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Darcy followed Elizabeth as she led the way to the desk in the corner where Anne had been sitting. Several volumes were stacked neatly on one side of the table. Elizabeth looked through them, then pulled one out triumphantly.
“It is here. It is from Blake’s Songs of Experience.” She turned the pages until she came to the poem:
A POISON TREE
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.
And it grew both day and night.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
The words, though simple, sent a shiver down Elizabeth’s spine. They spoke of bitterness and revenge, hatred and frustration.
“It was Blake’s poem about the dangers of repressed anger,” said Darcy. “It was his analysis of what can happen when things remain unsaid and resentment is bottled up inside. I believe it is a message directed at Lady Catherine”
Elizabeth thought of Mrs Jenkinson—of the woman’s hostility and anger at seeing Charlotte take her place. Did she feel bitter that after the many years of service she had rendered, Lady Catherine seemed to be favouring another with her attentions? Was she anxious that Anne seemed to be growing beyond her influence? There had been a desperate need to assert her worth to the family, as her own identity seemed dependent on being of service to the De Bourghs. With that role diminishing, she would be desperate—and desperation could force drastic action.
The poisoning of Lady Catherine would provide Mrs Jenkinson with not only an opportunity to attack the new favourites, but also an opportunity to show herself in the best light, with her devoted nursing of her ladyship.
A noise made them both turn around. It was Anne, standing uncertainly behind them.
“Anne—who does this book belong to?” asked Elizabeth, holding up the volume of Blake’s poetry.
“It belongs to Mrs Jenkinson,” said Anne in surprise. “She lent it to me so that I may study the works of William Blake.”
“And where is Mrs Jenkinson at present?” asked Darcy.
“I... I believe she is in the conservatory,” said Anne. “I myself am on the way there to join her. I have just come to retrieve a book.”
“Good. Please say nothing to her of this meeting, nor of Miss Bennet’s or my presence in the library.” Darcy turned to Elizabeth and said urgently, “I shall have a footman sent to fetch the village constable immediately.”
“The village constable! Why? What is the matter?” asked Anne nervously. Then her eyes dropped to the letter that was still being held in Darcy’s hand and her face went pale.
“Anne, we believe that Mrs Jenkinson may be involved in the poisoning of your mother,” said Elizabeth gently, moving towards the girl.
“Mrs... Mrs Jenksinson?” Anne whispered, her eyes wide with horror.
Elizabeth nodded. “We have discovered the method by which the poison was administered—through this anonymous letter here—and evidence which ties the contents of the letter to your companion.”
Anne said nothing, simply continuing to stare at her in horror.
Elizabeth reached out and put a comforting hand on the girl’s arm. “I realise this may be unpleasant news for you to receive, but it is imperative that Mrs Jenkinson should not be warned before she can be arrested. We are sending for the village constable now. Can we trust you to keep your silence on the subject?”
Anne nodded dumbly, her eyes still riveted on the letter. She stumbled back from them and turned away. “I... I must go,” she said in a trembling voice.
Before Darcy or Elizabeth could say anything further, she turned and ran out of the library. Elizabeth was surprised by the girl’s distress. She reminded herself that Mrs Jenkinson had been a constant in Anne’s life since childhood. It was not surprising that the bonds of affection tied the girl to the older woman. She hoped that Anne’s loyalty to her companion would not be their undoing.
Evidently Darcy shared her thoughts, for he said, “I hope we can trust Anne to be discreet. I had wished to await the constable’s arrival to formally charge Mrs Jenkinson, but perhaps it might be wise for us to confront her directly, ’ere she learns of our suspicions.”
Elizabeth nodded and followed Darcy as he led the way to the conservatory. They arrived to find Mrs Jenkinson sitting at a writing desk by the windows and no sight of Anne. Perhaps it is for the best, thought Elizabeth. The girl’s distress had already been great—there was no need for her to witness her companion’s exposure. Darcy advanced on Mrs Jenkinson and in grim tones informed her of the accusation against her. She coloured instantly with anger and indignation.
“This is preposterous!” she cried, springing out of her chair. “To accuse me of wishing to harm Lady Catherine! There has been no one who has expended more tender effort in the care of that lady than I.”
“The evidence all points in your direction, Mrs Jenkinson,” said Darcy. He held up the volume of Blake’s poetry. “This is your book, is it not?”
Mrs Jenkinson glanced at the book. “It is, but I fail to see—”
“And this letter?” Darcy laid the letter down on the writing desk. “It contains part of a poem by William Blake, who is known to be one of your preferred poets. Indeed, a copy of the poem exists within your book. This letter was the source of the poison. Is this not the letter that was received by Lady Catherine that evening?”
Mrs Jenkinson stared at the letter. The colour receded from her face. She said nothing for a long moment. At last, she turned to face Darcy and said haughtily, “It is. However, that is not my handwriting.”
There was a stunned silence.
Mrs Jenkinson turned and indicated the other papers on the writing desk. “Should you care to verify that, you can see a letter here which I have been writing to my sister in London. You may compare the penmanship.”
Elizabeth looked at the letters on the desk and was dismayed to see that Mrs Jenkinson spoke the truth. The writing on the anonymous letter was delicate and fine, slanting distinctly to the right, whereas Mrs Jenkinson’s handwriting was thick and bold, with a definite slant to the left. Unless she was an expert forger, it was unlikely that Mrs Jenkinson had written the anonymous letter.
Elizabeth felt the weight of disappointment sit heavy on her shoulders. Could they have been wrong? Yet everything had seemed to point at Mrs Jenkinson. How could the evidence have been so misleading?
“Where is Anne?” she asked suddenly.
Mrs Jenkinson pressed her lips together in disapproval. “I do not know. She came in here momentarily, then left again. Probably gone to that Edwin Hargreaves. They are forever finding ways to be alone together, in spite of my efforts.”
Elizabeth met Darcy’s eyes and saw her own thoughts mirrored there. He looked crestfallen for a second and she could share his feelings. In spite of her suspicions, she liked Hargreaves. She did not want him to be the poisoner.
“We have to find Mr Hargreaves,” she said urgently. “We have to—”
“Do you speak of me?”
They whirled around. Edwin Hargreaves stood in the conservatory doorway, a look of polite enquiry on his face.
“We have found you out, Mr Hargreaves,” said Elizabeth, advancing towards him.
“I beg your pardon?” He frowned. He looked at Darcy for an explanation and was taken aback when his friend made no response.
“It is no use to dissemble. We know you are the guilty party; you tried to poison Lady Catherine—no doubt in revenge for her humiliation of you, though it must have gratified you also to play the hero when your suggestions were able to save her life,” declared Elizabeth.
“On what do you base these extraordinary assumptions?” cried Hargreaves. “I did not poison Lady Catherine! My intent to save her life was genuine!”
“How can you still deny it? Poisoning by skin absorption is not common knowledge but such trivia is your specialist interest. You were perfectly placed to know exactly which poison to use and the best method of delivery; you had easy access to the toxic tobacco powder—”
“Wait... what are you talking about?” Hargreaves demanded. “What tobacco powder?”
“The one Peters kept in his cupboard in the greenhouse,” said Elizabeth. “The cupboard that you had intimate knowledge of since childhood, when you stole the folly key and—”
“No...” Hargreaves went white. “I was not the one who stole the folly key...”
Elizabeth stared at him, her thoughts whirling.
Who had had easy access to Lady Catherine that evening and could deliver the letter unnoticed?
Who was aware of the deadly properties of nicotine?
Who frequented the greenhouse and knew where Peters kept the tobacco powder?
Elizabeth drew a sharp breath as the terrible realisation hit her.
The poisoner was Anne de Bourgh.
