Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(81)

“I’m inclined to agree with Miss Bennet,” Weatherford declared. “Continue.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lizzie said. “First, may I ask that the penknife recovered from the scene of the murder be presented?”

The prosecutor shuffled his files, and there was a bit of grumbling under his breath, but he produced a muslin-wrapped object. The judge indicated that one of his bailiffs should take it, which he scurried to do. He unwrapped the bundle and presented it to the court. Lizzie inspected it and worked to keep triumph off of her face—but she was right! It was identical to the penknife that her father had given Mr. Collins. The silver blade was covered in dried blood that had smeared and dried over the mother-of-pearl inlay, and it looked rather morbid with the blade extended. Lizzie didn’t jump to inform the court of this. Instead, she turned to the accused bench. “Mr. Bingley, do you recognize this penknife?”

Bingley glanced at it and went pale. “No, I do not.”

“Do you recognize it as Mr. Hurst’s?”

“No,” Bingley said, and the prosecutor began to protest, but he was silenced by Weatherford.

Finding her stride, Lizzie asked, “Would you recognize Hurst’s penknife if you saw it?”

“Yes,” Bingley confirmed. “George carried an ivory knife with a stamp on the blade. It belonged to his father. My sister, Mrs. Hurst, can confirm this.”

Lizzie turned abruptly to the witness bench. “Mr. Collins, do you recognize the blade?”

Collins glared at her with open fury. If he had not been restrained and flanked by the bailiffs, Lizzie might have felt real fear that he’d fly at her. “It’s covered in blood,” he spat. “How am I supposed to recognize anything in that state?”

Lizzie did not engage with him. Instead, she addressed her father. “Mr. Bennet, do you recognize the penknife that was recovered at the scene of the crime?”

“This is growing tedious!” the prosecutor declared, but the court shifted with curiosity.

Her father was grim faced as he stood and inclined his head. “I do. I gifted that penknife to Mr. Collins one year ago, when I named him my successor at Longbourn and Sons.”

Now the gallery broke out into open whispers, gasps, and murmurs. Above the noise, Collins shouted, “How do you know it’s the same penknife?! I’m being framed!”

The gavel banged, and Lord Weatherford cast a dour look upon Lizzie, upset that she was causing such a ruckus in his orderly day. But he said, “Mr. Bennet, are you sure?”

“It’s possible that a penknife identical to the one I bestowed upon Mr. Collins exists, but this one looks remarkably like it, down to the stamp of the lion.”

“And Mr. Collins,” Lord Weatherford continued, “can you produce the knife that Mr. Bennet gave you?”

Even though Lizzie was certain that it was the same knife, she still held her breath, fearful that Collins would find a way to wiggle out of this accusation. He shifted his gaze from the judge to her father, and finally to her, before admitting, “I no longer have it.”

The court exploded then, and he shouted to be heard. “It was stolen! I’m being framed!”

The gavel came down once more, and Lizzie said, “Thank you, sir. May I continue?”

“You have more to present?” he asked with some surprise.

Lizzie flashed him the smile that Jane said made mothers underestimate her and charmed young men. “Yes, sir. I don’t simply intend to prove that Mr. Collins’s penknife killed Mr. Hurst—I intend to prove that he is guilty of premeditated murder.”

Mr. Collins’s shouting behind her did not distract her for a moment. Lord Weatherford raised a single bushy gray eyebrow and said, “Continue.”

Lizzie then brought her own bit of evidence from her pocket—the button recovered from Hurst’s bedchamber. “I found this button caught in the window of Mr. Hurst’s bedchamber three days after the murder. By the butler’s own admission, no one had been allowed to clean the room after Hurst’s body was discovered and disposed of. This button was behind the drapes, which provided a very good hiding spot for one to wait for Hurst to return home. Furthermore, the window was near a tree in the back garden—it would not have been impossible for someone to climb it, and then gain access through the window. May I ask, Mr. Collins—how many buttons are on your jacket?”

“I hardly see how that matters! Sir, I’m a gentleman and this young lady doesn’t know what she is saying—”

“Mr. Collins, remove your jacket and allow my bailiff to inspect it!”

Lizzie could feel the onlookers’ gazes now, heavy with anticipation and excitement as Mr. Collins removed his jacket and handed it over. This was the one piece she wasn’t certain about—all she had was a distant memory of counting Collins’s buttons that day she’d caught him flirting with Charlotte and coming up with an uneven number. She scarcely breathed as the bailiff inspected the jacket, counting aloud. “One, two, three, four. Five, six, seven . . . There are seven, sir, but a few stray threads and some puckering where an eighth ought to be.”

Lizzie held out the button she’d recovered, and so complete was her satisfaction when it was matched with the bronze buttons on Collins’s jacket that she struggled to contain her smile. Something so small, so seemingly insignificant, had placed Mr. Collins at the scene of the crime more neatly than anything else could.