Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(19)

Lizzie felt quite the opposite. Her pulse thrummed with excitement, and her mouth was dry in anticipation. For all of her contract work, the witness statements she read, and her unauthorized trips to question suspects, she’d never actually visited a crime scene before. She stepped across the threshold into the room where it happened, careful not to disturb anything.

Like the study downstairs, this room was closed against the daylight, but enough light peeked in between the curtains and from the hall for her eyes to slowly adjust. In the center of the room stood a large bed frame, devoid of a mattress or bedding of any kind. The carpet, which was a fine moss green, had a large, unseemly stain near the bed.

Her mind raced. She tried her best to imagine Hurst, utterly foxed, leaning on his brother-in-law and butler as they dragged him up the stairs and into this room. They would have dumped him onto the bed. It might have been dim, as it was now, but the light would have been different. No sunlight stealing in from between the drapes, only shadows.

She looked over her shoulder to the door, which would have been open. She noted where the candelabras stood, the wax congealed. The fireplace was neatly swept, but Lizzie doubted anyone would have gone to the trouble to light it. The nights were still cool, but not chilly, and the servants might not have bothered if they were unsure that Hurst was even coming home.

As Lizzie took the measure of the large bedchamber, she wondered if it was possible that someone could have been lying in wait. She walked about the room, trying to imagine where the killer could have hidden. The bed was too low for a grown person to hide beneath it and the dressing room too risky—what if the valet had been called? None of the bedchamber’s furniture was sufficient for a hiding spot, but she still moved across the room, thinking.

From the doorway, Abigail gasped. Lizzie looked in her direction and then heard what had made Abigail’s face turn pale—footsteps on the stairs. Abigail rushed into the room and grabbed Lizzie’s elbow with surprising force. “It’s Mr. Banks! You must hide,” she whispered.

“Where?” Lizzie cast around for a hiding spot, knowing full well that they were all paltry.

“The drapes!” Abigail was already yanking Lizzie to the windows. She pulled the heavy material aside and shoved Lizzie none too gently. Before Lizzie quite realized what was happening, Abigail had drawn the drapes back over her. The sumptuous fabric reached all the way to the floor, concealing her feet, and she was surprised to find that there was quite a bit of room between them and the window, which looked out over the back garden.

“Abigail, what are you doing up here?”

“Mr. Banks! I—I heard a noise.”

“You heard a noise?” The butler’s disapproval was heavy.

“I’m a bit uneasy, sir. I keep wondering, what if the killer returns?”

Lizzie couldn’t help but stare down out the window as she held her breath, hoping not to be discovered. It was a lovely view of the garden, with a beautiful, tall tree whose branches thankfully obscured her from anyone who might happen to be outside.

“Whoever did in Mr. Hurst would have no business with the likes of us,” Mr. Banks said, his voice brisk. “Use your sense, girl.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Abigail’s voice wavered. “I’m sorry.”

In fact, the tree was rather close to the window. Lizzie stared hard at the sturdy branches, trying to judge the distance. It couldn’t be more than five feet.

“Do you suppose it really was Mr. Bingley?” Abigail asked.

“It would appear so,” Banks said, his voice closer now. Lizzie could have kissed Abigail for asking such leading questions. It saved her the trouble of figuring out how to interview the butler herself.

“It’s just so hard to imagine it, sir. He was always so polite. And to think of Mrs. Hurst . . .”

“What’s to think about?”

“Well, why would she be staying with her brother if she thought he’d . . .”

Clever girl. That gave Mr. Banks pause, but then he said, “Of course she thinks her own brother is innocent. People of that class stick together, Abigail. But he’ll likely hang. The evidence against him is too much.”

Lizzie inspected the window’s latch as she listened, trying to judge how difficult it might be for someone to gain entry from the outside. That was when she noticed a tiny, dark object caught in the corner of the window frame. She squinted at it and then very carefully reached out to try to pick it up. It was a button, its shank caught in the closed window. She tugged on it, but as she did so, her elbow brushed up against the heavy folds of the drapes. . . .

The fabric was pulled back suddenly, and Lizzie realized a beat too late that she had been noticed. Standing before her in a room now flooded with cheery sunlight stood an elderly yet sturdy-looking man with a disapproving expression, and a shocked Abigail.

The two young women locked gazes, and Lizzie saw the anguish in Abigail’s eyes. She made a split-second decision.

“Oh heavens!” she cried out, and yanked the button loose with all her might before throwing her hands up. “Please don’t hurt me, sir!”

Mr. Banks looked down with a mixture of bewilderment and distaste. “Young lady, you are trespassing!”

But Lizzie didn’t care—she had been successful in yanking the button free. It was now clenched tightly in her fist, and she quickly dropped her arms and affected a look of shame. Mr. Banks took her elbow and propelled her away from the window.