Chapter 15
Elizabeth could not help thinking that the gathering would possess all the order of a carefully planned inquest. At Mr. Darcy’s request—and with Lady Catherine’s authority behind it—everyone connected with the investigation had been summoned to the entrance to the hedge maze.
Mr. Darcy stood waiting between the weathered stone pillars that marked the entrance. The light was already beginning to fade, though sunset was still some time away, and beyond him the winding paths disappeared almost at once behind dark walls of yew.
Laughter announced Colonel Fitzwilliam’s approach, who seemed busy entertaining the coroner’s clerk.
The clerk was a young fellow with an ink-stained thumb and an expression that suggested he found today’s affair more exciting than good taste advised.
The colonel acknowledged his cousin and Elizabeth with a nod as he continued his story.
Mr. Haldridge arrived next with the coroner. Though plainly dressed for the country, Mr. Haldridge somehow managed to look as though he expected to be called before a magistrate at any moment. He greeted Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy with quiet civility, which they both returned in kind.
The remainder of the party appeared together.
Lady Catherine led them with her cane planted firmly in the lawn before each step. Miss Anne de Bourgh followed close behind, one hand holding fast to a footman’s arm, while Mrs. Jenkinson hovered anxiously at her other side. Charlotte followed behind them.
Mr. Collins brought up the rear, casting frequent glances toward Lady Catherine with an expression implying he was uncertain whether to appear solemn, attentive, or grateful.
Elizabeth slipped quietly toward Charlotte, who had repositioned herself beside Colonel Fitzwilliam with what Elizabeth suspected was deliberate calculation. It was, she thought, a far more comfortable place to stand than beside Lady Catherine.
Near the entrance, the coroner’s clerk opened his writing board with evident self-importance. The coroner merely folded his hands behind his back and waited with a patient expression.
Mr. Darcy looked once around the assembled company.
“If everyone is present,” he said, “we may begin.”
For once, Lady Catherine offered no reply. She merely inclined her head.
Mr. Darcy entered the maze first, and the others followed in single file.
The recent rain had left the path damp beneath their feet. The scent of wet earth and yew rose with every step, while droplets still clung to the dark branches overhead. Before long, the hedges shut out every view except the winding path ahead.
Elizabeth found herself watching Mr. Darcy as he walked before them. His shoulders were as straight as ever, his pace steady, betraying nothing of what he might be thinking.
She wondered whether he was as aware as she was that, before they left the maze, someone’s life was certain to change.
At the first junction, Mr. Darcy waited for the company to gather, then led them left. The colonel leaned close to Elizabeth as they rounded the turn.
“A fine day for a hearing, is it not?” he murmured, his voice pitched for her alone.
She smiled without humor. “I wonder who will be found guilty.”
“Not me, I hope. I am quite attached to my own neck.”
She stifled a chuckle. The exchange helped to release the knot in her chest just a trifle.
The center of the maze opened abruptly onto a circle, its edges bordered by a shallow ditch.
In the middle stood the marble fountain: a wide basin, flecked with moss and lichen, its rim still ringed with the faint traces of a police cordon; a length of blue ribbon that had snapped somehow and now trailed in the wet grass.
The fountain’s two cherubs regarded the company with indifference.
Elizabeth noted with surprise that a bench had been moved near the fountain, its ironwork legs gouging small furrows in the ground.
Lady Catherine immediately claimed it, seating herself with the air of a queen on a portable throne.
Miss de Bourgh took the seat beside her.
Mrs. Jenkinson took up her post at her charge’s shoulder.
Mr. Darcy halted before the fountain and turned, facing the assembled group. He waited until Mr. Collins had shuffled into place, then spoke.
“You are all aware of why we are here. Miss Elizabeth Bennet has, with the help of Colonel Fitzwilliam and myself, pursued the investigation of Mrs. Blackstone’s death to its logical conclusion.
The facts, as we have assembled them, will now be presented.
The coroner will witness, and the clerk will record. ”
Lady Catherine’s cane tapped once, sharply, against a flagstone. “Very well, Darcy. But make it quick. I have no taste for the melodrama of Town.”
Elizabeth, sensing the moment had arrived, stepped forward in the same moment that Mr. Darcy took a half-step back, positioning himself just behind her right shoulder.
It was an arrangement that would have gone unnoticed by anyone not watching closely yet registered in her mind as the clearest possible signal: you lead, I will follow.
She let her eyes travel the company, pausing a heartbeat longer on Mrs. Jenkinson than was strictly polite.
“When I first saw Mrs. Blackstone, she was seated—or rather, collapsed—against the curve of this fountain wall,” Elizabeth began, keeping her voice low but clear.
“Her head was at a sharp angle to her body, her right arm extended upward along the marble, as if reaching for something. She had no scarf, though the air that morning was near to freezing, and it is reported that she had left her house with one.”
She paused, watching the effect of her words. Miss de Bourgh’s face was pinched with distress. Mr. Haldridge’s jaw was set, though he did not look away.
The colonel’s eyes were on everyone and no one, as if he preferred to watch the story unspool without fixing on any one suspect, though she did notice he had taken up a position near the entrance they had come through. Suddenly, Elizabeth realized that Mr. Darcy was blocking the only other exit.
“Mrs. Blackstone’s hand was tightly clenched around a torn piece of blue-tinted paper.
So tightly,” Elizabeth said, “that even after her death, it was difficult to remove. The fragment was blank, but not entirely—ink was smeared across the surface. It was scored, as if something had been written on a page above it, pressing through.”
At this, Lady Catherine’s nostrils flared.
Elizabeth continued, “There was a residue at the corner of her mouth and chin. Not blood, not food, but something waxy. A faint shine that caught the light. At the time I did not know what it was. I only observed and remembered.”
She felt Mr. Darcy shift behind her, then heard the faint rustle of paper. He stepped forward, holding out a folded document.
“The results from Bow Street,” he said, offering the paper to the coroner, who accepted it with deep skepticism.
The coroner unfolded the report and read aloud.
“The substance recovered from Mrs. Diane Blackstone’s dressing table at Willow Grange contains cyanide in sufficient quantity to prove fatal within minutes, or at most an hour, after being applied to the lips. It was mixed with sweet almond oil and prepared to resemble an ordinary lip salve.”
He lowered the paper and frowned. “Her own lip salve killed her?”
“That is the conclusion,” said Mr. Darcy. “But the means and the motive are yet to be explained.”
Lady Catherine’s cane thumped against the ground in a staccato of impatience.
Elizabeth pressed on. “Mrs. Blackstone did not prepare her own cosmetics. Nor did she have the means to obtain them from London. Every such item she used was either a gift or acquired through the households of her employers and acquaintances. In this district, that means Rosings Park.”
A ripple of consternation passed through the group. Mrs. Jenkinson’s fingers, which had been idly stroking the lace at the wrist of her glove, went utterly still.
“The stillroom at Rosings is under the exclusive charge of Mrs. Jenkinson,” Mr. Darcy added, his tone clipped and formal. “Every receipt, every compound, every jar and tin is prepared under her supervision and no one else’s.”
Miss Anne de Bourgh made a small, strangled noise, but said nothing.
Elizabeth nodded. “We also discovered that the note which summoned Mrs. Blackstone to the maze was written on a distinctive stock of blue-tinted paper—the very same as that is used in Lady Catherine’s own correspondence.”
“Are you accusing my household of criminal—” Lady Catherine’s voice rose, then broke off as she realized the implications.
“No one is accusing,” said Mr. Darcy, “The evidence is merely accumulating.”
Mr. Collins, no longer able to restrain himself, exclaimed from the back, “But surely Mrs. Jenkinson is the soul of discretion! She would never—”
Elizabeth turned toward him. There was no severity in her expression, only quiet conviction. “Those who are always present often notice the most without anyone thinking to notice them in return.”
The coroner, who had been following the discussion with increasing agitation, barked, “If the poison came from Rosings, and the note as well, it stands to reason—”
Lady Catherine stood, brandishing her cane in his direction. “You forget yourself, sir!”
The coroner straightened his spine. “I forget nothing, Lady Catherine,” he replied.
“I have a duty to perform. And now that the cyanide has been discovered, I do recall the symptoms of cyanide poisoning were present.” He colored.
“Perhaps if I had not been rushed through my examination due to pressure exerted from certain parties, my initial report would have been more… thorough.” He let out a long breath. “I will not make that error again.”
The entire assembly had grown taut, the air so charged that even the breeze seemed to hesitate.
Lady Catherine lowered herself, with infinite care, onto the bench.