Chapter 7 #3
Elizabeth stopped herself, but the urge to do so almost overwhelmed her. After a few moments, she gave in and examined the heels, looking for secret compartments.
Charlotte actually giggled.
“It cannot hurt to make certain.” Elizabeth blushed.
When Elizabeth turned, she found Mr. Darcy inspecting the dressing table. He touched one of the cosmetic tins with the tip of his finger and then, with extreme delicacy, used his handkerchief to unscrew the lid. He sniffed, then replaced the cap.
“What is it?” asked Charlotte, drawn by his precision.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said, glancing at Elizabeth. “It is just that… it was said she was found with no outward mark of injury other than a bruise where her cheek hit the fountain.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I saw a residue on her chin, but nobody has mentioned it since.”
He caught her gaze. “I saw it, as well.”
“What color was it?” Charlotte asked.
He shrugged just a little, which was strange for him. “I believe my sister would call it ‘Blossom.’”
Elizabeth smiled brightly. Mr. Darcy’s color “blossomed” a bit before he turned away.
Charlotte said, “There is always the possibility of poison. But the coroner declared she died of a fit of the nerves, did he not?”
Mr. Darcy grimaced. “He did. But I am inclined to believe that a country coroner, faced with the corpse of a companion, and pressured by Lady Catherine, would look for the simplest answer.”
“Then it is up to us to look for the less simple one,” said Elizabeth, who found she preferred this mode of discourse with Mr. Darcy to any other. It was, for all its gravity, almost exhilarating.
Charlotte looked about the room and said, “It is as if she left very little of herself behind.”
“That might be the greatest clue of all,” said Elizabeth. “She seemed a woman who prized order. One who kept even her memories in neat bundles.”
Charlotte looked down at the floor, then at Elizabeth. “Assuming Lady Catherine and the coroner are correct, by leaving so little, perhaps she hoped to minimize harm to those she cared for.”
All were quiet for a moment.
“I do not believe she did this to herself,” Elizabeth whispered.
“Neither do I,” Mr. Darcy agreed. “We must search for a motive for the murderer, if there was one.” He looked at Elizabeth. “You are better suited to this than I. I trust your judgment.”
Elizabeth was aware of the satisfaction of being acknowledged in such terms. She drew a breath and surveyed the room once more, as if to memorize its emptiness.
Mr. Darcy bowed. “You will allow me to see you safely home, ladies. Then I will report to the authorities, and inquire whether any stranger has been seen in the village or on the roads.”
They filed out of the room.
In the hall, Charlotte squeezed Elizabeth’s arm. “Well done, Lizzy,” she whispered. “You are wasted on the drawing rooms of Hertfordshire.”
Elizabeth managed a smile. “I have always preferred to be…”
“Unique,” Charlotte finished for her.
“An apt description,” Mr. Darcy said.
A few minutes later, the three of them set off down the gravel path to Hunsford Cottage, their footsteps out of step but united by purpose.
As they reached the bend that would take them out of sight of Willow Grange, Mr. Darcy slowed his pace and waited for Charlotte to walk on ahead, then turned to Elizabeth.
“There is one thing I do not understand,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Why do you pursue this so tenaciously? You are not a coroner, nor was Mrs. Blackstone your family’s concern. What do you gain by it?”
Elizabeth replied, “Because what happens to a person, and whether the truth of it is ever known, is the only thing that truly matters in the end.”
She paused, aware that the answer was both truer and more vulnerable than she had intended.
“And because it is easy for the world to pretend that tragedies are accidents. I do not believe this was an accident. Mrs. Blackstone deserves better than to be tidied away as an embarrassment. She deserves justice.”
Mr. Darcy studied her, his own expression unreadable. “Again, I must say you are formidable,” he said at last.
Elizabeth laughed, surprising them both. “You have said that before, Mr. Darcy. I wonder if you mean it as a compliment or a warning.”
He smiled, a real one this time, rare and lopsided. “Perhaps it is both, Miss Elizabeth.”
A few minutes later, at the garden gate, Charlotte excused herself and walked on into the house.
Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy paused.
He asked, “Will you join me at Rosings tomorrow to examine the scene again?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth answered.
He bowed deeper than protocol required. “Until then.”
She watched him walk away, straight-backed. Only after he had disappeared behind a hedge did she allow herself to smile.
As she made her way into the parsonage, Elizabeth wondered if there might not be more to look forward to than merely the next clue in the case of Mrs. Blackstone.
But she would not permit herself that extravagance—not yet. There was, after all, work to do.
Tomorrow, there would be the maze. And perhaps, in its silent and circuitous paths, something approaching the truth.