Page 35 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

They reached the far end of the path. The colonel stopped, turning to face both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.

“There is another thing I did not remember until just now.” He gestured toward the gate. “At the time, I thought it of no consequence, but…”

Mr. Darcy raised his eyebrows.

The colonel’s lips pressed into a thin line. “There was a scarf—a pale gray wool—caught on the latch of the garden gate at the east wall. I assumed it belonged to one of the housemaids, perhaps lost on a errand. It was cold, after all, and not uncommon for such things to be left about.” He looked at Elizabeth, then Mr. Darcy. “I removed it and left it on the bench just inside the gate. When I returned later, it was gone.”

Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. She could picture the item, a practical color and weave, caught on the gate. If a woman was in a rush, she might have briefly tried to disentangle it, but when she could not, left it, thinking she would come back to retrieve it later.

Except there would be no “later” for Mrs. Blackstone.

It was the sort of clue that would be tidied away by a well-meaning staff member and never thought of again.

Or removed on purpose by a murderer.

Mr. Darcy’s eyes closed for a beat, then reopened. “Thank you, Richard,” he said, and Elizabeth could not tell if it was an apology or something else entirely.

Colonel Fitzwilliam inclined his head, then turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, may I suggest we hurry our steps?” He looked up to the overcast sky. “I am not sure I trust the weather to hold, and it would be unconscionable to allow you to be caught in a squall.”

She looked up as well. He was right.

Together they navigated the last stretch of path in a companionable silence.

Elizabeth let the rhythm of their footsteps settle her nerves. She replayed the conversation, sorting its elements, weighing each for what it said and what it left unsaid.

Ahead, the parsonage’s chimney smoked against the gloomy sky.

She was, for the moment, exactly where she needed to be.

And, if she was not mistaken, so were the men beside her.

Chapter 12

Charlotte had sent a note saying that she and Mr. Collins were to dine at Rosings, for their presence had been deemed vital to her ladyship’s comfort in this crisis.

Elizabeth dismissed the servants, saying she would help herself to cold meats and cheeses for supper. Pleased to have an evening off, they had all gone home or to bed. The result: an empty cottage, one candle lit in the entry hall, and a parlor unoccupied except for the smoldering scent of the dying fire in the hearth.

By the time Mr. Darcy arrived, the night had settled. Elizabeth heard the tap of his knuckles on the parsonage door, not loud but certain.

Though she had anticipated the knock for the better part of an hour, the sound managed to startle her.

She opened the door herself, finding Mr. Darcy, hat in hand. He looked, for a moment, almost as startled to see her as she had been to hear him.

He inclined his head. “I hope my calling is not untoward.”

She stepped aside. “You are expected, Mr. Darcy.”

He let a smile flicker, too quickly for certainty, then passed into the entry hall. She closed the door behind him, and the familiar, unyielding silence of Hunsford Cottage—whenever Mr. Collins was not at home—pressed in once more.

Elizabeth led him not to the formal sitting room, but to the small chamber Charlotte reserved for her own correspondence, a room Elizabeth had annexed for the evening for the purpose of the investigation. The walls were lined with shelves of Mr. Collins’s theological texts and the occasional volume of poetry. Still, a narrow writing desk dominated the center of the room, its surface now an organized chaos of loose paper, a bottle of ink, the blue-tinted page, and the rough sketch of the maze she’d drawn from memory. The single hearth flickered with uneven light, throwing their shadows in distorted lengths across the cheap rug. A dish of lavender sachets gave the room a faint sweetness.

Mr. Darcy stopped at the threshold, taking in the spectacle of notes and artifacts. He gave a short, approving nod and set his hat on the edge of the bookshelf.

“It is a war council, then,” he said, voice pitched lower than usual.

Elizabeth gestured to the chair behind the desk. “By all means. Take command.”

He shook his head, not in denial but as if to relinquish the suggestion. “You are the superior tactician here, Miss Elizabeth. I will follow your lead.”