Page 80 of A Matter of Murder

He charged forward as if to grab the elderly woman, and Lizzie was too slow to react. Sally pulled her grandmother back, and Mr. Burton stepped forward to try to protect his wife, but he was not able to move his cane quickly enough and stumbled slightly. Lizzie opened her mouth to cry out, but then Darcy was there, shoving himself between Mr. Oliver and the Burtons. In a very handy move, he blocked Mr. Oliver’s raised fists and landed a blow to the man’s stomach. Mr. Oliver doubled over, looking like a sack that had been emptied unceremoniously. As he bent over, something he’d been clutching in his fist fell to the ground with a loud, solidplink.

It rolled, coming to a stop right before Lizzie’s feet. She bent down and picked it up.

It was a gleaming silver coin.

Nineteen

In Which Lizzie and Darcy Hear Sally Burton’s Testimony

Darcy had watched the proceedings warily, ready to spring into action when needed. Lizzie was doing a fair job with her argument, so he wasn’t worried about her—it was Mr. Oliver he didn’t trust.

The man had seemed erratic and agitated from the moment they’d made their unceremonious entrance. He’d blustered and pounded, but he also kept shoving his hands into his pockets, and it was obvious to anyone looking at him that he kept clenching his fists.

Darcy didn’t trust him to hold his temper, not for a single moment.

And his suspicion was warranted. When he saw the constable make as if to strike Mrs. Burton, he launched into action. Within seconds of Darcy hitting Mr. Oliver, a number of men from the audience raced forward, most running to restrain Mr. Oliver, though a few positioned themselves at Darcy’s side,holding his arms lest he take another swing at Mr. Oliver. Darcy didn’t try to shake them off. He had no intention of hitting anyone else—not unless it was in defense.

“Order! I demand order!” Mr. Layne shouted. He’d jumped to his feet and was pounding on the table. “Mr. Oliver, if you do not hold your temper, I will have you restrained!”

Mr. Oliver stopped struggling, but he was breathing heavily. His eyes darted around wildly. “Where is it?” he asked.

Darcy didn’t know what he was talking about at first, until he looked over to Lizzie. She was standing several paces away, bending down to pick up something that had fallen on the floor, a peculiar expression on her face. “This?” she asked, holding up the object.

“Give it back! That’s mine!” Mr. Oliver attempted to lunge toward her but was held back.

“What is it, Miss Bennet?” Mr. Layne asked.

Lizzie approached Mr. Layne. She dropped the object into his palm, although Darcy noticed she appeared reluctant to do so.

“A Spanish cob,” Mr. Layne said, turning the coin over. “Genuine silver, if I’m not mistaken, 1731 mint.”

Darcy let out an incredulous breath. “Exactly like the one found on the body, then.”

Mr. Layne turned to look at him. “Sir?”

“I pulled it out of the dead man’s pocket myself,” Darcy told him. “I’m Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley’s solicitor. You can ask him; he kept the coin. And not only that, but an entire cache of silvercoins—Spanish, that exact mint—was discovered hidden away in Netherfield Park recently. So the question becomes: How did that one come to Mr. Oliver’s possession?”

Murmurs burst forth once again, and Darcy heard someone say, “So it’s true, the Netherfield treasure is real?” before Mr. Layne turned and smacked the table behind him.

“Order!” When the room quieted, he turned to Mr. Oliver. “Well?”

All Darcy could see in Mr. Oliver’s face was unchecked fury, directed at Lizzie. Darcy tensed, anticipating needing to shake off the men holding on to him in order to leap between Mr. Oliver and Lizzie. But it was Mrs. Burton who replied.

“He stole it!” she accused. “I knew he would. Always skulking about the grounds and dropping by unannounced. I told Mrs. Bingley, he may be a constable, but I don’t trust him one bit. He beats his son, and I’ve always said that you can’t trust a man who will treat his horse better than his own son.”

Mrs. Burton finished her little speech with a smug smile. Mr. Oliver shook his head. “I don’t have a son, you mad old—”

“She means your father,” Mr. Burton said. “Your father was always stopping by the estate, trying to call on Mrs. Bingley. She told us to turn him away, but he kept insisting on checking up after her, to ensure she was fit to be living alone in that great house.”

Mrs. Burton looked very confused all of a sudden. “His father?” she asked.

“Yes, Granny—that’s Tom Oliver, not George Oliver.” Sallypatted her grandmother on the back. “His son, Tom, is the constable now.”

“Oh, he’s grown up,” Mrs. Burton said in a not-so-quiet voice to her granddaughter. “I thought he was that criminal George.”

Mr. Burton clasped his wife’s hands and said quickly, “Susannah, darling, this isn’t the best place—”

“I told Amy he was no good, too. She was too good for him. Oh, it breaks my heart, Allan. Why didn’t she listen to us?”