Page 46 of A Matter of Murder

Darcy picked up the bit of knitting that she had left behind on the bench. The ball of yarn had rolled into the grass. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but does this look like... anything to you?”

“Normally, I’d make a remark about men and their inability to identify women’s handiwork, but in this instance, you are correct.” Lizzie plucked the knitted article from his hands. It was a lopsided rectangle with bumpy rows of purls and dropped stitches, and the stitches alternated between too tight and overly slack.

“Just so you know, Mrs. Greenfield, the housekeeper at Pemberley, taught me how to knit,” Darcy informed her defensively.

He had the pleasure of watching her jaw drop. “Now you’re having me on.”

Before Darcy could defend his knitting abilities, Mr. Burton returned, and he was back to looking aggravated. “Now, I don’t know what it is you want—”

Darcy held his hands up in a placating gesture. “We mean no harm, sir.”

“You’re from Netherfield,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Indeed. Mrs. Bingley is my sister,” Lizzie explained. “And we heard that you were the caretakers of the estate for many years. I’m sure by now you’ve heard of our, uh, rather unpleasant discovery?”

Mr. Burton nodded. “Aye. But we don’t know anything about that.”

“You never had any hint that there might be something—someone—dead within Netherfield Park?” Darcy asked. It wasn’t as though he disbelieved the man entirely, but if the unidentified man had died during Mr. Burton’s tenure, the smell alone...

“No,” he said sharply.

“When was the last time the drawing room fireplace was swept?” Lizzie asked quickly, her tone slightly more placating.

The man let out a snort. “When did Mr. Geoffrey Bingley die? Probably a fair bit before then.”

“Really?” Darcy asked. “You didn’t once order a chimney sweep or light a fire in the room for the last... forty years?”

“Mrs. Bingley, God rest her soul, was an eccentric. Too much loss.”

“What do you mean?” Lizzie asked.

“She withdrew into herself, after Mr. Geoffrey died. Didn’t want to replace the staff—not that anyone blamed her at first, of course. It was a tragedy watching them all die, one by one. It could have been us. Susannah and me, we were just married. She stayed home the day the housekeeper fell sick with smallpox—she had burned her hand the day before, and the doctor wanted her to rest. The next day, word had spread. We didn’t dare approach the estate, until there was no one left alive in that house but Mrs. Bingley.”

“How awful,” Lizzie murmured, and Darcy repressed a shudder.

“And after that?” Darcy prompted. “You never moved into the manor house?”

Mr. Burton shook his head. “This is our home. I told Mrs. Bingley she’d have to hire someone else to stay the night if she wanted that. Otherwise, we’d come home at the end of each day.”

“But in almost fifty years, you never once spent the night?” Lizzie asked.

Mr. Burton gave her a sharp look, as if he knew what she was really asking. “No. And I know the rumors, too. I’m a god-fearing man, young lady. I don’t hold with any nonsense about curses. Mrs. Bingley herself never wanted anyone to stay.”

That seemed particularly odd to Darcy—he didn’t know a single well-bred lady who lived alone, without servants. He thought of the army of servants and the paid companion at Pemberley, all to keep Georgiana supervised and occupied during their father’s absence. “You didn’t think that odd?”

“It’s not for me to say, sir.”

“In all that time, Mr. Burton, you wouldn’t have any idea of who might have been in the chimney, or how they might have ended up there?” Lizzie asked.

“Of course not. We were just as shocked as anyone when we heard.”

It was clear to Darcy that Mr. Burton would not be offering any speculation. “But it seems likely, does it not, that if someone was killed at Netherfield and their body hidden within the house, that it would have occurred during the period of time when the only occupants of the house were Mrs. Bingley and occasionally your family?”

Mr. Burton’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying, sir?”

“He’s not implying anything,” Lizzie rushed to say. “But if there is anything you can share that might shed some light—”

“I’m sorry, no.” The man glared. “I’d like you both to leave now.”