’s not fit for a lady like yourself’s ears, and you’d be astounded and ever so offended.”
Jane glared at him. “Well, don’t go into detail, then, but tell me roundabout what it is that you did.”
Byron shrugged. “I can’t figure a way to do that, I’m afraid. Even the roundabout way of explaining it would shock you.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “You know, it seems to me that we should get a bit better at putting questions to people. We should prepare a bit, the two of us, get some sort of pattern down.”
“Pattern?”
“Yes, perhaps play to our strengths in various ways?” said Jane.
“Oh, you think I have strengths?” Byron was looking up at a large painting of the view of the gardens at Cannar Hall. In the painting, it was summer and there were flowers and greenery and all manner of growing things.
Jane let out an exasperated breath.
“It’s only that I don’t think you’ve forgiven me, really,” said Byron. “I don’t know why we’re still at this, when you said to me very plainly that you wanted nothing more to do with me.”
“I don’t think that’s what I said,” she said, shaking her head at him. “And don’t pretend you aren’t grateful that I am here.”
“Oh, slavishly,” said Byron. “In all truth, I am stupidly grateful for the fact you have deigned to spend time with me again. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not wary, because I feel you might run off from me at any time, and I can tell you that telling you stories about my past is not going to ingratiate you to me in that way. ”
“I had moved on from that,” she said.
“Had you?”
“Yes, I quite changed the subject,” she said. “I was speaking about how we should put questions to Mr. Crampton.”
Byron looked away from the painting. He opened his mouth to speak.
And the door opened and a servant was there, announcing Mr. Crampton, who swept into the room looking neat as a pin, smiling widely, his blond hair combed away from his face. “What a surprise!” he said.
Jane got to her feet.
Byron walked over to her, leaving the painting behind. “Mr. Crampton, it’s been too long.”
“Lord Byron,” said Mr. Crampton. “With Miss Austen. When they told me so, I couldn’t believe it.
I had to come out here to see it with my own eyes.
And here we are. It is, in fact, the both of you, together.
I did not think there was a building that could hold such intense opposites, I must say.
How do the two of you even know each other? ”
Jane looked at Byron pointedly.
“Well,” said Byron. “After I was accused of murder, I was chased by a mob who wanted to string me up, and her house was the one I took shelter in.”
“That sounds entirely like you,” said Mr. Crampton. He sat down on a couch opposite the one where Jane was sitting.
Jane sat down.
Byron sat down next to her.
Crampton was still smiling, but he didn’t seem amused. There was something about the smile that seemed artificial to Jane. “At any rate, tell me, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
And here it was. Jane had been trying to get Byron to agree to some way to conduct this interview, but they’d been interrupted. So, now, she was not sure how to proceed. One did not simply say, Tell us about how many times Mr. Hardy has threatened to expose your prurient interest in men.
“Well, you see, that murder I was accused of,” said Byron.
“Yes,” cut in Mr. Crampton smoothly, “of the tavern owner, Miss Seward.”
“Yes,” said Byron. “Well, we’re trying to figure out who actually did it.”
“It seems to me there are a number of people who might want to kill a tavern wench.”
“She wasn’t a wench, though. She owned that place,” said Byron.
“As I just said,” said Mr. Crampton, still smiling. His smile seemed firm, in place despite of whatever he might be saying.
“Right, well, we’re trying to determine what exactly happened.”
“On the night in question, as I’m sure you’re already aware, I was at the tavern,” said Mr. Crampton.
“You were?” said Jane. He was quite ready to simply volunteer that? This man either was the most brazen of murderers or he was truly innocent.
“Yes,” said Mr. Crampton. “I did not visit there often, but I did like to go and have a night there from time to time. I saw you there, Byron.”
“Right,” said Byron.
“You don’t remember this either?” said Jane to Byron.
“No, I suppose I do,” said Byron.
“But you didn't think it was relevant to mention when we were talking about coming to see Mr. Crampton?”
“Apologies,” he said to her, a bit sharp.
She huffed.
“Why are you here to see me?” said Mr. Crampton.
“We are simply asking questions,” said Byron.
“I see,” said Mr. Crampton. “You think I did it. You think I murdered poor Anne.”
“Well, no,” said Byron, “because, you see, the murder was not intended to be—”
“I will say that I found her face down in her bed that night, and I thought she was only sleeping, and I tried to wake her, and I couldn’t.”
“You turned her over,” said Jane.
“More than that, I’m afraid. I may have undressed her,” said Mr. Crampton. “When she didn’t wake during that, and when I began to feel that her skin… it was… well, she wasn’t quite cold yet, but there was something wrong with the way she felt to my touch, and that was when I knew.”
“That she was dead?” said Jane.
“Yes.”
“So, you simply left her there?” said Jane.
“I drew back in horror, and I left in a hurry,” said Mr. Crampton. “It was not often, but there was an association between Anne and myself. We had been…” He looked Jane over. “Well, madam, if you are asking me about undressing her, can you stand to hear this?”
“You were her lover,” said Jane softly.
“That would be putting it a bit strongly,” said Mr. Crampton. “It was very occasional. But considering that, and considering the fact that I had spent so much time removing all of her clothes, I thought that people would think I had harmed her, so I left.”
“You didn’t tell anyone about it?” said Jane.
“What would have been the point of that?” said Mr. Crampton.
“It wouldn’t have saved Anne. She was beyond saving.
And it would only have made them likely to think that I had killed her.
So, I stayed clear of it all. And yet, here you both are, having drawn this same conclusion I wished everyone would not have drawn.
But the truth of it is, I did not harm her.
I would not have. Our relationship was not the sort of relationship wherein there is much in the way of argument or strife.
We didn’t do a lot of… talking, I suppose. ”
Jane wondered that they had not heard about Mr. Crampton before.
They’d been so preoccupied with Mr. Hardy and the window that this man, who had been intimately associated with Anne, even in the room that night, had gone entirely unnoticed.
How many other people that night had they given no attention to?
“You don’t believe me,” said Mr. Crampton. “But I have to assure you, I did not kill Anne. If you wish to lay that at my feet, you must understand that I cannot allow you to do that. However, I feel it would be better if the nature of my relationship with Anne did not come out.”
“Why?” said Jane. “You’re not married. It would not be a scandal for a man like you. I rather expect such dalliances are expected.”
Mr. Crampton’s smile faltered for the first time.
“As it happens,” said Byron, “we know you didn’t kill Anne, because we know that the reason she died was because she drank a sleeping draught that had been spiked with laudanum, one that was meant for Mr. Hardy.”
Mr. Crampton’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you saying? Anne’s death was an accident?”
“Essentially,” said Byron. “But someone did intend to murder Mr. Hardy.”
“And you think I would have hurt that man?” said Mr. Crampton. “Why?”
Jane decided not to answer that question. She turned to look at Byron.
Byron glanced at her and then at Mr. Crampton. “Mr. Hardy had a tendency to threaten certain men with ruin if they did not do his bidding. He threatened Mr. Beaumont. He threatened Mr. Seward. We understand he threatened you.”
Mr. Crampton’s smile slid off his face. “Oh, this is just like you, Byron. Really. Why have you brought her into it?”
“She and I are solving this murder together,” said Byron. “She’s very sharp, she is.” He smiled at Jane.
She couldn’t help but smile back.
“Well, how am I to speak freely in front of her?” said Mr. Crampton. “I don’t suppose you’ve told her what happened between you and me.”
“No,” said Byron. “And we don’t need to get into any specifics.”
“I am not going to admit that I was blackmailed,” said Mr. Crampton.
“But you were,” said Byron.