Chapter 19 #3
Two coat-pocket pistols were in one case, and a larger pistol was missing from the other.
Each case had its powder flask, bullet pliers and screwdriver, flints, and an oil bottle.
Two of the pistols were stored with their hammers down, the frizzen up, oiled and cleaned, and the flint wrapped in leather.
But one of the small pocket pistols was loaded and half-cocked.
How strange to leave one loaded.
Darcy must have loaded the smaller one, and then changed his mind and chosen a larger pistol.
At least he took her seriously; it would be easier to aim one with a longer barrel.
Elizabeth felt the greatest dread of the consequences of his meeting come over her.
Darcy was alone with only one shot to defend himself.
Was it foolish to leave the house alone, or foolish to let the man she loved face a murderer alone? Elizabeth lifted the small pistol; it was scarcely longer than the palm of her hand. She was going to be Mrs Darcy; Pemberley was to be her home, her tenants, her servants, her family to protect.
She filled the pan about halfway from the small horn on the table, just as she had seen her father do, then snapped the frizzen in place over the primed pan.
Elizabeth tugged open her long sleeve and tucked the tiny pistol inside.
Her spencer sleeve was fitted, but hung loose as it passed her wrist. The pistol fit, and no one would see it if she kept her arm mostly straight and her fingers curled.
Darcy would be angry when he saw her—and that was a shame—but he would forgive her.
As long as I do not trip and shoot myself.
What would she have to do if the situation in the deadhouse became untenable?
Fully cock the hammer and pull the trigger.
And hope that Mr Utterson is only a few feet away.
Elizabeth moved her arm to see if the pistol would stay in its place and tried to steady her breathing.
She was more agitated than she had ever before felt, but she could face whatever was necessary with self-command, certainly if it was for Darcy’s sake.
As she passed through the hall, she saw light through the drawing room keyhole. Darcy had asked her to make sure Hester was abed, so Elizabeth entered to be certain that someone had only left the candles burning.
She felt fresh confusion when she saw a man at the writing table, folding up a letter with great haste.
“What are you doing here?” she cried.
“I might ask you the same,” Mr Utterson drawled. “I cannot imagine Darcy would be pleased to find you alone with another man.” At her shocked silence, he added, “If you will give me leave to hint as to what I think your wishes are.”
“What?” She was completely astounded. Mr Utterson was supposed to be in the village by now.
“If you do not understand me, then never mind,” he said, rising. He approached the door, and she still stood in front of it. “Pardon me.”
“Why are you here at this hour?” Was he about to go to the village, or had Darcy’s hints not tempted him?
“I do not need to explain my actions. Good evening,” he said firmly, gesturing to the door.
Elizabeth stepped back to block the door, putting one hand on the lock. She was not willing to draw the pistol—at least, not yet.
“Have you lost your senses? Let me pass!”
She shook her head, but was ready to scream if Mr Utterson advanced on her.
“Damn it, I am writing a letter because the candles are still lit here and I can hardly see a thing in my room by the light of one candle. Are you satisfied?”
She would have to let him go to plunder the dead, and it made her sick. He noticed her looking at the letter in his hand, and quickly tucked it into his pocket.
“Are you hiding something?” she asked shakily.
“Not at all,” he said quickly. “Were you hoping to importune Darcy? As you see, he is not here, and if you are wanting advice, I do not think that he appreciates cunning.” He pressed a hand to the pocket that held the letter. “Now, may I pass?”
“No!” she cried. “You are hiding something, and we are trying to catch a killer!”
That was a mistake, a dreadful, impulsive mistake. Mr Utterson stared a moment before asking, “Killer? Who died?” He thought a moment and asked, “Miss Darcy’s maid?”
Elizabeth let go of the handle and inched to the side.
My fear has made me extremely foolish. She had wanted to help, and now she had gone and made it worse.
It was best to let Mr Utterson pass if Darcy’s plan was to work.
If Mr Utterson believed she knew nothing about it, he might let her go.
The pistol’s wood handle was warm against her wrist, the steel barrel just touching her palm.
“Does Darcy think it was me?” he said angrily as he took a few steps closer.
She put her hands behind her back and slid the pistol into her palm. “He—I do not know.” Her heart pounded, and she readied herself to raise the pistol if she had to.
Mr Utterson’s features twisted. “All he said in the drawing room . . . Did he go to Lambton to witness a villain stealing from the dead?”
“No, of course not,” she whispered.
“And he suspects I would do such a thing?” He cursed under his breath. “Darcy thinks whoever killed the maid will plunder the dead? He thinks me a thief and a murderer?”
She said nothing, and her fingers were shaking. Being red in the face was not reason enough to bring the gun from behind her back.
“Why on earth would Darcy suspect me?”
He was angry, and Elizabeth wondered if he was genuinely insulted. Hints of doubt crept into her mind. “Carew was killed with a candlestick taken from old Mr Darcy’s room. The thief had to be someone who knew the house, who could easily enter it and leave it . . .”
“And?” he asked in a low voice.
“And you and Mr Balfour are unaccounted for on the morning she died.” At the look of confusion on his face, she added, “Last Thursday.”
“I left early for Tissington, to see—to spend the day with Lord Poole.” Mr Utterson began to pace. He was no longer near enough to harm her. She could flee now, but he then asked softly, more to himself, “Why me any more than Balfour?”
Elizabeth had to swallow and take a breath before the words came. “You are jealous of Darcy, jealous of Mr Balfour, of your older brother because you will not inherit.” He looked sharply at her. “You complain of not having the money you deserve—”
“It was not me!”
“Would Lord Poole say in court that you were there?”
He blanched, and Elizabeth’s finger moved to be ready to fully cock the pistol after all. “His servants could account for my presence, and so could his daughter.”
She saw the way his hand moved over his coat pocket again. Mr Utterson was always going to the post or reading a letter, and Mr Balfour’s rude asides came to mind. “You were here writing to Miss . . .?”
“Miss Newcomen,” he said. “I want to marry Lord Poole’s daughter, but he does not think me wealthy enough. I will do what I must to show him that I can provide for a baron’s daughter. I was here writing to Margaret—we write every day—and are secretly engaged.”
That was all the more reason to suspect him. “A man may be propelled to do much by the impulse of illimitable ardour.”
“I did not steal to make myself look like I have enough money to marry on!” he cried. “And I certainly did not kill over it.” He shook his head in disgust. “You and Darcy must trust in the law and those who carry it out. The magistrate did not call for a coroner so—”
“Only because he feared there was no suspect, but then we saw Carew’s ring was stolen from her body and you were gone from Pemberley that day. Someone took a candlestick from the house and struck her!”
He narrowed his eyes. “You truly think I killed someone? For a ring? I assure you, I am not so sadly involved as that! A few debts of honour over cards and a bill to my tailor are what I have outstanding. I shall be called to the bar and enter my profession, and will make my fortune by it.”
The doubt that Mr Utterson was the killer gained more ground against the certainty that he had committed the crime. “When Darcy convinces the magistrate to investigate, when they ask Miss Newcomen if you were there . . .”
“Of course I was there! Lord Poole did not see me, but Margaret did and so did her lady and a servant in the stable.”
“And you went back on Saturday for the chance to see Miss Newcomen again?”
A fond smile spread over Mr Utterson’s face, displacing his anger.
“I would take every opportunity to see her.” His expression darkened again.
“And to show her father I can afford to marry a baron’s daughter—when I become a barrister.
Of course I would like a greater fortune, but I would not steal or kill to get it. ”
She edged the pistol back up into her sleeve. He was angry and offended, but he was not a murderer.
Mr Utterson approached her again, but she did not feel the same fear this time. “Is that why Darcy has been abjectly miserable? He thinks I killed a maid for spending money and was waiting for a way to prove it?”
“You and Mr Balfour were the ones with the opportunity—”
“Stupid!” he cried, showing all that impatience he was capable of. “It is even more laughable if he suspects Balfour. Balfour will inherit Hyde House! Darcy will return from Lambton with a desperate villager, or a servant, or with no one because the idea is ridiculous!”
Darcy would be shocked when he saw who entered the deadhouse. “I fear Darcy shall need your help with Mr Balfour, to go for the magistrate and a constable—”
“No, I am going to Balfour’s room. He is there, and he will laugh heartily at this foolishness. I need his good humour to improve my temper after all I have suffered to hear you say.”
She was still near to the door, and although she was no longer afraid of him, she flinched to see the hard look in his eye.
“I will make a fortune by my profession,” he repeated, “not by stealing trinkets for gaming money or to make it easier to impress anyone with my spending. Now step out of my way, or so help me, I will move you myself.”
Elizabeth sidled away, not able to look him in the eye, and Mr Utterson went through, slamming the door behind him.