Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(16)
It wasn’t the answer she was hoping for, but Lizzie knew when to ease up. “Very well. I shall make some discreet inquiries.”
As she took her leave, Lizzie would have sworn she heard Caroline remark, “As if that girl could be discreet.”
Five
In Which Lizzie Goes Snooping
LIZZIE’S STRONG DISTASTE FOR Darcy fueled her retreat from the Bingley residence. The nerve! He really was the most unpleasant young man Lizzie had ever met, and Lizzie had met a good many dissatisfying young men, thanks to her mother’s efforts to marry her off. She was so annoyed that she nearly put Darcy on the same level as Collins but caught herself at the last moment.
Outside, Lizzie found a bench in a nearby park and drew her small sketchbook and pencil from her reticule. She flipped to where she had written, How far in debt was Mr. Hurst? Whom was he indebted to?
She didn’t have precise answers, but she suspected he was hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds in the hole—and not to reputable sources, either. She felt dizzy at the sum. And yet, Caroline had said that some ruffian likely killed Hurst because of debts. If the debt was created through accounts at merchants and dealers about town, then they would have sent bailiffs into the Hurst household to collect the funds and set up residence, not paid someone to have him killed. Hurst couldn’t cough up the money he owed if he was dead. What other motive could someone possibly have for wanting him dead?
Lizzie jotted down a few notes and snapped her sketchbook shut. She had to admit one thing—being swept to the side had its advantages. Out of sight was out of mind, which allowed her to embark upon her second impersonation in as many days.
The windows of the Hurst residence on Grosvenor Square were darkened with drawn curtains. It was as if scandal were catching, for even pedestrians crossed the street to avoid the house. Lizzie observed the building from a corner as she gathered her thoughts. This was not like impersonating Caroline at Newgate, where she was unlikely to get caught, or calling upon the Bingleys, where she had been invited. She would be using deception to enter a house when she knew the family was not in residence. If she was caught, there could be serious consequences. The staff might even think her a thief.
But there was no way around it. Bingley had agreed that she could investigate, and if she could solve this mystery, her father would hire her, officially. And logically, how was she supposed to solve a crime without seeing where it happened?
Lizzie gave herself a small shake and stepped into character. She approached the front door with her head held high, pulled the bell, and extracted the calling card that she’d pilfered from the Bingleys’ foyer table on her way out, hoping the sweat on her palms wouldn’t soak through her gloves and smudge the ink. It took a very long time before footsteps could be heard. When the door eventually opened a sliver, it revealed not the butler but a timid-looking footman.
Lizzie smiled. Excellent.
“Can I help you?” the footman asked, and Lizzie saw his Adam’s apple bob. The poor boy had likely never had to answer the front door before, which meant that the butler was either out or indisposed.
“I’m here to call upon Mrs. Hurst.” Lizzie presented her stolen calling card. “Mrs. Reed.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the footman said, “but Mrs. Hurst isn’t receiving visitors.”
He made no move to take her card, another breach in protocol. She stepped forward to enter and the poor boy stumbled backward. She took another step into the house and said, “Nonsense! I’m one of Louisa’s closest friends,” which was another lie, as she had no idea who Mrs. Reed was. “Times of tragedy call for support and comfort, don’t you agree?”
The footman shifted his gaze around the foyer, as if waiting for backup. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good, I’m so happy that you agree. I’ll just wait in the drawing room, and you tell Louisa to come down when she’s presentable.”
“But Mrs. Hurst . . . I mean, I don’t think . . .”
“You may ring for tea as well.” Lizzie took a gamble by walking down the hall and entering a door where she predicted the drawing room would be.
Instead, she found herself in a study, which surprised her for a moment. She peeked over her shoulder to see if the footman had witnessed her faux pas, but the young man had disappeared down a hall, likely to fetch the butler or housekeeper.
She had to be quick.
The air in the room was stale, smelling faintly of old cigar smoke, but the room was immaculate. Her eyes strayed to the bookshelves, which held a small but respectable collection, but she resisted the urge to inspect them. Instead, Lizzie circled around the large desk and carefully sifted through the papers stacked haphazardly off to the side.
They appeared to be a pile of various documents relating to Netherfield Shipping, nothing of great interest—a shipping schedule from the previous month, an inventory of cargo, a note thanking Hurst for his attention to an attached insurance policy. She became excited for a moment, but upon quick glance she saw that the policy was for the business, not for himself or his wife. It made Lizzie wonder if Hurst had life insurance. Perhaps his widow wouldn’t be quite so upset if she knew a sum of money was coming her way. Then again, Louisa Hurst hadn’t been in mourning dress, so who was to say how upset she really was?
Lizzie tried the desk drawers, but they were mostly empty except for stray bits of paper, writing supplies, and a box of cigars. Keenly aware of time slipping away, Lizzie stepped around the desk with the intention of finding the actual drawing room, but temptation overcame her. She quickly crossed the room to read the spines of books on the half-empty shelf and was surprised to find Shakespeare, Erasmus, and Dryden among a handful of atlases. She picked up a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets and turned it to examine the pages—aha! The edges were uncut. She replaced the book and inspected three or four more at random. All featured uncut pages.