Page 16 of A Matter of Murder

“We shall need to speak with that person,” Lizzie said, and Bingley nodded and went to the door, where Grigson was standing guard.

“Stop,” Mr. Oliver barked, causing them all to turn. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Of what?” Bingley asked.

“This lady starts barking orders and you all jump? I’m the constable here.”

Annoyance flashed across Lizzie’s face, and Darcy almost felt sorry for Mr. Oliver. “Of course, Mr. Oliver. What would you have us do?”

The man looked to Bingley once more, almost as if he were expecting him to remark on Lizzie’s sass, but when he didn’t, Mr. Oliver straightened. “Speak with Sally Burton, then.”

“Right,” Lizzie said. “Thank you for your instruction.”

Bingley continued to the door, and Lizzie caught Darcy’s gaze.Careful, he wanted to warn her. Not because he didn’t think she couldn’t handle herself, but because she hadn’t seen what he had. This constable knew something, and until Darcy had a better sense of what his stake in this case might be, it was in everyone’s best interest to proceed with caution.

It didn’t take long to fetch this maid. But when Grigson opened the door and announced, “Sally, sir,” the young woman who appeared was not what Darcy had expected.

First of all, she appeared to be not much older than himself,perhaps in her early twenties. She had straw-blond hair and a long nose, and her green eyes were mistrustful as she entered the room. She was tall and quite slender, but her lean frame appeared strong—no doubt she had spent her entire life in service and had the physical stamina to show for it.

“Sir?” she asked as she stepped into the room. Her expression was distantly polite, but she did not look down or tremble at being summoned to her employer’s drawing room. Darcy found this unusual. In big houses such as these, there was a strict pecking order, and housemaids fell somewhere near the bottom middle. Any maid in Pemberley would be quaking in her slippers to be summoned by his father.

“Hello, Sally,” Bingley said. “So sorry to disturb you, but... well, you’ve been at Netherfield for a long time?”

How long could she possibly have been at Netherfield when she looked hardly older than he? But Sally nodded. “Aye, sir. I’ve been coming to Netherfield since I was a child.”

“Right, well...” Bingley looked unsure of how to proceed. “There’s no easy way to say this, so forgive me but... do you happen to know anything about a body in the flue?”

“Sir?” she asked.

Lizzie stood aside, and Sally’s eyes widened when they fell upon the shrouded body. Her mouth dropped open in shock, and she seemed to sway slightly on her feet—Darcy wondered if she’d be the second person to faint this evening, but she managed to keep her balance.

“It appears that this fellow has spent a number of years in theflue of the drawing room fireplace,” Lizzie said matter-of-factly. “And while we’ve determined that he hasn’t been placed there recently, it does beg the question... how long has he been there, and why?”

Sally stared at the body for a long moment, so long that Darcy wondered if perhaps she hadn’t heard Lizzie. Finally she tore her gaze away and said, “I don’t know anything about that, miss.”

“You grew up here?” Lizzie asked.

“My mother served Mrs. Bingley, and my grandparents before her. When she died, I took her place.”

“Our condolences,” Darcy said stiffly. “When was that?”

“Twelve years ago,” Sally said.

Which would have made Sally perhaps eleven or twelve. Darcy supposed it was possible—girls as young as fourteen went into service all the time. Usually in much larger houses, with other servants and a housekeeper to watch over them. But if Bingley’s aunt had trusted no one else...

“And in all that time, did Mrs. Bingley ever use the drawing room?” Lizzie asked.

“Never.” Sally shook her head vehemently. “All the downstairs rooms were closed off. Mrs. Bingley only ever used the upstairs morning room. No one ever came in here, not until... well.” Her gaze fell upon the body once more before she looked away. Unlike the other maid, she didn’t appear to be frightened of it. Nor did she regard it with curiosity, exactly—it was as if the body were a dead rat she might encounter in the street.Something unpleasant that one might look at in order to identify, and then not think anything more of it.

“He ought to be buried,” Mr. Oliver said suddenly. “If you can lend me a cart and horse, I’ll take him to Arthur Jones—he’d be the undertaker.”

Bingley nodded his assent but then looked over his shoulder at Lizzie and Darcy. “I think that would be appropriate, that is... if you agree, Lizzie?”

“And why should it matter to her?” Mr. Oliver groused.

“Because,” Lizzie said with a resigned sigh. She pointedly did not look in Darcy’s direction. “It would appear that I am investigating a murder.”

Darcy didn’t even try to hide his smile.