Page 15 of In Want of a Suspect
“Casting aspersions is one of my specialties,” Darcy countered.“But come, Lizzie. You have questions about this case, and you know there’s something odd here. Besides, you cannot stand here and tell me that you aren’t curious as to why, less than a day after the fire, this monstrosity has been erected?”
He pointed at the wall, and Lizzie relented. “I’ll ask Jack when we see him next. In the meantime, I’m not ready to entertain the idea that Jack has had anything to do with his own brother’s death. You saw him yesterday.”
This reminder seemed to chasten Darcy. “All right. I’ll give you that he appeared genuine.”
“Thank you.”
“Either that, or he belongs on the stage.”
“You! You are just so...”
“Charming?” Darcy deadpanned.
“I am going to go over there,” Lizzie said, pointing toward the corner of the building. “And I am going to look for clues or anyone who might have seen anything. Please go do the same, but over there.”
“Aye, aye,” Darcy said, softening the teasing tone with a wink that made Lizzie go weak in the knees.
She hated when he was aggravating and attractive at the same time.
She took three deep breaths, and then forced herself to study the barrier more closely. It was only the height of the average man, which meant that it was difficult to see around but didn’t completely obstruct the brick building behind. She took a few steps back and then crossed the street to take in the storehousefrom a wider angle while Darcy ambled toward a group of men loading a wagon.
From her vantage point, the building looked surprisingly intact. The roof showed no signs of damage from the outside, and though the second-story windows were darkened by inner shutters, the window glass appeared intact. She couldn’t get a good view of the damage below, so she crossed the street once more and peered down the alley that separated the storehouse from the smithy next door. It had a small yard for outdoor fires and a water pump, and a single skinny scraggly tree stood in the yard. It looked dead, and the lower branches had been hacked away, but the upper branches—if one was able to reach them—could be climbed and would provide a nice view into the storehouse’s upper windows.
Hmm.
Lizzie followed the barrier down the alley and confirmed her suspicions—it encircled the entire building. At first there didn’t seem to be anything of interest this way, but as she looked down to pick her way through the mud, something glinted in the weak sunlight.
She crouched low to the ground and removed her glove to carefully pick up the shining object. Broken glass, smeared with mud. And not a small shard, but a large piece.
Intriguing. Lizzie made a mental note to write Elinor Dashwood and ask her what happened to window glass when a building caught fire. The elder Dashwood sister studied the sciences, and Lizzie had found that her insight was incrediblyhelpful at times. Were the shards of glass the result of the fire, or had someone broken a window deliberately? Someone wanting to escape the fire, perhaps? Lizzie had seen Jack and Mr. Parry come out the front door yesterday, but perhaps this was evidence that there was a young lady—or someone, anyway—who might have escaped the fire by another route.
Farther down the alley, she heard a small scuffing noise. Lizzie looked up, steeling herself for the sight of rats.
Nothing.
“Hello?” she called out.
She waited, and the scuffing sound came again from a large stack of wood and various construction materials haphazardly piled on the edge of the smithy’s yard. A piece of wood shifted and fell from the stack.
That was either a very large rat, or not a rat at all.
“Hello?” Lizzie tried again. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m just looking... for clues. You know there was a fire here yesterday?”
Another piece fell, revealing a child.
He was small and skinny, like most of the street children tended to be. He wore tattered trousers, which had been patched many times, and a green jacket, which had likely once been fine but was now faded and worn. An overlarge gray cap fell down his face, but when he pushed it back as he scrambled to his feet, Lizzie could see the whites of his widened eyes on his grimy face.
“Hello,” Lizzie said, softer.
The boy ran.
Lizzie hesitated only a moment, but then followed. Not at arun, of course—it was never good when a lady like herself was seen running after a boy who clearly lived on the streets. People tended to get the wrong idea. But she followed him through the alley, calling out, “Wait! I just want to talk!” and came out on the next street over.
She looked up and down the street, but saw nothing but storehouses and work yards, very much like the street she’d just left. One difference, however, was a small throng of women who were gathered just a stone’s throw to her left. She approached them. “Pardon me,” she said. “I am so sorry to interrupt, but did any of you happen to see a boy run this way just a moment ago?”
She was met with blank—and fearful—looks. The women appeared to be peddlers of some kind, for they carried baskets and were standing next to carts stacked with wares, not unlike the woman she’d seen the day before. And when Lizzie looked from face to face, she saw her—the woman with the blue kerchief the officers had been harassing before Lizzie and Darcy had stepped in.
These had to be the Frenchwomen that Parry had referred to. Their clothes were worn and their wares weren’t much better, but before Lizzie had approached they’d been chatting. Now they looked at her with wariness. Lizzie mustered up her rudimentary French, which Mrs. Bennet had insisted that all five Bennet sisters learn—with varying degrees of success.