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“The letter?” Darcy frowned.
“Yes, do you not remember? Lady Catherine discovered an anonymous letter tucked into the book. She was most irate about it.” Elizabeth paced in a circle, her mind working feverishly. “From what she said to Mrs Poole, I had assumed it to be a letter of complaint from villagers eager for her mediation in their troubles—but now I wonder... It was after she had read the letter that she became increasingly agitated.” She turned excitedly towards Darcy. “We must find that letter! Do you know its whereabouts?”
“It is still in the drawing room, I believe,” said Darcy. “We may go and search for it now. Let us wait until Hargreaves returns, so that we may inform him—”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I believe it may be better not to involve Mr Hargreaves at this juncture.”
Darcy’s brows drew together. “May I ask why?”
Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. “He is extremely knowledgeable about poisons. He would have the intelligence for the best methods of source and application. Has it not occurred to you that he may be the poisoner himself?”
“I beg your pardon?” Darcy said coldly, with a return of his old hauteur.
“Forgive me, I do not mean to offend,” said Elizabeth. “But Mr Hargreaves has a worthy motive. He has strong feelings for Anne and he did confess to me that Lady Catherine rejected his suit for Anne’s hand. She did not deem him good enough for her daughter, being merely the second son of an earl. Indeed, she laughed at him and ridiculed him. He seemed to harbour strong feelings of bitterness and resentment towards her ladyship.”
“Hargreaves is no poisoner,” said Darcy angrily.
“How can you be so sure?”
“The same way that you can be sure your friend, Mrs Collins, is not the culprit.”
Elizabeth conceded his point. “Very well. But I maintain that it would be wise to keep this theory to ourselves for the moment.”
Darcy inclined his head. “It shall be our secret.”
Elizabeth blushed again as she realised the intimacy implied in the words. It is just with regards to the solving of this mystery, she told herself. In the course of pursuing justice, she and Darcy were temporary partners. But it had no significance beyond that. She had rejected his proposal—did that not give her some measure of protection against speculation over the meaning of her words and actions?
Darcy led the way out of the greenhouse and back towards the main house. On the way, they passed the rose gardens again and Elizabeth spied Peters tending his beloved blooms.
“A moment, if you please...” she murmured to Darcy. She darted over to the old gardener, with Darcy following her in bemusement.
The old man smiled in delight at seeing her again. “What can I do for ye, miss?”
Elizabeth smiled at him. “Mr Peters... you mentioned the other day that your spare jar of the concentrated tobacco powder was missing. Can you tell me where you kept it?”
He looked puzzled by her question but answered readily enough. “Aye, in the greenhouse, miss. In a cupboard at the back. Where I keep all me important stuff—ye know, the sharp pruning shears, best corms an’ bulbs, dangerous powders an’ liquids, keys an’ the like.”
“And who would know that you keep it there?”
He looked even more puzzled. “Why, everyone, miss. ’Tis no secret. That cupboard’s been there for donkey’s years.”
He saw Elizabeth exchange a look with Darcy and misinterpreted their expression. “But don’t you worry, miss... you won’t get no Tom, Dick, and Harry comin’ off the street and findin’ it. It’s tucked way back, out o’ sight. Right behind where Mr Edwin’s got his laboratory now, actually.”
Elizabeth could not stop herself glancing at Darcy again. She saw his mouth tighten at the mention of his friend’s name but he made no comment. She felt a flicker of frustration. Surely, after hearing this, he could not still argue about Hargreaves’s position as a suspect? With his familiarity with the greenhouse, the young man would have had ample opportunity to help himself to the poison and—Elizabeth remembered Anne’s story about their theft of the folly key—his youthful memories would have enabled him to know where Peters was likely to keep a poisonous solution and how to steal it.
Darcy remained silent and, after a moment, Elizabeth thanked the old gardener and they continued on their way back to the house.
“Do you still deny that Hargreaves could be a suspect?” Elizabeth could not resist saying at last.
“Yes.”
She looked at his impassive features and felt another surge of frustration.
“Let us find this letter first before you rush to condemn my friend,” said Darcy curtly.
Elizabeth bit back her retort and followed him into the house. She braced herself to confront Mrs Jenkinson or even Lady Catherine, but they encountered no one save for a footman. Once in the drawing room, Darcy lost no time in searching for the volume that his aunt had been perusing that evening. He discovered it lying on one of the side tables, but on examining the pages he was unable to find the letter in question.
“I believe I saw her casting it aside...” said Elizabeth, hurriedly looking amongst the furniture. She spied the edge of a sheet of paper protruding from behind a cushion on the chaise longue. “I believe I may have found it!”
She reached forwards to extract the letter, but was brought short by Darcy’s voice.
“Wait! Do not touch that, Miss Bennet!” said Darcy, coming to her side. “The poison may be active yet.”
Elizabeth hastily stood back as Darcy removed a handkerchief from his pocket and, using it to cover his fingers, carefully lifted the sheet of paper. It was indeed the letter that Elizabeth had seen Lady Catherine receiving that evening. Slowly, he unfolded it. It held a few lines of thin, delicate writing and appeared to have been written in a hurry for the surface was still liberally covered with pounce, the fine sand scattered onto letters to absorb the excess ink. Elizabeth noticed, however, that unlike normal pounce, this appeared darker in colour.
“That was the method of delivery,” said Darcy gravely, looking at the scattered grains. “I believe the poison was in powder form and mixed in with the sand in the pounce, to conceal its appearance. Whoever handled the letter would no doubt find their hands covered with the toxic mixture, but would think nothing of it. We must get a sample to Hargreaves for him to confirm it but I can hazard a guess as to this poison’s identity.”
“The tobacco pesticide used by Peters the gardener,” said Elizabeth quickly.
“Yes, the dried tobacco leaves crushed into a fine powder would deliver a highly concentrated dose of nicotine,” agreed Darcy. “Lady Catherine was lucky that the dosage was not greater, for nicotine poisoning can be fatal. And—” he gave Elizabeth a look, “—despite your suspicions, this poison would have been readily available to anyone residing at Rosings, not merely Hargreaves.”
“Perhaps there may be a clue in the contents of the letter,” suggested Elizabeth.
They looked down and read the words together.
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
“Why, it makes no sense,” said Elizabeth in disappointment.
Darcy looked at the words thoughtfully. “I believe it is part of a poem.”
“A poem?”
He nodded. “If memory serves me, it is a poem by William Blake.” He gave a grim smile. “It is, in fact, quite appropriate, for the title of the poem is A Poison Tree.”
Elizabeth glanced down at the letter again. “There is no mention of poison here in these verses.”
“It is not complete. There are two more stanzas to come.” He turned and glanced through the door which connected the drawing room to the library. “We may be able to find a volume of Blake’s poetry in the library.”
“The library...” Elizabeth caught her breath. She remembered the day she had found Anne in the library, reading poetry as instructed by Mrs Jenkinson. The girl had mentioned that William Blake was one of Mrs Jenkinson’s preferred poets.
“Yes, Miss Bennet?” Darcy looked at her sharply.
Elizabeth hesitated, uncertain still about her suspicions. “I believe I know where we may find a copy of this poem,” was all she said as she turned and hurried into the library.
