Murder most mysterious

Comes in Sandy, looking somewhat tir’d, follow’d very soon by Euphemia with coffee. He drinks several cups and says he will be entirely glad to speak to Mr L-: has seen some of the editorials he has writ that show a very sound grasp of matters.

Also, he adds, I notic’d that he has the excellent taste to publish some pieces by a certain Lady of Rank on her impressions of Naples and the Neapolitans. I daresay he will next be after soliciting her to be his Society Correspondent.

Hah, says I, giving out all the on-dits from the Contessa’s rout last night, no doubt: It did not escape notice that a certain Lord fam’d for the niceness of his dress was endeavouring to return to the good graces of a former friend, who seemed in some mind to show kind to his persuasions &C. Sure I could be quite dangerous did I undertake such a matter.

Indeed, says Sandy, I confide you would. But I do not see why Miss N- was about seeking your intervention, I see her quite often about the library at R- House, why did she not ask me direct?

O, says I, she is quite intimidated by that severe-looking fellow, Mr MacD-.

Oh, says Sandy, and looks down into his coffee cup. He looks up. Sure I do not know what to say to her do I see her.

Why, says I, I think 'twould be civil to say does she ever have trouble in finding some volume you may be able to locate it for her. If you wish to show particular friendly you could ask how her pupils do.

I suppose so.

We sit in silence for a few moments, and then he says that he dares say that any on-dit concerning the restor’d relations 'twixt G- and myself will have been quite entirely superseded by the news of Foliott Fanshawe’s mysterious death.

O, I say, tell on, for I have not yet heard anything like the whole tale.

Indeed, he was discover’d yester-morning by his valet, strangl’d to death. It is most particular mysterious because it is most unlike that any could have got into the room, which was lockt, without disturbing the valet, that sleeps in an antechamber.

Matt Johnson came to open the matter to me, for, he says, in such a case one would usually suppose that the valet was the guilty party, and that there had been some resentment against his master that led him to the act. But were that so, surely the valet would not still be about the next morning and showing every sign of shock and horror at the discovery of the body, but would have taken a most immediate departure with any money and portable valuables he could lay hands on. 'Tis entirely mysterious.

I suppose, says I, that it is possible that altho’ the valet did not commit the act, he may have been a confederate and let one in that did the deed, perchance not knowing that that was their intention.

O, says Sandy, as it might be Fanshawe had sent for a lady of the town? – or one arriv’d and gave out that she had been summon’d.

Tho’, I go on, I cannot see why the valet would not admit that, unless perchance there was some matter of bribery to it. Indeed 'tis most mysterious. Was I writing a tale, I daresay 'twould be some avenging ghost that was exacting the penalty for his sins, but I cannot suppose that Fanshawe ever did anything that would evoke a vengefull spirit.

O, I continue, could one have come down the chimney?

Matt wonder’d about that, but there was a fire burning in the grate, also, did one descend that way, surely there would be signs, as sooty marks &C. Today he goes about among Fanshawe’s acquaintance to see if there is any clew in oddities of behaviour and to discover his known associates, anything that might shed light.

He gives me something of a glare and says that he doubts not that this will become the seed for one of my horrid tales.

Perchance! says I, tho’ I would make it some antient castle, with winds howling about and mayhap a fine storm with flashes of lightning. And some ag’d retainer instead of a brisk young valet. Tho’, I say somewhat thoughtfull, why should a valet go about to strangle his master when he has such ready opportunity to cut his throat with a razor?

Sandy looks at me quite horrorstruck and asks why 'tis that women are consider’d a delicate sex?

Sure it has oft given me to wonder, says I. Tho’, I go on, I suppose that did he cut his throat he might get splasht with blood, and I daresay he would not want that.

C-, I should be extreme happy did you cease from meditating upon methods of murder!

But my dear, are you not quite the boon companion of a Bow Street Runner?

Somehow, he says, 'tis quite entirely different listening to you speculate on the subject, it quite chills my blood.

O, really! I exclaim. You thought I was being a quite extreme squeamish feminine creature when I did not want Marcello to go around stabbing, but do I merely consider how a crime might have been done, sure, I am the lady from the Scottish play.

Permit me to be illogical!

Of course, my dear Sandy, sure you put up with my own illogic.

He rises and says he will leave me to the composition of horrid tales.

Indeed I spend some time writing at my novel. Late in the afternoon I shake out my cramping hand, and decide that I will go ride a little on Jezebel while 'tis still light – for at this time of year the nights draw on, and 'tis anyway very gloomy, tho’ does not rain.

For these reasons there are fewer than usual in the Park. As I ride I recall that when I late met Danvers D- he said somewhat about Fanshawe that I cannot immediate call to mind. I try to remember and then leave it be, I daresay it will come back at its own will.

I see a solitary black-clad figure standing on the bank beside the Serpentine, that looks somewhat familiar. I ride a little closer and perceive that 'tis Sebastian K-.

I hope he is not thinking of casting himself into the water: I daresay he is only standing there in gloomy meditation, but I do not like to leave him there all alone, so I ride up, greet him, and make suitable condolence upon the death of his poor mother.

He looks extremely cold, for this is no weather to be brooding like some poet over the gloomy autumnal scene. He thanks me for my kind words.

Sure, says I, I do not think your late mama would have at all lik’d you standing here catching your death of cold, I think you had better come with me and have some hot tea.

He gives me a small smile and says that indeed, he had not notic’d, but 'tis really quite cold out here. He walks along beside me and remarks upon what a fine horse Jezebel is. But we do not have much conversation until I reach home, take him in, and tell Hector to request us some tea.

Euphemia comes very brisk with tea, and a little later comes in Celeste with some anchovy toast and fruit buns.

I make a little idle conversation on indifferent matters to rather little response. I mind me that he has just suffer’d a bereavement and I should not expect the most exemplary manners from him at this time.

After some while he stirs and apologizes that he is poor company. I respond that 'tis to be expect’d that he is not inclin’d to society at present.

Oh - , he says, 'tis that I have a matter that I have to decide upon, and indeed I cannot make the decision one way or 'tother.

Oh? says I.

It was spoke of a while ago that I might make a trip to the Continent in order to promote our business interests, and the S-s were most exceeding kind in suggesting various connections of theirs that I might go visit, and then with my mother being so ill, and Papa so preoccupy’d, it did not seem the time for jaunting off on a Grand Tour.

Sure 'tis hardly a Grand Tour if you are about business matters, says I (tho’ indeed I daresay it has some of that quality for a young fellow that has not travell’d much).

’Twould be quite like, he says – Cologne, Leipzig, Dresden, Vienna, Prague, Budapest – he could not suppose that this would be entirely work, he would be seeing something of the world. Now his father comes about to take hold of the business at home once more, he thinks this would be a fine time to take up this plan – or anyway, in a few months when travel would be less arduous, and indeed, one would need some time to make the necessary arrangements.

Why, says I, it seems like a fine plan to me. You have been working exceeding hard, this would be a change that could only be beneficial –

O, he says, it is not that I do not want to go! But – It would mean, he goes on, being away for quite some considerable while. And there are – I should be worry’d –

Oh, says I, you and Viola are particular close.

Yes, he says, they have always been close. And now –

Yet, says I, I think did you ask her she would urge you to go.

I did not want to tell her – but do you think I should?

I think you should talk it over with her.

You are very kind to us, Lady B-, beyond our deserts.

I shrug, somewhat embarrasst.