Chapter Six
Together, Jonathan and Miss Tilney had unearthed many lies and the truths behind them—but rarely had they caught so blatant a falsehood so soon. As soon as Mrs. Hurst had departed, Miss Tilney whispered, “She lied about leaving her room!”
“Indeed, and it is surely significant.” Jonathan felt the same excitement that illuminated Miss Tilney’s face, rendering her so lovely he would have remarked upon it—would it not have distracted her from the accomplishment that had made her so happy.
“That said, alone I do not think it would convince a jury of her guilt.”
“Then nor should it convince us,” said Miss Tilney. “There may be an innocent explanation for her movements that morning—not innocent, or she would have told us of it, but unrelated to the murder.”
Her tone suggested she doubted this, as did Jonathan himself, but he agreed: “We shall not cease asking questions until we have every answer.”
At the open doorway appeared Aunt Jane, with a basket over one arm, covered with a checkered cloth; from the cloth peeked the neck of a bottle of wine or spirits.
“I go now to have luncheon with Mamma and Papa at Longbourn,” Aunt Jane said.
“Are you both well? Mrs. Gooding soon will send up a tray of cold meats and cheeses, a few other nice things. Is there anything else you could desire?”
Jonathan, freshly attentive to the power of discrepancies, said, “When you have a moment, please consider carefully the morning of Mr. Hurst’s death. Do you recollect anything else unusual, anything at all?”
“Even if it seems unimportant, Mrs. Bingley,” added Miss Tilney. “No matter how trivial or how silly. It might prove of use to us, if you would please tell us of it.”
“Not at this second,” Jonathan hastened to add. “Grandmama can become quarrelsome when a meal is delayed.”
“How true. I must not keep her waiting. But I promise to think very hard!” Aunt Jane smiled openly at them, and Jonathan was jarred by the memory of what Mrs. Lofton claimed to have overheard regarding “Nancy,” and what this might mean.
Surely that could not be so—could it?
His thoughts must have been very clear, for even as Aunt Jane left to take her place in the carriage, Miss Tilney asked, “Shall we next speak to your uncle?”
“I think we must.”
Charles Bingley had ever been of the most obliging temperament.
Gracious, kind, and unassuming, he was exactly the sort of gentleman who might have been ruined by the wrong marriage, or at least made extremely unhappy by it, as his great desire to please could have rendered him ineffectual in counteracting the pettiness or greed of a lesser woman.
Indeed, he had been as fortunate in his choice as Jane Bennet had been in hers.
She, too, would have struggled in a marriage less fortuitous, as her gentle and selfless nature might have been taken advantage of by a sterner spouse, or even one benign but unaccustomed to thinking first of others.
As it was, however, the Bingleys shared a deeply joyful union, one in which neither party could possess any greater delight than in seeing the happiness of the other.
Yet, strange though it may seem, this in itself led to certain difficulties.
The Bingleys, absent any need to oppose each other, had never fully gained the ability to oppose anyone else.
In their earnest desire to see all their family and friends as contented as they, both husband and wife would attempt any assistance, offer any enjoyment as was within their power, even at the sacrifice of their own peace of mind.
Nor could either readily refuse requests, even when both the thing asked and the person asking were unwelcome.
The Bingleys were at least spared the injustice done to so many obliging persons, who rarely receive the full appreciation that is their due. Both Charles and Jane were cherished by most of their family and acquaintance, and even the few exceptions still regarded them with some measure of respect.
So it was that Mr. Bingley had never in his life undergone questioning on so difficult a subject as the death of Mr. Hurst, and yet he would have never dreamed of attempting to avoid the experience.
“Shocking thing, this,” Bingley said to Jonathan, before recollecting that Miss Tilney did not know him so well as his nephew, and thus more polished speech must be appropriate.
“We are of course most distressed for my sister’s sake, but Mr. Hurst had been a guest in our home at least once a year for more than two decades. His absence shall be greatly felt.”
Most young ladies would have murmured some general sort of agreement, but Miss Tilney did not. “What in particular will you miss about Mr. Hurst, sir?”
How Bingley wished he had more to say! “Why, he—as husband to my sister—well, he was a very familiar figure in our lives.”
Ever forthright, Jonathan said, “You would not have been his friend, I believe, had he not married your sister.”
“No. I suppose we would not have been, as we shared few interests, but it is quite beside the point, for he did marry my sister, and they seemed to suit each other very well. So it signifies little that his company was—that it was not—”
“That his company did not suit you?” Miss Tilney asked.
Bingley, though pained, felt honor bound to admit, “Not particularly, no. But I knew no harm of the man.”
Jonathan asked, “Would this be equally true for those who were not Mr. Hurst’s social equals? For instance, did you ever observe any occasion on which Mr. Hurst was particularly unfair or unkind to one of your servants?”
“I do not recall one. This is not to say that such an event would be impossible, for Mr. Hurst could be somewhat intemperate in speech when in his cups.” How Bingley disliked speaking ill of the dead!
Yet it was not so very ill, as he then pointed out, “This is hardly uncommon, you know. I should scarcely think Mr. Hurst the worst exemplar of such behavior. Regardless, I know of no conflict between him and any of my servants, and I do believe they would have told me of any egregious action on Mr. Hurst’s part. ”
“We have heard,” said Jonathan, “that there was some minor discord between you and the Hursts—in particular, Mr. Hurst—soon after they came. Will you tell us of its nature?”
“Louisa—Mrs. Hurst, I should say, always wants to wager at cards. Normally I do not allow substantial sums to be wagered in my household, as it can only lead to ill feeling.” Charles had seen more than one fistfight between former friends while at university, merely over a hand of cards.
What could be the point of it? “On this occasion, however, she teased and teased me until I finally agreed, and she won thirty pounds. Of course I would have swiftly made good the debt under any circumstances, but for whatever purpose, she was very insistent upon being immediately paid. I rarely keep such a large sum of cash on hand, and thus it took two days for me to give her what she sought. The Hursts were rather pointed about it, which I found”—this was some of the harshest criticism Charles would ever utter about one of his kin—“not entirely congenial.”
Miss Tilney said, “What of the Loftons, sir? Were they on very intimate terms with the Hursts?”
“Well, of course, Mrs. Lofton is my sister, just as Mrs. Hurst is. They are more than ten years apart in age—Mrs. Hurst is the eldest in our family, and Mrs. Lofton the youngest—so they were perhaps not as intimate as most siblings. But there is hardly any wonder in that, and I believe their relations to have been congenial.” Bingley had never before particularly considered these two sisters’ husbands as independent personages—these men seemed to exist more in the role of eccentrically chosen ornaments—but he wished to help, and so he thought hard.
“I cannot say that Mr. Hurst and Mr. Lofton had any special affinity. But nor did I ever detect any sign of discord between them.”
Jonathan seemed to be taken by a sudden notion. “Did they only ever meet at your home, sir? Or did the Hursts travel to visit the Loftons, and vice versa?”
“Why, I believe they generally only met here—once or twice, I believe, holiday festivities took place at Stevenage Court, which is the home of the Allerdyce family. Mrs. Allerdyce is another of my five sisters, you see, Miss Tilney.”
“I am familiar with Mrs. Allerdyce,” Miss Tilney replied in a very low voice. “We met in London earlier this year.”
Bingley wondered why the young lady should be so downcast at the memory.
Only then did he recollect the scandal of the painting.
He had heard of it, of course, as had any reader of the London newspapers, but how heartened Miss Tilney would have been to realize that Charles Bingley had not given the matter one thought until this moment!
“Ah, yes, of course,” he replied, eager to hurry past a topic that might cause his young guest pain.
“I meant only to point out that, although the Hursts and Loftons would have met elsewhere on a few other occasions, they generally came together here, or in our home in Staffordshire. That is only natural, as I have been head of the family since the death of our dear father almost thirty years ago.”
Jonathan and Miss Tilney seemed not to find this fact as natural as Bingley did.
Come to think of it, he supposed the siblings might well have met in one another’s homes more often, rather than always looking to him as their host for several weeks—sometimes months—of the year.
Once or twice, Jane had even tentatively suggested it to him, and they had gone so far as to think of how they might hint to this effect to the Loftons, the Hursts, and even the Allerdyces.
And yet, as was so often the case, they had borne all, lest his sisters think themselves not welcome.
“I believe we have no other questions at present,” said Jonathan. “Thank you, dear uncle, for obliging us.”