Page 23 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

Opening one from the brother, she read. It was warm in tone but not effusive. It contained news of his marriage and his hopes for her comfort. Another announced the arrival of a nephew. There was no trace of family discord. In fact, her brother asked several times whether she wished to stay with them. Elizabeth presumed she had refused, for later he commented on his quiet pride in her ability to make her own way, and in his hope that her position fulfilled her desire to be of practical use in a world that so rarely values such things.

She skipped ahead to the most recent letters.

Another missive from Mrs. Lingard, offering condolences for some unspecified disappointment: “One must expect such reversals, my dear, but I am confident that your character will see you through,” and another from the same woman, which closed with a postscript: “I am happy to hear you took my advice regarding the Lorrimer affair, for you are not always the best judge of people.”

The phrase struck a chord for both its faint reproof and its implication that Mrs. Lingard had been a confidante of Mrs. Blackstone’s troubles.

At the bottom of the stack, Elizabeth found an envelope of coarse paper addressed in a cramped, masculine hand: Lorrimer. She slid the letter free. He did not supply his own address in the return; only his name. She scanned the contents, careful not to tear the thin sheet.

It was dated last autumn, butafterMrs. Lingard’s observation, which most likely meant there was an earlier letter that was missing. In the text, Mr. Lorrimer asked for financial assistance, then chided her for failing to reply to prior requests.There was a hint of something darker in the second paragraph: “You must not think me ungrateful, but I am at the end of my patience, and if you will not see me, I must look for you where I can. You know I have means to reach you if I choose.” It was signed “F. Lorrimer.”

As Elizabeth looked up, the weight of the words still hummed through her mind. “This man—F. Lorrimer—threatened her,” she said louder than she meant to.

Mr. Darcy turned from the window.

She passed him the letter. He read it once, then scanned it again, lips compressed. “There is a threat, yes. But is it the threat of a scoundrel, or the plea of a desperate relation? I have seen both; they are not always easy to tell apart.”

“Mr. Haldridge mentioned Lorrimer was her cousin, and that she had some trouble with him last year,” Charlotte said. “I was under the impression it was a matter of money. But should we take a man who writes such letters seriously?”

“I think we must,” said Elizabeth, turning over the letter and holding up the side labeled with the address, “He sent the letter here, not to where she resided in Bath, which, to me, seems to strengthen the threat. He also did not supply a return address, which makes me suspicious. He knew where she was. Perhaps this address is closer to his own residence and if he was desperate enough, he might come here.”

Mr. Darcy considered this. “Do you believe he is the author of the note delivered on the morning of her death?”

“I have no idea, but it is certainly possible,” Elizabeth said. “The maid said that note was folded, but not sealed, which necessitates the sender was local. And it was read with shock. Since Lorrimer had already threatened her in the past, I imagineshe would have been upset by receiving another. Especially if it told of his being nearby.”

Charlotte added, “She did not take her reticule, nor did she tell anyone where she was going. It seems to me she meant to meet someone whose presence could not be explained.”

Elizabeth nodded. “The maid described her having a fit of nerves upon reading the letter, even the second time. She must have known there was a risk. And yet she went.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the facts arrayed but unsatisfying.

Elizabeth replaced the correspondence in the desk, but kept the Lorrimer letter separate, folding it into her own pocket for later study. She moved to the wardrobe and examined the pockets of both dresses, found nothing but a handkerchief and a crumbled bit of paper with the list of household chores.

When Elizabeth lifted the shoes and peeked inside, Charlotte asked lightly, “Shall we look at the heels, like we heard about in that novel we read years ago?”

Elizabeth stopped herself, but the urge to do so almost overwhelmed her. After a few moments, she gave in and examined the heels, looking for secret compartments.

Charlotte actually giggled.

“It cannot hurt to make certain.” Elizabeth blushed.

When Elizabeth turned, she found Mr. Darcy inspecting the dressing table. He touched one of the cosmetic tins with the tip of his finger and then, with extreme delicacy, used his handkerchief to unscrew the lid. He sniffed, then replaced the cap.

“What is it?” asked Charlotte, drawn by his precision.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said, glancing at Elizabeth. “It is just that… it was said she was found with no outward mark of injury other than a bruise where her cheek hit the fountain.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I saw a residue on her chin, but nobody has mentioned it since.”

He caught her gaze. “I saw it, as well.”

“What color was it?” Charlotte asked.

He shrugged just a little, which was strange for him. “I believe my sister would call it ‘Blossom.’”

Elizabeth smiled brightly. Mr. Darcy’s color “blossomed” a bit before he turned away.

Charlotte said, “There is always the possibility of poison. But the coroner declared she died of a fit of the nerves, did he not?”