Chapter Three #2
Juliet had been thinking of Jonathan Darcy since she had read the first paragraph of Mrs. Bingley’s letter, which had explained who she was and who had asked that Juliet be summoned.
But she had not considered this an “opportunity,” as she had no intentions of “catching” him or anyone.
This, surely, was not the way to think of matrimony!
Nor was the matter as simple as her grandfather suggested.
“Mr. Darcy could scarcely wed without his parents’ approval, sir, and that shall never be given, no matter how many murders I may solve. ”
Her uncle, Major Tilney, laughed as he refilled his pipe. “Come, girl, you have more tricks than that, do you not? There are situations in which a gentleman’s honor may be compromised nearly as much as a lady’s. Bring one such about, and I believe the Darcys could be made to see sense.”
He was, in effect, suggesting that Juliet seduce Jonathan Darcy—that she should disgrace them both to such a degree that his parents would hurriedly consent to the match rather than have such disgrace be known.
This was so vile, so dishonorable, that Juliet would not have expected it even from her uncle, a most venal and base man.
Her cheeks flushed hot, as though she had been slapped. “I would not stoop so low!”
General Tilney’s scowl deepened. “You will not ‘stoop’ to marrying Mr. Follett, nor to ensuring that Mr. Darcy will marry you? Then you will stoop further yet, child. Do you long, then, to become a governess? A lady’s companion?
Neither gentlewoman nor servant, there only to nod and smile and be forgotten? For those fates are not far from you.”
Better a governess than a whore, Juliet thought but did not say. “Am I to be allowed to go to Hertfordshire, sir?”
After a moment, her grandfather smiled, a thin, tight expression devoid of any mirth.
“Indeed, you must go. Prepare as quickly as you can, and I shall arrange for the carriage to take you at the best possible speed. We shall have you at Netherfield Park on the morrow.” This was a long and difficult journey, one during which Juliet was unlikely to have one moment’s rest, but she felt a distant pang of joy.
Yet this faded as her uncle added, “Perhaps you need not employ my stratagem, but you no doubt have a few of your own. Catch Mr. Darcy if you can. If this proves impossible, then you will have a letter to write to Mr. Follett, will you not?”
To this Juliet could scarcely reply. She simply gave them a swift curtsy before hurrying to summon the maid who could help her pack.
Eager though Jonathan was for Miss Tilney’s arrival, he did not neglect his duties as an investigator. Not one hour could be wasted, especially as he had come to understand that the period immediately following a murder could prove crucial to understanding it.
First, he confirmed that Netherfield, like most great houses, kept a small supply of arsenic on hand in order to kill any rats that might enter the kitchen, barn, or stores.
(Thanks to Aunt Jane’s beloved cats, this was more a theoretical concern than a practical one, but the housekeeper, Mrs. Mulgrew, believed in the value of preparation.) This box was to be found in one of the pantries, and as the pantries were not locked, any person could conceivably have accessed the arsenic at any time.
For that matter, it would not have been difficult for anyone to purchase more arsenic in town, and the shopkeeper would have thought nothing of it—most likely, such a commonplace transaction would not even be remembered.
Jonathan had investigated an arsenic poisoning before, and as such he knew the futility of tracking the killer by its trail alone.
Second, he sat down with Mrs. Mulgrew and the cook, Mrs. Gooding, to discuss who might have been seen in the kitchen that morning other than the servants normally working there.
“Becky came in—she’s an upstairs maid, but was helping in the kitchen today because Louise, that’s one of my usual girls, had need to go see her mother in Meryton, as she’s poorly,” said Mrs. Gooding, who was eager to give any relevant information and much that was irrelevant as well. “So that’s no wonder.”
Jonathan said, “Any of the staff not accounted for?”
“No, sir,” Mrs. Gooding said.
“What about the Bingleys or their guests?”
Mrs. Gooding seemed puzzled. “We saw Mr. Bingley, of course, but it’s his kitchen, ain’t it? He likes a well-kept kitchen, he does; and a few times a year, he walks through on his way outside, says good day to all, has a look about.”
Though it was unusual for a gentleman to enter his own kitchen, it was not unheard-of, and at Netherfield, it appeared to be a common practice. Nonetheless, Jonathan felt obliged to note it.
Mrs. Gooding went on: “Mr. Lofton, too, but we see him once or twice a week. That wife of his, she wants a bite here and a bite there all throughout the day! He has to fetch her toast or a biscuit early morning, late at night, one never knows.”
Mrs. Mulgrew, more genteel as befit her position, added, “Mr. Lofton passed me in the hallway this morning and mentioned he was fetching toast for Mrs. Lofton.”
“Why did they not simply ring the bell?” Jonathan asked.
“When Mrs. Lofton is alone, she does,” Mrs. Mulgrew replied. “Mr. Lofton will make the trip himself, however, no matter how often I assure him we are ready to assist.” She seemed to take Mr. Lofton’s lack of pretension as an intrusion upon her proper sphere.
All of these behaviors, if neither daily nor common in society, were nonetheless habitual within Netherfield. Jonathan tried once more: “You saw no one else in the kitchens this morning?”
Mrs. Mulgrew and Mrs. Gooding exchanged a look.
It was Mrs. Mulgrew who said, “Not in the kitchens, sir—but early this morning, I saw Mrs. Hurst upon the grounds. Her maid had not yet attended her, so I could scarcely believe she had ventured from her room. Certainly she hurried within quickly enough afterward. Where she went immediately following, I do not know, but she entered through the door nearest the kitchen.”
Mrs. Gooding added, “Didn’t see her myself, but as early as she was up, I would have been in the dairy, and my maids would have been in the scullery.”
That meant Mrs. Hurst—or potentially some other person—would have had opportunity to enter the kitchen and procure the poison. Jonathan felt he had got somewhere at last.
Third, he discussed these facts, his general plan, and the imminent arrival of Juliet Tilney with Mr. Isaac Lucas, who appeared quite astonished to suddenly be responsible for catching a murderer.
“We have two constables, but they serve only when called upon, and I believe it has been years since this was the case,” Mr. Lucas admitted.
“Meryton and its environs have not required such since the militia days—we govern each other adequately enough, or so we did until now. A murder by poison! I can scarce believe it.”
“As you are the proper authority, you need not allow Miss Tilney and me to lead the investigation,” Jonathan said, “but I hope that you will do so. I promise, we are thorough, and we act without prejudice. All possible culprits will be questioned and studied, regardless of my relation to any given person.”
Mr. Lucas appeared quite pale. “You think, then, that the killer must be one of the residents or guests of the house? Not a servant nor an intruder?”
“Few strangers travel to this area,” Jonathan said. “None of the busier roads pass through, and there are no inns where a stranger might stay. Had any unusual person ridden or walked through, it would have aroused much comment, would it not?”
“Indeed, for we must make the most of whatever novelty comes our way,” Mr. Lucas said with a sigh. “And I have heard none such about a wanderer these past few days.”
Jonathan had suspected as much—had expected Mr. Lucas to mention any unknown travelers—and as there were none, he felt confident in eliminating the possibility of any homicidal intruder.
“As for the servants, I do not yet know. I will speak to them and ask my uncle and aunt about their staff, but I know that the Bingleys pay handsome wages, and as such the servants here tend to be devoted. If any member of the staff had harsh feelings toward Mr. Hurst in particular, if he was unkind to any of their number, hopefully this shall soon be determined.”
Mr. Lucas nodded. “Very well. As you have instructed, I sent a rider to the local physician, with instructions that he is to retrieve Mr. Hurst’s remains and either conduct this—you called it an ‘autopsy’?”
“Yes,” Jonathan said. He had had occasion to learn of this in Devonshire. “Do not ask more, for I assure you, the particulars are indelicate in the extreme.”
“To conduct this procedure,” Mr. Lucas said determinedly, “I shall send for a doctor who can come as quickly as possible. Now, as magistrate, it is my responsibility to ensure that your intention of questioning the servants does not mean that you will fail to question the houseguests or the master and mistress of Netherfield.” More quietly he added, “Though of course it is impossible that Mrs. Bingley could be guilty.”
“Of course,” Jonathan said. “Nor do I think my uncle likely. The others must be considered in turn. You have been a guest at Netherfield, have not you? Have you noted any particular strife regarding Mr. Hurst and any of the others?”
“No, I think not.” But Mr. Lucas considered the matter closely, rather than simply changing the subject.
“Well. Mr. Hurst seemed apart from the others at nearly all times. He had few interests, so far as could be seen, and even these he pursued rarely, preferring to…” Mr. Lucas’s words trailed off in evident embarrassment.
There could be no point in tact when the truth must be had. Jonathan said, “You mean, I believe, that Mr. Hurst did little other than drink more than was good for him. I have known him—I should say, I knew him—most of my life, and this habit of his I beheld myself.”
“One does not wish to speak ill of the dead,” Mr. Lucas said, “and certainly I enjoy a glass of wine or whisky as much as the next man. But it appeared to me that Mr. Hurst enjoyed nothing else. Knowing the Bingleys as I do, it did not surprise me that they did not speak to him of it. The Loftons are not so circumspect, and I might have thought one or the other would comment—but they never did. Mr. Brooks never quoted Scripture on the evils of drink, for which I was generally grateful. And Mrs. Hurst, whom one would expect to be much aggrieved in this circumstance, took no notice of it whatsoever.”
“She never has, that I can recall,” Jonathan said.
Already Mr. Lucas appeared to regret having spoken. “Then it is unimportant. I ought to have remained silent.”
“Do not apologize, Mr. Lucas. Acquaintance leads to some insights, but obscures others. I do not know that I would have considered this particular facet of Mr. Hurst’s character as carefully as I should, had you not encouraged me to do so. A fresh perspective is ever useful.”
Jonathan was still dwelling upon this a few minutes later, when he heard his uncle speaking with Mrs. Hurst in his study.
“I realize how terrible it must be for you,” Bingley said, his voice kind.
“Whenever this procedure is complete—I can arrange for swift transit, even ample ice from our icehouse, to ensure that—”
“There can be no question of transporting Mr. Hurst’s body back to Essex,” Mrs. Hurst said briskly. “In this heat? It would prove abominable to all, and the church here is as sacred as any other.”
Bingley’s hesitation suggested that he was taken aback by Mrs. Hurst’s lack of sorrow following her husband’s demise. “Surely it would be a greater comfort to you to read his inscription in your own church, to know that you might be near him every Sabbath.”
“In the Meryton church, however, Mr. Hurst will have pride of place,” Mrs. Hurst said with apparent satisfaction. “No, it is entirely proper for him to be buried here, and the better for us all.”
These were not the considerations of a grieving widow.
Mrs. Hurst was more interested in the importance of her husband’s grave than in the fact that he was dead.
Jonathan wondered whether her lack of sorrow hinted at her guilt—or did it suggest the opposite?
Would not a murderess be sure to at least feign sorrow for her late husband, to disguise her culpability in his death?
Jonathan would ask Miss Tilney this at his next opportunity, which he hoped would be very soon. He had taken notes on all he observed, and would continue to do so, in order that the investigation would not be delayed.
And they had so much more to speak of—so very much. He wished her carriage all speed and smooth roads, so that it might bring Miss Tilney more swiftly to his side.
Meanwhile, within her grandfather’s carriage as it jolted and bumped along the road, Miss Tilney sat alone with her thoughts.
(It was not surprising that neither her grandfather nor her uncle had accompanied her—whatever concern for her delicacy either had ever possessed had dissolved along with her reputation—but she still felt conspicuous in her solitude. What must the coachman think?)
She was not going to Hertfordshire to “catch” Jonathan Darcy.
A loving son, he would never marry without his parents’ consent; he did not have such and was unlikely ever to receive it; thus all hopes must be at an end.
Yet how could she not be glad of seeing him once more?
To be with Mr. Darcy again would be both happiness and sorrow, both balm and wound.
However, it was not only for him that she went. Juliet wanted to solve one more murder.
Investigations were so much more interesting to her than any “proper, ladylike” activity had ever been.
To study human nature, both at its best and its worst—to examine every facet of a crime, whether of evidence or motivation—it was the most fascinating activity she knew.
So often women were expected to concern themselves with being pleasing, being decorative, and no more.
To investigate a murder was to step beyond the narrow boundary society had laid all about her.
Let me be ruined, then, Juliet thought. Let me have no prospects, or only very few and very dim. Let my grandfather judge me, my parents despair of me, my siblings undertake the care of me later in life.
But let me once more do this work, solve this crime, and do so with Mr. Darcy by my side. That will be enough.
It has to be.