Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(5)

Two


In Which Lizzie Forms a Plan



LIZZIE’S MIND WAS TUMBLING through possibilities. A murder case! This could be just the thing she needed. . . .

“All right, tell me everything.”

“A gentleman by the name of Charles Bingley was taken to a magistrate this morning, at quarter to twelve. He was covered in blood.”

“The charge?” Lizzie asked.

“Stabbin’ his brother-in-law. A bloke by the name of George Hurst, apparently Bingley’s sister is his wife. The way Bingley told it, he called on Hurst this morning but didn’t wait for Hurst to come down. Went straight into his bedchamber, then he started hollering, and the valet rushed in to discover Hurst’s body, and Bingley hunched over it.”

Lizzie held up a hand to stop Fred from continuing. “They believe Bingley killed him right then and there? Were there any witnesses?”

“The butler and valet are saying he must have done it, miss, but they didn’t witness the murder themselves. It was all chaos at the magistrate’s. I did hear Hurst was stabbed with a fine penknife, and they’re saying it must be Bingley’s. Mr. Bingley claims Hurst was already dead and he tried to revive him, and that’s why he was covered in blood. But let me tell you, he made for a frightful sight.”

“I can only imagine,” Lizzie murmured, but she was already mentally working through the case. “What did the magistrate have to say?”

“He didn’t believe Bingley for a second. Ordered him to Newgate and declared there’d need to be a hearing.”

“Excellent,” Lizzie said, although of course it was not excellent for Mr. Bingley. “And Bingley—do you recognize the name, Fred? I have heard it socially, but what is his business?”

“Shipping,” Fred noted. “He owns all of Netherfield Shipping. A fellow in the court said that Hurst worked for Bingley.”

Interesting. Perhaps a business deal gone wrong? A family dispute? The facts were scant.

“You did very well, Fred,” Lizzie said, and extracted a sixpence from her reticule. She gave it to him and said, “There will be more of that if you can provide me any further details on the case—gossip, even. Anything will help.”

“Cheers, miss.” Fred exited the office with a grin stretched across his small face.

Lizzie made a hasty departure herself, and once out on the busy street, she turned toward home. Her mother would prefer to hire a carriage to ferry her about town, but Lizzie relished the two-mile walk and the weak spring sunshine warming her face. The offices of Longbourn and the Bennets’ home were both in Cheapside, a bustling neighborhood full of shops, merchants, and bankers, where there was always someone Lizzie knew ducking into a coffee shop or stepping out into the street. The atmosphere was overall pleasant and industrious, although it was the sort of neighborhood that the rich chose merely to visit but not to live in. Mr. Bennet would not hear of taking up residence in a quieter, more fashionable neighborhood, although Mrs. Bennet regularly begged him to consider it. The proximity to London’s Central Criminal Court and his bookseller was too convenient.

As Lizzie walked the familiar route, she pondered. She got her best thinking done while walking the streets, muddy and messy as they were, and this case was puzzling. The law of the land declared that innocence had to be proven, but Lizzie often found herself needing to be convinced of wrongdoing. She longed to know the context of this case—what was so urgent that Bingley had entered Hurst’s bedchamber? Where had Mrs. Hurst been? What was the family relationship like? What was their standing in society?

Lizzie did not balk at these questions. Her father told her to convince him she was worthy of a real job by using logic, but Lizzie knew that if men allowed themselves to be swayed by pure logic, women would be in Parliament! No, Lizzie would have to show not only that it made logical sense for her to fulfill the position but that she was more capable than any man.

And what better way to do that than by taking on a murder case?

The Bennets lived on Gracechurch Street, and when Lizzie arrived home she was met at the front door by Jane, who took her bonnet and gloves and asked, “Well? How did it turn out?”

It took Lizzie a dizzying moment to realize that her sister was asking about the Davis case. Lizzie was already well beyond that, but she collected her thoughts and said, “Papa will take my evidence before the judge this afternoon.”

“Splendid,” Jane said, smiling with satisfaction.

“Although it won’t be my evidence.”

Understanding dawned slowly. “Mr. Collins?”

Lizzie nodded and quickly explained before concluding, “I shouldn’t have breathed a single word to him.”

“You had no other choice. A man’s life was at stake, and Collins was doing what he does best—bungling everything.”

Lizzie smiled. “Why, Jane! How very unladylike of you to say so.”

“A lady never lies,” Jane stated with a faux haughty tone she shared only with her sister, which made Lizzie grin, albeit briefly.

“Papa knows the truth,” Lizzie said, then sighed. “And I suppose that should be all that matters. Except, oh, Jane! There’s news. A murder!”

“Good Lord!” Jane cried in horror. “Who? Someone we know?”