Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(21)

“This is quite unusual.”

“If you call upon Mr. Bingley, you’ll find that he’ll vouch for me.”

“And how am I supposed to know whether or not Mr. Bingley did it?”

Now it was Lizzie’s turn to be surprised. “Come now, Mr. Wickham. That’s for a magistrate to decide. If you were accused of a dreadful crime you didn’t commit, wouldn’t you want others to give you the benefit of the doubt? Wouldn’t you want them to be absolutely certain, with proof in hand?”

Lizzie did not expect her words to affect him so much, but something passed across his face that seemed to be true emotion. “Yes, Miss Bennet. I believe that is true justice.”

Finally, a man who agreed with her!

“I have grave doubts about Mr. Bingley’s involvement in the crime. The facts don’t line up, and I aim to discover the truth.”

They stopped at a busy corner, the streets clogged with carriages, horses, and the occasional wagon. Many of the vehicles were light, open carriages with high-society ladies and gentlemen out for a pleasure drive or calling on friends. Although Lizzie doubted her mother and sisters would be this far from home, she angled her face away from the street lest she was recognized. Mr. Wickham stared down at her and said, “Miss Bennet, I’m quite glad to have run into you, I think.”

“Oh?”

“I too must confess my skepticism. I was one of the first called to the scene of the crime. It felt to me as though everyone was quick to make assumptions. However, I’m just a Runner. Who would believe me?”

“Why shouldn’t they believe you?” Lizzie countered. The street traffic was congested, but Lizzie spotted an opening where they could have crossed. Wickham didn’t move to take it.

“I’m no gentleman, miss,” he said with a smile tinged by embarrassment.

“You seem like one to me.” Lizzie realized belatedly that her words could be perceived as flattery, so she hastened to add, “I believe that the quality of someone’s character matters more than their family name or their social standing.”

“You’re very kind.” He offered her a smile that made Lizzie feel as though they would agree on a fair number of points, if given the opportunity to explore them—but she must stay focused. The longer they talked, the more opportunity she would have to convince him to let her go. And she would dearly love to get off this busy street!

Lizzie saw another gap in traffic and decided to take the lead. She stepped out, dragging Wickham with her. To cover up her rudeness, she said, “Please, if you are so inclined . . . tell me what you know about the case?”

They narrowly escaped being run over by a shiny black curricle but made it safely to the other side before Wickham found his words. “Not much more than you, I’m afraid. I was patrolling all night, and about to head home when I heard a bit of a commotion in Grosvenor Square. It was early enough for some servants to be up and about, but not quite early enough for deliveries, so I popped down the street to see what was happening.”

As they turned down a quieter street of town houses, Lizzie relaxed and was able to absorb Wickham’s account. There was nothing better than hearing about cases such as these firsthand, directly from witnesses. She found that every person had a slightly different recollection of a moment in time, and when one gathered each different account, a more interesting story emerged. “And?”

“It was Mr. Hurst’s valet, raising the hue and cry. He was shouting that there’d been a murder. Naturally I ran up and identified myself. He took me back to the house, where the butler had Mr. Bingley in Hurst’s bedchamber. They were in shock. I stayed with them, and we inspected the bedchamber until a doctor and coroner arrived. Once a large group had been assembled, it was decided that Mr. Hurst had been murdered. Stabbed to death.”

He said this quietly, not wanting to attract attention from the few passersby on the street. They were still walking through the finer neighborhoods, but soon they would give way to the busier, more crowded areas of commerce and law. Lizzie had to keep him talking about this case—if she was going to be charged with a crime, she might as well get something out of it!

So she asked, “Were you able to tell how many times he was stabbed?”

If Wickham thought it was an inappropriate question for a lady to ask, he didn’t say. He just replied, “Eleven times. The killing blow was to the neck, to be sure. The amount of blood . . .”

Lizzie clutched Wickham’s arm tighter. So her theory about blood splatter had been correct! Logic could prevail!

“It was the butler who accused Mr. Bingley,” Wickham continued, unaware of Lizzie’s excitement. “The doctor said that many stab wounds could only be a crime of passion. He asked if Mr. Hurst had argued with anyone. Banks pointed at Bingley and sang like a canary.”

“But Mr. Bingley told me that the body had grown cold by the time he was discovered, and the blood had begun to congeal.”

“He said the same to us,” Wickham agreed, “but he had opportunity the evening before, when he brought Hurst home, and Banks testified that Bingley had been in the house.”

“But the butler was still awake when Mr. Bingley left, and would have locked up after him. Wouldn’t he have noticed if Bingley were covered in blood? And why would Mr. Bingley come back the following morning to discover the body?” She emphasized the word to make a point about her skepticism, even as she wondered how the killer might have known where to find Hurst. By all accounts, his movements had been sporadic.