Page 17 of A Matter of Murder
Five
In Which Lizzie and Darcy Declare a Tentative Truce
Darcy had won their silly wager, but what of it? Lizzie couldn’t have known how utterly incompetent the local constable would be.
Besides, having a new case gave her something to focus her thoughts upon. And this one would prove to be quite the challenge, for Lizzie had very little to go on aside from a tarnished silver coin, a window of opportunity decades wide, and a maid who didn’t seem to know anything.
It was quite late by the time the body had been transported into the village under the grumpy Mr. Oliver’s supervision, and given that it had been a very long day of travel already, Lizzie was fighting off yawns. When Jane had ventured downstairs to inform them that she’d send everyone to bed with supper trays and suggested they all get a good night’s sleep, Lizzie had been all too happy to ignore Darcy’s pointed looks that clearly communicated he wanted to talk, and headed straight to the opulent bedroom she’d been given for the duration of her stay. The bodyhad spent a multitude of years in the chimney—one more night wouldn’t severely impact their investigation.
Upstairs, a maid had deposited Guy into her bedchamber, and he greeted her enthusiastically. She managed a few quick bites of cold supper, tossing Guy the rest of her chicken, and had barely managed to wiggle out of her dress before falling fast asleep in the large four-poster bed, Guy curled up at her feet.
When Lizzie awoke the next morning, her mind was pleasantly swathed in the soft haze of sleep, and so she wasn’t immediately alarmed to hear soft footsteps and the light sound of rustling fabric. Then there was a soft clunk of something heavy being set down, and the warm, reassuring weight of Guy’s small body shifted as the dog jumped to his feet and barked once. Lizzie’s eyes flew open as she remembered that she wasn’t at home in Gracechurch Street. She was in Netherfield Park, andthere was someone in her room.
She sat up suddenly, ready to scream, but just barely managed not to when she saw a young woman wearing a maid’s uniform standing across the room. “Good morning, miss!” she said cheerily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you both.”
“Guy, sit,” Lizzie croaked out, no longer quite so alarmed but still rather unsettled. The maid was about Lizzie’s age, with auburn hair and fair, elfin features. She was short but quick on her feet. She bustled about the room as if it were entirely normal to be skulking about in someone’s bedroom while they snoozed the morning away.
Then again, this was Netherfield Park—it probablywasperfectly normal.
“Good... morning?” Lizzie added once Guy had scampered back and sat next to her, looking up at her for further instruction. The maid snapped open the drapes, letting in a cheery morning light. Lizzie squinted against it and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Quarter past ten.” The maid laughed at the shock on Lizzie’s face. “But don’t worry, no one else is up yet. After all that travel and last night’s excitement, I can imagine you all needed a good lie-in.”
Her face turned grave, and Lizzie tried not to shudder at the memory of the desiccated body. She reached out to pet Guy instead. “Does everyone downstairs... know?”
“About the body, miss? I’m afraid that’s not a secret anyone could keep—Jimmy the stable boy saw Sarah running away from the estate like her skirts were on fire and came right in to report it to the rest of us, so we were all astir until Mr. Grigson came down and broke the news.”
“It’s a terrible thing,” Lizzie said slowly, although the maid wasn’t acting as though she was as traumatized as poor Sarah had been. That was... probably a good sign?
“Oh, just terrible,” the maid agreed as she poured steaming water from a pitcher into the washstand. “Mrs. Reed cleaned the drawing room herself, along with Sally. She said it was because she trusted no one else to do it, but really the other maids are too afraid to go in there. I would have done it if ordered, but Mrs.Reed really only needed one other person, and honestly? It gives me the shivers.” She shuddered dramatically as if to prove her point.
“Did the other maid come back?” Lizzie asked. “Sarah? I’m afraid we gave her a real fright.”
“No, miss, she didn’t report for duty this morning. The others say she’s not likely to, either. She’s a real superstitious sort, and her mum was against her coming to work here to begin with. Jimmy says she holds her breath walking past the churchyard—can you fathom it? What does holding your breath do?”
“I don’t know,” Lizzie said, but the maid’s mention of superstition shook something loose in Lizzie’s memory. “But she said something peculiar last night. Something about a curse?”
“Aye,” the maid said, nodding sagely. She turned her attention to a breakfast tray and began pouring tea. “The Netherfield curse. How do you take your tea?”
The Netherfield curse.The words sent a delicious shiver down Lizzie’s spine. “What on earth is the Netherfield curse?”
“Milk?” the maid asked. “Sugar?”
“Milk,” Lizzie said, getting to her feet and crossing the room to where the maid had the breakfast tray set out. Guy hopped down after her, sticking close to her heels. She felt a bit odd standing in nothing but a nightgown, hair a mess, while the other girl was dressed and not a single auburn hair out of place. “I’m sorry, can you tell me your name?”
“It’s Agnes, miss.”
“My thanks, Agnes,” Lizzie said, taking the teacup from her. In Lizzie’s limited experience, ladies’ maids could be an excellent source of gossip, but Agnes seemed very keen. Likely whatever Lizzie revealed to her would be repeated downstairs, which wasn’t entirely surprising. The discovery of the body last night was probably the most shocking thing to happen at Netherfield Park in decades. Lizzie could use the maid’s apparent hunger for gossip... as long as she treaded lightly. “Now, what’s this about a curse?”
Agnes began setting out breakfast. “I don’t know the exact details, miss. I was hired on only last month, and didn’t hear about it until my third day. But everyone in the village says the estate is cursed—those who spend a night under its roof are doomed to stay forever or die shortly upon leaving.”
Lizzie accepted the porridge topped with clotted cream. “That sounds... well, rather severe. Who supposedly set this curse on Netherfield?”
“Old Mrs. Bingley. I don’t understand why. I was going to ask, but then Mr. Grigson came along, and he won’t tolerate gossip about the family.”
“Nor should he,” Lizzie said, offering Guy a slice of cold chicken from the plate Agnes had brought for him.
“Of course, miss,” Agnes rushed to say. “I didn’t mean to imply—”