“He and Sir Walter were riding their horses together at Northanger Abbey, just after the death of their father. My uncle John fell and broke his neck.”
An eerie silence fell over them. Finally, Mr. Darcy coughed. “Are we all seriously considering that Sir Walter mayhave wished us to find this information, in lieu of something far more damning? Can it be possible that he….”
“That he killed his brother to usurp the title?” Willoughby set down the papers in his hands and let out a deep breath as is overwhelmed by the notion. “He is hiding something, to tamper with the dossier, which he certainly did.”
Emma gave him one of the haughty looks that made her like so much like her aunt, Lady Susan. “It is interesting that whatever secret he wishes to hide, naming his own daughters as illegitimate would be a better alternative. The story he has chosen to construct paintsthemin a negative light, and his poor late wife, and he merely looks like the victim of her failure.”
“He cares for nobody but himself,” Mr. Willoughby said. “Even so, killing his twin is an awful conjecture; forgive me if I wish to adhere to the facts, which are sordid enough.”
Elizabeth felt a pang of sympathy for the man, just as she had pitied Emma while suspecting Lady Susan to be the culprit. “The facts are quite enough. We have nullified his alibi for the first two killings, and he must have done the third; he is physically capable of it, and he could easily have opened the window to extinguish the light. You assumed he was dressing, but he could have gotten away to work his poison. He heard Mrs. Rushworth speaking to me while he was in the passage, and saw his chance to cast blame on her. That only leaves Mrs. Younge. Why her?”
Emma had the answer. “Mrs. Clay said that she feared she was the target. Sir Walter has a history with her; he did not need the keys, if he believed she would open the door for him. Mrs. Younge knew of their connection, so she might have opened the door to tell him that Mrs. Clay was not there.”
“And he could not have her telling Mrs. Clay he had been there,” Mr. Willoughby said.
“But if you kept the door between your rooms open….” Mr. Darcy looked at Mr. Willoughby, the question written on his face.
“He and I had a great deal to drink together last night after dinner,” Mr. Willoughby said, as if just realizing what this meant. “I fell asleep very suddenly, and very heavily. Perhaps he even slipped me some sleeping draught. He could have left his room at any time in the night, and I would never have known it.”
Elizabeth felt a wave of panic. “Do you think Mrs. Clay is still in any danger?”
“I suppose we ought to warn her,” Emma said.
“We also ought to make a show of searching the castle as we are meant to be doing. I prefer my uncle not know that I have spoken with you. If he suspects that I know he is the killer, I daresay I would be in considerable danger. I believe I will have to find some reason to move rooms this evening.”
Mr. Willoughby stood, looking terribly pensive and downcast. “I suppose we ought to set about searching for the key.”
“Oh! Cathy has the keys to lock this room. It was careless of her to leave it unlocked at all, but I suppose we expected to come straight back.” Elizabeth frowned down at all their evidence. “Mr. Willoughby, does your uncle know that we have changed suites?”
“I was not aware of it. I cannot say what he knows. But to be safe, we ought to hide all this.”
Elizabeth nodded. Mr. Darcy had laid his trap with the ashes, and they knew someone had been in her old suite. If Sir Walter searched this room, they would all be in grave danger.
Mr. Darcy tucked the most damning papers about Sir Walter into his coat pocket, along with the scrap of handkerchief, and Elizabeth slipped thevinaigrette de toiletteinto her pocket. She carried everything else to her bedchamber and heaped her and Cathy’s nightgowns and other discarded garments on top of the pile, grateful they had warned their servants to keep out of their new suite. She laid one of her most intimate garments on the top of this mess, hoping it would be a mortifying deterrent.
They were meant to be searching a set of rooms they had passed as they left the parlor, and they set about it directly. When they reached that part of the castle, Mr. Willoughby said, “I would like to speak privately to Miss Woodhouse while we search this room; perhaps, Mr. Darcy, you and Miss Bennet can go search the next room?”
Emma looked alarmed, but Elizabeth recalled how well Mr. Willoughby had charmed Emma at dinner the night before, and thought it very likely her new friend would soon be regaling the ladies with the tale of another refused proposal. She grinned as she agreed to the scheme.
She and Mr. Darcy began searching the billiard room, and they were quite intent upon their activity when the door suddenly slammed shut. Startled, Elizabeth jumped. Mr. Darcy went to the door, twisted the knob, and… nothing. It did not open. “It is locked,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
In the next room, Elizabeth heard Emma cry out, and there was a pounding sound. She went to the far wall and called out to her friend. “Emma?”
Emma’s voice was muffled on the other side of the wall. “We are locked in!”
“So are we!”
On the other side of the wall, Emma called out again. The only word discernible waswindow, so Elizabeth went to the small window at the back of the room. She unlatched it, and after a moment of panic at the sight of the moat below, Elizabeth clutched at the wall as she tentatively poked her head out.
Where her hand clung to the stone wall of the room, another hand connected with hers, and she held fast to it, smiling without looking back at Mr. Darcy. Emma peeked out of the window in the next room. “It has finally stopped raining!”
Elizabeth knew this must be a fine thing, if they had any hope of the roads being passable for the royals to reach them. “But did you see who locked us in?”
“No, the door just slammed shut while our backs were turned. But surely it must be Sir Walter!”
“How could he have gotten the keys from Mrs. Rushworth?”
