Page 15 of A Matter of Murder

“Isn’t that the question?” Mr. Bennet said in a tone that was almost bemused.

Lizzie was pursing her lips in a manner that told Darcy she was trying to hold back what she really thought, but still she showed no signs of stepping in. He sighed. “A body, wrapped in a shroud, was placed in the flue. When we pulled it down, we observed that its skull was cracked. A logical conclusion can be drawn that the death was not natural, and therefore was purposefully obscured. Now, given the absence of any knowledgeof a missing person, I suppose we’ll have to go about this the old-fashioned way.”

Mr. Oliver looked suspiciously. “And what’s that?”

“An examination of the evidence, followed by questioning any potential witnesses,” he said, darting a glance at Lizzie. But she was resolutely not meeting his gaze, as if she didn’t want to be tempted by the tantalizing mystery before them.

“Fine by me,” Mr. Oliver said with a shrug. “But whoever he is, he’s not a villager, I can promise you that.” He crossed his arms and looked at Darcy expectantly.

Darcy looked at Bingley, who looked at Mr. Bennet, who looked at Mr. Oliver, who continued to stare Darcy down. Darcy could practically feel the impatience radiating off Lizzie, but she didn’t move, either.

“Oh, fine,” he said, stepping forward.

Despite the fact that he’d been involved in at least three murder investigations in his short career, Darcy had never before had the chance to examine a body for evidence. He wasn’t quite sure where to begin now. The face had been exposed by the shroud, which had been eaten away slowly by time, but the rest of the body was still wrapped. He reached for an edge of the tattered material and gently pulled; it was so fragile that it gave with little effort, tearing and disintegrating as he went. It felt both rigid and fragile, and Darcy had to suck in a deep breath to steady his roiling stomach—he was really regretting the whiskey now—when he realized that the sourceof the many stains on the cloth were likely bodily fluids, long since dried out.

Although no strong odor of putrefaction lingered, the body gave off the scent of a long-closed musty cellar. As Darcy carefully removed fraying pieces of the shroud, he noted what appeared to be remnants of a jacket, shirt, and trousers, although he didn’t find any evidence of boots still on the body’s feet.

“Given the clothing, I think we can assume this was the body of a male,” Darcy said, wishing he could wipe his hands. “It’s difficult to tell, but the clothes appear to be somewhat plain. So perhaps not a gentleman?”

“Or not a finely dressed one,” Mr. Bennet pointed out. “Is there anything in his pockets?”

Darcy grimaced. It was a reasonable question, but he didn’t relish the idea of peeling back the layers of cloth any further. Nonetheless, he gingerly began to search for pockets—or what might have once been pockets. The clothing was disintegrating on the body in a most unpleasant manner, and Darcy was beginning to think there was nothing there when he found an inner jacket pocket and felt something hard between the layers of fabric. “Something’s here,” he said.

When his fingertips touched it, he knew it was metal of some sort—it was cool and hard, with a raised imprint on a flat surface. A coin, he thought, even before he pulled it free. And he was right—it was a small silver coin.

The men and Lizzie crowded closer, hoping for a better look at the coin. “What mint is it?” Mr. Bennet asked.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, holding it up for them all to see. Despite the grime that coated the coin, though, he could tell one thing right away: it was a hefty coin. Silver coins these days were hardly worth their weight, and they tended to be snatched up by collectors or those who’d melt them for their metal. But this one had the look of the genuine thing, which Darcy had only experienced in his father’s coin collections.

Lizzie plucked the coin from his hand, and he let her, not trying to hide his satisfied grin—she wore a focused expression as she crossed the room to a nearby candelabra and held the coin under the light. “It’s not British.”

“Quite right,” Mr. Bennet said. “Bingley, your knowledge of foreign currency is better than mine—what do you think?”

Darcy got to his feet as his friend leaned in, taking the coin from Lizzie. He flipped it from one side to another and said, “Spanish, I believe. The silver cross is unmistakable, and I think it says Hispania here—I’ll ring for Grigson, and he can bring in some silver polish. Perhaps we can make out a date.”

Lizzie, Bingley, and Mr. Bennet were bent over the coin, which is why they didn’t see Mr. Oliver’s expression change. But Darcy caught it—the man’s suspicion morphed into wide-eyed shock. His hands clenched into sudden fists, which he shoved into his pockets as he darted a look to the dead body, then back at the coin.

“Hispania,” Lizzie echoed. “So it’s from one of the Spanish colonies?”

“Very likely,” Bingley said. “The Spanish have beenplundering the Americas for silver and gold for hundreds of years. Here, I think this might be a year—a one and a seven, perhaps?”

“Seventeen something,” Lizzie murmured, then looked back at the body. “I’d say it’s more than likely this person has been in the chimney for at least twenty years.”

“How do you figure?” Mr. Oliver asked, and Darcy noticed he was wearing a spectacular scowl once again, all traces of shock gone. But Darcy knew what he had seen.

“Because there’s been a shortage of silver in England for as long as I’ve been alive,” she said. “And anyone in recent possession of good silver like this would have either sold, traded, or melted it down.”

Mr. Oliver didn’t have a response to that. But it was just as well, for Lizzie was already beginning to pace.

“Of course, we cannot rule out the possibility that the body is not as old as that. We need to determine the date on the coin. That will give us a range from seventeen something to about... well, more than a year, I’d say.”

“I don’t know how fast a body might decay in the flue of a chimney,” Mr. Bennet said, “but I would be shocked if that body wasn’t at least five years dead.”

“I shall write to Marianne Dashwood,” Lizzie murmured. “Perhaps her Mr. Brandon will know... and oh! Bingley, how many of your aunt’s former servants have stayed on?”

“She had just the one,” Bingley said. “Great-Aunt Honoria didn’t like people in the house, apparently.”

And with a dead body in her drawing room, Darcy didn’t think he could blame her.