The Deception At Lyme

pondered broader possibilities. “How would any cask of sugar have gotten aboard the ship? Who would have handled it?”

“The cask would have been loaded with the other provisions within a few days of leaving port—rats are enough of a nuisance once at sea; there is no reason to give them an early start at the food. Since this was a cask purchased for the wardroom mess, it would have been stored below in an area reserved for the lieutenants’ provisions, and brought up to the galley when needed.”

“If St. Clair acted as caterer for the mess, would he have overseen the loading?”

“It is not inconceivable. However, as first lieutenant he had more important responsibilities, so I expect someone else oversaw the loading.”

“Perhaps the midshipman who maintained the wardroom’s inventory?”

The suggestion appeared to puzzle Captain Wentworth. “St. Clair assigned a midshipman to monitor the lieutenants’ private stores?”

“I do not know whether he did so regularly, but my cousin wrote that the cook encountered a midshipman taking inventory of the wardroom’s provisions the week before the idols were discovered.”

“That is rather unusual.”

“The cook also received a hostile response for having surprised him. Perhaps this midshipman is someone we should learn more about?”

“If we can. Did your cousin happen to mention his name?”

“Musgrove.” Darcy had noted at Alfred’s christening that Sir Walter’s youngest daughter was married to a Musgrove, and wondered whether they might be related to the midshipman. He therefore had held back the name at first, unsure whether Captain Wentworth might be able to maintain objectivity about the man’s possible involvement should a connexion indeed exist.

Captain Wentworth’s brows rose. “Richard Musgrove?”

“I do not know—Gerard wrote only ‘Mr. Musgrove.’”

“Hmm. I had a midshipman on the Laconia named Musgrove—a very troublesome fellow—went by the nickname Dick. Ironically, he became a distant relation of mine posthumously upon my marriage. If this is the same man, I would not be at all surprised if he were involved in something he should not have been. I will see if I can learn whether he wound up on the Magna Carta after leaving me.”

“There was one other person aboard the Magna Carta with whom you might be familiar. I believe the Mr. Smith my cousin refers to in his diary is the same Mr. Smith whose estate you are helping to settle for his widow. Your friend told Mrs. Darcy that her husband traveled to the West Indies about that same time, in the company of Mr. William Elliot.”

“He did indeed, though I do not know the nature of the business he conducted on that trip. His papers are a hodgepodge of important documents and trivial memorandums—no order to them whatsoever—and I have found nothing about the journey save for a note from Elliot confirming westward passage booked aboard a merchant vessel. From the rest of the papers, I have determined that he inherited a goodly sized sugar plantation from his father, and that when it came into the son’s possession, it was a lucrative holding. Its primary business was producing rum and sugar for export to England. The income was not extraordinary, as the British government imposes such high taxes on those imports and requires the sugar to be refined in England, so that our own refiners can monopolize the industry. But the plantation provided enough to maintain a gentleman’s style of living. By the time of Mr. Smith’s journey, however, the estate had fallen into financial straits. Much of the problem derived from his extravagant spending, but his income had also decreased. I expect he traveled to Jamaica to meet with the plantation’s overseer, to personally examine his accounts and methods of management.”

“Have you asked Mr. Elliot about the purpose of the trip?”

“You witnessed the amount of cooperation I have received from Mr. Elliot.”

“Yes, he advised you repeatedly to drop the matter altogether.” Darcy paused. “In fact, despite his ostensible reason for approaching us—to enquire of me after Alfred’s well-being—he seemed far more interested in talking to you. Or, more to the point, in making a great show of not talking to you about Mrs. Smith’s estate.”

“Perhaps because he made such a failure of it—if not by exerting influence over Smith during his life, then as executor after his death,” Wentworth said. “He has told Mrs. Smith that the property is so deep in arrears on its taxes that it has been seized, and that recovery is impossible. However, when it comes to increasing the size of his own fortune, Mr. Elliot is a talented schemer. Had he applied his shrewdness to the Smith estate, I have no doubt it would have become a profitable concern once more.”

“Particularly,” Darcy said, “since having traveled with Smith to the plantation, he likely saw the entire operation and gained intimate knowledge of its potential.”

Darcy was having trouble comprehending Mr. Elliot’s actions and motives. One would think that after Mr. Clay’s betrayal with Mr. Elliot’s wife, Mr. Elliot would have done better by the friend who had remained loyal to him. Apparently, however, Mr. Elliot was loyal only to himself, though his friends might drop dead around him: both of the Clays, his wife—

Mr. Smith.

Mr. Elliot seemed to have lost an extraordinary number of friends in the past three years.

“I understand Mr. Smith died almost immediately upon returning home,” Darcy said. “Do you know how?”

“Some sort of illness. It upsets Mrs. Smith to talk about it, so I have never enquired into the particulars, as they have no bearing on the issue of the estate. All that matters is that Smith is dead; the law cares not how he came to be thus, so long as it occurred by natural means.”

Or means that appeared natural. A push could look like an accidental fall; poison could disguise itself as illness.

A killer could masquerade as a friend.

Twenty-Five

The listener’s proverbial fate was not absolutely hers: she had heard no evil of herself.

—Persuasion

Upon leaving the Wentworths’ home, Elizabeth and Darcy found their steps leading them not to their own cottage, but back to the Cobb. A boundary between the quiet village and the untamed sea, the ancient breakwater was the only place where it felt natural to entertain conjecture on subjects that also lay beyond the limits of civilized behavior. As they walked along the lower wall, passing the gin shop and following the curve toward the quay, Elizabeth recounted the ladies’ sitting room conversation.

“You shared with Mrs. Wentworth your suspicions regarding Mrs. Clay’s death?” Darcy sounded somewhat surprised.

“I had not planned on doing so overtly,” Elizabeth replied, “but when the opportunity arose in the course of conversation, I thought I should—not only to encourage watchfulness on Alfred’s behalf, but also to increase the likelihood of her revealing any pertinent family business to someone outside the family, should she think of something useful to our probe. I was a bit apprehensive about how Mrs. Wentworth would respond, but she appreciated my concern for Alfred, and as you saw, she was as cordial as ever when we parted.”

Darcy laughed.

“What is so amusing?” she asked.

“While you were engaged in murderous conjecture with the ladies, I was telling her husband my suspicions regarding Gerard’s death.”

Elizabeth released a laugh of her own. “Can you imagine the conclusions they will draw when they compare conversations? They will think us the most distrustful couple they have ever met.”

“We probably are.” Darcy took her arm as she trod over an especially uneven series of stones. It was a calm