Chapter 11
Since Mr. and Mrs. Collins had business with Lady Catherine, and a woman had recently died on the grounds of Rosings, Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam volunteered to walk with Elizabeth to the parsonage.
The cold had returned with a vengeance. There was no softness in the April air, only the bite of wind scouring the exposed flanks of Rosings Park and turning the long east lawn into a corridor of shifting light and shadow.
The gravel path, which wound along the clipped border of the formal gardens, made a crunching sound beneath the boots of its travelers.
It was along this path that Elizabeth found herself between Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy, both men much taller than she, both intimidating in their respective greatcoats: one cut for the cavalry; the other somber and exquisitely tailored.
The colonel, a master of small talk under any conditions, began their stroll with a story about a chaplain who had once attempted to grow tulips on the regimental parade ground.
Mr. Darcy allowed the tale to proceed, making the necessary grunts of amusement at every juncture.
But Elizabeth could see from the set of his jaw that he was not truly interested in his cousin’s story, for she had come to recognize the way Mr. Darcy’s mind organized itself around a problem.
His thoughts may be invisible in his face, but they were detectable in the economy of his movements.
He was, at this moment, fully deployed for war.
“So, you see,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, with a flourish of his gloved hand toward the beds of shivering narcissus, “no matter how one toils, nature will always have her own way.”
He shot a look at Elizabeth, as if daring her to apply the moral.
Elizabeth replied, “The chaplain would have done much better with cabbages. They are known for thriving, even where they are least wanted.”
The colonel laughed. “I will pass your horticultural wisdom to my next commanding officer.”
She was about to return volley when Mr. Darcy spoke, his voice low and measured. “Richard, may I ask you something about that morning? The one in question.”
The abruptness of the shift stilled the colonel’s smile. He nodded. “Of course.”
Mr. Darcy did not turn to face him. His eyes remained fixed on the path ahead, where the pale gravel gave way to a rectangle of worn flagstones. “You said, last night, that you had been walking the grounds when you heard Miss Elizabeth’s call for help. Is that accurate?”
Elizabeth found herself startled by the efficiency of this approach.
She half expected the colonel to recoil, but he only shrugged deeper into his coat.
“It is, and it isn’t,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam as he stopped.
The others stopped as well.
The colonel went on to say, “I did not go out into the grounds proper, though I was up before sunrise. Could not sleep. At first, I paced the corridor, as is my habit when… unsettled.”
Elizabeth nodded. Mr. Darcy said nothing.
The colonel continued, “After a while, I hoped a breath of air might do me good, so I stepped out onto the east terrace. Feeling the cold more than I expected, I kept to the wall. Walked to the end, then back again. But I did not go further.” Pausing, he tilted his head.
“Now that I think about it, I did hear something in the hedgerow. I assumed it was a servant at work or an animal. Nothing unusual, really, so I thought nothing of it.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze did not move from the path. “What time was this?”
The colonel pursed his lips, casting his mind back. “The sky was brightening, but it was not yet fully light.”
“And you saw no one?” Darcy pressed.
“No one,” said the colonel.
Elizabeth watched the exchange with the intensity of attending a championship game between two prominent chess players. She felt the question forming in Mr. Darcy, the next piece to be advanced.
“Did you enter the maze at any point?” Mr. Darcy asked.
The colonel’s jaw tightened. “No. I do not care for such contrivances. And besides, I dislike losing my way so early in the day.”
Elizabeth found this deflection almost elegant.
Mr. Darcy met his cousin’s gaze, letting a length of silence stretch, the kind that hungered for confession.
The colonel, to his credit, faced it squarely.
“If you’re wondering whether I might have seen something,” he said, taking a step toward Mr. Darcy.
“I regret to say I was, for once, oblivious. I was there ten, perhaps fifteen minutes at most. I was returning to the house to have my coffee when I heard the commotion at the fountain. Believe me, out of habit, I would have noticed if someone had followed me. The path was empty, and the only other door on that side was locked from within. Though the door I left through… anyone with a key could have already been through it.”
Elizabeth glanced at Mr. Darcy. She found him processing not just the words, but the cadence and consistency, and the willingness to volunteer detail.
The wind rose, flattening the grass and setting the crows to voice a boisterous complaint.
Elizabeth stepped forward, letting her boots crunch the gravel as she inserted herself bodily between the two men. “Colonel, may I ask a question?”
The colonel brightened, as if relieved to be addressed by a less severe court. “Certainly, Miss Bennet.”
She considered her words. “Concerning the movement you heard in the hedgerow… did it sound as if it were one person, or more?”
The colonel blinked. “One, I should think. Now that I remember, I can recall it distinctly. Knowing what I do now, I believe it was not the irregularity of two… a steady pace, but—” He paused, searching for the right term.
“—it was not the tread of a servant. Quicker. And with purpose. Perhaps even someone avoiding being seen.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes flicked to Elizabeth, not to interrupt but to register her line of reasoning.
Elizabeth nodded. “Then, as you walked back along the wall, did you hear anything else? A voice, perhaps?”
The colonel shook his head. “The wind and, eventually, the sound of doors within the house.” He looked up, brow furrowed.
“Although… now that I am thinking of it, when I was furthest away from the house, I did notice a slight movement at the far end of the maze. There is a hole, you see, from some branches that had died and the gardener trimmed back, hoping for new growth this season. It is near the first turn.”
Elizabeth met his gaze. “You dismissed it?”
He hesitated, and in the span of that pause Elizabeth knew she had found the soft spot.
His shoulders relaxed. “I did. At the time, I had no reason to think it was significant. A bird, or a rabbit, or—” He gave a small, rueful laugh.
“Now, I will admit that perhaps it was a murderer, though I would have sworn against it being anything important at that time. Or even shortly after finding Mrs. Blackstone.” He hesitated. “Could it have been you, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I had approached the maze from the opposite direction, otherwise I might think so.”
Mr. Darcy’s silence deepened, but there was now a current beneath it, the sense of the case map rearranging itself.
The colonel, for his part, did not appear chastened.
He looked at Mr. Darcy. “I may be many things, cousin, but I am not fool enough to believe I could have concealed my tracks in that mud. I left no print near the fountain, nor did I move beyond the terrace. I was merely walking to clear my mind.” He shrugged.
“A feeble defense, I admit, but the truth.”
Mr. Darcy said, “I never said I thought you were responsible for the death.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam answered, “You implied it.”
Mr. Darcy opened his mouth to reply but was distracted by the sound of a gate latch snapping shut somewhere across the lawn. All three turned, momentarily expectant, but it was only the iron catching against its post in the wind.
They reached the far end of the path. The colonel stopped, turning to face both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.
“There is another thing I did not remember until just now.” He gestured toward the gate. “At the time, I thought it of no consequence, but…”
Mr. Darcy raised his eyebrows.
The colonel’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“There was a scarf—a pale gray wool—caught on the latch of the garden gate at the east wall. I assumed it belonged to one of the housemaids, perhaps lost on a errand. It was cold, after all, and not uncommon for such things to be left about.” He looked at Elizabeth, then Mr. Darcy.
“I removed it and left it on the bench just inside the gate. When I returned later, it was gone.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. She could picture the item, a practical color and weave, caught on the gate. If a woman was in a rush, she might have briefly tried to disentangle it, but when she could not, left it, thinking she would come back to retrieve it later.
Except there would be no “later” for Mrs. Blackstone.
It was the sort of clue that would be tidied away by a well-meaning staff member and never thought of again.
Or removed on purpose by a murderer.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes closed for a beat, then reopened. “Thank you, Richard,” he said, and Elizabeth could not tell if it was an apology or something else entirely.
Colonel Fitzwilliam inclined his head, then turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, may I suggest we hurry our steps?” He looked up to the overcast sky. “I am not sure I trust the weather to hold, and it would be unconscionable to allow you to be caught in a squall.”
She looked up as well. He was right.
Together they navigated the last stretch of path in a companionable silence.
Elizabeth let the rhythm of their footsteps settle her nerves. She replayed the conversation, sorting its elements, weighing each for what it said and what it left unsaid.
Ahead, the parsonage’s chimney smoked against the gloomy sky.
She was, for the moment, exactly where she needed to be.
And, if she was not mistaken, so were the men beside her.