Chapter 19
Nineteen
In Which Lizzie and Darcy Hear Sally Burton’s Testimony
Darcy had watched the proceedings warily, ready to spring into action when needed. Lizzie was doing a fair job with her argument,
so he wasn’t worried about her—it was Mr. Oliver he didn’t trust.
The man had seemed erratic and agitated from the moment they’d made their unceremonious entrance. He’d blustered and pounded,
but he also kept shoving his hands into his pockets, and it was obvious to anyone looking at him that he kept clenching his
fists.
Darcy didn’t trust him to hold his temper, not for a single moment.
And his suspicion was warranted. When he saw the constable make as if to strike Mrs. Burton, he launched into action.
Within seconds of Darcy hitting Mr. Oliver, a number of men from the audience raced forward, most running to restrain Mr. Oliver, though a few positioned themselves at Darcy’s side, holding his arms lest he take another swing at Mr. Oliver.
Darcy didn’t try to shake them off. He had no intention of hitting anyone else—not unless it was in defense.
“Order! I demand order!” Mr. Layne shouted. He’d jumped to his feet and was pounding on the table. “Mr. Oliver, if you do
not hold your temper, I will have you restrained!”
Mr. Oliver stopped struggling, but he was breathing heavily. His eyes darted around wildly. “Where is it?” he asked.
Darcy didn’t know what he was talking about at first, until he looked over to Lizzie. She was standing several paces away,
bending down to pick up something that had fallen on the floor, a peculiar expression on her face. “This?” she asked, holding
up the object.
“Give it back! That’s mine!” Mr. Oliver attempted to lunge toward her but was held back.
“What is it, Miss Bennet?” Mr. Layne asked.
Lizzie approached Mr. Layne. She dropped the object into his palm, although Darcy noticed she appeared reluctant to do so.
“A Spanish cob,” Mr. Layne said, turning the coin over. “Genuine silver, if I’m not mistaken, 1731 mint.”
Darcy let out an incredulous breath. “Exactly like the one found on the body, then.”
Mr. Layne turned to look at him. “Sir?”
“I pulled it out of the dead man’s pocket myself,” Darcy told him.
“I’m Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley’s solicitor.
You can ask him; he kept the coin. And not only that, but an entire cache of silver coins—Spanish, that exact mint—was discovered hidden away in Netherfield Park recently.
So the question becomes: How did that one come to Mr. Oliver’s possession? ”
Murmurs burst forth once again, and Darcy heard someone say, “So it’s true, the Netherfield treasure is real?” before Mr.
Layne turned and smacked the table behind him.
“Order!” When the room quieted, he turned to Mr. Oliver. “Well?”
All Darcy could see in Mr. Oliver’s face was unchecked fury, directed at Lizzie. Darcy tensed, anticipating needing to shake
off the men holding on to him in order to leap between Mr. Oliver and Lizzie. But it was Mrs. Burton who replied.
“He stole it!” she accused. “I knew he would. Always skulking about the grounds and dropping by unannounced. I told Mrs. Bingley,
he may be a constable, but I don’t trust him one bit. He beats his son, and I’ve always said that you can’t trust a man who
will treat his horse better than his own son.”
Mrs. Burton finished her little speech with a smug smile. Mr. Oliver shook his head. “I don’t have a son, you mad old—”
“She means your father,” Mr. Burton said. “Your father was always stopping by the estate, trying to call on Mrs. Bingley.
She told us to turn him away, but he kept insisting on checking up after her, to ensure she was fit to be living alone in
that great house.”
Mrs. Burton looked very confused all of a sudden. “His father?” she asked.
“Yes, Granny—that’s Tom Oliver, not George Oliver.” Sally patted her grandmother on the back. “His son, Tom, is the constable now.”
“Oh, he’s grown up,” Mrs. Burton said in a not-so-quiet voice to her granddaughter. “I thought he was that criminal George.”
Mr. Burton clasped his wife’s hands and said quickly, “Susannah, darling, this isn’t the best place—”
“I told Amy he was no good, too. She was too good for him. Oh, it breaks my heart, Allan. Why didn’t she listen to us?”
Darcy didn’t understand at first. He thought Mrs. Burton was speaking nonsense once more, but Sally’s sharp intake of breath
and her whispered, “Granny!” said otherwise. He looked to Lizzie and saw that her eyes were narrowed as she looked back and
forth between Sally . . . and Mr. Oliver?
Understanding began to dawn.
“What’s she talking about? What do you know?” Mr. Oliver struggled against the men restraining him, managing to break free
of one of them. He lunged forward. “You know something! What did you do?”
The men holding on to Darcy abandoned him to insert themselves between Mr. Oliver and the Burtons. Mrs. Burton cried out in
alarm, and Darcy took this opportunity to join Lizzie’s side, shaking out his hands. It had been a long time since he’d hit
anyone outside the boxing ring, and fortunately no one called for him to be restrained once more, although Mr. Layne did shout
for someone to bring a rope.
“I expect all of you to conduct yourselves with decorum!” he shouted at the room, which was filled with shouts from the audience. “Mr. Oliver, there will be no more outbursts from you!”
Mr. Oliver didn’t stop struggling until the rope was fetched and he was restrained. Mrs. Burton began to cry, and her family
tried to comfort her as best they could. In all the commotion, Darcy looked down at Lizzie. “What are you thinking?”
“I have a theory of what might have happened,” she whispered. “But I’m not sure if he’ll be all that cooperative. Follow my
lead?”
“Always,” Darcy said.
She cleared her throat when Mr. Oliver was finally tied up and swearing up a storm. “Mr. Oliver. How long has it been since
you last saw your father?”
The man simply glared at her. “I won’t answer any of your questions!”
“Now we really are getting rather far afield,” Mr. Layne said.
“Sir, I must ask that you allow the question,” Darcy said. “Mr. Oliver is the one who has accused the Burtons and brought
us all together today. The least he can do is answer Miss Bennet.”
The justice of the peace sighed. “Answer them, Mr. Oliver.”
Something seemed to break in his expression, and Darcy recognized the anger for what it truly was—a mask for grief. “Twenty-two
years ago,” he said, voice rasping. “It’ll be twenty-three years in November that he last walked out the door to patrol and
never returned home.”
How had they missed that? He glanced behind him toward Charlotte, who sat in a chair next to Mr. Thomas, holding Guy.
Her forehead was creased, and he knew she was thinking about the parish registers, which hadn’t mentioned Mr. George Oliver disappearing from the village more than twenty years earlier.
Perhaps his disappearance wouldn’t have warranted a mention in the registers—it wouldn’t do for vicars to be perceived as gossiping—but if he had left behind a child, surely there would have been record of a parish family taking him in, and funds from the church to support him?
“I see,” Lizzie said, her voice soft and sympathetic. “And is it your belief that the body we discovered in the flue is that
of your father?”
Darcy had foreseen where Lizzie was going, but her question still drew gasps.
Tears streamed down Mr. Oliver’s face even as he glared at her. “I knew it the moment I saw the coin. They killed him! They
killed him, and I won’t let them get away with it!”
Everyone was in an uproar, shouting questions and chattering at a louder and louder volume. The justice of the peace banged
ineffectually at the table, and it wasn’t until Mr. Thomas got up and went to the front of the room and placed two fingers
between his lips, letting out a piercing whistle, that everyone fell into silence once more.
“Thank you,” Darcy said. “Now, Mr. Oliver—”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about!” Mr. Burton said, stepping forward to address Mr. Layne. “Honestly, sir—we had no idea there was a body in the flue, let alone that it was George Oliver. We all thought he’d taken off, abandoned his child—he was prone to drink . . .”
“’Tis true!” someone from the crowd added.
“And he did beat that boy,” added another.
“I heard he went to debtor’s prison.”
“He owed me!”
“And me!”
“QUIET!” Mr. Layne shouted. The crowd hushed, and Darcy had the feeling that whatever had led Mr. Layne to becoming justice
of the peace, he deeply regretted it. “Mr. Burton, I appreciate that you and your wife have proclaimed your innocence, but
I find this difficult to believe. If George Oliver did in fact lurk about Netherfield Park with the intent of—what, robbing
the place?—then how did he end up dead in a flue?”
“I swear on my life, I don’t know,” Mr. Burton said, eyes wide with panic.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s just not good enough—”
“Mr. Layne, if I may,” Lizzie said. “I believe I might have a satisfactory answer for you.”
The man rubbed his temples. “Oh, by all means, Miss Bennet,” he said sarcastically.
“Mr. Burton, your wife mentioned that George Oliver visited Netherfield Park often, calling in on Mrs. Bingley.”
The old man was trembling just slightly, but he nodded. “Yes.”
“And you suspected he was after something of value?”
“Didn’t know it for certain,” Mr. Burton said. “But that was our suspicion.”
“And . . .” Lizzie paused, and Darcy knew she was choosing her words carefully. “Did he show interest in your daughter, Amy?”
Mr. Burton didn’t answer the question, but Darcy could read all the answer they needed in his eyes.
“He used her,” Mrs. Burton said. “I told her, ‘Don’t trust that one, my girl. He’s slippery and not good to the child he has.
He just wants a mother to manage his boy.’ But he could work the old charm when he had a mind. And Amy, she liked the idea