Page 28 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

“I found this last night. Or rather, I found it among my own papers. I believe it is the remainder of what was clutched in Mrs. Blackstone’s hand.”

He took it. The scrap seemed to tremble in his hold, but perhaps it was her own nerves that only made it seem so. He regarded the edge, the ink stains, the place where a line of smudged words ended with a sudden, splintered tear.

“I do not understand,” he said. “How did you come to have it?”

Elizabeth’s face heated. “I had gone to the maze for privacy, to read a letter. I dropped it in my shock when I found Mrs. Blackstone. Later, I… retrieved what I thought was mine. This must have been on the ground amongst the pages.”

It was not a lie, but it was far from the full story. Elizabeth felt her face heat once again. “I am sorry. I should have noticed it sooner.”

Mr. Darcy examined the page for another moment, then nodded. “There is no fault in it, Miss Elizabeth. We are none of us prepared for such things.”

They stood in an uncomfortable silence, side by side, each staring straight out at the meadow they had been crossing.

She could only imagine where his mind was wandering until he asked, “Did you read it?”

She understood instantly which letter he meant and felt as though the world tilted sideways. She wondered, for the briefest moment, what it would be like to lie to him. But she could not.

“I have not read further than the first page,” she said. “Nor do I mean to, until this matter is resolved. But I have thought much about what you said of Jane. About how her manner might… mislead someone who did not know her well.”

A moment passed. Mr. Darcy’s posture, which had stiffened with her confession, eased a fraction.

Elizabeth went on, “In the past, even Charlotte has remarked that Jane’s feelings are not easily detected by those who do not know her well. She is not cold-hearted—never that—, but she is utterly modest. Entirely proper. She strictly follows the rules of propriety. When she was told not to show her true emotions on her face, she took it completely to heart. She is also uncommonly kind, so much so that she can only see the best in others. She expects everyone else to be as gentle as she is, and it never occurs to her that people may mean less than they say. Deception is impossible for her. It is simply not in her nature.”

Elizabeth smiled, a real one, wide and unguarded. “Jane is the best lady who has ever lived. Her character is so far above ordinary standards that it sometimes seems to me she belongs to another world. A better one.”

Mr. Darcy listened to this in silence. When she finished, he looked at her as if to see something that had not been visible before.

“The last,” he said, “could be said of her sister, as well.”

The statement landed between them with weight. Elizabeth felt herself blushing, not the polite pink of embarrassment buta tidal flush that began at her ears and swept down her throat. She could not think of a thing to say, so she let the silence be her answer.

He looked away, and when he spoke next, his voice was almost too quiet for her to hear, “I have written to Bingley and admitted my error. I know not how he will react, or what he may do.”

Elizabeth’s heart contracted, then expanded so rapidly she felt dizzy. “Oh,” she said. It was all she could manage.

They walked in silence for a time, the path winding through a series of descending hedgerows. At a bend, Elizabeth stopped and said, “May I ask—I did notice that your stationery is the same as…” She nodded to the other letter, still held in his hand.

He nodded. “It was a gift from my aunt. When I am at home, I use a different paper—a cream-colored stationery. But when traveling, I use the one Aunt Catherine gifted me—the blue. Having the different colors helps my sister to distinguish from where the letter was sent.”

“Do you know where she obtained the paper? Knowing Lady Catherine as I do, I assume it must be from only the best stationery warehouse, but perhaps eventhatcan give us a clue.”

“You know my Aunt only too well, Miss Elizabeth.” Mr. Darcy’s eyes twinkled with a smile. “It is from Messrs. Bell & Fairfax, Stationers and Paper Merchants, of Bond Street.” He paused, his gaze drifting toward the clouds. “They are known to be rather particular about whom they supply. One does not simply walk in and purchase their finest stationery.”

“Could Mr. Haldridge have purchased from Messrs. Bell & Fairfax?”

Mr. Darcy raised one eyebrow. “I would think not.”

“So, in essence, what you are saying is that the paper must have been procured from either Lady Catherine’s supply or your own?”

He nodded once. “I am certain it was from my aunt’s supply. My portable writing desk is locked when I am not using it. And it is under my valet’s personal attention whenever it is not in my own sight.”

He must store quite sensitive correspondence in his desk for it to be guarded in this way. “Do you think you can obtain the fragment that was found in Mrs. Blackstone’s hand?”

Mr. Darcy seemed almost relieved by her acceptance that the murderer had not used his paper. “I can,” he said. “Lady Catherine keeps it on her writing table. I will ask for it on the pretext of reporting to the coroner.”

Elizabeth nodded, feeling a surge of purpose. “Thank you. I want to examine the manner of its tearing and make certain that it matches this.”

He smiled, genuine and without irony. “I will say it again, Miss Elizabeth. You have the soul of a detective.”