Page 58 of A Matter of Murder

“Oh, here they come,” Mr. Oliver said as they grew close. “The fancy solicitors from London. Have you cracked the mystery yet, then?”

Lizzie stopped short a few paces away, as if not wanting to get too close. And after a moment, Darcy could see why—he could smell the alcohol on Mr. Oliver, even from this distance.

“Good day, Mr. Oliver,” Lizzie said. She was speaking in a low tone, so as not to disrupt Mr. Thomas’s final words over the plain pine box.

The man ignored her niceties. “What do you want?”

“The truth,” she said, and Darcy’s heart twinged. She was so earnest in her pursuit of a case. He couldn’t help but love her for it. “No one seems to have come forward to claim any knowledge of the poor man.”

“Why would they?” he asked. “They all know where he died. Either Honoria Bingley killed him herself, or the Burtons did it. They had to know—” He stopped and burped. Yes, he was most certainly drunk.

Even though Bingley, and not his great-aunt, was Darcy’s client, he couldn’t help but ask, “What proof do you have?”

“Proof? I’ve common sense, lad. Don’t tell me that there’s any way neither of them knew what was in that flue.”

It was difficult to argue with Mr. Oliver on this point when he and Lizzie struggled with the same question. “Is that what you discussed with Sally Burton yesterday?”

“Sally’s just like them,” Mr. Oliver hissed, leaning in closer. Darcy instinctively stepped forward to shield Lizzie, but she stayed him with a hand on his arm and did not back down. “She lies and covers things up.”

“What things?” Darcy had to admire the steadiness in Lizzie’s voice.

“The Burtons know exactly where the treasure is. And they’ve been stealing from the Bingleys for years!”

His voice rose with the accusation, and at least half of the funeral attendees turned to look at them. Darcy winced when he saw Bingley’s questioning look, but when he turned back to Lizzie, she just looked thoughtful. “What an interesting theory, Mr. Oliver,” she said. “But again, I’ll ask, where is your evidence?”

“I don’t need proof. I know it to be true!”

“Unfortunately, the law would disagree with you,” Darcy said, “and making a false accusation could lead to charges of slander.”

“Solicitors!” Mr. Oliver spat. “Always hiding behind your fancy words. Do you think I give a damn?”

He pushed past them both, stumbling a little as he did so,and went barreling toward the open grave. The pine box had been lowered into the hole, and Mr. Thomas appeared to have finished the final prayer as people began to disperse—but not with much haste. It seemed they anticipated some sort of scandalous display, and Darcy could tell that Mr. Oliver intended to fulfill their expectations.

“Bingley!” the man shouted.

Darcy went after the constable, hoping to intervene. Bingley looked up in surprise from where he’d been speaking with Jane and an unfamiliar couple of about thirty or thirty-five. “Please excuse me,” he said to them, and turned. “Mr. Oliver, what can I do for you?”

“That man just lowered into the ground was found on your estate,” Oliver said, jabbing his hand toward Bingley. “His head was bashed in, and he’d been left to rot. Your great-aunt lived in that house for fifty years, and you’re telling me she didn’t know she had a dead man in her drawing room all that time?”

“I—I can’t say,” Bingley said. His wide eyes found Darcy’s, and Darcy shook his head.Say nothing more, he thought.

“Oh, you can’t say, can you? Whatcanyou say about his death?”

“Mr. Oliver, please,” Mr. Thomas interceded. “We are on church grounds.”

“I know that! And isn’t it a sin to lie in church?”

“It’s a sin to lie at all,” Mr. Thomas said patiently. “Now why don’t we—”

“You hear that? It’s a sin to lie! So why don’t you tell everyone what your family did!”

“Mr. Oliver, I have no knowledge of what transpired before—”

“Someone killed that man, and the options are limited. Your great-aunt, or the caretakers of Netherfield. Allan Burton was a strong man in his day. You’re telling me that he didn’t know? That none of them knew?”

Darcy stepped between them. “Mr. Oliver, this is neither the time nor the place for such discussions. Mr. Bingley has no knowledge of what may or may not have occurred in Netherfield Park before he inherited the estate. Any questions about what might have happened ought to be directed to the parties who know—”

“Oh, I asked Allan Burton—he denies all knowledge. Everyone here—you all deny it! You all lie, lie, lie—” Mr. Oliver belched, stopping his parade of words.