“Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Austen, furrowing her brow. “What are we to do, then?”
“Well, another way to clear his name would be to discover who actually killed Miss Seward,” said Cassandra.
“It was obviously him,” said Jane. “He practically admitted it, after all.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Austen. “If that is the case, we are having a murderer here for luncheon today. That doesn’t seem very proper, I don’t think.”
“Maybe he didn’t do it, though,” said Cassandra.
“I don’t see how there would be any way to know one way or the other,” said Jane. “Here is what we shall do. After luncheon,I shall take him aside and I shall be gentle, but firm, when I tell him he must find somewhere else to go.”
“Jane,” said Mrs. Austen. “You cannotdothat.”
BUT AT LUNCHEON, Byron, who ate with great appetite, said, between bites, “I’ve been giving this all quite a bit of thought, and it occurs to me that you’re really less help than I might have thought in the beginning. I suppose I came here only because you were the only people I knew in this part of the country. But whatever mad idea I had in my head for you to say I was here during the murder, I don’t think it will work. So, after luncheon, I shall take my leave of you.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Austen, “so soon. How disappointing. However, you must do as you think is right, and we shall not stand in your way.”
“Indeed not,” said Cassandra.
“I am sorry about all the biscuits,” said Byron. His gaze sought out Jane’s.
Jane, however, found herself feeling strangely about the idea of Byron simply up and leaving. She did not wish him to stay, of course, but she supposed the novelty of his being here had been diverting. “What are you going to do? Go back to London?”
“I suppose,” he said.
“What about Miss Seward?” said Jane.
“Horrible thing,” said Byron, bringing a forkful of food to his mouth.
“Well, did you kill her?” said Jane.
“Obviously not,” said Byron, “and it would be better if we knew who had done it, so that person could be brought to justice. But seeing as I have only a patchy memory of last night—”
“Other people might have a less patchy memory,” said Jane. “Other people in the tavern might have seen what happened.”
“Could have, I suppose,” agreed Byron.
“We could go and talk to them,” said Jane.
“Jane,” said Cassandra, shaking her head.
Jane winced. “Yes, actually, what am I saying? You must go back to London, of course, and we must drop the entire subject.” She cleared her throat. “I am ever so busy with my book, after all.”
“Oh, a new book?” said Byron. “What’s this one called?Pomp and Propriety?”
She sighed heavily. “Just because I am writing a book doesn’t mean I’m going to publish it, you know.”
AFTER LUNCHEON, BYRONwent on his way.
They had been obliged to send their servants to town to get word to have Byron’s horse brought from the stables in the inn. It was brought, saddled and bridled, and Byron climbed into the saddle and waved his goodbyes and that was that.
Jane had sort of wondered if the inn would deny sending the horse, claiming that Byron was a murderer who shouldn’t be allowed to escape, but it seemed there had been no issues on that score.
And now, it was all over.
Which was good, truly, because Jane didn’t need that kind of a headache in her life.
She went back upstairs to the manuscript she had been obliged to abandon earlier in the day and gazed down at it. She was in the process of rewriting all of it out of letters and it was sort of grueling. She liked the idea of the story. It was a good joke to her, she thought.
