Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(17)

Why purchase new books but not bother to cut open the pages? Books were meant to be read, not used as expensive ornaments! Not only was Lizzie offended by the waste, but she was puzzled. If the Hursts were as destitute as her conversation with the Bingleys hinted at, why keep valuable books on the shelves unread?

Lizzie put everything back in order as she’d found it and slipped out into the hall, keeping an eye out for any of the servants. The next room was the drawing room, and it was obvious from the empty fireplace and drawn curtains that the family was not home. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Lizzie noted the room’s decorations. Very elegant, in much the same taste as the Bingley house, except that the room was done in a more traditional sage green, with heavy mahogany furnishings and rich velvet drapes.

As Lizzie made herself comfortable on a large chair, she had the unsettling feeling that something was off. The room did not have many objets d’art on the tables or mantel, and there were fewer portraits hanging on the walls than at the Bingley residence. But no, it was more than that . . . in the far corner, beyond the unlit fireplace, there was an odd emptiness to that space.

Lizzie got up and pulled back the curtains with a quick yank, flooding the corner with sunlight. She blinked rapidly, her vision adjusting once more, and looked down. There were scuff marks on the hardwood floor, next to the window. She traced them to the corner, where a writing table stood. The scuff marks ended, matching up neatly with two of the table’s legs. Someone had dragged it from the window closer to the corner, and unless she was mistaken, another piece of furniture had lived in that corner until recently.

What had happened to it? She took in the room once more, seeing its emptiness as an indicator of hard times. Had pieces been sold off?

But why sell off drawing room furniture before selling expensive books that were clearly never read? Some of those titles would have fetched twenty shillings.

A tiny rattle startled Lizzie and she turned to find a young woman with dark hair wearing a maid’s uniform, not much older than she. She held a tea tray, the source of the rattle. “I’m sorry to startle you, miss. Roger said Mrs. Hurst had a visitor who insisted on coming in.”

Lizzie’s mind was still on the mystery of the furniture and books, so it took her a moment to reassume her faux identity. She finally managed to say, “Yes, well, I can be very insistent,” and tacked on a silly little laugh to cover her nerves.

“Mrs. Hurst isn’t receiving,” the maid said, staring openly at Lizzie. Lizzie felt as though the maid’s brown eyes could see right through her. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back.”

“She’ll make an exception for her closest friend,” Lizzie said, hoping her flippant tone would conceal her bluff.

The maid blinked slowly and a faint smile turned up the corners of her chapped lips. “Begging your pardon, miss, but I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

Bollocks. “You’re very clever,” Lizzie said, shoulders drooping. “What’s your name?”

“Abigail,” the maid answered instinctively, then her mouth tightened into a hard line. “And who’re you?”

Lizzie made the impulsive decision to push ahead. “Abigail, I’ve been hired by the Bingley family to look into Mr. Hurst’s death.”

Lizzie watched Abigail process the news with a healthy dose of skepticism on her open face. “You? But you’re a lady.”

“I am, and just think—you didn’t suspect me, now did you? Nor did your footman. A lady can worm her way into situations and places that a man simply cannot.”

That earned Lizzie another flicker of a smile. “That’s the plain truth, miss.”

“I’m making inquiries that men might not be able to make. I have a number of questions about Mr. Hurst and his final days.”

At that, Abigail’s expression went blank, and the tea tray rattled once more. “I think you might want to wait until Mr. Banks returns, miss.”

Lizzie shook her head. “I’d like to speak to you, Abigail. Perhaps you have observed something that might give me a clue as to why anyone might want to harm Mr. Hurst.”

Abigail was already shaking her head. “I won’t gossip, miss. I’d never get another position.”

Lizzie didn’t want to hurt Abigail’s employment prospects, but her fear implied that Abigail knew something worthwhile. “It wouldn’t be gossip, Abigail. It would be pertinent information in an ongoing criminal investigation.”

“I couldn’t go before a magistrate,” she said firmly, and then added with a note of resentment, “I thought this was a respectable household.”

Lizzie decided to switch tactics. She took the tea tray from Abigail’s grasp and set it down on a nearby table. “All right—how about this? I shall ask you a series of questions, and all you must do is shake your head no or nod yes. How does that sound?”

“And then you’ll leave?”

“Of course,” Lizzie promised.

After a long hesitation, Abigail nodded.

“Did you see Mr. Hurst on the day of his murder?”

A quick shake of her head—Lizzie decided it must be the truth, given that Mr. Bingley told her he’d tracked Hurst down at his club that evening.

“Did you know that Mr. Hurst was, ah, wanting for money?”