Chapter Three
“Oh, no,” Aunt Jane whispered. “Oh, Mr. Hurst! He is unwell—A doctor, we must call—”
“I believe he is dead,” Jonathan said, putting one hand on his aunt’s arm before stepping further into the room to stoop over Mr. Hurst’s body.
The sight was rather grotesque: Mr. Hurst stared vacantly at the fine plaster medallion on the ceiling, his tongue lolling slightly from his mouth.
Two fingers against the man’s wrist confirmed Jonathan’s fears. “Yes, he has died.”
The serving girl swooned so that she might have fallen, but Aunt Jane went to her side immediately, catching her by the elbow.
“Sit down, Becky,” Jane said, even though her own voice shook so much that she seemed equally likely to fall.
“You must take care. You are so apt to fall, but who could blame you? Oh, how shocking, how wretched!”
Jonathan Darcy was no stranger to death; four times, he had been called upon to investigate murders, and in so doing he had seen and heard much that was generally shielded from members of the gentry.
Yet he was more shaken by the sight of Mr. Hurst’s body than he had been since the very first occasion.
That had been the murder of Mr. Wickham, Jonathan’s uncle who had been married to Aunt Lydia, his mother’s youngest sister.
He had attributed his composure at the incidents of homicide since to experience and greater maturity, but now Jonathan realized that he had neglected to consider another significant point: That first time, as now, he had long known the victim.
It was not as though Jonathan had been intimately acquainted with Mr. Hurst; insofar as observation could inform, Mr. Hurst’s interests had been limited to eating rich foods, playing cards, and drinking massive quantities of wine and port.
As Jonathan relished none of these diversions, their conversations over the years had been necessarily brief and invariably dull.
Yet the mere fact of having known Mr. Hurst as long as he could remember—having encountered him at his uncle Bingley and aunt Jane’s homes throughout the years—rendered this death more disruptive to Jonathan’s peace of mind than most of the others he had beheld.
By this time, his uncle had come to the door, with Mr. Lofton standing just behind. They both wore their dressing gowns: Bingley’s plain, Lofton’s silk with a tasseled belt. “Dear G-d!” Bingley exclaimed. “He is dead? Are you certain?”
“Very much so,” said Jonathan.
Mr. Lofton, though pale and evidently shaken, retained enough composure to say, “I shall go to my wife, and together we will inform Mrs. Hurst.”
Jonathan had occasionally wondered why the Hursts were married, so little attention did they pay to each other—but no doubt Mrs. Hurst would be very sorry to be made a widow. He nodded to Mr. Lofton before turning back to Mr. Hurst’s body.
Brief though the diversion had been, it allowed Jonathan to look at Mr. Hurst with fresh eyes.
It had become evident that the man had lost control of his bodily functions either just prior to his death or upon the moment of it; furthermore, beneath his arm lay a puddle of what could only have been digestive effluvia.
Jonathan was familiar enough with death, by this time, to be certain that this last was not common at the moment of decease.
In fact, he had seen it only once before.
His attention turned next to the china cup that lay several inches from Mr. Hurst’s hand.
A splash of coffee on the carpet suggested that Mr. Hurst had not quite finished drinking it when the fatal spasm came upon him.
Jonathan took the cup in his hand, and though he had dined in the Bingleys’ home at least a few times every year of his life, the pattern of the china seemed new to him.
The pale sky blue of the exterior was spangled with small gilt flowers; the interior was a light ivory.
In this cup, that ivory was clouded—too pale. Jonathan reached in with one finger and dabbed the coffee-stained sludge sticking to the bottom, which revealed a bit of fine white powder at the base, which had not fully dissolved into Mr. Hurst’s coffee. Yet enough had been drunk to prove fatal.
“Poison,” he said.
He had spoken to himself, more than to the others, which was why he was startled by the gasps and cries of alarm that met his statement.
Jonathan looked up to see Aunt Jane with her hands to her face, Uncle Bingley clutching the doorjamb as if to keep himself from collapsing, and the serving girl Becky slumped in her chair as though she already had.
“Poison,” Bingley repeated. “Are you certain? Quite certain?”
“I would stake much upon it,” Jonathan said, looking down again into the china cup.
“It must be sugar,” Aunt Jane protested.
Jonathan shook his head. “The powder is too fine and soft for that. I believe you will find it to be very similar to the arsenic kept for poisoning rats.”
Aunt Jane cried out, “But we keep so little! We have so many cats in the yard and stable—we scarcely see a mouse.”
“If you had as much as is in this cup, then that has proved sufficient,” Jonathan said. “Last night, I believe, Grandmama said that Mr. Isaac Lucas is the new magistrate. Is that correct?”
Bingley nodded. “Though I believe he has yet to be called upon to oversee any serious matter. Certainly nothing so dire as this.”
“He must be notified as soon as possible,” Jonathan said.
Aunt Jane had taken a napkin and now carefully draped it over Mr. Hurst’s contorted face. Her pleading gaze sought Jonathan as she said, “You have knowledge of such things, do you not, Jonathan? You will get to the heart of it, of that I am sure. Surely it was an accident—some mischance—”
“Few accidents would lace a coffee cup with arsenic,” Jonathan said. Jane covered her face with her hands. Perhaps she felt she could bear to hear this only if she did not also have to see Mr. Hurst lying dead upon the floor.
“If some villain has crept into this house,” Bingley said, “if such has been done to my guest and brother—then I am glad indeed you are here, Jonathan. The truth must be known, and as soon as possible. We have heard much of your investigations from your parents’ letters, and surely you are the most proper person to help us in this matter.
How can we assist you? What else should we do? ”
Do not blame Jonathan Darcy for what then came into his mind. Think, instead, of the fineness of spirit necessary for a young man so desperately in love to look upon such a situation and only after several minutes realize it has made a reunion possible.
“The first thing you must do,” he said, “is to summon she who has been my partner in every such investigation of murder. You must send for Miss Juliet Tilney at once.”
Had Juliet known that she was soon to be called from Gloucestershire to another murder inquiry, her feelings would have been rather more mixed than Jonathan Darcy might have supposed—but she would, nonetheless, have eagerly wished the express to ride even faster, the swifter to learn all that there was to know.
Yet as soon as the rider did arrive, and she had read the missive sent from Netherfield Park, Hertfordshire, Juliet felt that longing all the more sharply.
For, had the rider come but three hours earlier, her parents and siblings would have been present.
The information would have first been shared with her mother and father, and together, they could have discussed what was to be done.
However, two hours earlier, Mr. and Mrs. Tilney had left in her grandfather’s second-best coach to take Albion to his boarding school, where he would learn Latin and Greek, and Theodosia to the far less demanding school for girls, where she would learn dancing and deportment.
During an absence of but a week or two, they would previously have left Juliet in the parsonage, attended by their few servants, to amuse herself as she saw fit (generally, with novels and long walks).
However, young women whose reputations are in tatters are not to be left alone to their own devices.
In Juliet’s case, her parents fully trusted her; what they did not trust was the direction town gossip might take.
Thus the express rider found her in the keeping of her grandfather and uncle, whose visit was indeed wholly intended for this purpose.
Worse yet, the letter’s arrival coincided with that of her uncle, the eldest son of the general, and the only relation Juliet liked even less than her grandfather.
This uncle, Major Tilney, studied the letter coolly. “You have never met this Mrs. Bingley?”
“No,” said Juliet, “though I have met her sister Mrs. Darcy, and of course I know Mr. Jonathan Darcy, who is already at Netherfield.”
General Tilney’s cold, sharp gaze remained fixed on Juliet. “You wish to go, then, for you could have refused the invitation without my consent.”
So astonishing had the arrival of Mrs. Bingley’s letter been that Juliet had scarcely even asked herself whether or not she wanted to accept the invitation.
Yet her grandfather—while a difficult, dictatorial man—was not a fool.
“Yes, Grandfather,” she said. He had informed her that she was too old to call him “Grandpapa” when she reached eight years of age.
“I would wish to leave at once, sir, and to travel as swiftly as possible. The sooner one begins such an investigation, the better.”
“I could not be less interested in the Bingleys’ family troubles,” General Tilney said. “What you have here is another opportunity to catch the Darcy heir. I take it you will endeavor to seize your chance?”