In Want of a Suspect (A Lizzie & Darcy Mystery #1)

Four

In Which Lizzie’s Investigation Encounters a (Rather Flimsy) Wall

DARCY WAS RIGHT: TAKING the cab was much faster. And less muddy.

Not that Lizzie was going to admit it. He’d be insufferable!

She was glad for his presence, though. The last few months had been so busy; she’d hardly seen him except for little snatches of time here and there, and even then they were always surrounded by people or not very far from her mother’s watchful eye. And lately the merest mention of Darcy brought up not-so-subtle-hints that Lizzie ought to be married soon.

But if Lizzie was being honest, the idea of Darcy proposing made her feel vaguely queasy. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him—she liked him a great deal. And she enjoyed their stolen kisses (five in total since the first time he kissed her outside the courthouse, but who was counting?) and the way he looked at her like he both knew what she would say next and was delightfully surprised by her every action. But marriage ? Lizzie liked her life. She enjoyed working for her father, boring tasks aside, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to change her life, her address, and her name for Darcy.

Besides, she’d only recently gotten the courthouse clerks to remember her name. If she changed it now, they’d never take her seriously!

Lizzie sighed.

“What the matter?” Darcy asked.

“Nothing!” Lizzie smiled reassuringly. The last thing she wanted was to say any of this to Darcy and to have him think that she was indifferent to him. Far from it.

Luckily for her, the carriage slowed as it arrived at their destination. The driver deposited them at the end of the street and Darcy slipped him extra coin to wait. It was just as muddy here as it had been the day before—so much for avoiding soiling her hems—and a patchy fog had settled over the neighborhood, even though it was nearly noon. The faint scent of smoke still hung about, and for an unsettling moment Lizzie felt as though her mind was playing tricks on her and the fog that encased the street was actually smoke.

“Well, someone worked quickly,” Darcy remarked, just as Lizzie registered a hastily erected barrier that stood before the storehouse. It was made of what appeared to be scaffolding, scrap wood, and canvas, completely blocking the view of the lower level of the storehouse.

“It looks flimsy enough,” Lizzie observed. “I daresay you or I could knock it all over with a good shove.”

“So they aren’t worried about securing the place as much as they want to keep out prying eyes,” Darcy mused. “Tell me everything that Mr. Mullins said.”

Lizzie recited all the details that Jack had shared, and she was glad for it. Going over the information solidified it in her mind... but it also brought up more questions. When she’d finished, Darcy asked, “How did this mysterious woman get in? Presumably the doors were locked if it was only the Mullins brothers and their foreman?”

“I am less curious about how she got in and more interested in why ,” Lizzie murmured. “Why would a woman wander into a strange building, especially one that seemed closed? Do you recall, were the shutters open when we arrived yesterday?”

Darcy thought about this a moment. “You know, I don’t believe they were. At least, I only remember smoke coming out of the front door, but nowhere else.”

“Indeed,” Lizzie murmured in agreement. They could see over the hastily erected wall to the second story, where the inner shutters were closed. To passersby, the storehouse was closed up tight and secretive. Which made sense, Lizzie supposed, after yesterday’s events, but... “Why do you think that the three of them were inside in the middle of the day, windows and shutters closed?”

Darcy looked at her sidelong. “Usually people close their shutters when they don’t want anyone looking in.”

She knew that, of course. But that begged the question: What exactly was so secretive about discussing the day’s shipments? Unless Jack wasn’t telling the whole truth.

Lizzie was not prepared to go down that path quite yet. “All right, Jack said they were inside talking business. They would have needed a lamp.”

“Did he say where exactly they were when they first noticed this intruder?”

“No,” Lizzie said, suddenly wishing she’d asked Jack to meet them there and walk them through it exactly. “But there is an office in the back, if I recall correctly. And Jack talked about chasing the woman, so it’s likely that’s where they were. Lizzie closed her eyes and tried to picture it. A quiet day, no shipments in or out, discussing business when suddenly they hear a sound—someone is in the storehouse.

She opened her eyes. “There is one thing...”

“What is it?”

“Jack said that he saw her, and all three men immediately ‘went after her.’”

Darcy understood immediately. “They went after her, rather than ask her what she was doing there?”

“I suppose they could have assumed she was a thief. But why assume the lady is a thief and not someone who was lost?”

“Guilty minds often leap to guilty assumptions,” Darcy pointed out. “But wait—did he actually see this lady start the fire?”

“No.” Lizzie knew what he was thinking: Any solicitor worth their salt would argue that if no one witnessed this woman start the fire, then no one could know with any certainty that she was responsible. Lizzie would deal with that detail later—first, they had to find her.

Darcy let out a hmph. “And if we can presume that they have a lamp or lantern, and they’re chasing after a young woman, then it could have just as easily been any one of them who set the fire.”

“I can’t disagree with your logic, but I think before we can come to any definitive conclusions, we need to see inside.” And find that young lady , she thought.

Lizzie and Darcy approached the front of the building, where there was a makeshift gate nailed together out of broken-down shipping crates. A stout man with a dark beard and distrustful eyes watched them approach, and Lizzie recognized him from the day before as one of the men who’d held Jack back from running into the building.

“Good day, sir,” Lizzie said smoothly. “I’m Miss Bennet of Longbourn and Sons, and Mr. Mullins has hired me.”

“Longbourn and Sons?” the man repeated. “What are you, then? Accountants?”

“Solicitors,” Lizzie clarified. “Our condolences for yesterday’s tragedy, Mr....?”

The man eyed her suspiciously, but reluctantly said, “Parry.”

“Mr. Parry,” Lizzie repeated. So this was the foreman. “I’m so sorry. I’m certain you’re still shaken. But as you may know, Mr. Mullins hired me to try to get to the bottom of who, or what, caused the fire. May we ask you a few questions?”

“What’s there to get to the bottom of? There was a fire. Simon died.”

Lizzie and Darcy exchanged confused looks. Lizzie proceeded carefully. “Jack told me that a lady entered the storehouse yesterday, and he believed that she started the fire. Did you see anything?”

“I didn’t see a woman, but Jack-o said something about her.”

“You didn’t see her? Not at all?”

“No.” The one-word response was sullen.

“Can you describe what happened right before the fire?” Lizzie asked.

Mr. Parry looked at Darcy, which made Lizzie want to roll her eyes, but she held herself in check.

“We aren’t questioning what you saw or didn’t, Mr. Parry,” Darcy assured him. “We are simply seeking information.”

“Jack-o didn’t say anything about hiring solicitors,” Parry grumbled, but seemed to relent. “We were goin’ over the invoices and bills of lading in the office. We thought we heard some creakin’ like footsteps, but there wasn’t supposed to be anyone there.”

“Were the doors locked?” Lizzie asked.

Parry shook his head. “Can’t rightly say. Should have been, but Jack-o was always careless about lockin’ a door behind him. Anyway, Simon, he was skittish and thought someone was inside. Both he and Jack stepped out of the office to look around. That’s when I heard them shoutin’, and by the time I ran out, both were nowhere to be found. I went lookin’ for them, but the next thing I knew, the building was on fire. I found Jack-o, but we couldn’t get to Simon. I hauled Jack-o out, and if I hadn’t, all three of us would have been dead—understand?”

“I’m sure you did what you had to,” Lizzie assured him. “How did the fire start, do you think?”

“Simon probably knocked over a lamp. Bloody stupid, if you ask me.” Parry spat on the ground, and upon noting Darcy’s glare, mumbled, “Beggin’ your pardon, miss.”

But Lizzie didn’t mind—her thoughts were tumbling through this information. “But you don’t doubt there was a woman?”

A strange look came over Parry’s face. “Could have been. Likely one of those bloo—er, I mean one of those French womenfolk. There’s a bunch of them down the street, always tryin’ to sell rubbish and jabberin’ away in their language.”

Lizzie bristled at his choice of words, but tried to hide her reaction. “Are there many émigrés in this area?”

“Too many,” was Parry’s blunt response. “They’re goin’ to stir up trouble.”

“Any in particular that stand out?” Darcy asked. “Perhaps one that had a disagreement with any of your laborers or the Mullinses themselves?”

Parry paused before answering, and for a moment Lizzie was certain that he’d give them the lead they were hoping for. But then he shook his head. “I keep away from them. And I tell my men to do the same.”

That very well might have been the truth, but Lizzie didn’t believe for a moment that there wasn’t more to it than that... and that Parry didn’t at least have suspicions. “Jack mentioned that he thought he’d seen this lady before. Has anyone been hanging about lately? Anyone that would have no business being around?”

“I already told you, I don’t know anythin’ about any woman!” He seemed to draw himself up taller. “And I think you should leave. Jack-o never said he’d hired any solicitor, and how am I supposed to know you’re not here to cause trouble?”

What an absolutely inane thing to say! Lizzie barely stopped herself from huffing in exasperation. “Mr. Mullins hired me this morning. I had hoped to take a look around inside.”

She stepped forward as if her entering the premises was a foregone conclusion. More polite people than Mr. Parry might have stepped aside so as to avoid colliding with her, but the man didn’t budge, and Lizzie found herself uncomfortably close to him. He was several inches taller than she, and he glanced down at her, unimpressed. “No one is to go inside, miss. Not until repairs can be made and a surveyor conducts an inspection. City orders.”

She stiffened, not wanting to be the one to step back. He smelled of sweat and smoke, and something else underneath it all, tangy and sour.

Spirits.

Lizzie turned to face Darcy, and he was eyeing the man. “It looks like we’ll have to report this to Mr. Mullins, doesn’t it, Miss Bennet?”

“Do what you will. Jack-o is responsible for repairs, and we’ve got to follow the law, don’t we?” His sarcasm was not lost on Lizzie.

“Well, then, I suppose I shall wait until Mr. Mullins returns and can vouch for us. It would be a horrid waste of my time and his money, but since you insist...”

“Not sure when he’ll be back. Told me not to expect him all day.”

If it hadn’t been unladylike, Lizzie might have grunted in frustration. Instead, she took a step back and looked up and down the street. “Well, then, we’ll take a look around. Outside.”

“Suits me,” Parry said.

Lizzie marched down the street, Darcy on her heels. “He’s hiding something,” Lizzie muttered as they came to a halt outside of earshot.

“I think that is abundantly apparent,” Darcy agreed. “Why place a guard at a burned-out building unless you wanted to hide evidence?”

“What? No, I meant Parry.”

“Oh. Well, he’s hiding something, too. But I don’t think Jack-o is exactly as forthcoming as he ought to be.”

Lizzie disliked the sarcastic tone in Darcy’s voice when he voiced Jack’s nickname. “Jack hasn’t given me any reason to doubt his honesty.”

“And when has that ever stopped you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Isn’t this why you dragged me along—to ask questions?”

“I dragged you along to help,” Lizzie corrected. “Not cast aspersions on my client!”

“Casting aspersions is one of my specialties,” Darcy countered. “But come, Lizzie. You have questions about this case, and you know there’s something odd here. Besides, you cannot stand here and tell me that you aren’t curious as to why, less than a day after the fire, this monstrosity has been erected?”

He pointed at the wall, and Lizzie relented. “I’ll ask Jack when we see him next. In the meantime, I’m not ready to entertain the idea that Jack has had anything to do with his own brother’s death. You saw him yesterday.”

This reminder seemed to chasten Darcy. “All right. I’ll give you that he appeared genuine.”

“Thank you.”

“Either that, or he belongs on the stage.”

“You! You are just so...”

“Charming?” Darcy deadpanned.

“I am going to go over there,” Lizzie said, pointing toward the corner of the building. “And I am going to look for clues or anyone who might have seen anything. Please go do the same, but over there.”

“Aye, aye,” Darcy said, softening the teasing tone with a wink that made Lizzie go weak in the knees.

She hated when he was aggravating and attractive at the same time.

She took three deep breaths, and then forced herself to study the barrier more closely. It was only the height of the average man, which meant that it was difficult to see around but didn’t completely obstruct the brick building behind. She took a few steps back and then crossed the street to take in the storehouse from a wider angle while Darcy ambled toward a group of men loading a wagon.

From her vantage point, the building looked surprisingly intact. The roof showed no signs of damage from the outside, and though the second-story windows were darkened by inner shutters, the window glass appeared intact. She couldn’t get a good view of the damage below, so she crossed the street once more and peered down the alley that separated the storehouse from the smithy next door. It had a small yard for outdoor fires and a water pump, and a single skinny scraggly tree stood in the yard. It looked dead, and the lower branches had been hacked away, but the upper branches—if one was able to reach them—could be climbed and would provide a nice view into the storehouse’s upper windows.

Hmm.

Lizzie followed the barrier down the alley and confirmed her suspicions—it encircled the entire building. At first there didn’t seem to be anything of interest this way, but as she looked down to pick her way through the mud, something glinted in the weak sunlight.

She crouched low to the ground and removed her glove to carefully pick up the shining object. Broken glass, smeared with mud. And not a small shard, but a large piece.

Intriguing. Lizzie made a mental note to write Elinor Dashwood and ask her what happened to window glass when a building caught fire. The elder Dashwood sister studied the sciences, and Lizzie had found that her insight was incredibly helpful at times. Were the shards of glass the result of the fire, or had someone broken a window deliberately? Someone wanting to escape the fire, perhaps? Lizzie had seen Jack and Mr. Parry come out the front door yesterday, but perhaps this was evidence that there was a young lady—or someone, anyway—who might have escaped the fire by another route.

Farther down the alley, she heard a small scuffing noise. Lizzie looked up, steeling herself for the sight of rats.

Nothing.

“Hello?” she called out.

She waited, and the scuffing sound came again from a large stack of wood and various construction materials haphazardly piled on the edge of the smithy’s yard. A piece of wood shifted and fell from the stack.

That was either a very large rat, or not a rat at all.

“Hello?” Lizzie tried again. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m just looking... for clues. You know there was a fire here yesterday?”

Another piece fell, revealing a child.

He was small and skinny, like most of the street children tended to be. He wore tattered trousers, which had been patched many times, and a green jacket, which had likely once been fine but was now faded and worn. An overlarge gray cap fell down his face, but when he pushed it back as he scrambled to his feet, Lizzie could see the whites of his widened eyes on his grimy face.

“Hello,” Lizzie said, softer.

The boy ran.

Lizzie hesitated only a moment, but then followed. Not at a run, of course—it was never good when a lady like herself was seen running after a boy who clearly lived on the streets. People tended to get the wrong idea. But she followed him through the alley, calling out, “Wait! I just want to talk!” and came out on the next street over.

She looked up and down the street, but saw nothing but storehouses and work yards, very much like the street she’d just left. One difference, however, was a small throng of women who were gathered just a stone’s throw to her left. She approached them. “Pardon me,” she said. “I am so sorry to interrupt, but did any of you happen to see a boy run this way just a moment ago?”

She was met with blank—and fearful—looks. The women appeared to be peddlers of some kind, for they carried baskets and were standing next to carts stacked with wares, not unlike the woman she’d seen the day before. And when Lizzie looked from face to face, she saw her—the woman with the blue kerchief the officers had been harassing before Lizzie and Darcy had stepped in.

These had to be the Frenchwomen that Parry had referred to. Their clothes were worn and their wares weren’t much better, but before Lizzie had approached they’d been chatting. Now they looked at her with wariness. Lizzie mustered up her rudimentary French, which Mrs. Bennet had insisted that all five Bennet sisters learn—with varying degrees of success.

“Un garcon,” she repeated, looking from face to face. “Avez-vous vu un garcon?”

The women murmured among themselves, but nothing that Lizzie could make out. Finally, the woman that Lizzie had seen the day before stepped forward. “Non.”

She regarded Lizzie with curiosity, recognition lighting up her face. One of the other women hissed something to her, but she shook her head and responded in rapid-fire French, too quick for Lizzie to translate, although she caught the word soldat . Soldier.

“Je cherche une femme,” Lizzie tried. If they didn’t see the boy, maybe they knew something about this mysterious woman that had apparently been inside the storehouse. “Grande, brunette... une dame?”

Her description was not much to go on. Tall, brown hair, likely a lady given her dress. But the woman from yesterday shook her head rapidly. “Il n’y a pas des dames ici, mademoiselle.”

“Please. S’il vouz plait. It’s important.” But the woman continued to shake her head. No ladies here. Lizzie wasn’t certain whether they didn’t understand her, or didn’t wish to help her. “I want to help,” she added truthfully. “Aider?”

Her words brought out a flurry of whispers, and finally one of the women produced a name. “Josette,” she said, looking between Lizzie and her friends. The other women nodded in agreement.

“Josette?” Lizzie asked. “Does she have a surname? Um, nom de famille?”

At this question, there seemed to be a bit of a disagreement. After some whispering and rapid-fire discussions, the blue-kerchiefed woman said, “Beaufort. Josette Beaufort.”

The women nodded, repeating the name among themselves. Lizzie felt uncertain—she had no way of knowing if the woman she was looking for was Josette Beaufort, but the women all seemed confident that the description she gave matched, so she said nothing more. Lizzie wished she could ask them more about this Josette Beaufort, but she didn’t know how to ask her questions in French, and she didn’t wish to press her luck. At least she had a name. “Merci. Merci beaucoup.”

And with that, there was nothing more for Lizzie to do but to turn around and head back toward the Mullinses’ storehouse and find Darcy. The Frenchwomen waved, but they closed ranks into a tight knot once Lizzie turned away.

As she passed the pile of wood where the boy had been hiding, Lizzie paused. The pile concealed bits of newspaper and a few old rags fashioned into a sort of nest, ringed by small rocks and sticks. The sight pulled at her heartstrings. She sometimes wished she could sweep up all the poor children of the streets and give them homes, but judging by the way the boy had run, he likely wouldn’t allow it. Still, some impulse to help propelled her to draw two coins from her reticule and drop them in the boy’s nest. Maybe he would find them, maybe he wouldn’t....

After a moment’s hesitation, she added her calling card as well. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t be able to read it, but perhaps someone he knew would know how, and he’d find his way back to her. She knew it was unlikely, but she weighed it down with one of the bricks so it wouldn’t blow away, and straightened up, brushing the dirt from her gloves. There. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She found Darcy in front of the storehouse and waved to get his attention. “Any luck?” she called out.

He shook her head and strode over to her. “I’ve asked every man on this street who will talk to me if they’d seen a lady matching the description, and I got no responses that are fit for your ears,” he said with a bit of disgust. “Shockingly, not many ladies patronize the establishments here.”

“Shocking,” Lizzie echoed.

She was about to tell him what she’d discovered when a voice called, “Oy! You two!”

They turned to find Mr. Parry waving at them. He gestured for them to approach, and Lizzie and Darcy hurried over, Lizzie’s heart pounding with hope. Perhaps he’d changed his mind and would be willing to talk....

“Here,” the man said, handing Darcy the end of a rope. Lizzie traced it down to a very small, very dirty dog. The poor animal came reluctantly. His body was long, with very short legs, and he had a mess of fur on the top of his head that looked like a lady’s bouffant. He was dark cream in color, but his fur was streaked with soot.

“Mr. Mullins’s dog,” Mr. Parry explained. “That is, the late Mr. Mullins. Guy’s the name. He’s been whining all day. Wants his master.”

“Oh, poor thing!” Lizzie crouched down to say hello to the small dog, who sat without command and looked up at her with sad brown eyes. “But why are you giving him to us?”

“Simon is dead, and Jack-o doesn’t want him. Always made him sneeze, Guy did, so he stayed downstairs. Now it’s no place for him, and it’s on to the streets if I don’t find him a new home.”

“But I don’t understand,” she said, looking at Darcy. “What makes you think we want him?”

Mr. Parry shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll turn him loose otherwise. Don’t have patience for a dog myself.”

And then he dropped the leash and resumed his post.

Lizzie looked up at Darcy, who was regarding the small dog with horror. “We can’t just take another man’s dog,” he said.

“We can’t leave him! You heard Mr. Parry—he’ll be homeless unless someone takes him in. And take a look around—who’s likely to take home a stray dog?”

“He’s filthy,” Darcy protested.

“He’ll wash! Won’t you, Guy?” Lizzie patted the dog’s head. The creature leaned into her touch and whined. “Oh, Darcy. You can’t say no to him.”

“So you’ll be taking him home, then?”

“Oh. Well... er, I mean. My mother...”

“Ha. Exactly what I thought! You don’t want him either.”

Lizzie looked down at the poor dog. He was trembling and cold, likely missing his master and confused at the loss of his home. Her mother would have an absolute fit, but maybe Lizzie could sneak him into the kitchen, bribe the scullery maid to give him a bath... and then find him a home? Yes, that was what she’d do.

“Yes, I do. I’ll take him home, and then we’ll figure things out from there.”

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Darcy asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Darcy did her the kindness of not pressing the matter. “All right, then. Now, did you find anything?”

“Not a lot,” she admitted, standing and coaxing the dog along on his makeshift leash. “Although I did manage to talk to some of the Frenchwomen on the next street over. I’m not sure how well I made myself understood, but they did give me a name that we can try to chase down. Josette Beaufort.”

Darcy stopped suddenly, causing Lizzie to nearly stumble. “Darcy?” she asked. “What is it?”

He stared straight ahead, seemingly at nothing. “Josette Beaufort,” he repeated. “Now that is a name I have not heard in a while.”