Thirteen

In Which Lizzie and Darcy Consult the Misses Dashwood

LIZZIE’S RELIEF AT FINDING Darcy safe and sound was quickly overshadowed by his alarm and Elinor’s and Marianne’s shock at the sight of the brick.

“Good heavens,” Elinor proclaimed.

“Are you all right?” Marianne asked.

“We’re all unharmed,” Lizzie assured them. Darcy was staring at the brick with a clenched jaw, so she could only imagine what sort of angry thoughts were brewing in his mind. “The brick didn’t land anywhere near us.”

“You don’t throw something like this through a drawing room window unless you’re content with the idea of causing harm,” he said darkly.

Guy began barking, an excited, happy sound as he lunged toward one of the shop’s displays.

“Guy, shush! This is quite unbecoming!” Lizzie scolded. But then Guy dove under the table’s cloth, and a peal of laughter came from beneath the table. The tablecloth flipped up, revealing the youngest Dashwood sister, Margaret. Guy licked her face and danced in happiness.

“Hello, Miss Bennet. Did the window make an awful mess?” Margaret asked.

“Margaret! You’re not supposed to eavesdrop!” Elinor scolded.

“It’s a public shop,” Margaret protested as she crawled out. “I like your dog.”

“Thank you,” Lizzie said. “And, yes, it made an awful mess. We’ll be picking glass out of the carpet for weeks.”

Darcy made a strangled sort of noise just then, and his face was twisted in misery. “Lizzie.”

“He’s been very worried about you,” Margaret said.

“Margaret,” Elinor said with a warning in her voice.

“Oh?” Lizzie looked between the sisters and Darcy. “What were you all discussing just now?”

“Romantic woes,” Margaret quipped as she tussled with Guy.

“Margaret!” Elinor clapped her hands. “That’s it! In the back!”

Margaret protested but was pulled along by her oldest sister. Marianne went to the front of the shop, locked the door, and flipped their sign so it read Closed . “Lizzie, I think you’d better start from the very beginning.”

Lizzie was not entirely convinced that they hadn’t been talking about her, but she quickly recounted the previous evening’s events. Darcy listened with horror, and when she had finished he looked miserable. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

She wished they were alone so she could step closer to him. “What is this about being locked in the records room?”

“I stayed late to look at a file,” he said. “Mrs. Cavendish’s file, actually. And someone locked me in the room—I didn’t get out until this morning.”

“Why on earth would someone lock you in?” Lizzie demanded. “And what did you find in Mrs. Cavendish’s file?”

“That’s just it... it was practically empty.”

Lizzie let that news sink in. “But what does that mean?”

“It means someone has stolen it,” Darcy said darkly. “Or misplaced it.”

“But why would anyone at Pemberley have reason to take the file? This isn’t a Pemberley case—it’s our case!”

Darcy shook his head, and Lizzie had a sense that there was more he wasn’t sharing. But before she could press him on that, Elinor asked, “I presume you brought this brick for me to analyze?”

“Yes, please.” Lizzie turned her attention to the brick. “What is the message written in?

“Hmm, it could be a few things,” Elinor said, removing a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket. “Come on back.”

They followed her through a doorway leading to the back of the shop, which turned out to be Elinor’s workroom. Stepping through the doorway felt like being transported into another world, far from the bustling streets outside. The space felt like a combination of cozy parlor and laboratory, with an overstuffed couch and shelves of books on one end, and a stove, worktable, and cabinets and shelves stuffed full of glass beakers, jars, and various pots on the other. Margaret was slumped on the couch but perked up when Elinor came bustling in.

“It looks like soot,” Marianne said, peering over her sister’s shoulder.

“I don’t think so,” Elinor said. She picked up a half-burned log next to the stove and a metal instrument. She scraped a bit of the blackened end of the log into a small piece of scrap paper. “This is soot. It flakes easily, see?” It spread like fine dust.

She turned to the substance on the brick and repeated her actions on the dark line of the T . The substance didn’t flake like the soot had, although it did smear against the paper in greasy streaks. “And this... it’s definitely not soot.”

“Elinor... could it be graphite?” Lizzie had been up half the night, thinking about Mr. Hughes and his graphite mines.

“Oh! Like from a pencil?”

“Is that what pencils are made out of?” Lizzie asked.

“Yes, fine pencils—they’re very expensive. But let me run a few tests....” Elinor turned to her stove, muttering to herself.

“Lizzie,” Darcy said apprehensively. “Why do you think it’s graphite?”

“Because Mr. Hughes owns a graphite mine,” Lizzie said. “And last night at dinner, I learned that it is a highly valuable resource, guarded closely by the Crown, and it is a felony to possess it unlawfully.”

Darcy stared at her, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry—you found this out over dinner?”

“Yes, you can imagine how pleased my mother was about our choice of conversation. But Darcy—think about it. Mr. Hughes allegedly has a graphite mine that’s run dry. And we suspect that something suspicious is being run out of the Mullins Brothers storehouse. What if—”

“They were smuggling graphite,” Darcy finished. He was quiet as her absorbed this information. “But who set the fire? And who killed Leticia?”

“I don’t know, but it seems that we’ve gone from a dearth of suspects to a good many, except that there is no one clue that links them definitively to the crime.”

The party was silent as they pondered this, and then Marianne said, “You know what this calls for?”

“What?” Lizzie asked.

“A slate!” Marianne rustled through a pile of papers, books, and other miscellaneous items on a desk, and returned with a slate and a nub of chalk in hand. “When I am stuck, I write things down on a slate. It helps me to be able to puzzle through things more easily.”

“Also, Elinor said that she was running through the paper budget too quickly,” Margaret added.

“Shut up, you,” Marianne said fondly. “You go through more paper than any of us.”

Lizzie had not used a slate since she was small and learning her numbers, but she was willing to give anything a try. “All right, where do you want to start?”

“Your suspects,” Marianne said, laying the slate down on the table between them.

“Leticia Cavendish, Jack Mullins, Richard Hughes, and”—Lizzie looked at Darcy—“Josette Beaufort?”

He nodded, although he didn’t look happy about it.

Marianne wrote their names across the top of the wide edge of the slate. “Now, what are the reasons we have to suspect Miss Cavendish?”

“A woman fitting her description was seen at the storehouse and was accused of starting the fire, she indicated that she had information for us, and then she was murdered before she could meet with us,” Lizzie said. Marianne rushed to list the reasons.

“Doesn’t the fact that she was murdered mean that she wasn’t guilty?” Margaret asked.

“Not necessarily. She could have started the fire.” Lizzie thought of the sight of Leticia, strangled in the park, and tried not to shudder. “But she certainly isn’t responsible for her own murder.”

“Double crimes,” Margaret whispered with excitement, and scrawled something in her own journal.

“Don’t forget, Miss Cavendish has dubious origins,” Darcy added. “Not much is known about her early life or how and why she came to London. We don’t know her motivations.”

Marianne nodded, listing all the reasons in shorthand. “And Jack Mullins?”

Lizzie sighed. “He accused a dark-haired, tall young lady of setting the fire, but didn’t actually see her start the fire. He’s been cagey about letting us inspect the premises, although he claims it’s for our safety.”

“Vengeful?” Marianne asked.

“Perhaps. When he learned that Leticia had been murdered, he seemed... upset, but not despondent. He also claims not to know who she is. But he didn’t disclose that there is a Crown investigation into his storehouse, and we don’t know if he’s unaware or if he’s keeping it from us.”

“So he might be responsible for the murder, but it seems unlikely he was responsible for the fire that caused his brother’s death?” Marianne asked. “And he’s keeping secrets, possibly.”

“Likely,” Darcy corrected.

Lizzie sighed. “I suppose that’s fair—but he relieved me from the case yesterday, so he really has no reason to toss a brick through my front window.”

Marianne wrote Brick? under Jack’s name. “All right, Mr. Hughes next. He’s Josette’s fiancé?”

“Yes,” Darcy said. “He owns graphite mines. He was not pleased to see us in Josette’s drawing room when we first went to speak with her.”

“That could have just been because you once courted Josette,” Lizzie pointed out.

“Oh really ?” Marianne asked, and all three Dashwoods looked at Darcy with keen interest.

“It was ages ago!” he protested. “And it ended amicably.”

“But I hardly think that’s reason enough for Mr. Hughes to turn to villainy, so I suppose it’s irrelevant,” Lizzie said. “Let’s suppose he’s lying and his graphite mines haven’t dried up. What if he’s selling it on the black market out of the Mullins Brothers storehouse?”

“That’s a felony,” Darcy pointed out. “But if he were selling to the French, that would be treason.”

“Exactly.”

“But would he set fire to a storehouse where his illegal goods are?”

“Maybe,” Lizzie conceded, “if he were on the verge of getting caught. Losing out on all that money is likely preferable to being arrested and facing treason charges. Elinor, what would happen to graphite if it was set on fire?”

“It wouldn’t burn,” she said confidently.

“Oh,” Lizzie said.

“But it would become explosive.”

“Oh.”

Lizzie considered that, reviewing her memories of that day. “There was a rather large crash, wasn’t there, Darcy? Do you remember?”

“Yes, but I don’t think it was an explosion,” he said slowly.

“I suppose there’s no way of knowing for certain, not without getting inside.” Which, of course, they hadn’t been able to do.

“Why else might someone set fire to the storehouse?” Marianne asked. “What else might they want to destroy?”

“Wool? But that seems hardly worth all this effort.” Lizzie thought about how despondent Jack had seemed, his business on the brink of ruin. “Or maybe it’s not about the goods, but the building itself.”

“The fire has certainly rendered the storehouse useless for storing goods, illegal or otherwise,” Darcy pointed out. “Mullins said as much the other day—without a place to store goods, he can’t sell them.”

“So it’s possible that someone might have set the fire to stop the exchange,” Lizzie said. “But who?”

“And would that same person murder to keep their secrets?” Marianne asked, tapping on Leticia’s name.

That made them all pause.

“I suppose we must assume any of our suspects is capable of anything,” Lizzie murmured, looking at Darcy.

“Agreed,” he said, although it was clear he was uncomfortable with the idea. “Although Mr. Hughes was already at Cavendish House when I arrived that day, to inform Josette of her cousin’s murder.”

“That’s hardly an alibi. If he left right after killing her and had a horse, he could have gotten there a good fifteen minutes before you arrived, at least.” Lizzie hesitated. “Josette would be able to tell you definitively when he called upon her that day.”

“Speaking of Josette,” Marianne said, “are we going to consider her?”

“We must,” Lizzie said, although she was hard-pressed to come up with reasons why Josette would want to kill her only living relative. “She might have discovered that her fiancé was engaged in illegal activity, and set fire to the storehouse to stop it. Although it does seem unlikely. She doesn’t seem to have the constitution for it. And why would she kill her own cousin?”

“She wouldn’t,” Darcy said. “I promise you, she was truly devastated when I informed her of Leticia’s death.”

Marianne, however, wasn’t willing to give up so easily. “Maybe she didn’t want to share her inheritance?”

“Maybe,” Darcy conceded. “Except I don’t know what she did or didn’t inherit because her grandmother’s will is missing.”

Marianne drew a large question mark under Josette’s name. “So we can all agree that Josette as either the arsonist or the murderer makes the least sense, but she might be at the center of things. And whoever is responsible for the fire may not be the same person who is responsible for the murder,” Marianne said, scribbling more than one perpetrator at the bottom of the slate. “What else do we know?”

“The necklace,” Lizzie said, opening her reticule. She withdrew Leticia’s gold necklace. “I found it near her body. Someone removed it from her person—forcibly, because the clasp is broken.”

“It could have been any one of these suspects trying to make it look like a robbery,” Darcy pointed out.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about it?” Lizzie asked Elinor.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I’m no jeweler. It’s a lovely piece, though, and it looks expensive.”

“May I?” Marianne asked. Lizzie handed over the necklace and Marianne inspected it carefully. She held it closer to the lamp as she turned it one way and then the next. “I could be mistaken, but this appears to be a locket.”

“What?” Lizzie leaned forward. “I didn’t see a latch.”

Marianne tapped the pendant. “It’s hidden by the filigree, I’m fairly certain. I only know because last week I recovered some stolen jewelry from a lady who lives in— Oh, well, never mind that. But I went to an awful lot of jewelers, and I met one who makes pendants that are secret lockets. Apparently they’re all the rage among the society set.”

Lizzie recalled now one of Lydia’s dramatic spells. What was it she had said? Felicity Carlton had a splendid necklace given to her by her fiancé that looked like an opal pendant but opened into a locket that contained a lock of his hair. “Can you open it?” she asked Marianne.

“Maybe,” she said, trying to dig her fingernails in between the finely wrought lines of the pendant. She tapped, pulled, pressed, and pried at the various seams and edges, but it didn’t budge. Reluctantly, Marianne passed it to Elinor, who had a go at it, and then Lizzie, and finally Darcy. Neither of them had any success, and Lizzie felt the frustration in her very fingertips.

“What if there is something in this locket that provides a clue as to what Leticia was really up to?” she said. “Lockets are made to conceal.”

“The jeweler who made it will know how to open it,” Marianne said. “We just need to find him.”

“We need to split up,” Lizzie announced. “It will take too long for us all to follow each lead individually, and we have no way to know who we ought to be focusing on first. I don’t want whoever is responsible to wiggle away. Darcy, you need to call on Josette—offer your condolences, and then try to figure out what she knows about her fiancé’s business and what Leticia might have wanted to tell us.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, clearly concerned.

“I’m going to see if any of the London jewelers made this necklace. A lady doesn’t buy this sort of thing for herself. This is something a suitor or a lover gives a lady. Don’t worry, Darcy—I can hardly come to any harm while in a shop.”

“I’m sure you’d prove to be the exception,” he said, which earned him a small smile.

“And what do you want us to do?” Elinor asked.

Lizzie considered a moment, then said, “Can you confirm that the substance on the brick is graphite? Whatever tests you must run, please run them. This brick might link us to the killer. Marianne, can you track down and follow Jack Mullins? I can give you a description and the address of his temporary lodgings. I would like to know what he’s up to now that he has dismissed me from the case.”

“Of course.”

“What about Hughes?” Darcy asked.

“Leave him alone for now,” Lizzie said. “If he’s the one who threw that brick through my window, let’s not get too close. Let him think his intimidation worked.”

“And if he wasn’t responsible for the brick?” Darcy asked.

Lizzie looked at the offending object with its crudely drawn message. Stop? Never.

“Then I suppose we all better watch our backs.”