Page 40 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

Elizabeth found herself numb to both possibilities. Her mind’s only occupation was the probable purpose of this gathering: either another death had occurred, or there was to be a public accusation, staged with all the resources of Rosings Park.

Unwilling to think upon the first option, as she made her way out the door behind Charlotte and Mr. Collins, she forcedher mind to ponder what the physical feeling of being accused might be, whether it came on as a chill or a fever. Whether the air in the grand drawing room would thin and sharpen or collapse in on itself like a body denied breath.

As they passed through the garden, they found that Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had come to hurry the Hunsford Cottage group along.

Elizabeth relaxed knowing if the news was about an additional death, at least it was not one of them.

The two gentlemen led the procession across the lane to the gravel walk. The stiffness of their carriages suggested that neither man would take delight in what lay ahead.

Elizabeth could not decide if their silence was an agreement to let the facts speak for themselves, or a deeper tension. There were other signs: a look exchanged; a pace slowed to permit her to catch up; an almost audible gathering of breath before they crossed the threshold.

Though Willow Grange was further away, somehow Mr. Haldridge had arrived before them. He was found sitting on a bench in the main hall, hands in his lap, gaze fixed not on the arriving guests but on the window, where a patch of frost still sparkled on the lowest panes.

He rose, bowed to Charlotte, and offered Elizabeth a nod.

A servant led them into the drawing room.

The effect upon entering was immediate and physical. If Lady Catherine meant to conduct an inquest, she had chosen her preferred theater for it. Every lamp, every candelabrum had been lit, so that the air rippled with visible heat and the fire in the white marble mantel burned at a volume more appropriate to the deepest winter. A brace of vases, enormous fresh lilies, flanked Lady Catherine’s chair, their scent already cloying andthick. The curtains, drawn tight, sealed the perfume in. The room reminded Elizabeth of a funeral.

Lady Catherine oversaw their arrival from her usual throne, her cane upright at her knee, a glare of authority on her face, rendered positively radiant by the mirrored sconces lining the wall.

Mrs. Jenkinson and Miss Anne de Bourgh hovered to one side of her, the former perfectly composed, the latter pale and perspiring in the intolerable heat.

Elizabeth saw that the seating had been arranged to place every occupant under Lady Catherine’s careful scrutiny.

Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam automatically took up stations at the sideboard with their backs to the wall, as if they belonged there. A footman led Mr. Collins to a small chair in the center of the room, like a schoolboy facing examination. Charlotte and Elizabeth were brought to the settee nearest Lady Catherine. Mr. Haldridge was seated in a chair beside them, though not so near as to permit conspiratorial whispering.

Footmen stood sentry on either side of the door, each with a maid beside them. All four looked ready to jump into action the moment Lady Catherine required them.

No sooner were they all seated than Lady Catherine spoke. “You are wondering why I have summoned you here,” she said, voice carrying across the room with the unassailable force of a bugle. “I will not insult your intelligence. We are here to address the matter of Mrs. Blackstone’s death, which has, in these last days, become a cloud over Rosings Park and the reputation of all present. I do not propose to allow this matter to fester much longer.”

She fixed her gaze at Mr. Collins, who tried to look attentive, sympathetic, and subservient at the same time.

“I have considered all the evidence. I have spoken with the authorities, with my staff, and with several of you individually. I believe that the matter has been purposely confused by false information, idle speculation, and the inability of the lower orders to speak plainly when they should.”

The last was delivered with such force that the maids were visibly startled and the footmen’s shoulders stiffened. Even the lilies seemed to wilt.

Lady Catherine turned to Mr. Haldridge, whose expression had not altered by a hair. “Mr. Haldridge. You were Mrs. Blackstone’s employer. You had daily access to her. You also possessed, by your own admission, knowledge of her private affairs, including the correspondence that so disturbed her in her final days.”

Mr. Haldridge inclined his head. “I have never denied my responsibility, milady. But I hope you will not suggest that proximity alone makes one a murderer. If it did, there would be no gentlemen left in England.”

There was an audible intake of breath from Mr. Collins, who seemed unsure whether he had just witnessed an insult. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s lips twitched, but he managed to restrain any overt reaction.

Lady Catherine pressed on, undeterred. “The coroner has informed me that he is now convinced that Mrs. Blackstone’s death was not self-inflicted. Nor was there evidence of a struggle or of forced entry. There was, however, a note—” she gestured to a small side table, where the blue-tinted scrap and the letter it came from were displayed on a silver tray, as if it were a precious artifact. “—a note which I am told was part of the scrap found in her hand, and whose remaining portion was found later in the possession of a guest of the parsonage.”

Since there was only one guest at the parsonage, there was no question as to whom Lady Catherine was speaking. The room’s attention pivoted to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth forced herself to maintain composure, though deep down, the fear of being falsely accused gnawed at her soul. Straightening her spine, she lifted her chin defiantly, determined not to let Lady Catherine’s words break her facade of calm.

She met Lady Catherine’s gaze, allowing herself no blink or flinch. “The two pieces fit together. They were once the same page.”

Lady Catherine arched an eyebrow. “Then perhaps you can explain to us all, Miss Bennet, how it is that a note addressed to Mrs. Blackstone should end up in your care?”

Elizabeth had prepared for this. “Because I was the first to find her in the maze, and in my shock, I gathered the letter with my own, which had slipped from my hand upon the discovery of Mrs. Blackstone. It was an accident, not a conspiracy.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes did not leave her, but her voice now swept the room as she said, “I believe that the person who sent the note is the person who wished Mrs. Blackstone dead. I also suspect that person is among us.”

A murmur of unease passed through the assembly.