Page 60 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

Chapter Twenty-One

Elizabeth stood beside the tea table, painfully aware that every eye in the room was on her.

The magistrate approached with measured steps, his weathered face unreadable as he surveyed the abandoned cups, the scattered biscuits, and the fatal pot of Bohea that had, minutes before, been nothing more sinister than a pleasant offering to her guests.

Now it had become evidence in a murder investigation, the second to occur under her roof in a matter of weeks.

She clasped her hands tightly before her to prevent them from trembling, determined that whatever questions came, she would meet them with perfect honesty and composure.

Mr. Hargreaves circled the tea table with careful precision, stopping occasionally to make notations in a small leather-bound book.

The footmen stood guard as instructed, their faces pale but watchful.

Behind the hastily arranged screen, Lord Matlock sat in rigid grief beside his sister’s body, while Lady Matlock moved quietly among the remaining guests, offering what little comfort was possible under such horrific circumstances.

“This cup,” the magistrate said finally, pointing to the shattered remains on the hearth, “belonged to Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth confirmed, her voice steadier than she felt. “She had only just set it down when she...” She faltered momentarily, the image of Lady Catherine’s contorted face flashing before her eyes.

“And you prepared her tea yourself, Mrs. Darcy?” Mr. Hargreaves asked, his tone carefully neutral.

Darcy stepped forward instantly, positioning himself slightly before Elizabeth. “My wife prepares tea for all our guests, as is customary. Surely you do not suggest…”

“I am merely establishing the sequence of events, Mr. Darcy,” the magistrate interrupted smoothly. “In an investigation of this gravity, every detail must be documented precisely.”

Elizabeth placed a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. “I have nothing to hide,” she said, meeting his concerned gaze before turning back to the magistrate. “And I wish to find the culprit as much as anyone.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he yielded, stepping back just far enough to allow Elizabeth to speak directly with Mr. Hargreaves while remaining protectively close.

“Yes, I prepared Lady Catherine’s tea myself,” Elizabeth continued. “Two slices of lemon and no sugar, as she specified. I prepared it exactly as I had done earlier today when she visited in the afternoon.”

“And Lady Catherine began showing symptoms almost immediately after consuming her tea?” the magistrate continued.

“Yes. Within moments, she was...” Elizabeth swallowed hard. “The progression was alarmingly swift.”

Mr. Hargreaves nodded grimly. “Consistent with a substantial dose of arsenic. The rapidity suggests the poison was in the cup itself, not the pot, or others would have been affected.”

The remaining guests shifted uncomfortably at this clinical assessment. Lady Barrington let out a small sob, quickly muffled in her handkerchief. Viscount Shandly, normally so theatrical, stood in uncharacteristic stillness, his face ashen.

“Mrs. Darcy,” the magistrate’s voice lowered slightly, his eyes intent, “I must ask: was there any particular animosity between yourself and Lady Catherine? Any reason you might have wished to... limit her influence?”

The implication struck Elizabeth like a physical blow. Darcy stepped forward immediately, his expression thunderous. “Mr. Hargreaves, that question borders on accusation, and I cannot permit…”

“No,” Elizabeth interrupted firmly, placing her hand on Darcy’s arm once more.

“I understand the magistrate must consider every possibility.” She met Mr. Hargreaves’ gaze directly.

“Lady Catherine and I have had our differences, as is well known. She opposed my marriage to her nephew most strenuously. However, in recent months, we had reached a degree of mutual tolerance, if not warmth. More importantly, I would never resort to violence against anyone, regardless of personal feelings.”

She squared her shoulders. “Furthermore, if I harboured murderous intent, which I emphatically do not, I would hardly execute such a plan in my own drawing room, before twenty witnesses, using tea I myself had visibly prepared.”

A ghost of respectful acknowledgment passed across the magistrate’s features. “Very well, Mrs. Darcy. Nevertheless, in matters of this gravity, all avenues must be explored.” He turned a page in his notebook. “And what connection existed between Lord Joseph and Lady Catherine, to your knowledge?”

“None that I am aware of,” Elizabeth replied, frowning slightly as she considered. “They moved in different circles. I do not believe they had ever met.”

Mr. Hargreaves made another notation. “Curious. Two apparently unconnected victims, poisoned in the same manner, in the same house, weeks apart.” He looked up. “It suggests a common factor we have yet to identify.”

The implications of this assessment settled heavily in Elizabeth’s chest. Anne was the obvious connection; she would not say it aloud, but the magistrate was no fool. He already knew it, she could see.

“I wish to help in any way possible,” Elizabeth said firmly.

“Whatever questions you have, whatever access you require to our home and staff, you shall have it without reservation. These deaths have occurred under our roof, and I feel the responsibility most keenly, even though we are not at fault.”

The magistrate studied her for a long moment.

“Your cooperation is noted and appreciated, Mrs. Darcy. I shall need to question each person present individually, beginning with those who were closest to the tea service.” He glanced at the shattered cup on the hearth.

“And that evidence must be collected with the utmost care.”

As Mr. Hargreaves moved away to speak with his constable, Darcy drew Elizabeth slightly aside. “You need not subject yourself to such interrogation,” he murmured, his voice taut with protective concern.

Elizabeth shook her head. “I must, and gladly. Only through complete openness can we hope to discover the truth. Someone has brought death into our home twice over, Fitzwilliam. I will not rest until they are found.”

Elizabeth slipped quietly into the blue sitting room, the soft click of the door behind her barely registering in the tense atmosphere.

Anne reclined upon the chaise longue, her face as white as the handkerchief twisted between her fingers, while Georgiana sat beside her, offering silent comfort with a gentle hand upon her arm.

Mr. Hislop stood by the window, his usual energetic demeanour subdued but watchful, his gaze rarely straying from Anne’s pale form.

In the corner, Mrs. Jenkinson paced in tight, agitated circles, her normally pinched features contorted in an expression that shifted alarmingly between grief and something Elizabeth could only describe as feverish anticipation.

“How is she?” Elizabeth murmured to Kitty, who rose from her chair near the fireplace as Elizabeth approached.

“She has not spoken since she regained consciousness,” Kitty replied in an undertone. “Mr. Hislop refused to leave even when Mrs. Jenkinson insisted that only family should remain. He said he would stay until Anne herself asked him to go.”

Elizabeth glanced at the young man with new appreciation. His usual passionate focus on horses and breeding had given way to a quieter, more profound dedication to Anne’s wellbeing. He stood with the patient stillness of one prepared to maintain his vigil indefinitely.

Mrs. Jenkinson suddenly stopped her pacing and let out a wail that made everyone in the room start. “My lady! My poor, dear lady!” she cried, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. “Gone! So suddenly taken! What shall become of us all?”

“Please, Mrs. Jenkinson,” Georgiana pleaded softly, “Anne needs quiet.”

The companion paid no heed, her thin frame shaking with sobs that seemed to burst from her with violent force. “Years of service! Years of perfect loyalty! And now...” Her voice broke, then continued with a strange, choked laugh. “And now it is done.”

Something in that laugh raised the fine hairs on Elizabeth’s neck. There was an unsettling note of release in it, at odds with the scene of tragic loss.

“Mrs. Jenkinson,” Elizabeth said carefully, “perhaps you might wish to rest. This has been a dreadful shock for us all, but especially for those closest to Lady Catherine.”

Mrs. Jenkinson turned to Elizabeth, her reddened eyes suddenly sharp. “Rest? How can one rest at such a moment? Everything has changed. Everything!” She moved closer to Anne, hovering over the chaise longue. “You understand, don’t you, Miss Anne? You are free now. Free.”

Anne flinched as though struck, her eyes widening as they focused on her companion’s face.

“No more tonics, no more restrictions,” Mrs. Jenkinson continued, her voice dropping to an intense whisper. “No more having to ask permission for every breath. You are the mistress of Rosings now. Your own mistress.”

“Mrs. Jenkinson!” Elizabeth intervened, alarmed by the woman’s inappropriate words and Anne’s visible distress. “This is hardly the time for such considerations.”

Mr. Hislop moved from his post by the window, positioning himself protectively closer to Anne. “Your grief speaks through you, Mrs. Jenkinson,” he said with gentle firmness. “Perhaps, as Mrs. Darcy suggests, you should rest.”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s face crumpled momentarily, tears flowing once more. “Yes, grief. Of course I grieve. Lady Catherine was... she was...” Her voice faltered, then continued in a whisper. “She was a force unlike any other. To serve her was to orbit a sun that permitted no other stars to shine.”