Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(52)

The following day, Lizzie awoke determined. She donned her finest day dress, a cream-and-rose Indian block print, and topped it with the green spencer that made her eyes dance. Today, they were lit with the fire of determination. What she was about to do might not be very proper, but she could at least look the part. When Jane saw that she was dressed to go out, she asked no questions. Instead, she fetched a gold-and-topaz brooch, the only piece of jewelry Mrs. Bennet had not sold in the early days of her marriage, when money was scarce.

“I can’t wear that,” Lizzie told Jane, but her older sister insisted.

“Mama says it should be saved for special occasions, and this is one. You’re going to solve this case.”

“Or fail miserably,” Lizzie said as she let Jane attach it to her spencer.

“Don’t be defeatist, or I’ll jab you,” Jane threatened, which brought a reluctant smile to Lizzie’s face.

Her first errand was to drop off the letter of reference for Abigail. Lizzie kept an eye out for Wickham as she retraced yesterday’s steps to Thames Street, wondering if he’d approve of her decision to confront Bingley and Darcy. Likely not. That was fine. She didn’t need him to agree with everything she did or said, but she wouldn’t have said no to backup, just in case today resulted in an arrest. But Wickham was nowhere to be seen, and soon Lizzie arrived at the lodging house.

The same suspicious matron opened the door, and her eyes narrowed even more when she saw it was Lizzie again. “Abigail’s not here,” she announced by way of greeting.

Lizzie was surprised but collected herself. “Good day, madam. May I leave a note for her?”

The woman shrugged. “You can leave it, but in my experience when young women stay out all night, they don’t come back for messages.”

Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Abigail,” the woman said, exasperated. “She didn’t want tea yesterday. She went out, but never returned by curfew. If you find her, tell her to find new lodgings. I run a respectable house.”

And with that, the woman shut the door in Lizzie’s face.

Lizzie surveyed the street in confusion. Had her visit yesterday spooked Abigail? If she still had the watch, would she have tried to sell it? Lizzie would not be able to help her if she had been picked up for theft. But surely Abigail wouldn’t have been that foolish—she had seemed grateful. All she had to do was wait until morning, when Lizzie handed her the letter of recommendation. She could have gotten a new position and either disposed of the watch or held on to it until it no longer attracted suspicion. . . .

Lizzie stepped away from the boardinghouse with one final glance to the darkened windows and headed east along Thames Street, unsettled. She didn’t have time today to track Abigail down, and the day had dawned with weak sunlight, but the clouds were growing more menacing in the distance. Lizzie hoped she could get to a high street and hire a carriage before it started raining.

At the corner two blocks down, a group of women clustered together at the mouth of a cramped side street leading to the docks. Lizzie was about to step around them when she heard shouting from the direction of the river and noticed that men seemed to be hurrying toward the noise.

Acting on some instinct that Lizzie didn’t question, she asked the women, “What’s happening?”

Lizzie received a few sharp glances, and finally a woman wearing an apron splattered with fish guts said, “They pulled a lass out of the river this morning, miss.”

Lizzie’s body went numb, and the shouts in the distance sorted themselves out into words: “Call the watch!”

“Do you know who it is?” she asked. The women shook their heads, and it was all Lizzie needed to turn down the side street. With no concern for her finest dress, she walked briskly through puddles and manure, overcome by a sudden fear. She told herself she was being irrational even as she picked up pace. It couldn’t be. It wouldn’t . . .

Lizzie burst onto a street that directly overlooked the river and immediately spotted the source of the commotion—a large group of dockworkers gathered near the edge of the water. She went straight to them, hardly noticing the curious stares that followed her.

She got very close before a dockworker her father’s age stood to block her view. “Nay, miss. You don’t want to see her.”

“Please,” she said. “I have to know.”

He tried to stop her, but Lizzie took advantage of his hesitation to touch an unfamiliar young lady and ducked under his arm.

As soon as she saw her, Lizzie wished she hadn’t. Abigail was set out on the dirty ground as if she were sleeping. Her blond hair had come undone and was spread out around her like wet tentacles. Her clothing was soaked and her lips blue. Lizzie caught a glimpse of her hands—bound with rope—before someone took Lizzie by the elbow and pulled her away.

Part of her thought, nonsensically, Perhaps they can revive her. But she immediately banished the thought from her mind. Her lips were blue. Her hands were tied. She had not come home last night.

Abigail was dead.

“Do you know her?” asked the man who’d tried to block her view.

Lizzie nodded, her gaze on her own feet and her mud-splattered skirt. It took her a long time to respond, but she finally whispered, “Her name is Abigail Jenkins.”

“The Runners are coming, miss,” he said. “You can tell them, and they’ll escort you home.”