“But surely a man as handsome and affable as he could charm an heiress,” Elizabeth said. “Is that not how most men in his situation secure their independence?”
Her companion stopped short. “Perhaps he has not the inclination.”
They had arrived at an open doorway that led into a bright parlor. Female voices carried from within. “I believe we have found Mrs. Knightley,” said Mrs. Churchill.
“So we have,” Elizabeth replied.
Both of their smiles were forced.
“So, what did you ask Frank Churchill about, once his wife and I left the room?”
Darcy reached for his cravat. They had returned late from Randalls and had little time to dress for dinner, a process hindered by the fact that he had dismissed his valet so that he and Elizabeth could talk freely. “Can you not guess?”
“Disappointed debutantes? Rejected lovers? Discarded mistresses?” Elizabeth adjusted the short sleeves of her gown to give the white sprigged silk more puff, then left the glass to Darcy.
“All of the above. He claims to have none. Also no natural children.”
“Any previous wives or legitimate children?”
“Not this time.”
She sat down on the chaise longue to don her slippers. The set of rooms they had been given at Hartfield — a bedchamber and dressing room — was smaller than what they had enjoyed at Donwell, but more comfortably appointed. Elizabeth preferred the relatively slender furniture to some of the older, heavier pieces that had dominated their chamber at the abbey.
“Not even a scandalous ancestor lurking in the family tree? What about the uncle?”
“To hear Frank tell it, both he and Edgar are the dullest victims we have ever investigated.” He lifted his chin to tie the neckcloth.
“We can only hope that the poisoner has a more interesting past, though I presently favor Jane Churchill, whom everybody else seems to consider beyond reproach. It is always the quiet ones, you know.”
Darcy looked at her askance. “In our experience, it has never been the quiet ones.”
She contemplated that for a moment. “I suppose you are right. Oh, well — then it is time for a quiet one. And poison is a quiet weapon.”
“That does not mean Jane Churchill is the one who used it. I confess myself very nearly persuaded by the Knightleys regarding her. They know her character better than we do.”
“I thought you were asked to aid this investigation precisely because you do not harbor preconceptions about the principals’ characters.”
“So I was. Regardless, Mrs. Knightley makes a good point about Jane’s not needing to kill Frank. As the new Mrs. Churchill, she already has everything she wants.”
“You assume that she wants to remain married to her husband.”
Darcy muttered something indistinguishable under his breath. He had pulled one end of the neckcloth too far and had to begin the entire process anew.
“Why would she not?” he said. “Frank Churchill seems a decent, amiable fellow, her own age, with a comfortable home and generous income. Were I choosing a husband for my sister, I would prefer a more serious gentleman, but many young ladies marry worse.”
She rose and went to the dressing table, where Lucy had laid out her long kid gloves. She slid them on until they reached past her elbows. For once, she had completed her preparations before Darcy.
“Perhaps Jane Churchill is in love with somebody else.”
“Thomas Dixon?” Both Darcy’s tone and expression reflected his disdain for the gentleman. Mr. Dixon was too frivolous to ever earn Darcy’s esteem.
“They seem to be on unusually familiar terms, and you witnessed how the mere mention of his name provoked Frank Churchill. When I tried to coax her into speaking about Mr. Dixon while we were alone, she hedged.”
“Why would any woman of sense — which Jane Churchill appears to be — choose Thomas Dixon over Frank Churchill? He may be charming, but he has not a guinea to call his own.”
“If she were a wealthy widow, he would not need a shilling.” At his dubious look, she continued. “Imagine, Darcy: They meet at Weymouth — a watering hole devoted to pleasure. Patrick Dixon is courting Miss Campbell, Jane’s dearest friend and near-sister. She and Thomas Dixon, constantly in company together, fall in love but cannot marry because neither has the means. Then along comes Frank Churchill with an offer of marriage and the promise of a fortune. All Jane need do is marry Frank, ensure his aunt and uncle predecease him, then wear widow’s weeds for a twelvemonth.”
“And murder her husband. You omitted that part.” He adjusted the cravat a final time and reached for his coat.
Elizabeth helped him into it, smoothing the black wool across his shoulders. “Well, yes — that, too. I never said it was an admirable plan. But murder plots seldom are.”
“This one is so coldly calculating that I can scarcely believe I just heard you utter it. And if Jane Churchill likened service as a governess to slavery, consider what profession your hypothesis suggests.”
They left their room to go down to dinner. In the corridor they met Thomas Dixon — resplendent in an embroidered satin waistcoat, frilled shirt, and cutaway maroon frock coat with a high velvet collar and brass buttons. Whatever secrets his heart might conceal, the gentleman certainly knew how to dress.
“I understand you are just returned from Randalls,” Mr. Dixon said. “How is Frank Churchill today?”
“Much improved,” Elizabeth replied.
“I am glad to hear it. What a fright for poor Jane! I hope he learned from this experience. If not”—his eyes twinkled—“we shall have to bring him to Ireland and teach him how to drink.” He seemed to be in a more pleasant mood than he had been the night before; Elizabeth wondered how he had spent his day.
“Frank claims he was not intoxicated,” Darcy said, “—in fact, that he did not have a drink all day. But I understand that he was seen near the Crown shortly before the Eltons’ party.”
“Was he?” Mr. Dixon began to remove his left glove, gently tugging on each finger. “I wonder what he was doing there.”
“He claims he was on his way to the vicarage.”
“I am sure that is all there is to it, then.”
“The reports we have heard of his conduct at the Eltons’ sound similar to what we heard of his uncle’s final night,” Darcy continued. “Did you not take a walk with Edgar Churchill earlier on the day of the Donwell party?”
“Yes.” He removed the other glove and held the pair in one hand as he tucked two fingers into his fob pocket.
“Did he already seem to be feeling poorly when you were together?”
Mr. Dixon fumbled with his fob chain, trying to retrieve his watch from its pocket. “He appeared fine.”
“Perhaps the exercise strained him. Did you walk far?”
He at last succeeded in withdrawing the watch. “We went nowhere in particular.” He sprung open the lid. “So late already! I must go dress for dinner.” He snapped the lid shut and hurried off.
Elizabeth followed him with her gaze until he was well out of hearing. “I thought he was dressed for dinner.”
“For all your speculation about Thomas Dixon’s relationship with Jane Churchill, I think the most significant connexion in his life is his tailor.” Darcy took her arm and led her towards the staircase.
“All the more reason to plot marriage to a wealthy widow — he could afford a fleet of tailors. He is definitely hiding something.”