Page 57

“Of course.” Elizabeth nodded, grateful for practical direction amid the horror.

Helping Mrs. Hurst to her feet with gentle sympathy, Elizabeth cast one last look at Caroline Bingley’s still, broken form.

Netherfield, which had so recently echoed with music and laughter, now harboured something darker: an untimely death, and a brother whose grief seemed as carefully constructed as the elegant facade of the house itself.

The local magistrate, Mr. Burnley, arrived at Netherfield shortly before noon.

Elizabeth, now properly dressed though still feeling discomposed by the morning’s events, observed his entrance from the drawing room doorway.

He was a short, gnome-like gentleman with a shock of white hair and a countenance that suggested both authority and fair-mindedness.

An old friend of Mr. Bennet, he was a man of reasonable judgment, if somewhat pedantic in his methods.

He had investigated Wickham’s death, and Elizabeth knew from her father’s letters that it had not sat well with Mr. Burnley that Wickham’s murder remained unsolved.

“Mr. Burnley,” Darcy greeted him, emerging from Bingley’s study with a grave expression. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“A matter of this nature requires immediate attention, Mr. Darcy,” the magistrate replied, his voice carrying the measured tones of a man accustomed to official proceedings. “I understand there has been a fatal accident in the household.”

“Yes, most tragic,” Darcy confirmed. “Miss Bingley was found at the foot of the stairs early this morning. The doctor has examined her and confirmed death was immediate, likely due to the manner in which she struck her head upon falling.”

“And the body?” Mr. Burnley inquired, his gaze once again sweeping the now-empty foyer.

“In the blue parlour, prepared for viewing as decency requires,” Darcy answered. “Mr. Bingley thought it best she be moved there while awaiting funeral arrangements, and Doctor Jones concurred after conducting an examination.”

Elizabeth stepped forward then, feeling it appropriate to offer the magistrate proper welcome despite the circumstances. “Mr. Burnley, how good it is to see you again.”

The magistrate turned, acknowledging her with a slight bow. “Indeed, Mrs. Darcy. A pleasure to see you here too.”

There was something in his assessment that suggested more than mere pleasantry, as though he were already cataloguing potential witnesses.

“I should like to examine the scene first,” Mr. Burnley continued, turning back to Darcy. “Before speaking with the household members. One finds that physical evidence speaks most clearly before human recollection clouds the matter.”

“Of course,” Darcy agreed. “Though I should mention that the immediate area was disturbed out of necessity. Miss Bingley’s body was moved, and the servants have since cleaned the... evidence of the accident.”

“Understandable, though regrettable from an investigative perspective,” Burnley remarked. “Still, the structural elements remain unchanged. I shall begin there.”

As if summoned by the discussion, Bingley himself appeared, his countenance arranged in an expression of solemn grief that nevertheless struck Elizabeth as subtly performative.

He had changed into appropriate mourning attire, the black coat emphasising the pallor of his complexion, yet there remained something in his bearing that suggested relief lurking beneath the surface of sorrow.

“Mr. Burnley,” he acknowledged with a respectful nod. “Thank you for attending to this difficult matter. Whatever information you require, we shall of course provide.”

“Mr. Bingley,” the magistrate replied, studying him with those keen eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “My condolences on your loss. Might I begin by examining the staircase? I understand this is where the unfortunate incident occurred.”

“Of course,” Bingley agreed, gesturing toward the grand staircase. “Though I cannot imagine what might be learned. It appears a simple, if tragic, misstep in the early morning hours.”

Mr. Burnley made no direct response to this assumption, merely nodding. “Was Miss Bingley in the habit of rising early?” he asked suddenly, turning to address Bingley.

The question seemed to catch Bingley off guard.

“Not particularly, no. Caroline typically rang for her maid no earlier than nine o’clock.

It was... unusual for her to be about so early, but…

I suppose it is possible that she left her room again after preparing for the night.

I would have to check with her maid whether she ever got into bed. ”

“I see,” Mr. Burnley murmured, his expression revealing nothing. “Please do so, if you would be so good.”

From the direction of the family apartments came Mrs. Hurst, supported by her husband whose face retained the stunned expression it had worn since the discovery of Caroline’s body.

Mrs. Hurst’s grief appeared entirely genuine, her eyes swollen from continued weeping, her usual impeccable appearance abandoned in favour of the dishevelled disarray of true mourning.

“The magistrate is here, Louisa,” Mr. Hurst informed her gently. “He must ask some questions about... about what happened.”

Mrs. Hurst raised reddened eyes to the magistrate, her voice tremulous when she spoke. “What is there to ask? My sister is dead. Fallen on these cursed stairs that she said were too slippery to be safe!”

“Did she indeed, Mrs. Hurst?” Mr. Burnley asked, his tone carefully neutral. “Did she mention this complaint to anyone else, to your knowledge?”

“I... I cannot say,” Mrs. Hurst replied, pressing a handkerchief to her lips. “We were dressing for the ball. It was a passing comment.”

“Yet one you recall distinctly,” the magistrate observed. “It made an impression on you.”

“Only because now...” Mrs. Hurst’s voice broke, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “Only because now it seems a dreadful premonition.”

Mr. Hurst guided his wife to a nearby chair, his awkward patting of her shoulder suggesting a man unaccustomed to offering comfort but genuine in his desire to do so. Elizabeth found herself moved by the couple’s evident distress, which contrasted sharply with Bingley’s more controlled demeanour.

The household’s attention was drawn then to the sound of light footsteps on the upper landing.

Georgiana Darcy stood there, her young face pale with shock, her hands clasped tightly before her as though for support.

She had been kept apart from the immediate aftermath, Elizabeth having instructed her maid to keep her in her chambers until the initial chaos had subsided.

Now, seeing the magistrate and the solemn gathering below, she hesitated, uncertain whether to descend.

“Georgiana,” Darcy called gently. “You may come down if you wish. This is Mr. Burnley, the local magistrate.”

With careful steps, Georgiana descended, her usual grace momentarily abandoned in favour of excessive caution, as though the staircase itself had become something to be feared.

When she reached the bottom, she curtsied to Mr. Burnley with the perfect manners that characterised her interactions with strangers, though her eyes betrayed genuine distress.

“Miss Darcy,” Mr. Burnley acknowledged with a bow. “I understand you were a guest in the house when this sad event occurred. My condolences for the shock you must have experienced.”

“Thank you, sir,” Georgiana replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned then to Mrs. Hurst, crossing to take the older woman’s hands in her own. “Mrs. Hurst, I am so very sorry for your loss. Miss Bingley was... she was always so vibrant, so...”

Words failed her then, and to Elizabeth’s surprise, genuine tears filled Georgiana’s eyes.

The girl who had often been the target of Caroline’s thinly veiled criticism, the subject of her manipulations in service of Caroline’s ambitions regarding Darcy, now wept sincerely for her death.

It was a testament to Georgiana’s genuine goodness of heart, and Elizabeth felt a swell of affection for her sister-in-law even as she admired such generosity of spirit.

Mr. Burnley observed this interaction with thoughtful attention before turning back to his examination. “I should like to speak with the servants now,” he announced. “Particularly the housemaid who discovered Miss Bingley this morning.”

“I shall arrange it,” Bingley offered, seeming almost eager for this practical task. “Please, allow me to show you to the small study where you may conduct your interviews privately.”

As Bingley led Mr. Burnley off, Elizabeth moved to Georgiana’s side, gently drawing her away from Mrs. Hurst, whose husband had resumed his awkward attempts at comfort.

“Come, Georgiana,” she said softly. “Let us sit in the morning room for a while. You look as though you could use a cup of tea.”

The girl nodded gratefully, allowing Elizabeth to guide her away from the sombre tableau. Once settled in the peaceful surroundings of the morning room, with its eastern exposure now bathed in midday light, Georgiana’s composure began to return, though her eyes remained bright with unshed tears.

“I cannot believe she is gone,” she whispered, accepting the cup Elizabeth poured for her with trembling hands. “Just last night she was criticising my gown, saying the blue was too pale for my complexion. It was... it was so like her.”

Elizabeth studied Georgiana with gentle surprise. “I had not realised you held Miss Bingley in affection. She was not always kind to you.”

Georgiana looked up, genuine distress in her expression. “She was not always kind, no. But she was consistent. There was something reassuring in knowing exactly what to expect from her. And she did try to guide me, in her way. Her advice was often quite helpful, even when delivered critically.”