Page 63 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Darcy stood at the window of his study, watching the magistrate and his constables depart down the steps of Darcy House.

The afternoon sun cast their elongated shadows across the street as they walked away and disappeared from view.

The search had yielded nothing conclusive, yet Darcy could not shake the sensation that the answer lay somewhere within these walls, hidden not in some obscure corner the investigators had missed, but in plain sight, in the sequence of events they had all witnessed yet somehow failed to interpret correctly.

He turned from the window, surveying his study.

The room bore subtle signs of the morning’s investigation: books slightly misaligned on shelves, the edge of the carpet not straight, his personal correspondence disturbed from its usual neat arrangement.

Small intrusions, yet they felt like violations of the sanctuary he had always maintained.

More disturbing still was the knowledge that someone in their circle had betrayed the fundamental trust upon which society depended.

His aunt’s death weighed heavily upon him.

Though Lady Catherine had often been difficult, even insufferable at times, she had also been family.

More importantly, she had died under his roof, poisoned while partaking of his hospitality.

The responsibility for discovering her killer rested with him as surely as if he had been directly appointed to the task.

Harrison appeared at the door, his customary impassive expression now tinged with strain. “Sir, Mrs. Darcy is in the drawing room. She asked not to be disturbed, but I thought perhaps...”

“Thank you, Harrison.” Darcy appreciated the butler’s discretion. “Has there been any change with Miss de Bourgh?”

“Miss de Bourgh continues to rest in her chamber, sir, attended by Mrs. Jenkinson. Miss Darcy and Miss Bennet are in the library; I had tea taken in to them a few minutes ago.”

Darcy nodded. “Please ensure we are not disturbed unless absolutely necessary.”

As Darcy made his way through the corridors of his home, he noted the unnatural stillness that had descended upon the household.

Servants moved with uncharacteristic silence, their usual efficient bustle replaced by cautious, almost furtive movements.

The lingering presence of death had transformed Darcy House from a home into something more sombre, its inhabitants speaking in whispers as though afraid to disturb some malevolent presence.

He paused at the drawing room door, gathering himself before entering.

The room was exactly as the investigators had left it, the furniture arranged as usual, yet it felt irrevocably altered.

This was where Lady Catherine had drawn her final, agonised breaths.

Though her body had been removed and the obvious signs of her suffering cleared away, Darcy could not help but see the scene superimposed upon the present arrangement: his aunt’s contorted form upon the carpet, the scattered tea things, the horror on the faces of their guests.

Elizabeth stood by the tea table, her slim figure unnaturally still.

She had changed from the gown she had worn during the magistrate’s interview, now dressed in a simple day dress of deep blue that emphasised the pallor of her complexion.

Her eyes were fixed upon the table where the fatal tea service had been arranged, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Elizabeth.” He spoke softly, not wishing to startle her.

She turned, offering him a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Do you know what day it is?” she said, surprising him.

“Ah… Sunday?” he offered in some confusion.

Elizabeth’s smile tightened. “It is exactly one year since Wickham met his end.”

The shock of his aunt’s death had driven the date, and its significance, from Darcy’s mind. He stared at Elizabeth with his mouth slightly open, not at all sure what to say.

“Four times in the last twelvemonth, death has come close to you and I,” she said, turning back to look at the tea table. “Murder, to be precise. This time, one of our own family members. Twice, you and I have followed the clues to their logical conclusions and determined the culprit.”

“We were not able to do so for Lord Joseph,” Darcy said quietly, wondering at her state of mind.

“Because there were not enough clues.” She did not look at him. “But his killer has struck again, under our very noses; there must be more clues. I have been trying to recall precisely what happened. Every detail, every movement.”

Darcy crossed to her side, noting how she leaned almost imperceptibly towards him, seeking comfort even as her mind remained focused on her self-imposed task. “Mr. Hargreaves found nothing conclusive in his search,” he told her. “No trace of arsenic anywhere in the house.”

“I expected as much,” Elizabeth replied, her gaze returning to the tea table. “If the murderer was clever enough to poison two people in our home without detection, they would hardly leave evidence to be discovered.”

Her words echoed his own thoughts so precisely that he felt a surge of pride despite the grim circumstances. Elizabeth’s mind had always been one of her most attractive qualities, her intelligence matching his own in a way he had never found in another woman.

“I keep returning to the tea service,” she continued, gesturing to the table. “The poison must have been in Lady Catherine’s cup specifically, not in the pot, or others would have been affected.”

“Dr. Winters suggested the dose was substantial, given how rapidly the symptoms progressed,” Darcy agreed, recalling the doctor’s assessment.

Elizabeth nodded, her eyes taking on a distant quality. “I have been attempting to reconstruct the tea service in my mind. Who touched what, who stood where.”

Darcy watched her carefully, recognizing the ordered quality of her thoughts, even in distress. “And have you recalled anything of significance?”

“Perhaps.” Elizabeth moved around the table, her fingers hovering above its surface without touching it. “When the tea was brought in, I began pouring as usual. Mrs. Jenkinson stood beside me, hovering in that way she has, as though perpetually expecting disaster.”

“She always was given to excessive caution around Anne,” Darcy observed.

“Yes, but yesterday, she seemed particularly agitated.” Elizabeth paused, her brow furrowing in concentration.

“I prepared Lady Catherine’s cup exactly as she had specified earlier that afternoon, with two slices of lemon and no sugar.

Mrs. Jenkinson was insistent about helping distribute the cups.

I thought nothing of it then, assuming she wished to be of service to her patroness. ”

Darcy considered this information carefully. “Did she handle Lady Catherine’s cup specifically?”

“That is what I am trying to recall.” Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temples, as though physically trying to extract the memory.

“There was a moment of confusion when several cups were prepared simultaneously. Mr. Hislop had requested his tea with two slices of lemon and no sugar as well, which struck me as a curious coincidence.”

Darcy felt a slight prickling of awareness at this detail.

“Strangely enough, I noticed that too. I remembered Aunt Catherine telling you earlier that she had stopped taking sugar on her doctor’s recommendation, and then when Mr. Hislop asked for it just the same way, she looked at him sharply, as though wondering if he was mimicking her…

even though she had not made a verbal request, trusting you to recall her new preference. ”

“Yes.” Elizabeth looked up, her expression sharpening with sudden recollection.

“In fact, he specifically asked for ‘tea with two slices of lemon and no sugar’ using almost the exact same phrasing Lady Catherine had used earlier. I remember thinking it was an unusual preference for a young man, as most prefer at least some sweetening.”

Darcy moved to the bell pull, summoning Harrison with a sharp tug. When the butler appeared, his usual impassive expression firmly in place despite the day’s upheaval, Darcy instructed him to bring a fresh pot of tea.

“You wish to recreate the scene?” Elizabeth asked, understanding immediately what he was about.

“I think it might help clarify the sequence of events,” Darcy replied.

Harrison returned promptly with the tea service, placing it on the table before withdrawing with a slight bow. Darcy observed as Elizabeth went through the motions of preparing the tea.

“I poured a cup for Lady Catherine,” she narrated, measuring her actions to match her words. “Then one for Mr. Hislop. Mrs. Jenkinson was standing here.” She indicated a position beside the table. “She insisted on helping, saying something about ensuring Lady Catherine received proper attention.”

“And did she take Lady Catherine’s cup specifically?” Darcy asked, watching Elizabeth’s recreation with focused attention.

“That is what I cannot be certain of,” Elizabeth admitted, her frustration evident.

“Several cups were ready simultaneously, there were so many people to serve.” She paused, her expression clearing slightly.

“But now that I think on it, there was a moment of confusion with the positioning of the cups. Mrs. Jenkinson seemed a little flustered - I put it down to Lady Catherine’s presence.

Constantly pulling out her smelling salts and putting them away again. ”

Darcy felt his pulse quicken. “Could she have mistaken which cup was intended for whom?”