The Meryton Murders

by Victoria Grossack

  Mrs. Collins said that she believed one of them was acquainted with her youngest brother and asked if Elizabeth wanted to speak to them; Elizabeth said she did.

  So Mrs. Collins and Elizabeth left the baby with the nursery maid and walked down to the river, stepping carefully on the rocks, and spoke to the boys. The one with reddish hair, said Mrs. Collins, was Frank Perkins; he was the son of the local jailer. The other Elizabeth recognized as Jim Page, the son of the milliner whose shop was across from her uncle Philips’s house and office in Meryton. Elizabeth asked them if they had caught anything that day.

  Frank said that they had not.

  “Not yet, anyway,” added Jim.

  Elizabeth then posed her question: “Have you ever seen anyone going to that horse chestnut tree? And either putting things into the hollow, or taking them out?”

  “Yes,” said Jim.

  Her heart pounded with excitement. “Whom have you seen? And when?”

  Jim gestured toward Mrs. Collins. “I seen her. About ten minutes ago.”

  Mrs. Collins’s lips twitched as she repressed a smile; the answer was true but not helpful.

  “Other than today. About nine days ago,” said Elizabeth.

  The boys glanced at each other. Frank shrugged, and Jim asked a question of his own. “You’re Mrs. Darcy, the lady with the great estate, right? My mum has talked about you.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Well, then,” said Jim.

  “Well then?” repeated Elizabeth, puzzled as to why Jim was not answering her question. Mrs. Collins leaned to her and whispered, “I think he wants to be paid for his answer.”

  Elizabeth was embarrassed that she had not thought of this at first. What was the price of information? she wondered. She offered a shilling. The boys hesitated, then nodded. After she handed them the shilling – only one, she said, they would have to share – Jim explained that he had seen Mrs. Darcy go to the horse chestnut tree on the day she mentioned.

  She felt rather cheated at having paid for information that she already knew. “Did you see anyone else?” she asked. “On that day?”

  The boys glanced at each other again, and Jim Page said that he had not seen anyone. Elizabeth described Mrs. Smith and asked if they might have noticed her – if not near the horse chestnut tree, in the meadow.

  “Is that the lady who drunk poison?” asked the jailer’s son.

  Elizabeth affirmed that it was, but even though it was clear that the boys would have liked to have seen her, they denied it. Disappointed in their quest, Elizabeth and Mrs. Collins turned away from the river bank, moving off the stones and back to the grass of the meadow.

  “It is possible that Mrs. Ford was here but that they did not notice her,” said Mrs. Collins. “She was easy to overlook.”

  “Or that someone else went to the horse chestnut tree and they missed him,” said Elizabeth. “Or … one or both of them is lying.”

  “Why would either of them lie, Eliza?” asked Mrs. Collins. But before Elizabeth could answer, Mrs. Collins’s nursery maid called to them. The baby was fussing, and Mrs. Collins said she needed to take Lewis home. They climbed into the carriage and left the meadow.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  Elizabeth related this conversation to Mr. Darcy, who said that it was very likely that the boys, engrossed by their fishing, simply had not noticed someone crossing the meadow. He fished himself and he understood how easy it was to be completely focused on the activity in the water.

  Yet Elizabeth was not satisfied by this interpretation. Neither Frank Perkins nor Jim Page had said anything in particular, but their glances at each other suggested duplicity – or at least that they were not telling everything. She wished to know more. But questioning them by the river had not helped; she did not want to be wasting more shillings.

  Elizabeth had no excuse for visiting the jail – Heaven forbid! – but it was perfectly reasonable for her to stop at the milliner’s. So the next day, while the uncomfortable Jane was taking a nap, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy had gone to the Gouldings in the Pemberley carriage, and Miss Bingley was idly leafing through some sheet music, Elizabeth said she wanted to visit the milliner’s. Miss Bingley said that they could take the Netherfield carriage out together; she wished to make a sketch of Oakham Mount. But that would take some time; would Eliza mind waiting? Or did Eliza prefer to walk back?

  As the distance from Meryton back to Netherfield was only two miles, and as the walk would take less time than Miss Bingley’s sketch, Elizabeth said she would return on foot. So Miss Bingley gathered her pencils; Elizabeth changed her shoes; and, within half-an-hour, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Darcy were seated together in the Netherfield chaise. “It is not the prettiest day for a walk,” said Miss Bingley, glancing at the overcast sky, “but I do not think it will rain.”

  “I agree,” said Elizabeth, and by keeping their conversation to the weather, they remained civil for the duration of the ride into Meryton.

  As the coachman helped Elizabeth descend, Miss Bingley politely repeated her offer to give Elizabeth a lift back to Netherfield, but Elizabeth just as politely and more earnestly declined.

  Elizabeth entered the milliner’s. Mrs. Page, who had been hoping for a visit from the wealthy Mrs. Darcy ever since her return to the neighborhood, and who had been disappointed till today, was delighted to welcome her and to assist her in purchasing whatever she wished (and more, if she could persuade Mrs. Darcy to it). Elizabeth browsed the fabrics and ribbons, hoping that while she lingered she would catch a moment with Mrs. Page’s son Jim, but he did not seem to be in the shop.

  Elizabeth did not see any item that she particularly desired. This shop had been always a favorite with her younger sisters; she had liked it herself, but she had never been able to afford all she wanted. Now that she had enough pin money to purchase whatever she liked, she discovered that nothing pleased her. Had her tastes changed so much in less than a year?

  She asked Mrs. Page to show her baby caps. Mrs. Page was willing to show Mrs. Darcy anything, and brought out her selection. Elizabeth, her mind occupied, turned them over without seeing them properly. “I believe that the other day I saw your son, Jim, fishing by the river.”

  Mrs. Page agreed that it was quite likely; Jim was an avid angler. She added that it was useful to have a son who occasionally provided for the dinner table, especially given how much growing boys consumed. She then returned with determination to the subject of baby caps; Elizabeth surrendered and selected several that she considered least objectionable. The purchase was not of the quantity that Mrs. Page had hoped for – Mrs. Darcy ought to be more liberal to those in Meryton – but she did not complain. Just as she was wrapping the caps into a package, her son entered the shop.

  “Jim, there you are! Look who is here! Mrs. Darcy has been asking about you.”

  The youth, who had been so brash in his bargaining by the river, was scarlet and tongue-tied now.

  “Good afternoon, Jim,” said Elizabeth.

  He muttered hello – at least that was what she thought he said – and then turned to his mother. “Mum, could I have the key to the apartment?”

  “What have you done with yours?”

  He did not know, so after a brief remonstrance – which would have been much more explicit and vehement if Mrs. Page had not been waiting on a customer – she handed him a spare key. The youth quickly departed, and his mother said something about him going through a shy phase, which was not really like him, but boys were boys.

  Elizabeth finished paying, said good-bye to Mrs. Page and then stepped out of the shop. Her brief encounter with Jim Page confirmed her conviction that the youth had seen more, or at least knew more, than he was revealing. She could not understand. If Jim Page had seen Mrs. Younge at the horse chestnut tree, then why would he not say? Something else had happened, she was certain of it. Yet she also did not see how she could convince him to tell her anything more – especially when he was nowhere in sight.

&
nbsp; But the conversation between the youth and his mother had given Elizabeth another idea. Her uncle and aunt lived across the street; she would make inquiries.

  Mrs. Philips was always happy to see any of her nieces, and especially honored that Mrs. Darcy would call on her so casually. She asked after Jane, and then without waiting to hear Elizabeth’s answer, assured her that Mr. Philips and his clerks were doing everything they could to retrieve Mr. Bingley’s money and that they could tell her about their efforts in a few minutes as they would soon arrive for tea. But with Lizzy here now, she would ring the bell immediately. After doing so she noticed that her dear Lizzy had a package from Mrs. Page’s; and insisted on seeing the caps that Lizzy had bought for dear Jane, or rather dear Jane’s baby; when was her poor niece ever going to have that baby? Jane must be so uncomfortable!

  Mrs. Philips prattled on, not as voluble as her sister but keeping up a steady stream of observations. When the tea arrived, Elizabeth finally posed her query. “Aunt, there is more than one key to the apartment you let to Mrs. Smith, is there not?”

  “Yes, of course, or else we could not have entered when we discovered her body. My heart still turns when I think of it! Why, Lizzy? Would you like to rent the apartment? So that the next time you come to the neighborhood you can have some privacy instead of staying at either Netherfield or Longbourn?”

  Elizabeth, reflecting that everyone in Meryton wished to sell her something, politely steered her aunt away from this notion. She said that she was certain that Mr. and Mrs. Philips would find a more suitable tenant than herself, someone who not only wanted the lodgings, but needed them. And then she inquired where the extra key was generally kept.

  “What an odd question! Let me think. When it is without a tenant, we usually keep one in Mr. Philips’s office and one in the regular part of the house. When we rented it to Mrs. Smith we gave her one key and we kept the spare – but it was sometimes up here, and other times in Mr. Philips’s office, depending on what was necessary – we were having carpentry work. Why do you wish to know, Lizzy?”

  Before Elizabeth could explain, Mr. Philips and Mr. Morris came through the door. Greetings had to be exchanged, health inquired after, the men had to sit, and tea had to be poured and passed around before the subject could be resumed.

  “Is Mr. Clarke coming too?” asked Mrs. Philips.

  “He had a visitor,” said Mr. Philips, “but that should only delay him a minute.”

  “Lizzy wants to know about the spare key to Mrs. Smith’s apartment. I told her that it is sometimes in your office and sometimes here.”

  “Yes, that is true,” said Mr. Philips.

  Elizabeth then asked if someone could have borrowed the spare key.

  Mr. Morris stared at her with his sharp dark eyes. “Borrowed the key? That is an interesting question, Mrs. Darcy.”

  “Why? Why is that interesting?” demanded Mrs. Philips, but before anyone could explain, Mr. Clarke arrived, excusing himself for his tardiness. Again their discussion was interrupted by an exchange of greetings.

  “Have some tea, Mr. Clarke,” said Mrs. Philips brightly, preparing him a cup and a plate. “My niece has asked a question that Mr. Morris finds interesting: could someone have borrowed the spare key to Mrs. Smith’s apartment?”

  “I am sure that Mrs. Darcy has an excellent reason for asking that question, but I cannot stay to discuss it. I have only come here to tell you that I have an urgent and sudden appointment, and cannot stay. You must excuse me.”

  Mrs. Philips was a little surprised, and asked if he would not stay for fifteen minutes, but Mr. Clarke refused and departed. Before anyone could wonder about his urgent appointment, they were joined by Sir William Lucas, who had just finished some errands in the town. After another exchange of greetings, he announced that he could not stay long, but that he yearned for a cup of tea and that he hoped that he could rely on the readiness and the generosity of Mrs. Philips.

  With the entrance of Sir William, the topic of the key was dropped, although Mr. Morris frowned occasionally in Elizabeth’s direction. She departed at the same time as Sir William, Mrs. Philips protesting that her visit had been too short. Elizabeth explained that she was walking back to Netherfield, information which would have surprised them if it had been uttered by any rich lady other than Mrs. Darcy.

  The first little part of Elizabeth’s and Sir William’s route was the same, so they walked together. Elizabeth particularly wished to inquire about her friend. “How is Charlotte? Has she decided what she will do?”

  They paused at one end of the bridge. Sir William needed to cross it to return to Lucas Lodge, while Elizabeth’s direction was different. He took some time to answer her question, but from his words she extracted that Mrs. Collins had not yet reached a decision. Strange, thought Elizabeth, attending only superficially, that Mrs. Collins had taken less time to decide to marry Mr. Collins than she was taking to decide what to do now that he was dead.

  “It is so terrible to think that he died – that he was murdered – on this very bridge,” said Sir William.

  “Was he?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Sir William, who was expecting a flowing response full of sympathy and sorrow, and not an abrupt question.

  “Was Mr. Collins murdered here? How?”

  Sir William hesitated, but obligingly attempted to answer. “She – that woman – said that she killed him. She hit him on the head and pushed him over the side.”

  “With what? With what did she hit him? Where is the weapon?”

  “I do not know, Mrs. Darcy – a stick, a stone – does it matter? And as no one found it, and this area was well searched, she must have taken it with her. Mr. Collins is dead; his murderer is dead; it is best to let them rest in peace.”

  Perceiving that her curiosity made him uncomfortable, Elizabeth changed the subject. She said that she needed to go, and added, “Give my regards to Charlotte.”

  “You will not come with me to see her at Lucas Lodge? Or allow me to escort you to Longbourn?”

  But Elizabeth, who had an idea she wished to pursue, excused herself. She told him that she would walk back to Netherfield, but first take the lane by the river. The route was a little longer, but the evening was pleasant and lately she had been indoors too much. From there she would continue to Netherfield.

  Sir William wished her well and they parted.

  CHAPTER XLV

  The lane from the bridge continued for about three-quarters of a mile in close proximity to the river till it reached the large meadow with the horse chestnut tree. At that point the lane swerved away from the river, and forked, with one route leading back to Meryton while the other would be her path to Netherfield.

  As she walked along the river, upon a lovely, wide path, Elizabeth’s mind worked busily. Sir William and the rest of the neighborhood believed certain things about the deaths of Mr. Collins and Mrs. Younge, but what if those things were not true? What if the deaths had been arranged to appear a certain way, like a director staging a play, or an author creating a story? What if that someone still existed, someone who had taken Miss King’s jewels, Mr. Bingley’s money, and Mr. Collins’s life?

  When Elizabeth reached the meadow with the horse chestnut tree, she did not continue immediately towards Netherfield; nor did she approach the horse chestnut tree to reexamine it. This time she went to the edge of the river, where Jim Page and Frank Perkins had been fishing.

  She studied the stones leading down to the water, wondering, and then turned to look back at the horse chestnut tree to see what the boys could have seen, had they been looking. And to her surprise, Mr. Clarke was crossing the meadow, heading from the lane in the direction of the spot where the forest came down nearly to the river.

  He did not appear pleased to see her, then seemed to change his attitude and altered his direction to approach her. “Mrs. Darcy! Good afternoon!”

  She greeted him and asked if he had managed to meet his appoi
ntment.

  “My appointment? Ah, yes, I did.” He raised his eyebrows. “What exactly are you doing here, Mrs. Darcy? Are you still searching for Mrs. Smith’s spare key?”

  “No. I was looking for rocks.”

  “Ah! Then you are in luck,” he said, gesturing at the many rocks around them. “Is there something particular about these rocks? Are they better than the rocks in Derbyshire?”

  “Mr. Collins’s head was injured, possibly by a rock. What if the rock came from here? Or – what if he was hit with a rock here, and then moved him to where he was found under the bridge?”

  Mr. Clarke appeared amused by her questions. “Why would Mrs. Smith do that? And how could she do that?”

  Elizabeth said that the killer would have needed a cart, or a wheelbarrow, but it would have been possible. What Elizabeth did not understand was how Mrs. Smith had killed Mr. Collins in the first place, how a woman not taller than herself could have managed it.

  “You have very good points, Mrs. Darcy, but I think I know how it was done.” Mr. Clarke picked up a large rock and moved toward her, swinging it.

  “What are you doing?” cried Elizabeth. “You almost struck me!” She had only been spared by a quick movement on her part.

  “This time I will not miss,” said Mr. Clarke, and he reached for her arm and lunged at her again with the stone.

  But as her confusion shifted to horrified terror, Elizabeth wrenched her arm free and twisted out of his way. His second blow with the stone hit her shoulder, ripping her sleeve and causing her to cry out with pain. She scrambled away from the river, but it was difficult to move quickly enough. With her good arm she threw the package of baby caps at his face, but that distracted him only for seconds. She began to run. Elizabeth had been in the habit of running before she married, but since becoming Mrs. Darcy she had run very little.

  Still, she was faster than her attacker had expected, and he was carrying a large stone. Why was Mr. Clarke doing this? He must have killed Mr. Collins! It was not Mrs. Younge; it had never been Mrs. Younge, or if it had been Mrs. Younge, then he must have been involved as well. But those details did not matter just now – just now she needed to save her life.