Chapter 13 #2
Lizzie found her ball and measured the distance between where it lay nestled in the grass and the next wicket. She took a
swing, sending her ball (and a clod of grass) flying. It landed nowhere near her target.
She shrugged and turned to Charlotte. “I hope you have better luck than I did.”
Charlotte sent her ball toward the wicket with an easy swing, and she allowed herself a small smile in triumph when it landed closer than Lizzie’s. “The question I find most intriguing is, what does Sally Burton know?”
“There’s something about her,” Lizzie said as they ambled toward their balls. “She’s so cool and collected every time we speak.
Not at all what I’d expect from a housemaid who has just discovered the remains of a man in the house she practically grew
up in. That would rattle most people.”
“Do we think she was involved or just knows something?”
Lizzie shook her head. “I would be shocked if she were involved. I think she’s too young. But then again, I suppose anything
is possible. No, it seems more likely that her grandparents know what happened, and she knows what they know, and she’s keeping
the family secret. To what end, though?”
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Charlotte muttered.
“Which implies she’s protecting someone, or something.”
“Her grandparents?”
Lizzie thought about the elderly couple she’d met that morning—it hardly seemed possible that either of them could be capable
of causing a death, but they hadn’t always been elderly. And they likely knew more about Honoria Bingley’s secrets than anyone
else. What if they were paid to keep quiet about . . . well, whatever they knew?
But if they did have any amount of the Netherfield treasure, why was Sally working as a housemaid still?
“Ladies!” Bingley called out, sounding winded. “Your turn again!”
“I don’t think they’re paying attention, Charles,” Caroline said.
“Come on, Lizzie,” Lydia whined.
“All right, all right,” she said. “Where’s my ball?”
“Isn’t it back there?” Caroline asked.
Lizzie turned and looked about in the grass for the wooden ball but didn’t immediately see it. She looked back in the direction
of her last swing. She had hit the ball this way, and it had landed . . . where, exactly? She was loath to admit it, but Caroline
was right—she hadn’t been paying very good attention. “I seem to have misplaced it!” she called to the rest of them, eliciting
a round of groans.
Fortunately, Lizzie was saved from having to continue her losing streak by Guy yipping in excitement. When she turned toward
the house, she saw Mr. Grigson leading two newcomers toward them across the lawn. The game was quickly abandoned as Bingley
and Jane strode forward to offer greetings, and Lizzie saw with some surprise that one of their guests was none other than
Miss Jeffries, who was accompanied by a young gentleman in all black, wearing a vicar’s collar—so this must be the young new
vicar.
“Thomas!” Bingley called out in his overly familiar way, confirming Lizzie’s hunch about the man’s identity. “And Miss Jeffries.
What a lovely surprise.”
“I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced,” said Miss Jeffries, although as her eyes took in the scene before them, she didn’t appear to be the least bit sorry.
“Nonsense, you’re very welcome,” Jane said, brushing frantically at her flyaway hairs. “Please excuse our casual appearance—you’ve
caught us in the middle of a game.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bingley,” Mr. Thomas said, giving her a slight bow. “I was walking home on my rounds, and I encountered Miss
Jeffries on her way to Netherfield, so I offered to accompany her.”
Darcy joined them, wiping at the light sheen of sweat on his brow, and Bingley and Jane made official introductions. Lizzie
studied Miss Jeffries as they went through the social niceties. She looked much the same as she had earlier that morning in
the graveyard, only now she was smiling, and instead of a basket on her arm, she held a satchel.
“You’ve brought the registers?” Darcy inquired.
“Indeed, Mr. Darcy. All three of them, and I’ve sewn them in cardboard so that they’re easier to read. Mr. Thomas made me
aware of your eagerness.”
Lizzie couldn’t quite tell whether that was meant as a reprimand of some sort, but Mr. Thomas said, “Whatever we can do to
help clear up this terrible business. I know I speak for the entire county when I say how glad we are that you’ve taken up
residence at Netherfield, and I am only sorry that certain . . . ah, unpleasantness . . . has disrupted your stay.”
Bingley smiled gratefully. “Well, we are certainly happy to be here. And as for any unpleasantness, as you put it . . . Darcy and Miss Bennet have untangled more than a few such cases in their time, and I have no doubt they’ll prevail yet again. Please, come inside.”
Bingley ushered their guests into the house, and Lizzie, Darcy, and Charlotte followed. The study was darkened and the air
a bit stuffy. Bingley called for refreshments, and Miss Jeffries set the satchel on Bingley’s desk and withdrew three volumes,
bound in cheap cardboard.
“Here we are,” she said, and though she smiled, Lizzie sensed there was something stiff about her features. She had assumed
that Miss Jeffries’s hesitation the previous day had been on account of her not being acquainted with them before they’d come
into her shop. But now that she was here, Lizzie couldn’t shake the feeling that Miss Jeffries didn’t want to hand over these
registers.
But why?
“They go back to 1689,” Mr. Thomas said. “Or at least, these volumes do. I took the liberty of assuming the earlier volumes
would be less relevant to your interests.”
“It’s highly unlikely the remains have been in the flue that long,” Lizzie confirmed. “They showed no sign of smoke or fire
damage, and we presume that the fireplace was in use prior to Honoria’s arrival.”
Darcy reached for the nearest book and withdrew a penknife from his pocket, sliding it between the pages and slicing them open. When he opened the book, the spine creaked in that delicious, new book way, smelling of ink and paper and promise and . . . well, maybe Lizzie was getting carried away.
“I’m not sure how useful these will be in helping you identify your dead man,” Mr. Thomas said. “And Dr. Fellowes used shorthand
at times—I confess I’ve had trouble translating it, although I wrote down what bits I have been able to discern.”
Mr. Thomas handed them a quarto sheet with neat, even handwriting. Lizzie took it and immediately showed it to Charlotte.
“Thank you, sir. And this is incredibly helpful. Miss Lucas is our legal secretary at Longbourn and Sons, and if there’s anyone
who can help us make sense of it all, it’s she. She’s brilliant.”
“She exaggerates,” Charlotte said quietly.
“I do not. More than one case has depended on her thorough notes and her knack for remembering details in records.”
Mr. Thomas looked surprised but also intrigued. “You work as a legal secretary, Miss Lucas?”
“Yes,” she said, but tentatively. Lizzie also waited to hear what the vicar’s next words would be—not all gentlemen approved
of a lady with a career.
But Mr. Thomas looked impressed. “That is not easy work. I confess sometimes I get overwhelmed with all my correspondence,
and I am just a country vicar. You must be very organized and astute to work in a legal firm.”
Now Charlotte blushed lightly. “I’ve found that a good management system is essential.”
“Ah. Can you offer me any advice, then, as a professional?”
Charlotte hesitated, and Lizzie looked at Mr. Thomas in surprise. He was regarding her friend with curiosity and . . . admiration? She had to bite back a grin.
Was Mr. Thomas flirting with Charlotte?
“Well,” Charlotte began, “I devised a system of ordering all incoming correspondence by priority . . .”
While Charlotte detailed her organizational efforts to a charmingly receptive Mr. Thomas, Miss Jeffries turned to Lizzie.
“Mr. Thomas tells me you work as a solicitor, Miss Bennet.”
“Yes,” Lizzie confirmed, surprised that Miss Jeffries was bringing it up. Most of polite society tended to ignore that aspect
of her life. “Back in London.”
“How intriguing. That must be a very difficult job.”
“No more difficult than running a print shop all on your own,” Lizzie pointed out.
Miss Jeffries simply smiled. “It is my passion, and my father’s business before me. I could no sooner abandon it than I could
renounce my own name.”
“I feel quite the same,” Lizzie said, and found herself studying the other young lady. “But at least I have my father as my
mentor—tell me, is it very difficult running the shop alone? The presses are mammoth.”
“Well, that is why I hire journeymen,” Miss Jeffries said, and then leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “although
I do know how the machines work.”
Lizzie laughed politely at her joke. “I never doubted you did.”
“Well, you’d be the first to say so,” Miss Jeffries said. “When my father died, his competitors descended upon Meryton like wolves, wanting to purchase the presses at a good price. They thought they could trick me into selling below value.”
“But you saw right through them?” she asked.
“I knew that the print shop would be more valuable in my own hands,” she said, her smile only a little coy. But then her expression
softened, and she added, “Unfortunately, it really does take two people to operate the presses, and I can’t do it all. It
took me time to find journeymen willing to work for a woman.”
Lizzie thought that under different circumstances, if she didn’t suspect Clara Jeffries of hiding something, she might enjoy
the other young lady’s company very much. They could trade stories of what it was like to be a woman in a man’s world. “So
the journeymen operate the presses, and you run the business side of things?”
Miss Jeffries nodded. “I handle all the correspondence between writers and artists and publishers, as well as with our suppliers
and our customers. I set most of the pages we prepare for printing, and I manage quite a few of the deliveries.”
Lizzie saw her opening and realized she might not get one quite like it. “You must be running all around the countryside,
then! In fact—did I spot you this morning?”
Miss Jeffries tilted her head quizzically, and Lizzie added, “By the church, just north of the village. Mr. Darcy and I were
walking the dog. I could have sworn I saw you.”
But Miss Jeffries just shook her head. “Sorry, no—it must have been someone else.”
Her tone was light and courteous, and Lizzie waited a beat to see if she’d add anything else.
Liars tended to overexplain, rush to fill in details.
But Miss Jeffries stayed perfectly pleasant and unbothered, and if not for the fact that Lizzie had seen her with her own two eyes in the churchyard with Sally Burton, she might have believed her.
Oh, Miss Jeffries was good.
“My mistake,” Lizzie said lightly, shaking her head. “It must have been someone who looked like you. I’m unfamiliar with the
village, after all.”
But Miss Jeffries didn’t pick up the conversational thread after that. In fact, she stood, signaling her intent to depart,
and forcing Mr. Thomas to wrap up his conversation with Charlotte. Lizzie accompanied them outside to see them off, along
with Bingley.
“Very pleasant neighbors,” Bingley said as soon as they were out of earshot. “I must make sure Jane’s invited them to our
ball next week.”
“Very pleasant indeed,” Lizzie agreed, but she wasn’t thinking about Mr. Thomas.
She was thinking about how Miss Jeffries had so coolly lied to her face, and how she might have squandered her one chance
to question the other young lady and still feign polite manners.
She was thinking that Miss Jeffries was more than a liar—she was a keeper of secrets.