Jane and the Canterbury Tale by Stephanie Barron Read Free Book Online Page B

night—that her husband had once cherished a
tendre
for the young lady who had married Curzon Fiske.
    Mr. Moore frowned. “The entire nature of Fiske’s pursuits—his whole manner of living—was repugnant to me, as well you know, Edward! I could not regard his stile of living, or his choice of acquaintance, with approbation. It has been long and long since we two had anything but reproaches to offer one another; and tho’ I was grieved indeed to learn of Curzon’s death, I will freely own I thought it a happy release from a life that had grown burdensome—to more than just himself.”
    “You had no notion he survived the fever that was reported to have killed him?” my brother asked mildly.
    “None whatsoever! Do you sincerely believe I should have
countenanced
Mrs. Fiske’s marriage yesterday to Captain MacCallister, had I doubted the veracity of those reports?”
    “I do not.”
    “Very well.” Mr. Moore looked slightly relieved. “Then I suppose it is for us, now, to determine what is to be done.”
    My brother knit his brows. “I propose to await Dr. Bredloe, as I have stated already. There must be an inquest, and it is for the coroner to decide when and where that shall be conducted. Once Bredloe has seen enough of the remains, I propose to remove Mr. Fiske to a more suitable location in Canterbury—whichever publick house Bredloe chuses for the empanelment of his jury.”
    “But there is Mrs. MacCallister to consider,” I interjected. “Surely she must be told?”
    “On no account would I have us commit such needless folly!” Mr. Moore’s words burst from his mouth with a ferocity I had never witnessed in him—and he was a man whose ill-temper was notorious. “No possible good may be served by cutting up that unfortunate woman’s peace; she ishappy in her present union; let her remain so! It should be the final insult her late husband might deliver, to destroy Mrs. MacCallister’s reputation—having already destroyed so much.”
    “You forget yourself, Moore,” Edward said bluntly. “The man was foully murdered. Would you deny even Curzon Fiske his measure of English justice?”
    “I would deny such a man
anything
he had so palpably failed to earn,” Mr. Moore returned with heat.
    “Gentlemen!” I cried. “I beg of you—a quarrel between yourselves cannot hope to serve our ends. Pray consider what you are about.”
    Edward smiled grimly, and Mr. Moore bowed—more in respect of a lady, than of any sense I might have uttered.
    “There is but one honourable course of action before us,” the clergyman insisted. “Convey to that unhappy pair the intelligence of Fiske’s discovery if you
must
—but preserve an absolute silence regarding the
nature
and
time
of his death. The man was murdered, so you say—but we cannot possibly apprehend the circumstances; he might have done away with himself, after all; and the principal point, as I see it, is that Fiske
is no more
—as he was believed, long since, not to be!”
    “But—” Edward objected.
    “That Fiske is
dead
,” Mr. Moore blundered on, “preserves the respectability of his wife’s late marriage; and I cannot see that canvassing the exact
hour
or
agent
of that death will achieve any greater purpose! The blackguard may have died two days ago, as easily as half an hour since; and therefore, no discussion of the subject ought to be allowed further than this room. Will you both swear to that?”
    He glared defiantly first at my brother, and then at me, as tho’ suspecting I should be the sort of woman determined to spoil sport. I could not find it in my heart to disappoint him.
    “But surely the
time
of Mr. Fiske’s murder must tell us agood deal about the
identity
of the one who killed him?” I observed, with all apparent innocence. “It appears to me a vital point. When he was merely a faceless pilgrim, anyone might have done the deed; a mere footpad or chance miscreant. But as a gentleman formerly well-known in the