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

Fifteen

In Which Lizzie Discovers a Most Shocking Connection

THE BELL ABOVE THE door of the fourth jeweler’s shop tinkled as Lizzie stepped inside, assuming the role of a harried, anxious young lady.

She’d perfected her persona at the last shop, so now it was easy to hover near the counter, casting her gaze about for a free clerk while taking in the shop’s displays of earrings, bracelets, rings, brooches, and necklaces. But no necklaces looked like the pendant that was growing warm in her gloved hand. She also took in the clerks—she wanted someone a little timid looking, the most junior person she could find. She thought she spotted her mark, a sandy-haired young man wearing an ill-fitting jacket and speaking earnestly to a well-dressed matron. He seemed like the type that was eager to please and would answer all of Lizzie’s questions—

“May I help you, miss?”

Lizzie jumped and turned to find a poised and polished clerk standing behind her, watching her coolly. He was old enough to have creases around his eyes, but not quite as old as her parents. Not exactly who she’d been hoping for, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Oh, hello!” she squeaked out.

“Good afternoon. Is there something you would like to take a closer look at?”

The clerk nodded at the jewelry under its glass cases, and Lizzie forced herself to emit a high, nervous laugh. “No, no. I do need help, though.” She held up the necklace and noted the glint of interest in the clerk’s eyes as he took in the gold and topaz. “My fiancé gave it to me, but I don’t know how to open it!”

The clerk pulled on a pair of white gloves and held out his hand. She carefully placed the necklace in the man’s hand. He cradled the small object like one would hold a newborn kitten as he inspected it. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Pink topaz. I recall this commission.”

“Can you help me?” Lizzie asked, and she didn’t even have to pretend to sound hopeful and anxious all at once, even though she was desperate to know if he remembered who had commissioned the necklace.

“Certainly,” the man said. “Miss...?”

“Bennet,” Lizzie said, for she had no calling cards but her own on her person, and if asked for proof of identity, it would look awfully suspicious if she couldn’t come up with a card. “I feel so silly!”

“Not at all, miss,” the clerk said, guiding her to a nearby counter. He pulled out a velvet-lined tray and set the necklace down with a small tsk. “I see that your clasp has been damaged, miss.”

“Yes, I was terribly clumsy the other day,” she lied. “It caught on my hairbrush.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss. You must know that we pride ourselves on the quality of our jewelry, and for such a thing to happen... well, I’m not at all satisfied, miss.”

Was it Lizzie’s imagination, or was he eyeing her with suspicion as he arranged the broken necklace on the tray? Lizzie felt her heartbeat pick up, but she brazened her way through. “Oh, I’m sure your quality is excellent, sir. It’s me. Why, I shattered a vase the other day and I thought my poor mama would faint!”

The clerk gave her an obligatory polite smile. He picked up a small magnifying glass and turned the pendant around to the back, and then to the front, making small hmm sounds.

“You see, my fiancé gave it to me, and he told me that it contained a surprise! Only, I hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant until my dear friend Miss Carlton told me about her locket. But hers looks different from mine, and I’m terribly afraid I’ll break it by trying to force anything, so I decided to just ask an expert. Is it a locket?”

She batted her eyelashes at him, hoping he’d be taken in by feminine charms and flattery, but the clerk wore a peculiar expression. “I see,” he said. “It is most definitely ours, and you’re correct, miss, it is a locket. They’ve been incredibly popular.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Lizzie cried, and she truly was relieved. “I’m afraid he’s beginning to suspect that I haven’t figured it out!”

The clerk smiled politely, but he was still examining the necklace. “And what is your fiancé’s name, Miss Bennet?”

A twinge of panic ran through Lizzie. “Oh, I hope you don’t plan on telling him I was here! He’ll think I’m awfully dim!”

“No, no,” the clerk assured in a tone that she found far from reassuring. “But I do like to know all of our customers, and I make it a point to remember everyone.”

I’m sure you do , Lizzie thought. This was a test—he wouldn’t open it for her unless she could name the man who commissioned it. And if she was wrong, he’d likely accuse her of stealing. Lizzie felt a thin sheen of sweat break out across her body. If she gave the wrong name, could she snatch the necklace and make a run for it? Not likely, at least not without drawing the Runners.

“Hu-Hughes,” she stuttered, and forced a fond smile. “Not much longer now, and I’ll be Mrs. Hughes!”

“Excellent, Miss Bennet,” he said. Then, so quickly that she almost missed it, the clerk squeezed the rounded edge of the filigree, and the pink topaz at the center moved on a hidden hinge, then pressed inward. There was a small click, and then the hidden hinge opened to reveal a small compartment.

“Oh!” Lizzie cried, leaning forward to inspect it. “How clever!”

“Yes, it is,” the clerk said, clearly pleased with the design. “Now, for your ‘secret,’ Miss Bennet.”

He stepped aside so that she could see the inside of the locket. Lizzie supposed it was a bit much to hope for a tiny note that contained all of Leticia’s secrets, but she was nonetheless surprised to find that the locket was... empty. Empty, that is, except for a bit of engraving in the center of the locket.

To L.B. with all my love and adoration. —R.H.

“ Oh ,” Lizzie said, aware that she sounded confused, and not at all thrilled.

“Were you expecting something else, miss?”

“No! I’m merely surprised, that’s all!”

“It’s quite the moving declaration, isn’t it?”

It was indeed, but not for the reason the clerk thought. For a dizzying moment, Lizzie had thought that the necklace had actually been meant for her, when she saw the L.B. But when she saw the R.H. her heartbeat galloped out of her chest.

R.H. Richard Hughes! She had guessed correctly!

But who was L.B.? Not Leticia Cavendish? Unless...

Leticia Beaufort?

But that wasn’t her surname.

“If I may ask, miss,” the clerk said, “might I see your card?”

Lizzie barely managed to keep from sucking in a sharp breath. She looked up and blinked innocently at him. “My card? Why, whatever for?”

“Please pardon my insolence, but you see... we’ve had quite the rash of stolen jewelry showing up in the oddest of places,” he said. “Now, I don’t believe that this necklace is stolen at all! But given the circumstances, I feel duty bound to write to Mr. Hughes and tell him of your visit.”

“Well, I never!” Lizzie wanted to refuse, but if she did so, she suspected that the Runners would definitely be called. She reached into her reticule and extracted a card, thankful that she hadn’t given a false name. She slapped it down on the counter and stared the clerk down as his blue eyes dropped to the counter and took in her name.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet? Why not E.B.?”

“I go by Lizzie,” she told him with a sniff.

She hoped—no, expected—for him to back off after that. Instead, he smiled wanly. “My apologies, Miss Bennet. I expect you’ll want the clasp repaired?”

“I—” Lizzie had been about to tell him no, because she wanted to get back to the Dashwoods and Darcy and tell them that Richard Hughes had given Leticia Cavendish a necklace with a romantic inscription in it. But if she were truly an embarrassed fiancée, she’d want the chain repaired.

“I’m not sure I have the time today,” she said lamely. “I have an appointment.”

“It should take no more than fifteen minutes, miss,” the clerk assured her. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?”

Lizzie declined but resigned herself to waiting. She hated seeing the clerk whisk the necklace behind a door to the workshop.

After only several minutes, the clerk reemerged from the back room, wearing a solicitous expression that put Lizzie immediately on edge. “Miss Bennet,” he said, an apology in his voice. “I’m terribly sorry to tell you this, but... your fiancé commissioned this necklace nearly a year ago.”

“Oh?” Lizzie raised her eyebrows at the news, but she mentally filed away the knowledge. How long had Mr. Hughes been engaged to Josette? Had he been betraying her their entire engagement? “Well, that is surprising! I had no idea his affection went back that far.”

“Yes, and during that time, I’m afraid... well, this is rather indelicate. Please forgive me for bringing it up, but you see, he’s neglected to pay his bill .”

Lizzie had no trouble looking shocked, which was exactly what the fiancée of a supposedly rich man would be, should a clerk steep so low as to speak of money with her. “I don’t know what you mean!”

“I mean, Miss Bennet, that Mr. Hughes still owes us a significant amount of money for this necklace.”

That was when she realized he didn’t have the necklace in hand. Panic shot through her. She needed that necklace back. It was her only evidence tying Leticia and Richard Hughes together. It pained her to think about what she had to do next, for it wasn’t this clerk’s fault that his shop and its owners were out the money that Hughes owed.

“I don’t see how that is my problem, and it is highly inappropriate that you should bring it up with me!”

“I am sorry, Miss Bennet. But nonetheless, I’m afraid that until Mr. Hughes has paid his outstanding bill—”

“Absolutely not! I demand you bring me my property this instant!”

She let her voice rise in volume—not quite yelling, but certainly louder than the clerk would wish, given that the shop contained more than a few customers. He looked around nervously but held his ground. “I cannot do that. I understand you are upset, but the best thing you can do is tell your fiancé—”

“Do I look like a common messenger?” Lizzie demanded. Inside, she was cringing at the haughty tone she’d adopted. She leaned toward the man and whispered, “If you do not return my necklace, I will cause a scene and your shop will be in all the society papers as the one who held an innocent young lady’s property ransom!”

Lizzie stared him down and narrowed her eyes. Let him try to outlast her.

Finally, he looked away. “Very well, miss,” he said shortly.

He disappeared into the back, and Lizzie tried to get her breathing under control. If that wretched Mr. Hughes had never paid his bill, then she had to wonder whether he was as successful as he would have his true fiancée believe.

What else was he hiding?

The clerk returned after a minute, all false smiles. “Here you are, Miss Bennet. I’m afraid we won’t be able to repair that clasp after all. But please do feel free to come back at a later date.”

“I shall,” she said, smiling. She felt a wave of relief wash over her when the necklace was back in her possession. Mimicking the clerk, she pressed the pad of her forefinger into the filigree on the side of the necklace and felt the satisfying give of a hidden latch. The locket revealed its message inside. She snapped it shut and tucked it into her pocket. “Good day, sir. You’ve been most helpful.”

As she left the shop, her mind spun with what this new connection meant. Hughes and Leticia? Were they working together? But what about Josette?

Lizzie walked away quickly, almost afraid that the clerk would come running after her. But no one from the jeweler came out, and she turned down a side street, feeling the need to get away as quickly as possible. She’d gone three blocks when a pang in her stomach reminded her it was far past luncheon, which she’d missed. It was no use puzzling these things out on an empty stomach. She found a vendor selling buns and approached.

“One, please,” she said, and opened her reticule. But when she looked down, she caught a flash of movement to her right. “Actually, make it two.”

She accepted the buns and wound her way to the edge of the market until she found a spot between two stout barrels and a donkey hitched to a small cart. She bit into one of the buns, and waited until Henry appeared beside her, almost sheepishly.

“Good day.” She greeted the boy.

“G’day, miss,” he said. Now that she was paying attention, she realized he almost sounded like one of the street children, but not quite. It was as if Henry was playacting at sounding uneducated. Lizzie doubted she would have picked up on the difference in his speech if he hadn’t tipped her off by admitting he knew how to read.

“Tell me, Henry—have you been following my every move since we last spoke?”

His eyes widened in surprise at Lizzie’s boldness, and he shook his head unconvincingly. “No, miss!”

“Hmm,” was all Lizzie said, but her thoughts were racing. He seemed too smart to attach himself to any person who showed him kindness. “Surely I cannot be so interesting that you’ve followed me all around London for fun?”

He shrugged. “Are you still trying to find out what happened with the fire, miss?”

“I am.” Why was he curious about that?

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just... why?”

“People hire me to help them,” Lizzie said.

Henry made an ugly face. “People like the men who own the storehouse that burned?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “But also... if I see something wrong or unjust, I try to help the people in need. Mr. Mullins no longer wants me to look into the fire, actually.”

“Why not?”

“I have no idea. Do you?”

Henry looked at her with suspicion. Too close , Lizzie told herself. She had to gain his trust. “You’re not going to stop?” he asked.

“No, I’m not. A woman was murdered, Henry. I simply cannot let that go.”

“Why not?” Henry’s question was a challenge, but there was something else in his voice that tugged at Lizzie’s heart.

“Because looking away when bad things happen is wrong,” she said. “And because if I stop trying to find out who killed her, then whoever did will likely get away with it.”

Lizzie felt the truth of her words sink in, even after she spoke them. This case wasn’t like last time, when, yes, she wanted to find Hurst’s killer, but she mostly wanted to prove to her father that she had what it took to be a barrister. Now she still wanted to prove to her father, to the courts, to the men of the world that she had what it took to succeed. But that felt secondary to getting justice for the deaths of Simon Mullins and Leticia Cavendish.

“Mr. Mullins doesn’t just have cloth in his storehouse,” Henry announced.

Lizzie went very still. She wanted to swing around and grab the boy by the shoulders and beg him to tell her everything he knew, but she was aware of how skittish he could be. “Oh?” she asked.

Henry shrugged. “Cloth doesn’t ship in crates with straw.”

Lizzie stared at him as she absorbed his meaning. “You’re right. How very astute of you.”

“His storehouse is mostly cloth,” the boy continued. “But he also gets special shipments.”

Lizzie trembled with excitement. “And these special shipments, you’ve seen them?”

Henry nodded. “They come at night.”

Lizzie swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry, but she tried not to show it. “Do you know what time? Closer to midnight, or closer to morning?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “But on the nights that they come, they don’t like us sleeping anywhere nearby. Men with pistols come by and they chase us off.”

Lizzie thought of Henry’s nest in the alley, and what it must be like to have only a bed of refuse to lie on each chilly night. Then she pictured men coming by, shaking him awake, forcing him off into the cold darkness. Her blood began to boil.

“That’s awful,” she told him. “And you lingered then, to see what they’re up to?”

“Got curious,” he mumbled. “I climbed the tree, before the smith cut the branches so I couldn’t. I could see ’em, and...”

Lizzie didn’t want to push him, but she had to know. “What did you see, Henry?

“Crates,” he repeated. “They moved ’em in and out.”

“Could you see what was in the crates?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But like I said—not cloth.”

This was it—the confirmation Lizzie needed that they were hiding something. A child of the streets was hardly a reliable witness in a court of law, but Lizzie would worry about that later—she had been right! Someone had been moving goods through the Mullinses’ storehouse!

“Henry, why are you telling me this now?” she asked, trying to sound gentle and not accusatory. “You’ve been following me for days, but you never said a word.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure you’d believe me. But they came last night.”

Lizzie’s breath caught. “They? The people who bring the crates?”

He nodded.

“And are the crates still there now, Henry?”

“I think so,” he said. “They don’t move them in the middle of the day. And besides, the storehouse is still closed down. But the workmen didn’t come today.”

“Henry, you’re a saint,” Lizzie said. She could have hugged the boy if she didn’t think it would have scared him off. “I need you to deliver a message for me. Do you know the firm Pemberley and Associates?”

“I followed you there,” he reminded her. “Four days ago.”

“Right,” Lizzie said. “No wonder I’ve felt eyes on my back for days. Well, Mr. Darcy will be headed there—I need you give him a message to me.”

Henry looked doubtful, and Lizzie was afraid for a moment he’d refuse. “I’ll pay you, just as I would anyone else.”

Still, he hesitated.

“Mr. Darcy has Guy at the moment. I’m sure he’d love to see you again.”

That seemed to convince him. “All right,” he said. “What should I say?”