Page 49 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

“‘de Bourgh.’ The name was written on the page above with enough pressure to leave its mark here.”

Mr. Darcy, anticipating her need, gestured to the footman who had hovered out of sight; the man produced a small taper, which Mr. Darcy angled beneath the page for the coroner’s examination.

The coroner squinted, then nodded. “It is there,” he said.

Elizabeth let her eyes rest, just for a moment, on Mrs. Jenkinson. “You see, the note was not posted. It was not sealed. It was delivered by hand, early in the morning before most in the household of Willow Grange were awake. Mrs. Blackstone, upon reading it, was in such a panic, she did not take her reticule. She left by the east gate, which leads directly to the grounds of Rosings. Whoever wrote the note knew she would come upon receiving a letter from her cousin.”

A faint stir passed through the company. Someone drew a sharp breath. Mr. Collins shifted as though barely restraining the impulse to speak.

Elizabeth waited until the silence settled again.

“The collapse in the maze was only the final consequence,” she said quietly. “The poison had already been placed in Mrs. Blackstone’s lip salve. Nothing about it would have appeared unusual since sweet almond is usually used in such preparations. Cyanide is made with bitter almonds.”

She glanced briefly toward the path behind them.

“On a morning as cold as that one, she would naturally have applied it before leaving the house.” Her voice grew gentler. “She had no reason to believe it could do her harm.”

The coroner’s eyes were narrow. Intent. “You mean to say, the note was only to ensure she would die where she could not be helped.”

Elizabeth nodded. “And to delay the discovery. The maze is not tended until nearly ten o’clock. In that time, the evidence would be washed by dew, the scent masked by the cold, and the body, when found, would seem to be the victim of a fall, a fit, or a malady of the nerves. Had the note been removed from her hand, I doubt the poison would ever have been found at all.”

She paused, then finished: “It requires knowledge of the stillroom, of the stationery, of the routines of both the victim and the maze’s maintenance, and—if I may say so—a familiarity with the temperament and vulnerabilities of every lady within the social orbit of Rosings Park.”

“But…” Miss de Bourgh said it so softly that it was almost a whisper. She finally glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Jenkinson. “How was the letter torn?”

“I believe,” said Elizabeth, “That after the deed was done, the murderer panicked and left without it. Later, when it was remembered, and she could get away from her duties, as the letter was torn from Mrs. Blackstone’s hand, I must have entered the maze. The letter was dropped. My progress was swift. If she did not leave, she would be caught out.”

There was a silence, long and deep. Elizabeth let it stand, knowing that pressing further would oversell her case. She simply allowed her gaze to rest on Mrs. Jenkinson.

It was Mr. Haldridge who reacted first. His jaw, already tight, now moved as if he were chewing words he dared not utter.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, at the maze entrance, had gone so still he might have been another topiary.

Mr. Collins made a strangled sound—the noise of a man who had rehearsed a defense for an entirely different person and was now wholly without lines.

Miss Anne de Bourgh’s hands fluttered toward her shawl, then stopped, arrested in midair.

Mrs. Jenkinson did not falter. She lifted her chin, the gesture not proud but unmistakably resolute. Her right hand pressed flat against the taut surface of her embroidery hoop—her constant companion. When she met Elizabeth’s eyes, there was no denial, no plea, and certainly no apology.

It was the look of a woman who had prepared for every contingency and now waited, with almost professional detachment, to see if the world would catch up with her.

That was the moment when Elizabeth felt the weight of the case lift from her shoulders and pass onto the coroner’s. She turned to Mr. Darcy, whose eyes were on her, and saw in his expression the same relief she was feeling, along with a fierce and abiding respect.

She would have smiled, but it did not seem the proper time.

The coroner asked, “Are you certain you wish to say nothing, Mrs. Jenkinson?”

The hush that followed the coroner’s question was so complete that Elizabeth could hear the far-off rattle of a gardener’s wheelbarrow somewhere beyond the yew walls. Cold had seeped into her toes, but there was a sensation in her chest she could not name.

She waited, as much to allow the implications to register as to gather her composure. Her gaze traveled from the fountain to the company.

She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Darcy.

He nodded in recognition.

The maze was still, waiting for an answer.

Chapter 16