Page 66 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Elizabeth made her way back to Darcy’s study with purposeful steps.

The quiet corridors of Darcy House felt ominous now, every shadow potentially concealing danger, every sound making her pulse quicken.

She had secured Anne’s safety, Georgiana and Kitty keeping her company in Georgiana’s room with the door locked from within.

But the knowledge that Mrs. Jenkinson, a woman who had taken tea with them countless times, who had lived under their roof for months, was very likely a calculating murderess made Elizabeth’s skin crawl.

They could not simply wait for Mr. Hargreaves to arrive.

Every moment that passed increased the danger to them all.

She entered the study without knocking to find Darcy writing at his desk. He looked up immediately, the concern in his eyes easing slightly at the sight of her.

“Anne is safely with Georgiana and Kitty,” she said without preamble.

“I told her that Lady Catherine would wish her to be surrounded by family at such a time, and that Mrs. Jenkinson should rest after the shock of the evening. She accepted this without question, and Kitty, fortunately, did not question me when I told her to lock the door and not open it to anyone except you or me.”

“Good,” Darcy nodded, setting his pen aside. “I have written to Mr. Hargreaves detailing our suspicions, though in suitably measured terms. Harrison will deliver it directly. This is for Lord Matlock.” He gestured to the page in front of him.

Elizabeth moved closer, lowering her voice though they were alone. “Fitzwilliam, I do not believe we can wait for the magistrate. The more I consider it, the more certain I become that Mrs. Jenkinson presents an immediate danger.”

“I confess I have reached the same conclusion,” Darcy admitted. “If she suspects we are connecting these deaths, she may attempt to flee, or worse, to harm someone else.”

“The house was thoroughly searched,” Elizabeth said, her thoughts racing ahead. “No poison was found, which can only mean she keeps it on her person. Perhaps in that vial of smelling salts she constantly produces.”

“Two separate vials,” Darcy suggested grimly. “One genuine, for appearances, and one containing the poison for her intended victims.”

Elizabeth nodded. “We must confront her, Fitzwilliam. Now, before the magistrate arrives. We need her confession, not merely our suspicions, to ensure justice is done.”

The gravity of what they were proposing hung between them. To confront a woman who had already murdered once and caused another death through mistaken identity was dangerous indeed. Yet to do nothing, to wait for official intervention while a killer remained in their home, seemed the greater risk.

“Very well,” Darcy agreed, his jaw set with determination. “But we shall approach this carefully. We will question her about the tea service first, observe her reactions, and only present our theory when we have gauged her state of mind.”

Together they moved through the house, their steps silent on the carpeted floors.

They encountered no one on their way to the guest wing where Mrs. Jenkinson occupied a small room adjacent to Anne’s larger chamber.

As they approached, Elizabeth heard the unmistakable sounds of movement from within, hasty and erratic.

Darcy knocked firmly on the door. The sounds inside ceased abruptly, followed by a moment of complete silence before Mrs. Jenkinson’s voice, higher than usual, called out, “Who is it?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Darcy,” he replied. “We wish to speak with you regarding Anne’s arrangements.”

Another pause, then the door opened to reveal Mrs. Jenkinson, her thin face flushed and her cap slightly askew. Behind her, Elizabeth could see an open travelling case on the bed, partially filled with hastily folded garments.

“Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy,” she said, attempting and failing to achieve her usual prim composure. “This is most irregular. I was just... preparing some things for Miss Anne’s comfort.”

“It appears you are packing,” Elizabeth observed mildly. “Has Anne expressed a wish to leave London so soon after this tragedy?”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s hands fluttered nervously at her sides. “Not explicitly, but surely she will wish to return to Rosings without delay. Lady Catherine’s remains must be properly interred in the family vault.”

“Of course,” Darcy said smoothly. “Though such arrangements will take several days at least. Might we come in? There are matters concerning Anne’s welfare that require discussion.”

The companion hesitated before stepping reluctantly aside.

The small room was neat but showed signs of hasty disruption.

Drawers stood half-open, personal items gathered in small piles on the dressing table.

Elizabeth noted a small leather case among them, the type that might contain vials or small bottles.

“I apologise for disturbing your preparations,” Elizabeth began, keeping her tone conversational. “Your devotion to Lady Catherine was admirable. As is your dedication to Anne’s welfare. I imagine you have strong opinions about the gentlemen who have shown interest in her during our London season.”

Something flickered in Mrs. Jenkinson’s eyes, a momentary flash of something fierce and possessive. “Miss Anne deserves a gentleman of appropriate standing. Not poets or horse-breeders.”

“Lord Joseph was hardly suitable,” Darcy suggested, watching her closely. “His poetry was mediocre at best, his prospects limited despite his title.”

“He was frivolous,” Mrs. Jenkinson said sharply, then seemed to catch herself. “That is... many thought him unsuited to the responsibilities of Rosings.”

“And Mr. Hislop?” Elizabeth asked. “His focus on horsemanship rather than more traditional gentlemanly pursuits must concern you.”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s hands twisted together, her agitation increasingly evident. “He encourages Miss Anne in dangerous activities. Riding, visiting stables. Lady Catherine would never have permitted such impropriety.”

“Yet Anne seems to derive genuine pleasure from these activities,” Elizabeth observed. “And from Mr. Hislop’s company.”

“She does not know what is best for her!” Mrs. Jenkinson burst out, her composure cracking. “She has been sheltered all her life. These men take advantage, pretending interest in her when they only want Rosings.”

Darcy moved slightly, positioning himself between Mrs. Jenkinson and the door. “Mrs. Jenkinson, we have been considering the circumstances of last night’s tragedy. It seems strange that Lady Catherine should fall ill so suddenly, in precisely the same manner as Lord Joseph some weeks ago.”

“A dreadful coincidence,” the companion said quickly, her eyes darting to the half-packed travelling case.

“We believe it was not coincidence but connection,” Elizabeth said carefully.

“Both Lord Joseph and, presumably, Mr. Hislop were considered unsuitable suitors for Anne. Both were present at gatherings where tea was served. And in both cases, someone had access to the tea service who might wish to... eliminate certain problems.”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s face had grown pale, her lips pressed into a bloodless line. “What are you suggesting, Mrs. Darcy?”

“We believe,” Darcy said steadily, “that Lord Joseph was deliberately poisoned by someone concerned about his interest in Anne. And that last night, a similar attempt was made against Mr. Hislop, but through tragic error, Lady Catherine received the poisoned cup instead.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Elizabeth could hear nothing but her own heartbeat thundering in her ears as Mrs. Jenkinson stared at them, her expression frozen somewhere between horror and calculation.

“That is preposterous,” she finally whispered, but there was no conviction in her voice.

“Is it?” Elizabeth challenged gently. “Consider the facts, Mrs. Jenkinson. You assisted with the tea service both times. You have expressed clear disapproval of both gentlemen. You alone have been consistently devoted to what you perceive as Anne’s best interests, even against her own wishes.”

The confession, when it came, poured from Mrs. Jenkinson in a torrent of long-suppressed emotion.

“That poet, that foolish Lord Joseph, writing his dreadful verses to Anne, filling her head with romantic nonsense. He was unworthy of her, of Rosings. He would have made her miserable with his frivolity, wasted her fortune on his artistic pretensions.”

Elizabeth felt cold despite the warmth of the room, hearing the matter-of-fact recitation of murder justified as protection. “So you poisoned his tea,” she said quietly.

“It was necessary,” Mrs. Jenkinson insisted, her eyes suddenly fever-bright.

“For Anne’s protection. She has been in my care for years.

Years of tonics and remedies and careful management.

I understand what she needs, not these men who appeared from nowhere with their pretty words and selfish ambitions. ”

“And Mr. Hislop?” Darcy prompted.

“Worse than the poet,” Mrs. Jenkinson spat.

“Constantly encouraging her into dangerous activities, speaking of breeding horses as though it were a suitable occupation for the mistress of Rosings. I heard their conversations. Andalusian bloodlines and classical training. Filling her head with ideas of independence, of making her own decisions about the estate.”

She looked directly at Elizabeth then, her eyes alight with a terrible clarity. “I prepared the cups carefully. I never imagined Lady Catherine would take the one intended for him. Never.”