Carrie Bebris - Pride and Prescience

“You’re sure it’s a ‘him’? Kendall wasn’t the only man attacked last night. Caroline Parrish—”

“A large man stabbed in the back?” He considered the possibility a moment, then shook his head. “Mrs. Parrish does have a questionable history with knives, but I doubt this her work. A woman’s hemline would have left traces in the dust, and yours are the only such marks. Her feet would have made smaller prints. Plus, according to Parrish, she was sedated last night. I think it is safe to say that a man did this.”

“Which means the killer is Bingley, Parrish, Randolph, or Hurst. We can eliminate Bingley — the very thought that he could have killed anybody, even Kendall, is ludicrous. Parrish was busy dealing with his wife and has the scars to prove it. That leaves Randolph, who was very late coming to dinner, and Hurst, who was foxed before the soup was served.”

“Randolph has no motive. He is probably the only person at Netherfield without a connection to Kendall.” He sighed heavily, disliking the logical conclusion to which that fact led. “So Hurst becomes our chief suspect.”

“Kendall’s death does solve his financial problems. And with the convenience of one quick strike — far more efficient than eliminating his wife’s entire family.” Her gaze flickered to the corpse, then away again. The spectacle obviously distressed her. It distressed him , for heaven’s sake. He wished she would allow him to lead her away and return to pursue his investigation alone, but knew he could not fight her resolve.

“Stabbing is a more direct method than I would have given Hurst credit for,” she continued, “but striking his victim from behind is cowardly enough. Then afterward he drinks himself into oblivion.”

Elizabeth’s line of thought echoed Darcy’s own. Hurst possessed a pocketknife. He had cause. And Kendall, cockily pulling Hurst’s strings like a marionette, could have himself provided the opportunity for Hurst to act, could have brought him up to this deserted place to issue more threats or coerce him into searching for Bingley’s records. Then desperation had at last forced the lazy man to act.

Hurst, the murderer. Reprehensible thought! But a reasonable explanation of events.

He studied again the confusing mass of footprints surrounding Kendall. A trail of them seemed to circle the body. Upon closer examination, he realized that they paralleled a dark outline on the floorboards that had previously escaped his notice in the dim light. The line appeared to have been made by scraping a charred piece of wood across the floor. Straight lines within the circle formed a star, with Kendall at its center.

Elizabeth followed his observations. “That is most curious. Where did those marks come from?”

He shook his head in ignorance. “I cannot imagine why Kendall or Hurst would trace such a pattern on the floor, either before or after the murder.”

“The design looks familiar — I’ve seen it before.” She frowned. “Though I cannot remember where.”

He approached the body once more. Kendall’s arms shot out from his sides; his fingers combed the dust. An unexpected but genuine surge of pity passed through Darcy. What an undignified way to die!

Kendall’s right hand caught Darcy’s attention. Scratches covered the back of it. Darcy bent for a better look, and discovered that the same symbol etched on the floor had been carved into Kendall’s skin. He hadn’t noted the mutilation immediately because unlike the back wound, these scratches had not bled.

Something shiny was trapped under the palm. He bent down and lifted Kendall’s hand, tried to pry stiff fingers away from the round article. A thin chain slid down. Darcy used it to tug the object out of the dead man’s grasp. He gasped in recognition.

So did Elizabeth. “Professor Randolph’s watch.”

After examining the murder scene, the constable commenced his interviews. Elizabeth, to her satisfaction, was allowed to observe. Darcy had questioned the propriety of her being present during the examinations, but she had insisted on staying, particularly for Randolph’s interview. She had spent more time in conversation with him than had anyone else at Netherfield excepting Mr. Parrish, she had argued, and thus could better judge his truthfulness. Darcy had reluctantly consented, but only after exacting a promise from her to remain unobtrusive.

She now sat off to one side, next to Mr. Bingley, who was in attendance as master of the house but otherwise content to let Darcy and the constable conduct the interrogation. She studied Professor Randolph as he answered the constable’s enquiries. What was it the archeologist had said at dinner to excuse his tardiness? I lost track of the time . He must have lost track of his pocketwatch as well by then — after having used it shortly before tea, during his “meeting” with Mrs. Parrish. That meant the murder had occurred sometime between halfpast three and half-past seven.

Professor Randolph answered the lawman’s questions patiently at first, but became increasingly agitated as the same queries were repeated. “I don’t know how my watch came to be in Mr. Kendall’s possession. .. No, I didn’t give it to him or anyone else. .. I haven’t been in that part of the house since the fire. .. From tea until dinner I was in my chamber, drafting a monograph — I can show you the manuscript pages, if you like. .. Yes, I own a pocketknife, but so do many gentlemen… I told you, I didn’t kill him!”

The constable then brought up the pattern on the floor and Kendall’s hand, which matched the engraving on the front of his watch.

“It’s called a pentagram,” the professor said.

“A symbol of the devil, isn’t it?”

“No!”

“I hear you study that hocus-pocus stuff. Did you cast some sort of hex on Mr. Kendall before you killed him?”

“I didn’t kill him!” Randolph looked at the others pleadingly. “Mr. Bingley, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy — I swear to you, I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

When the circular line of questioning yielded no new information in more than fifteen minutes, Darcy interceded with a subtle hint that the constable complete his interviews with the rest of the household. The constable, intimidated by Darcy, complied with the suggestion. He dismissed Randolph and requested that Mr. Parrish be summoned.

Randolph paused on his way out. “Please, may I have my pocketwatch back?”

The constable looked to Darcy. “I don’t see why not. That is, I don’t think I need it anymore. Do I?”

“Perhaps I should take it for safekeeping. We can return it to Professor Randolph when this matter is resolved.”

“Just what I was thinking, sir.”

Randolph glanced from the constable to Darcy, then to Bingley, and finally to Elizabeth. He appeared unwilling to leave the timepiece behind, but unable to do anything about it. He left, but accosted Elizabeth immediately when she went in search of Mr. Parrish.

“Mrs. Darcy, may I — may I please have a word with you?”

Her pulse quickened. She could be standing with a murderer right now. Probably was. She looked about for someone to help her disengage from Randolph’s conversation, but the hall was deserted. She forced her voice to remain calm. “What is it, Professor?”

“My pocketwatch — I need it. Is there any way you might prevail upon your husband to give it back to me?”

“Mr. Darcy has his own mind. You shall have to ask him yourself.”