Chapter 4 In Which Darcy Wins the Aforementioned Wager, Much to Lizzie’s Annoyance
Four
In Which Darcy Wins the Aforementioned Wager, Much to Lizzie’s Annoyance
Darcy really had thought for a moment that she was going to kiss him.
But then he’d seen a flash of determination in her eyes as she called his bluff, and he knew that he was foolish to think
it would be that easy.
Lizzie whirled away from him just as the door opened behind him and Bingley and Mr. Bennet entered, followed by Grigson and
a tall, lanky man of about thirty-five, who swaggered after them with distrustful eyes. Darcy hadn’t given much thought to
what sort of man the local constable might be, but if he had, he supposed he would have imagined a hard-working farmer type,
with an earnest expression and a worried mouth, who would be shocked by the discovery of a body in the finest manor in the
county but ultimately defer to the good judgment of the solicitors in attendance.
Darcy had a feeling this constable would not be such a man.
“Darcy, Miss Bennet, this is Mr. Oliver,” Bingley said. “Mr. Oliver, my friend and solicitor Mr. Darcy, and Miss Bennet—”
“Where’s this so-called body?” Mr. Oliver interrupted.
Darcy stood aside and pointed at the shrouded body on the hearth. “Right there.”
Darcy could read the shock in the man’s expression, although he seemed to be working hard to hide it beneath a tremendous
scowl. If Darcy had to guess, he’d say Mr. Oliver likely hadn’t fully believed there was a body in the house and had been
upset to be called away from his evening. But as he came to a crouch beside the body, it became undeniable.
“Did you touch it?” he finally asked.
“Naturally,” Darcy responded. “I had to, in order to pull it—him—down from the chimney. But no one has moved it since.”
“And why would you pull him out of the chimney?” Mr. Oliver asked.
“It was blocked,” he said. “We were trying to light a fire.”
“And don’t you have servants who will unblock chimneys for you?” he asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
“My sister wanted to light a fire, you see,” Bingley explained. “She said she felt a draft, even though none of us could,
so we rang for a maid. And the maid was having trouble, and then Darcy stepped in, only he was having trouble, too, so he
began to look up the flue, and well . . . here we are!”
Leave it to Bingley to fill the awkwardness with plenty of details.
“Is that so?” Mr. Oliver asked, looking between the gentlemen and Lizzie as if they were all guilty.
“Perhaps the means of discovery are not nearly as important as what follows?” Mr. Bennet suggested. “Identification and an
inquest, perhaps?”
“It’ll be a short inquest,” Mr. Oliver said with a scoff. “Unless this bloke looks familiar to any of you?”
Beside Mr. Bennet, Lizzie rolled her eyes.
“No,” Darcy said, resorting to the clipped tone he used when dealing with an unreasonable opposing counsel. “That’s rather
the point—we’ve only just arrived, and Mr. and Mrs. Bingley have been in residence for only a month. This fellow has clearly
been dead for quite some time.”
“Well, I don’t have the first clue who it could be,” Mr. Oliver said. “This place has been closed up for fifty years, and
old Mrs. Bingley, God rest her soul, wasn’t keen on visitors.”
Now it was Darcy who wanted to roll his eyes. “I agree that fifty years is a rather long window of time for something like
this to occur, but you’re the local constable—you must know about the history of the village and the estate. Have there been
any disappearances over the years?”
Mr. Oliver shook his head. “None that I’m aware of.”
“Any strange rumors, or unknown guests in Netherfield Park that you can think of?” Mr. Bennet prompted.
Mr. Oliver straightened up and shoved his hands into his pockets somewhat defensively. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve been the constable for fifteen years, and my father was constable before me. Don’t you think I’d know?”
Damn. Darcy had been rather hopeful that the local constable would have at least something to go on. “Without an identity, the
investigation will be more difficult,” he said with a sigh.
“Perhaps he was a chimney sweep,” Mr. Oliver suggested. “And he got stuck.”
Lizzie actually snorted, and Darcy worked to keep his own expression neutral.
“Doubtful,” Mr. Bennet pronounced. “Even if a chimney sweep had the misfortune of becoming stuck in this flue, he wouldn’t
have been left there.”
“And he was wrapped in this,” Darcy said, pointing at the tattered remains of the shroud. “Which implies he was dead before
he was placed in the chimney.”
“Placed,” Mr. Oliver echoed. “Placed by whom? The old lady?”
“Isn’t that the question?” Mr. Bennet said in a tone that was almost bemused.
Lizzie was pursing her lips in a manner that told Darcy she was trying to hold back what she really thought, but still she showed no signs of stepping in.
He sighed. “A body, wrapped in a shroud, was placed in the flue. When we pulled it down, we observed that its skull was cracked. A logical conclusion can be drawn that the death was not natural, and therefore was purposefully obscured. Now, given the absence of any knowledge of a missing person, I suppose we’ll have to go about this the old-fashioned way. ”
Mr. Oliver looked suspiciously. “And what’s that?”
“An examination of the evidence, followed by questioning any potential witnesses,” he said, darting a glance at Lizzie. But
she was resolutely not meeting his gaze, as if she didn’t want to be tempted by the tantalizing mystery before them.
“Fine by me,” Mr. Oliver said with a shrug. “But whoever he is, he’s not a villager, I can promise you that.” He crossed his
arms and looked at Darcy expectantly.
Darcy looked at Bingley, who looked at Mr. Bennet, who looked at Mr. Oliver, who continued to stare Darcy down. Darcy could
practically feel the impatience radiating off Lizzie, but she didn’t move, either.
“Oh, fine,” he said, stepping forward.
Despite the fact that he’d been involved in at least three murder investigations in his short career, Darcy had never before had the chance to examine a body for evidence.
He wasn’t quite sure where to begin now.
The face had been exposed by the shroud, which had been eaten away slowly by time, but the rest of the body was still wrapped.
He reached for an edge of the tattered material and gently pulled; it was so fragile that it gave with little effort, tearing and disintegrating as he went.
It felt both rigid and fragile, and Darcy had to suck in a deep breath to steady his roiling stomach—he was really regretting the whiskey now—when he realized that the source of the many stains on the cloth were likely bodily fluids, long since dried out.
Although no strong odor of putrefaction lingered, the body gave off the scent of a long-closed musty cellar. As Darcy carefully
removed fraying pieces of the shroud, he noted what appeared to be remnants of a jacket, shirt, and trousers, although he
didn’t find any evidence of boots still on the body’s feet.
“Given the clothing, I think we can assume this was the body of a male,” Darcy said, wishing he could wipe his hands. “It’s
difficult to tell, but the clothes appear to be somewhat plain. So perhaps not a gentleman?”
“Or not a finely dressed one,” Mr. Bennet pointed out. “Is there anything in his pockets?”
Darcy grimaced. It was a reasonable question, but he didn’t relish the idea of peeling back the layers of cloth any further.
Nonetheless, he gingerly began to search for pockets—or what might have once been pockets. The clothing was disintegrating
on the body in a most unpleasant manner, and Darcy was beginning to think there was nothing there when he found an inner jacket
pocket and felt something hard between the layers of fabric. “Something’s here,” he said.
When his fingertips touched it, he knew it was metal of some sort—it was cool and hard, with a raised imprint on a flat surface.
A coin, he thought, even before he pulled it free. And he was right—it was a small silver coin.
The men and Lizzie crowded closer, hoping for a better look at the coin. “What mint is it?” Mr. Bennet asked.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly, holding it up for them all to see.
Despite the grime that coated the coin, though, he could tell one thing right away: it was a hefty coin.
Silver coins these days were hardly worth their weight, and they tended to be snatched up by collectors or those who’d melt them for their metal.
But this one had the look of the genuine thing, which Darcy had only experienced in his father’s coin collections.
Lizzie plucked the coin from his hand, and he let her, not trying to hide his satisfied grin—she wore a focused expression
as she crossed the room to a nearby candelabra and held the coin under the light. “It’s not British.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Bennet said. “Bingley, your knowledge of foreign currency is better than mine—what do you think?”
Darcy got to his feet as his friend leaned in, taking the coin from Lizzie. He flipped it from one side to another and said,
“Spanish, I believe. The silver cross is unmistakable, and I think it says Hispania here—I’ll ring for Grigson, and he can
bring in some silver polish. Perhaps we can make out a date.”
Lizzie, Bingley, and Mr. Bennet were bent over the coin, which is why they didn’t see Mr. Oliver’s expression change. But
Darcy caught it—the man’s suspicion morphed into wide-eyed shock. His hands clenched into sudden fists, which he shoved into
his pockets as he darted a look to the dead body, then back at the coin.
“Hispania,” Lizzie echoed. “So it’s from one of the Spanish colonies?”
“Very likely,” Bingley said. “The Spanish have been plundering the Americas for silver and gold for hundreds of years. Here, I think this might be a year—a one and a seven, perhaps?”
“Seventeen something,” Lizzie murmured, then looked back at the body. “I’d say it’s more than likely this person has been
in the chimney for at least twenty years.”