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murder most austen. Copyright © 2012 by Tracy Kiely. All rights reserved.
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CHAPTER 1
s
There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some
particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best
education can overcome.
— pr i de a n d p r ej u dice
I f i had known that someone was going to kill the man sit-
ting in 4B three days hence, I probably wouldn’t have fanta-
sized about doing the deed myself.
Probably.
However, as it stood, I didn’t have this knowledge. The only
knowledge I did have was that he was a pompous ass and had not
stopped talking once in the last two hours.
“Of course, only the truly clever reader can discern that it is be-
neath Austen’s superficial stories that the real narrative lies. Hid-
den beneath an attractive veil of Indian muslin, Austen presents a
much darker world. It is a sordid world of sex, both heterosexual
and homosexual, abortions, and incest. It is in highlighting these
darker stories to the less perceptive reader that I have devoted my
career,” the man was now saying to his seatmate.
I guessed him to be in his late fifties. He was tall and fair, with
those WASPy good looks that lend themselves well to exclusive
1
2 j Tracy Kiely
men’s clubs, the kinds that still exclude women and other danger-
ous minorities. His theories were so patently absurd that at first
I’d found his commentary oddly entertaining. However, as Austen
herself observed, of some delights, a little goes a long way.
This was rapidly becoming one of those delights.
From the manner in which the young woman to his right gazed
at him with undisguised awe, it was clear that she did not share my
desire to duct-tape his mouth shut. Her brown eyes were not roll-
ing back into her head with exasperation; rather, they were practi-
cally sparkling with idolization from behind her wire-framed
glasses. While both our faces were flushed from his words, the
cause for the heightened color on her elfin features stemmed from
reverence; the cause of mine was near-boiling irritation.
I closed my eyes and tried to drown out their conversation by
thinking happier thoughts. After all, I was on a plane—and not
just any plane, mind you, but a British Airways flight headed to
London. London! From there I was headed to Bath to attend the
Jane Austen Festival. A week-long celebration of all things Jane,
and attended by Janeites from all over the world. For an Anglo-
phile like me, this was about as close to nirvana as one could get. I
tried to think of scones heaped with clotted cream, red telephone
boxes, gorgeous accents, and the off chance that I might spy Colin
Firth—anything to distract myself from the man in 4B.
And yet, I could not.
“Now I grant you that mine is a special talent,” he droned on. “It
is not everyone who can unravel the secret messages—the ciphers, if
you will—that are embedded in each of her works. In fact, it could
be said that I am the Rosetta stone of Austen.”
murder most austen j 3
Turning his attention back to us, the man asked, “I gather you
are a fan of the dear lady, Miss Jane Austen?”
“We are,” Aunt Winnie replied, brushing back her trademark
red curls.
“Well then, we are well met!” he replied with a practiced smile.
“For I don’t think you will meet anyone who reveres Miss Austen
or her work more than I.” He twisted his long body in his seat, the
movement producing nary a crease in his perfectly pressed tan
slacks. “May I introduce myself? I am Professor Richard Baines
and this is . . . one of my graduate students, Miss Lindsay Weaver.”
Lindsay nodded somberly at us. She was a tiny little thing, her
pixie features not being limited to her face alone; her thick blue
cardigan and wool skirt practically swallowed up her small frame.
She wore no makeup, but her complexion was nevertheless clear
and smooth, and her jet-black hair was cut short with thick bangs
that skimmed the top of her glasses.
“I am Winifred Reynolds,” replied Aunt Winnie, “and this is
my great-niece, Elizabeth Parker.” I produced a weak smile.
“And are you on your way to the Jane Austen Festival in Bath?”
Professor Baines asked.
“We are,” I answered.
“Excellent! We are, as well. I attend every year, of course. In ad-
dition to being a professor of English literature, I’m a frequent lec-
turer at many of the Jane Austen regional societies.”
“I see,” Aunt Winnie replied. “And how do they generally react
when you tell them that Austen was not only an atheist but a Com-
munist to boot?”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “Some don’t like it, of course. They
murder most austen j 9
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