Page 4 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

Regaining a bit of rationality, she stood, retrieved her kerchief, wiped the damp from her skirts, and started out of the maze.

Elizabeth had been quite certain the morning could grow no worse. She had never been more mistaken.

Instead, it had become the day that changed everything.

Chapter 2

As Elizabeth stumbled through the yew archway at the maze entrance, the sight before her helped her regain a bit more of her senses, for never did Elizabeth expect to find Mr. Darcy, coat streaming behind him, running full out toward her, as though by the hand of Providence.

Slowing from his sprint, he reached the entrance, slipped on wet gravel, and nearly collided with her.

Her muscles aspired to betray her as she attempted to collect herself enough to speak. She took two staggering steps toward him, then stopped. She felt her cheek twitch. For one mortifying instant, she feared she might faint outright before him; but pride, if nothing else, compelled her to remain upright.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “Are you—” His gaze swept down her form, taking in her condition. “Who… what—” He hesitated. “How may I assist you?”

She grabbed his forearm with a strength that surprised even herself. “A woman… Mrs. Blackstone. In the maze,” she said, voice flat as a tombstone. “She is dead.” She turned to look behind her, then met his gaze once again. “I found her. She is dead.”

Placing a hand gently upon hers, he widened his eyes. “Show me,” he said at last.

She nodded, her jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might crack. She let go of his arm.

Mr. Darcy seemed ready to catch her by the shoulders, to steady her, she supposed, but she stepped away, straightened her back, and retraced her steps, marching into the tunnel of yew with a rigid stride.

He followed.

The chill in the maze was different from the cold on the open lawns. Here it was close, damp, almost suffocating. The path wound back and forth, each turn identical. Somehow, she remembered the way. They emerged into the central clearing.

The fountain seemed changed by the presence of death. The cherubs’ faces were less grotesque, more solemn.

Elizabeth stopped at the edge of the clearing and gestured wordlessly. Standing very straight, she was sure obstinance was the only thing preventing her from trembling.

Mr. Darcy moved forward to take in the scene.

Elizabeth looked about, trying not to look again upon Mrs. Blackstone.

She failed.

The woman was still slumped against the fountain’s rim, her head lolling at an angle that would have been uncomfortable in life. There was no obvious violence, no blood, but her lips were so red, her chin and cheek stained with a smeared patch of color.

Mr. Darcy turned back to Elizabeth as if to check on her condition, then he knelt beside Mrs. Blackstone. He spent an extended time inspecting the hands and moved to extract what was between her fingers.

“Best not,” said Elizabeth softly.

He looked up. “You saw this when you found her?”

She nodded, then flinched as the memory recurred. “I closed her eyes.”

A brief expression crossed Mr. Darcy’s features. He seemed moved by the declaration.

He stood. The wind swept through the maze with the sound of whispered secrets.

“I will get help,” said Elizabeth, turning to go.

Mr. Darcy stopped her with a word. “Wait.”

She froze, watching as he struggled for the right thing to say. He must have deemed it more appropriate to say nothing, for next he removed his greatcoat and draped it over the dead woman, obscuring the face and hands.

Elizabeth’s heart melted, allowing many contradicting emotions to rush through her at once.