Jane and His Lordship's Legacy by Stephanie Barron Page B

place of violent death.
    “Not a happy part of the house,” Henry observed feelingly as the dank coldness of the air hit our faces, despite the warmth of the summer morning above. “It wants a number of casks and wooden crates of smuggled claret—sawdust on the floors to take off the damp—and a spot of whitewash on the stone walls.”
    “If you know of a single man in Alton or Chawton courageous enough to undertake the labour of painting this death-room, I beg you will send him to us directly,” I retorted. “Not even Mr. Prowting can discover a person of the serving class willing to enter the cottage. Like all ill-gotten gains, it is tacitly understood to be cursed.”
    “I shall have to speak to young Baigent’s father. The boy ought to be horse-whipped.”
    “So ought Neddie. I shall whip him myself, for having ignored the claims of Widow Seward and Jack Hinton alike.”
    The lanthorn, swinging in Henry’s hand, threw wild shadows against the ceiling and walls; I tried not to find in the flickering shapes the humped menace of rats.
    “Munro was interested, you say, in any disturbance—or the stain of dried water?” Henry asked.
    “—Tho’ Mr. Prowting insisted he saw neither.”
    “Then he did not observe the ground closely,” my brother objected. He held the lanthorn perhaps a foot above the dirt floor and moved it in an arcing sweep over the surface. “Look, Jane. Faint footprints, and a poor effort at scrubbing them out.”
    He was correct, as Henry must always be: in the stronger light of the burning oil, I could discern what a candle flame had not revealed: The impressions of a boot in the dirt, near the corner of the room where Shafto French had lain. They were partial and indistinct, and ought to have been obliterated by the careless feet of Mr. Prowting and myself, not to mention those who had removed Shafto French’s body. I gathered my skirt in both hands and crouched down, the better to observe them. The mark of a right heel, broad and flat; and two impressions of a boot toe.
    “Henry,” I murmured as I studied them, “do these appear to be the marks of a labourer’s shoe?”
    “They do not,” he replied grimly, “tho’ I should certainly believe them a man’s. There are no impressions of hobnails, as one would expect from a heavy working boot, and look, Jane—the leather sole was so fine as to leave an imprint in one place of the fellow’s left toe. I should judge these marks to have been left by a good pair of leather boots such as . . .”
    “. . . a gentleman should wear.”
    We looked at each other, both of us frowning.
    “Could they be Prowting’s?” Henry demanded.
    “Perhaps. But I imagine Mr. Prowting’s impression might be found here, at the foot of the stairs”—I motioned for my brother’s lanthorn—“where he stood an instant with the full weight of the chest in his arms. Observe how distinctly the marks are left, Henry.”
    “And of an entirely different size,” he added. “There is another set of those marks beneath the hatch, where Prowting stood to unbar the doors.”
    “We must invite our neighbour the magistrate to test his footwear in this room, and I myself shall sketch the remaining impressions,” I said soberly. “We ought not to delay. Mr. Prowting may have an idea of Shafto French’s enemies among the gentry of Chawton.”
    “Then why did he not offer them at the inquest, Jane?”
    A slight sound from the cellar stairs drew my head around, and forestalled my answer.
    “Mamma? Is that you?” I called upwards.
    A woman’s face swam in the darkness at the head of the stairs: white, frightened, with large clear eyes and a trembling lip. A knot of red-gold hair crowned the whole.
    “It is Mrs. French, is it not?” I said in surprise. “How may I help you, my dear?”
             
    S HE STOOD IN SILENCE AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS, glancing about the ugly stone walls and the scuffed dirt of the floor. Henry had bowed to the woman