From my observation, he had always been a reserved, private sort of man. It must be difficult for him to be so direct. I drew my lower lip between my teeth. Would that I could offer him encouragement, yet it would not do to give him false hope. “I am afraid not.”
The line of his jaw tensed, and he nodded. “Thank you.” He spun his horse round and rode away.
I should relate my encounter with him to Cassie. Surely, she would come to her senses and forgive him one day soon.
Saturday, 31 August
Darcy House, London
Fitzwilliam Darcy
I lifted the missive from my friend Charles Bingley and strained to make out the blurred letters; his slapdash penmanship and the random blots of ink tainting the page made the effort akin to solving a cypher. My friend had signed a lease on an estate near Meryton in Hertfordshire. He would take possession of the property on the sixth of September and asked me to join him there, provide my opinion of the house and grounds, and remain for a month or two.
To my regret, I should be forced to decline since I had already accepted my friend Patrick Hayward’s invitation to sojourn at his estate near Salisbury. Hayward, whose parents had retired to a house in Sidmouth several years earlier, resided there with his wife and young daughter. Although Hayward had stayed at Pemberley more than once, this would be my first visit to his home. I moved my calendar nearer and perused the forthcoming dates.
Perhaps I ought to ride out to Hertfordshire on Friday the sixth of September and return to town the following day, thereby providing Bingley a modicum of first-hand guidance while allowing me time to prepare for my trip to Wiltshire. Thereafter, I could offer Bingley any assistance he may require via correspondence. Yes, I should do that.
At the sound of a knock, I set down the letter. My butler stood in the doorway to the study. “What is it, Slade?”
“A Mr. Notley is here to see you, sir.” Slade strode to me and handed over a card, which identified the caller as a Bow Street runner. The man must be investigating Mrs. Cooper’s murder.
“Bring him here.”
“Yes, sir.”
My neighbour Mrs. Cooper, a fifty-year-old widow, had been strangled on Thursday evening. The constable, Mr. Clark, had questioned me yesterday in accordance with his official inquiry.
I stood from my desk as Slade announced the runner, a thin, blond man in his fourth decade. My hand lifted towards a chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Notley.” Slade closed the door behind the officer and departed.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.” He sat and removed a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. When he accepted my offer of brandy, I poured him a glass and took the opportunity to refill my own. He took a sip of the liquor and opened his notebook to a blank page. “As you may have surmised, I am investigating the murder of Mrs. Cooper that occurred two nights ago.”
“Yes, Mr. Clark called here yesterday. As I told him, I rarely spoke with Mrs. Cooper and have no idea who may have wanted to harm her.”
“Mr. Clark provided me with his notes from your interview. The coroner completed his exam yesterday. Based upon the ligature marks on Mrs. Cooper’s neck, he believes the killer strangled her with a length of cloth, possibly a cravat.” He held me in an intent gaze. “Mrs. Cooper has been your nearest neighbour for decades. May I ask why you had such a distant association with her?”
I toyed with the silver buttons on my sleeve. It would not do to disparage the dead, yet I should be honest. “I found Mrs. Cooper to be narrow-minded and spiteful, so I avoided her whenever possible.”
Mr. Notley nodded. “You are not the first to describe her in such terms. There is also the matter of the past accusation of theft levelled against her. Are you familiar with the incident?”
“Yes, the newspapers chronicled the events, including her trial.” Mrs. Cooper had been reported for the theft of a ruby brooch by a jeweller in Piccadilly. Despite her eventual acquittal, I had found the jeweller’s version of the episode to be more credible than Mrs. Cooper’s testimony, wherein she maintained that she had forgotten to set the brooch down before leaving the shop.
Some years ago, Mrs. Cooper and several other ladies had taken tea at the home of my aunt Lady Matlock. After the guests had departed, the butler noticed a miniature porcelain figure of a horse had disappeared from the drawing-room. This preceded the jewellery shop incident, but one of my aunt’s friends had experienced a similar loss after Mrs. Cooper had attended a gathering at her house. Thereafter, my aunt never again sent an invitation to Mrs. Cooper and suffered no further thefts.
Mr. Notley glanced at his notebook. “According to Mrs. Cooper’s cousin who resides in Chelsea, Mrs. Cooper made a new acquaintance in the month before her death, a gentleman by the name of Mr. James King who owns an estate in Norwich. Mr. King approached Mrs. Cooper in a shop on Bond Street. He declared himself to be a friend of her late husband and maintained they had met long ago.”
He shifted his feet forwards. “Do you have any knowledge of this man?”
“No, I do not, and the name is not familiar.” I drank from my glass.
“That is a pity. Mrs. Cooper’s butler confirmed that Mr. King dined at the house the night of her murder. She had dismissed most of the servants for the evening, so no one saw him leave before a passing maid discovered her body. It is imperative that I speak to him, but thus far, he has proved to be difficult to find.”
It sounded like Mr. King might be the killer. “I hope you are able to question him.”
“That is our intention.”
“Do you know who benefits from Mrs.Cooper’s death?”
“Yes, she has three nephews who will share her estate. The two eldest were out of town on Thursday. The youngest has been described as a ne’er do well. However, a lady friend has provided him with an alibi.”
