Chapter 12
Charlotte had sent a note saying that she and Mr. Collins were to dine at Rosings, for their presence had been deemed vital to her ladyship’s comfort in this crisis.
Elizabeth dismissed the servants, saying she would help herself to cold meats and cheeses for supper.
Pleased to have an evening off, they had all gone home or to bed.
The result: an empty cottage, one candle lit in the entry hall, and a parlor unoccupied except for the smoldering scent of the dying fire in the hearth.
By the time Mr. Darcy arrived, the night had settled. Elizabeth heard the tap of his knuckles on the parsonage door, not loud but certain.
Though she had anticipated the knock for the better part of an hour, the sound managed to startle her.
She opened the door herself, finding Mr. Darcy, hat in hand. He looked, for a moment, almost as startled to see her as she had been to hear him.
He inclined his head. “I hope my calling is not untoward.”
She stepped aside. “You are expected, Mr. Darcy.”
He let a smile flicker, too quickly for certainty, then passed into the entry hall. She closed the door behind him, and the familiar, unyielding silence of Hunsford Cottage—whenever Mr. Collins was not at home—pressed in once more.
Elizabeth led him not to the formal sitting room, but to the small chamber Charlotte reserved for her own correspondence, a room Elizabeth had annexed for the evening for the purpose of the investigation.
The walls were lined with shelves of Mr. Collins’s theological texts and the occasional volume of poetry.
Still, a narrow writing desk dominated the center of the room, its surface now an organized chaos of loose paper, a bottle of ink, the blue-tinted page, and the rough sketch of the maze she’d drawn from memory.
The single hearth flickered with uneven light, throwing their shadows in distorted lengths across the cheap rug.
A dish of lavender sachets gave the room a faint sweetness.
Mr. Darcy stopped at the threshold, taking in the spectacle of notes and artifacts. He gave a short, approving nod and set his hat on the edge of the bookshelf.
“It is a war council, then,” he said, voice pitched lower than usual.
Elizabeth gestured to the chair behind the desk. “By all means. Take command.”
He shook his head, not in denial but as if to relinquish the suggestion. “You are the superior tactician here, Miss Elizabeth. I will follow your lead.”
She felt a pulse of warmth at his compliment. “Then let us begin.”
They seated themselves across the narrow width of the desk, each leaning in over the line of clues.
Elizabeth placed her finger on the first of her notes. “There is something I have been considering since yesterday. The cosmetic residue on Mrs. Blackstone’s mouth.”
He watched her, motionless.
“At the fountain,” she continued, “I noticed it. A waxy sheen at the corner of her mouth that spread to her cheek. At the time I thought it was odd but not significant. It was only later, after seeing her effects at Willow Grange and comparing the consistency of her own lip salve, that I realized it might be something more like a clue.” Elizabeth nodded.
“When I opened the tin, it had a distinct scent, though it was expected.”
He folded his hands, leaning forward. “You believe it is significant.”
“At first, I did not,” Elizabeth said. She tapped the blue-tinted page for emphasis. “But there was a mark on her chin, too, and it was noted that her death left no wound and no trace of violence, other than the bruise on her cheek from hitting the fountain.”
She took a slow breath, hearing the logs shift in the grate.
The glow outlined the edge of Mr. Darcy’s jaw, setting a band of orange across his cheekbone.
She noticed, with a nearly painful clarity, how intent he had become—every sense apparently directed at her, not just in attention but in genuine and complete absorption.
Mr. Darcy said, “You believe the agent of her death was not visible because it did not enter through force.”
“Exactly,” she replied. “The agent entered another way. Through the lips. Through the skin. Something she even put on herself.”
She shifted, rising from the desk and pacing the narrow strip of carpet between it and the hearth.
Mr. Darcy’s gaze followed her with the same careful, analytic intensity as he asked, “Do you know of any such agent?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I am no apothecary, but I do have access to one at home. He once warned Jane and me against the use of bitter almonds to make oil when we prepare Mama’s cosmetics, only to use sweet almonds and only in the smallest doses.
He said there are substances within the bitter variety that carried the same perfume, but which could poison if applied to the skin in quantity or to the mouth even in a trace. ”
Mr. Darcy, still seated, picked up the blue-tinted page and held it up to the firelight, as if searching for invisible writing.
“Cyanide,” he said, softly. “It is derived from bitter almonds, though one must go through quite the process to refine the poison. I am acquainted with a man who is a Principal Officer with Bow Street. He told me of a case some years past where someone poisoned a relation by distracting a kitchen maid long enough to drip a cyanide extract onto marzipan just before it was served. The cause of death was discovered almost immediately when the kitchen cat also died after he stole a piece from a platter while in the Officer’s presence. The effect was sudden and absolute.”
Elizabeth stopped her pacing, turning to face him fully. “Cyanide?”
“It smells like almonds.” He set the paper down. “It would explain the lack of violence. The absence of struggle.”
“And the scent would go unquestioned since sweet almond oil is often mixed into lip applications.” She nodded. “According to Charlotte, Mrs. Blackstone was a vain woman. I would think she normally used a lip protectant.”
Mr. Darcy said, “It is not the substance, then, but who had access to her supply of it.”
“It would have to be a new supply. She had only recently arrived from Bath, and had probably brought her cosmetics with her. If she had it for that long, she would have died before now.” Elizabeth resumed her seat.
He let the silence linger for a moment, then asked, “Supplied by whom?”
Elizabeth considered. “It must be someone with access to Willow Grange, or to Mrs. Blackstone herself. Someone who could obtain Rosings’ stationery, who knew her habits, and who was certain she would use the poisoned salve.”
Mr. Darcy tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “She left the house in haste, did she not?”
“Not immediately,” said Elizabeth. “First, she went above stairs to her room for at least the time it took to read the letter again. But the note that summoned her must have been urgent. She did not eat, nor did she take her reticule. After reading the letter again, she put on her wrap and her gloves.” She raised her eyebrows.
“A vain woman would have applied the lip protectant before stepping out into the cold morning, perhaps out of habit.”
Mr. Darcy leaned back, hands folded. “Then the agent was administered just before she left, by her own hand.”
“Yes, but…” Elizabeth said, “it was supplied or prepared by someone who foresaw that she would apply it whenever she went out.”
His gaze drifted. “If the poison was in the lip preparation, she died within an hour of applying it. Whoever supplied it must have done so quite late the previous day to ensure she did not use it. It is possible they even replaced her usual tin with an identical, tainted one as she slept.”
“What if they added the poison to the tin while in her rooms?”
Mr. Darcy nodded thoughtfully. “Either way, if she did not notice a difference in scent or texture, it must have been prepared with care.”
Elizabeth nodded, then returned to the clues spread across the desk. “There was another clue,” she said, reaching for the page. “The letter from her cousin, Lorrimer.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes widened. “If it is from him, he did not act alone. His role might have been only to frighten her into attending the meeting in the maze.”
“Or it was a forgery.” Elizabeth found herself wishing the logic were less rigorous. “Perhaps the person who wrote the note was only posing as Lorrimer.”
“Which means…” Mr. Darcy said.
“The individual who devised the plan might be someone who expected that, after Mrs. Blackstone received such a note from her cousin, she would seek them out to confide in them.” Elizabeth pitied poor Mrs. Blackstone—a woman who was normally reserved, who had finally trusted someone enough to divulge her cousin’s threat, only to be felled by that person.
“It is devious, though quite possible.” Mr. Darcy stood, the movement sudden but not abrupt. He crossed behind her then turned to face her.
His next words were hushed. “The question we are left with is who had wormed their way into Mrs. Blackstone’s confidence enough to be trusted to that degree.”
Elizabeth met his gaze, finding solidarity. This was not a contest of intellect, nor the collision of two prideful adversaries, but the first, uncertain steps of an alliance.
She said, “Most likely, whoever compounded the lip protectant is the person who supplied it. Who has access to the stillroom at Rosings?”
Mr. Darcy looked faintly surprised. “I oversee Lady Catherine’s household accounts twice each year. She has never trusted commercial cosmetic preparations. They are not even permitted in the house. Everything of that sort is made here on the estate.”
Elizabeth felt a jolt. “Then the recipe, and the production, would be managed by—?”