Chapter 12 #2
Miss Darcy nodded and dried her eyes. “She was not a gentle person, not open and motherly like Mrs Annesley, but I was never in doubt that she had my best interests at heart, that she cared for my happiness.”
“Of course she did. Is Carew being buried from this house?”
“No, she will be laid out at her father’s. He said yesterday that he would build the coffin himself. Fitzwilliam offered to hire a cabinetmaker, to take care of everything, but Mr Carew insisted.” Miss Darcy turned from the body and asked, “Do you . . . what think you of the missing candlestick?”
Her eyes were wide, and Elizabeth wondered if it was better to assuage Miss Darcy’s fears or admit that she shared them.
Carew’s death had the appearance of an unfortunate accident, but Darcy’s pale face and grim manner last evening made it clear he thought that she had suffered a hideous violence.
In her opinion, the reappearance of the taperstick, near to the body and with what looked like blood on it, could not be ignored.
“It might be a coincidence. I suppose we shall know if there is an inquest into her death.”
The door then opened and Darcy entered, stopping short at the sight of them. Looking at his sister, he said, “I am sorry to disturb you. How are you bearing up?”
“I miss her.” Miss Darcy tried to put on a brave face, but Darcy came near and took her in his arms. After a moment when Elizabeth wondered if she ought to leave the siblings alone, Miss Darcy asked, “What did Mr Birch say?”
“He said that there is no cause for an inquest, that her death was a tragic drowning.”
“Oh! I am so relieved!” Miss Darcy cried. “I hate to think what fear she would have suffered—and who might have done so horrible a—oh, it is a tragedy, but I am relieved there was no crime.”
Miss Darcy rested against her brother’s shoulder, her whole body exuding relief, and Darcy met Elizabeth’s eye over her head. One look at Darcy’s face was enough to show that he did not agree. He is not reassured at all.
“Would you send the maid back in, Georgiana? After she has warmed up, I would like her to stay with Carew until the men take her to her father’s soon.”
Miss Darcy nodded and, with a parting look at what remained of her devoted maid, left the cellar. Darcy took her place and bowed his head. Elizabeth wondered if he wished to have a moment alone, but the expression that had been in his eyes when he said there would be no inquest made her stay.
When Darcy finished and turned around, she asked, “You do not agree that it was an accident, do you?”
“I do not. The magistrate said that the candlestick is not conclusive reason to call an inquest, that there are other ways to explain it, and there is no indisputable evidence that a crime took place.”
“Then perhaps it was an accidental death,” she said weakly.
Darcy scoffed. “Mr Birch fears upheaval in the neighbourhood if the coroner finds murder, but we have no witness and no suspect to accuse. He wants the parish to take it as a drowning like the others from the first storm to avoid a riot or a scapegoat being sent to the gallows.” He gave her an earnest look.
“You saw how frayed everyone’s nerves are when you took notes at the Pemberley Arms, but how can that justify letting a potential crime be ignored? ”
She ached to have something useful to tell him, but there was nothing.
He looked at Carew. “I fear someone struck her, and she rolled into the water and drowned, or she was struck dead as soon as the base of that taperstick touched her.”
“There is no proof,” she said gently, “and the magistrate has put an end to the matter.”
“There might be proof if there was an inquest,” he muttered. In a thoughtful voice, and still looking at the body, he said, “With no inquest to see if she has water in her lungs, let alone if she was bruised from a struggle or if she was alive when she hit her head, we will never know.”
Elizabeth thought for a moment, and came nearer to the body, looking at the hands folded across the chest. “Have you ever seen women quarrelling over a man in the village square, or a woman defending herself from her ne’er-do-well husband?”
He gave her a confused look. “What?”
“Hair is pulled, faces are scratched, shins are kicked. Carew’s clothes do not appear dishevelled. Look at her hands,” she said, pointing. “They are not scratched, and her nails are not broken.”
Darcy nodded slowly. “She would not stand there and let someone hit her.” He sighed heavily.
“I had wondered if someone mistook her for you . . . Well, perhaps she was not attacked after all and I am worried for nothing.” It was as though he wanted to convince himself the magistrate was right, and she did not want to take that hope from him.
“It is possible it was an accident,” she said, looking back at poor Carew. She heard Darcy moving away as she looked at the folded hands. “Darcy, wait!”
Elizabeth realised her mistake after the name passed her lips.
That he was surprised was evident, and she waited for the expected, the deserved polite correction to come.
He came to her side, still not asking her to not address him so informally.
She was about to apologise when he asked, “What is it?”
This brought her attention back to where it belonged. “Her ring is missing.”
“Perhaps she took it off that day.”
“No, absolutely not,” she cried. “Carew dressed finely to visit her father; he was proud of her. She would often borrow a flower from your sister to put in her hat when she went to see him. I loaned her my pelisse to make the call.” Her voice rose and she spoke faster.
“She wore that coral ring every day—it was her mother’s—and it scraped my skin whenever she fastened a tie or pulled down a sleeve.
Miss Darcy would have noticed the same. It is missing! ”
He looked pensive and began to pace. “If it was stolen after she was dead . . .” He shook his head in disgust at the thought. “She was not wearing gloves when we pulled her out, but would normally. Did someone take them off? How would anyone have seen the ring beneath her gloves?”
“If the gloves got wet whilst walking to Lambton and had not dried before it was time to return to Pemberley, she would have put them in her reticule. She was only walking home. Someone might have seen the ring on her finger and . . .” It was too horrible to think on.
“What did it look like? Was it expensive?”
“No, its value was more sentimental than monetary. It had five pieces of coral that sat very high in a thin gold band.”
“That makes no sense,” he said, frowning. “Who would steal a silver candlestick, kill someone with it, then throw away all of that silver just to steal a few ounces of gold and coral?”
“It is worse than that,” Elizabeth whispered.
He gave her a concerned look. “I agree that it is sickeningly awful, but what do you mean?”
She felt her heart beating faster. “I walked that path from the village, and there is no place near the stream to hide to take someone unaware. She would have seen this person, possibly walked past him. If they were that near to one another, out in the open, he would have known it was Carew and not me. She has no wounds from defending herself. Darcy, Carew might have known her murderer, and she had no reason to be afraid of him.”
There was a peculiar, dreamlike quality to having to meet Darcy’s guests across the breakfast table.
Elizabeth struggled to smile as she buttered her toast and pretended to listen to Miss Darcy and Mrs Annesley.
Not an hour ago she had been standing over a woman’s body and thinking about who killed her, and now she had to make polite conversation and choke down toast and chocolate.
Darcy, she saw, was not even attempting to be engaged as his coffee cup sat untouched and he read his letters and looked at no one.
“Darcy,” Mr Balfour called, “you left us early again this morning. Utterson and I went back to your village and sorted through debris.” He heaved a great sigh, pretending as though he had been terribly imposed upon.
“Utterson had to get his hands dirty, and you were not even there to see us being benevolent. Although I think Utterson only went to send his post.”
Darcy gave them a small smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Forgive me for neglecting you, and thank you for helping. I was surveying land that was flooded on Monday, and then had to ride to Bakewell.” Rather than wait for a reply, Darcy looked back at his post. Elizabeth watched his jaw tighten as he set one down and opened another.
Mr Balfour seemed to realise his friend did not want to speak, but Mr Utterson did not. “I suppose you spoke with a magistrate about . . . that matter.”
All conversation stopped, and Elizabeth watched Darcy slowly set down his letter. In the silence that followed, Mr Balfour looked round the table and then said, “Not in front of the ladies, Utterson. Think of Miss Darcy. Sometimes I wonder at your good sense.”
Mr Utterson glared at Mr Balfour and then, with a little bow to Miss Darcy, noisily picked up his newspaper and hid behind it.
“You may as well know, seeing as my sister already does,” Darcy began. “The magistrate sees no cause for an inquest into what he is certain was an accidental drowning. The circumstances surrounding the missing candlestick are unrelated, or at least not certainly related, according to Mr Birch.”
“That is reassuring,” cried Mr Balfour. “You seemed to be of another mind last night.”
Darcy hesitated before answering. “My opinion does not matter. As far as the Justice of the Peace is concerned, the matter of her death is closed.”
“Quite right,” Mr Utterson said, lowering his newspaper. “It is not for every gentleman to go round deciding for himself what ought to be investigated.”