Darcy frowned, scrutinizing the layout. Had these items slipped naturally from her grasp in a fall, or had they been scattered in a struggle? He tried to recall whether the teacup matched the pieces of the set at the base of the stairs, but his memory failed him. The only way to be sure was to descend further and compare them.
He tested the railing. The wooden structure, probably two centuries old, trembled beneath his hand. The lower rail, meant to brace the whole, had come loose at one end and now dangled slightly, half detached from its mount. It would not take much to break it off entirely. A body—even one as frail as Mrs. Jenkinson’s—might have struck it and caused it to give way. Or had it come loose when the colonel tripped the night of her death?
Something about the scene unsettled him. He saw no clear signs of a struggle. No indication of another presence. No reason, at least on the surface, for anyone to wish harm upon the poor woman.
Unless she had known something. . .
Darcy exhaled, his frustration mounting. Could she have discovered the identity of Lady Catherine’s murderer? If so, why had she not confided in him—or even Fitzwilliam—before she met her demise? Could the murderer be someone within their own circle?
Everyone was a suspect. That much was obvious. But who would be brazen enough to strike again?
“Perhaps it was an unfortunate accident,” he muttered under his breath. But his instincts screamed otherwise.
“Sir? Are you there?”
Darcy looked up sharply at the sound of his manservant’s voice calling from the upper floors. “Ferguson? What is it?”
“Miss Bennet is here to see you.”
Darcy climbed the stairs two steps at a time, his mind already racing through the possible reasons Elizabeth might seek him out.
***
A short time earlier:
“Dead? I did not know she was so gravely ill!” Charlotte gasped.
“She did not die of illness,” Elizabeth said solemnly. “She was found at the bottom of the staircase in the old tower.”
Charlotte turned pale, her hands tightening in her lap. “But Mr. Collins said nothing of this. Two nights ago, he told me he was going to meet with her. And now you say she died that particular night?”
Maria’s eyes widened. “Do you suppose he had a hand in it too? Miss de Bourgh told me she has always been wary of him—that his excessive attentions to her mother made her uneasy, that he seemed. . . insincere. But truly, Charlotte, how well do you know him? You had scarcely spoken a dozen times before you married. After so much mistreatment, I would not be surprised if he—”
“That is a grave accusation, Maria,” Elizabeth said. “It ought not to be spoken of so lightly.”
Charlotte swallowed hard. “But he has been unsettled since Lady Catherine’s death. The night she died, he never came to bed; he said he was with the servants, praying and offering comfort after the boy’s death—but all night, Lizzy? He returned only when Lady Catherine’s body was discovered. And Lizzy. . .” She leaned in and spoke in a hush. “I saw specks of blood upon the sleeve of his coat.”
Both Elizabeth and Maria gasped.
“Did you ask him what had happened?” Elizabeth asked, aghast.
“I did not dare.”
Maria cast a nervous glance between them. “That is frightening. Where could he possibly be?”
“I know not.” Charlotte’s voice faltered. “Last night he was talking most strangely—about the de Bourghs and that wretched curse—then he began to pray. When I woke this morning, he was already gone, and I have not seen him since. I asked several servants if they had laid eyes on him, but none had. It is most disquieting. He has never behaved so before.”
Elizabeth rose. “I must speak with Mr. Darcy. He, too, has remarked on Mr. Collins’s absence.”
Charlotte looked up at her, desperation in her eyes. “Lizzy. . . be careful.”
“I will,” Elizabeth said, and left the room in search of Mr. Darcy.
***
Elizabeth moved swiftly through the halls, her mind racing. A passing footman informed her that Mr. Darcy had last been seen in the back courtyard, bidding farewell to the colonel as he departed for Hunsford. Not acquainted with that side of the house, she lost precious moments navigating the manor’s many extensions and alterations. Its twisting passages and shuttered rooms had turned the place into a veritable maze.
When she finally reached the courtyard, she was told the gentleman had returned to the house. Huffing, she went back. Her hurried, uncertain steps eventually brought her to the kitchen. She stopped short on entering, gulping as half a dozen pairs of eyes turned on her at once. A strained hush lay over the space, broken only by the dull thud of the cook’s axe as he bled a fowl for the next meal. Foolish—barging in unannounced. Elizabeth offered them a curt nod and a murmured “good afternoon,” though the words sounded thin even to her own ears. The servants had stilled, their wary gazes tracking her every step. Of course they would look at her so; she had trespassed where she did not belong.
