“Why are you here at this hour?” Was he about to go to the village, or had Darcy’s hints not tempted him?
“I do not need to explain my actions. Good evening,” he said firmly, gesturing to the door.
Elizabeth stepped back to block the door, putting one hand on the lock. She was not willing to draw the pistol—at least, not yet.
“Have you lost your senses? Let me pass!”
She shook her head, but was ready to scream if Mr Utterson advanced on her.
“Damn it, I am writing a letter because the candles are still lit here and I can hardly see a thing in my room by the light of one candle. Are you satisfied?”
She would have to let him go to plunder the dead, and it made her sick. He noticed her looking at the letter in his hand, and quickly tucked it into his pocket.
“Are you hiding something?” she asked shakily.
“Not at all,” he said quickly. “Wereyouhoping to importune Darcy? As you see, he is not here, and if you are wanting advice, I do not think that he appreciates cunning.” He pressed a hand to the pocket that held the letter. “Now, may I pass?”
“No!” she cried. “You are hiding something, and we are trying to catch a killer!”
That was a mistake, a dreadful, impulsive mistake. Mr Utterson stared a moment before asking, “Killer? Who died?” He thought a moment and asked, “Miss Darcy’s maid?”
Elizabeth let go of the handle and inched to the side.My fear has made me extremely foolish.She had wanted to help, and now she had gone and made it worse. It was best to let Mr Utterson pass if Darcy’s plan was to work. If Mr Utterson believed she knew nothing about it, he might let her go. The pistol’s wood handle was warm against her wrist, the steel barrel just touching her palm.
“Does Darcy think it was me?” he said angrily as he took a few steps closer.
She put her hands behind her back and slid the pistol into her palm. “He—I do not know.” Her heart pounded, and she readied herself to raise the pistol if she had to.
Mr Utterson’s features twisted. “All he said in the drawing room... Did he go to Lambton to witness a villain stealing from the dead?”
“No, of course not,” she whispered.
“And he suspectsIwould do such a thing?” He cursed under his breath. “Darcy thinks whoever killed the maid will plunder the dead? He thinks me a thief and a murderer?”
She said nothing, and her fingers were shaking. Being red in the face was not reason enough to bring the gun from behind her back.
“Why on earth would Darcy suspectme?”
He was angry, and Elizabeth wondered if he was genuinely insulted. Hints of doubt crept into her mind. “Carew was killed with a candlestick taken from old Mr Darcy’s room. The thief had to be someone who knew the house, who could easily enter it and leave it...”
“And?” he asked in a low voice.
“And you and Mr Balfour are unaccounted for on the morning she died.” At the look of confusion on his face, she added, “Last Thursday.”
“I left early for Tissington, to see—to spend the day with Lord Poole.” Mr Utterson began to pace. He was no longer near enough to harm her. She could flee now, but he then asked softly, more to himself, “Why me any more than Balfour?”
Elizabeth had to swallow and take a breath before the words came. “You are jealous of Darcy, jealous of Mr Balfour, of your older brotherbecause you will not inherit.” He looked sharply at her. “You complain of not having the money you deserve?—”
“It was not me!”
“Would Lord Poole say in court that you were there?”
He blanched, and Elizabeth’s finger moved to be ready to fully cock the pistol after all. “His servants could account for my presence, and so could his daughter.”
She saw the way his hand moved over his coat pocket again. Mr Utterson was always going to the post or reading a letter, and Mr Balfour’s rude asides came to mind. “You were here writing to Miss...?”
“Miss Newcomen,” he said. “I want to marry Lord Poole’s daughter, but he does not think me wealthy enough. I will do what I must to show him that I can provide for a baron’s daughter. I was here writing to Margaret—we write every day—and are secretly engaged.”
That was all the more reason to suspect him.“A man may be propelled to do much by the impulse of illimitable ardour.”
