“’Tis a gruesome task to have their families suffer at seeing their bodies, and to have to bury them again,” Fitzwilliam said grimly. “If they are even recent enough to have any family now living to do it.”
“Each hour reveals some new and horrible story of outrage as a result of these storms and the whole wet season.”
He had already told Fitzwilliam about Carew, the missing candlestick, and his fear that his sister’s maid had not drowned after all.
“I have been thinking about the looting,” his cousin said, “and that your father’s room is known to be not often used. It must have been someone who was familiar with the house.”
“You agree that the person who was searching for plunder in Lambton is likely the same who stole the taperstick off my father’s desk?”
“And if so, then that same person might have hit Carew over the head and stole her ring.”
Darcy knew it was likely, but the pain of that realisation was difficult to face. “I cannot believe that one of my servants stole from me, let alone murdered Carew, one of their own. I know theft happens,” he cried when Fitzwilliam threw him a look. “Before you call me easily deceived, there is nothing else missing, no servant has pointed a finger, and Mrs Reynolds has neither heard nor seen anything suspicious. You know how quickly rumours spread through a house.”
Fitzwilliam was silent for a moment. “If you are so certain it is not a servant?—”
“I am,” he answered firmly. “I am not naïve, but not one of my servants is suspicious of another; no one appears to suddenly have more money. Nothing else is missing.” Fitzwilliam gave him an expectant look. “What?”
“There was no looting last night, and it might have been the same person...”
Darcy blew out a breath. “Then perhaps I am wrong, and the looting and Carew’s death are not related.”
“Darcy!” Fitzwilliam shook his head, giving him an exasperatedlook as they rode towards the house. “Do all people tend to believe the world is what they thought it was, even clever men like you? Even when evidence to the contrary is presented to them?”
“What are you implying? Iwantto find out what happened. I hardly care about who stole from me, but if Molly Carew was murdered, then I want her murderer punished.”
“Then think!” Fitzwilliam spat. “If it is not a servant, not a villager, and there was no looting last night, and it was someone who knew the house, knew the room was not often used, and was someone who Carew would not have fled from, then you know who to suspect.”
The truth was a twisting knife in his heart. “Balfour or Utterson.”
Rather than boast at having seen the matter so clearly himself, or mock him for not admitting it aloud sooner, Fitzwilliam said gently, “A man believes what he must to sleep at night.”
“I no longer care about my peace of mind.” Darcy saw that they were now coming near to the place where Carew’s body was discovered. “She borrowed Miss Bennet’s pelisse, and her hat had a flower in it that belonged to Georgiana, but I think that is unrelated to her death.”
Fitzwilliam agreed. “Whoever killed her was near enough to know that it was Carew.”
“I have known Balfour for six years, Utterson for three, although not as well... how do I determine if either one killed her?”
“You cannot be objective.”
“Then help me,” he said, just short of pleading.
Fitzwilliam stopped his horse and turned to look at him. “Where were they on Thursday?”
“Both men were away from Pemberley on the morning Carew died. I did not see any of my guests from Wednesday night until I came back to the house Thursday afternoon and saw Miss Bennet and then Georgiana after finding the body. Miss Bennet, Mrs Lanyon, and Mrs Annesley were with Georgiana that morning. Utterson said he was in Tissington shooting at Lord Poole’s, and Balfour was at Buxton playing cards.”
“That is not easy for you to verify, since their friends might lie for them, or an employee is bribed.”
“You know both of them; you are above bowing acquaintances at the least. They are well-connected young men, and your circles have crossed many times. What do you think of each of them?”
“Balfour is a lazy, harmless sort of man. Nothing to like or dislike about him. The sort of man you would shoot with in the morning and play cards with in the evening without growing tired of him.”
Darcy agreed. “He is of good family; respectable connexions. He did spend his early years gaming, horse racing.”
“And spending.”
“Yes, high spending, but he was not wild or reckless, then or now.”
“Hester—” Fitzwilliam coughed. “Mrs Lanyon says Balfour enjoys dice and cards, but no more so than any other young, single man waiting to inherit.”
