Page 57 of A Matter of Murder

He followed her gaze upward, craning his neck to see if he could spot where the stone had fallen from. On the second floor, there was a steady row of windows framed by the stone facade of the manor, and one appeared to be missing a chunk. He squinted. Was there... movement behind that window? Darcy took a step back, but nothing changed, except for the reflection of light against the glass. He shook his head. It was a trick of the light.

“Are you all right?” Lizzie whispered to Darcy.

“Just thought I saw something,” he murmured. He gazed up at the window, wondering if he had simply imagined movement.

“I don’t see anything,” Lizzie said, and before he could reply, they were distracted by the footman declaring, “I’m sorry, sir, Ican’t stay here. There’s no saying who could be next! I’ll send back the livery!”

Darcy and Lizzie turned in time to see the footman backing away from the house, as if afraid it would attack.

“James!” Mr. Grigson shouted. “Come back here at once!”

“I’m sorry!” he repeated, but he turned and began to run down the drive.

Mr. Grigson turned to Bingley, flustered. “Sir, I don’t know what has gotten into the boy.”

The same thing that had gotten to each and every servant who’d left, Darcy thought. He had sympathy for Mr. Grigson. It was difficult running anything—from a household to a business—when you could not rely on your staff. His father had taught him that. He still thought the curse was a load of nonsense—two accidents since they had arrived didn’t mean there was a curse. It just meant the house was old and needed many repairs. No one had died.

He looked up and thought,Yet.

“Don’t worry, Grigson,” Jane said, coming up to place a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. “We’ve all had a fright, and perhaps James will see sense when he’s calmed down. Please send someone to check on the window to ensure it’s stable.”

“That’s the east wing, ma’am,” Mr. Grigson said. “I’m not sure—”

“Oh,” Jane said, looking up. “Of course it is. In that case, leave it until the builder arrives from London. He should be here in a fortnight, but we’ll write and see if he can come sooner.”

“Everyone, please step away,” Bingley said, and he and Jane began ushering the party into the waiting carriages.

Darcy saw that Lizzie, Charlotte, and Mary made it into the nearest carriage and then looked up once more. The window glass reflected the sunny day, and no movement could be detected. He hadn’t imagined it, had he?

He brought his gaze downward and spotted Sally Burton, all but forgotten off to the side, holding Guy’s leash. She wasn’t looking at any of them. Her hand shielded her eyes, and her gaze was tilted upward.

Given that no one had laid claim to the body of the unknown man, it was rather surprising to find his funeral nearly as well-attended as an Easter service.

Bingley was shown directly to the very front pew, along with the rest of his guests, and so Darcy and Lizzie were unable to get a decent view of the attendees during the service. Mr. Thomas’s service was respectful, but understandably short, given that virtually nothing was known about the man.

“Although his name goes unspoken, we mourn nonetheless,” he said, his strong voice reaching all the way to the back of the church, “as we mourn all loss of life. My prayer is that whoever this man may be, his loved ones might find comfort in the Lord.”

The mention of the man’s loved ones had Darcy wishing he could turn to survey the church, peering into faces. Had the manhad any loved ones? Were they in attendance? And if so, why not come forward?

The service concluded with a graveside liturgy. The funeralgoers processed outside, where it was sunny and cheerful, a contrast to the somber funeral service. Lizzie and Darcy held back once they were out of doors, as if by some unspoken agreement, and watched as the attendees drifted to the freshly dug gravesite. Darcy tried to catalog each and every face that passed, but very few of them beyond Clara Jeffries, who nodded at them as she passed, were recognizable to him. No one seemed overly distraught or upset, so unless they were very good actors, it didn’t seem that there were any mourners in the crowd who’d known the man personally.

In the distance, they could hear Mr. Thomas’s voice rise, and Darcy turned and raised a brow to Lizzie. But she wasn’t paying any attention—she was looking past the gathered attendees, toward the edge of the churchyard. He followed her gaze and saw Mr. Oliver leaning on the stone wall, hands shoved into his pockets, glaring at the gathering. Darcy was fairly certain he’d not been inside the church.

“He looks displeased,” Darcy whispered. “Does he not think the man worthy of a good Christian burial?”

“Good question. Shall we ask?”

“Lizzie. It’s a funeral.”

“I think Mr. Oliver appreciates a direct approach.”

Darcy had to work at not sighing. Lizzie had told him yesterday of her attempt at questioning Miss Jeffries—and how MissJeffries had boldly lied to Lizzie’s face. He knew that Lizzie was growing more frustrated. But approaching Mr. Oliver right now didn’t feel strategic—it felt desperate.

The man himself looked about, and noticed Lizzie and Darcy, their heads bent in whispered conversation, looking right at him. He sneered.

Lizzie shook free of Darcy’s grasp and began to march over to him.

All Darcy could do was follow.