Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(70)

Darcy laughed as if the theory amused him. “But this Lady Catherine?”

“Right. I never saw her speak with Wickham, but she spoke to me. I think she was trying to influence me, and then the following day she, ah, arranged a meeting. It was such a strange conversation, but she wanted to help my investigation. She told me about the duel. I didn’t tell her anything of consequence because I’d never heard of her before.”

“This is awfully organized,” Darcy remarked.

“For a woman?”

“No, it’s simply very organized. Period. If this woman has the reach you believe she does, then I grow more unsettled by the moment.”

“It’s brilliant, is it not? She’s gone almost completely undetected, for as you’ve so astutely pointed out, women are not expected to appear in places of power.”

Rather than become upset with Lizzie, Darcy sighed wearily. “You’re putting statements in my mouth once more.”

“Well, you all but implied it.”

“Perhaps I did not mean to imply.”

“Perhaps you ought to be more careful with your language.”

“Fair,” he said, and Lizzie was so surprised that she did not know what to say, so Darcy continued. “The problem, of course, is that no one will believe that a mysterious woman no one has heard of, styling herself as Lady Catherine, is the mastermind behind multiple crimes, including murder, without proof.”

Darcy stated what Lizzie was too afraid to admit, and she nodded miserably and added, “The judge will laugh you out of court.”

“He’ll laugh us both out of court.”

Lizzie smiled, only because she never thought that she and Darcy would agree on such things.

“I have one more question,” she said after a long silence.

“Ask me anything,” Darcy said.

“Wherever did you obtain a dry handkerchief?”

It was not dry anymore, of course—and it was rather wrinkled from Lizzie’s twisting and scrunching. But Darcy laughed and held up his jacket. “I took it off before I jumped into the river.”

Lizzie’s eyes widened. “Does that mean the false policy . . . ?”

“Safe,” he confirmed. He withdrew the oilskin document pouch and handed it to Lizzie.

“What are you doing?” she asked, even as her fingers closed around it.

“Just in case I’m hauled off to jail,” he said. “I’m trusting you to keep that safe and prove Bingley’s innocence.”

Darcy’s trust was not something that Lizzie ever expected to obtain, nor was it something she had sought out, but it felt like a gift and a serious responsibility. She wasn’t sure she was up to the task, but the steady way he looked at her somehow gave her courage. “I promise I’ll do my best.”

They were interrupted by Thin Beard, who approached with Mr. Bennet. Lizzie’s father conspicuously took a place by her side as they waited to hear what would happen next.

“There will be an inquest,” Thin Beard announced. “But Mr. Bennet, you may take your daughter home.”

“And Mr. Darcy?” Lizzie asked.

Thin Beard regarded him carefully. “You may return home as well, but you will have to give an official statement tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Darcy said.

And just like that, they were dismissed. Lizzie waited for Darcy to demand that she hand back the evidence, but he didn’t. She clutched the document to her. This was all she had to prove Bingley’s innocence and to build an argument around. It didn’t feel like enough.

Mr. Bennet took Lizzie’s arm. “Come along, my dear.”

“Wait,” Lizzie said, stopping both her father and Darcy. Evidence, she thought. The button.

She hobbled over to where Wickham had fallen. His body was covered with a length of sailcloth, but dark blood seeped underneath the cover.

“We must wait for the coroner, miss,” said one of the Runners, blocking her from reaching out and touching Wickham.

“Please,” she said, not having to try very hard to make her voice quiver. “I just need one last look.”

The Runner looked to Thin Beard, who nodded an impatient assent. The man stepped aside, and Lizzie gathered her courage and folded back the sailcloth. She couldn’t look at his face, which was fine because she didn’t need to. She studied his jacket in the poor light but couldn’t make out what she was looking for. She reached out and touched the edge of the jacket, lingering over each button even as she felt congealed blood. She counted eight buttons, and none appeared to be missing.

“Lizzie, dear,” her father said behind her, puzzled.

She gave up her search and rose, clenching her hand that had touched Wickham’s cool blood into a tight fist as she followed her father toward the carriage. A part of her had hoped that she would find a missing button and that she could demand his jacket be removed as evidence. It would be altogether too easy to pin the entire crime on a dead man, and he was indeed guilty of at least one murder.

But Lizzie was not convinced that Wickham was the killer they’d been pursuing.





Twenty


In Which Lizzie Confronts Her Fears



LIZZIE SLEPT A DEEP, dreamless sleep but awoke early the morning of Bingley’s hearing, dread pooling in her stomach.