The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet, Katherine Cowley [books successful people read .TXT] 📗

“On the matter of the body,” Mary said slowly, unsure of the best way to raise her suspicions, “I believe I recognize the man. I do not know his name, but I saw him speaking to Mr. Withrow on the day I arrived here.”

“What day would that have been?” asked the Frenchman, catching up with them.

“The eighth of September,” said Mary. “It was my first day here, so I remember it distinctly.”

“That is extremely useful,” said Colonel Coates. “With Mr. Withrow’s help, we may be able to identify the victim.”

As they approached, part of her wondered if she had only imagined the corpse. But Mary did not suffer from an overactive imagination, and the body was indeed on the sand where she had left it, the ocean still lapping at its feet. The men immediately blocked her view of the body and engaged in whispered discussions, probably so as not to offend her feminine sensibilities.

After a few minutes, the Frenchman came to her side.

“I am afraid we have not been properly introduced. I am Monsieur Corneau, formerly of a small village north of Paris. I am now a resident of Worthing, and a good friend of Colonel Coates.”

“Je suis enchantée de faire votre connaissance,” said Mary, taking advantage of the opportunity to converse with a native French speaker. Madame Dieupart would be pleased.

“Ah, vous parlez français?”

She understood his question, but when she tried to think of the words to reply, they escaped her. “I only speak a little, I am afraid. But I am learning.”

“That is commendable.”

The Frenchman pursed his lips and studied her. He had deep wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth—friendly wrinkles—and she wondered at his age. After a moment, he spoke. “You seem the sort of woman who would like to know more about what happened to the man who died.”

She nodded, surprised. “Yes, I would.”

“We believe he was stabbed, but that did not kill him. Ultimately, he drowned. When a person drowns, their lungs fill with water and they sink, but sometimes, after a while, the body floats back to the surface. It likely washed ashore last night, and today you found it.”

“I see,” said Mary. “Thank you.” She appreciated that he did not attempt to shelter her, and that he treated her with respect. Maybe he treated her differently than other men did because he was French. But despite his explanation, something else still bothered her. “What happened to his eyes?”

Monsieur Corneau hesitated, but after a moment, he said, “They were eaten, by a fish or other animal of the sea.”

Bile filled Mary’s throat. She had always believed that knowledge was superior to ignorance, yet in this case, ignorance might be preferred. She pushed that thought aside: surely it was better to know than to always wonder. Yet what must Monsieur Corneau and Colonel Coates think of her? She had not behaved at all like a young lady was meant to behave. She probably should have screamed and fainted, required much consoling, and allowed someone to carry her to a sofa.

“Is there anything else you know about the dead man, anything at all? Any details that might help us?”

She hesitated, for answering his question properly required making an accusation of sorts, not only against the thief, but against her hosts. But he was working with Colonel Coates on the investigation, and a serious, irreversible crime had been committed; she needed to disclose what she knew.

“There is one thing that I should tell you.” Mary explained how the man had visited Meryton and attempted to steal her family’s mourning rings. She decided not to mention that it was possibly on Lady Trafford’s or Mr. Withrow’s orders, as she had no evidence for that claim.

“That is very serious indeed,” said Monsieur Corneau. “I will make sure Colonel Coates knows of it.”

It was not long before Mr. Withrow arrived at the scene on horseback. He dismounted, rushed over to Colonel Coates, and after a few brief words was permitted to see the body.

After a minute or so, he stepped away from the body, clearly distraught. His jaw was visibly clenched, and he ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on it.

Monsieur Corneau approached Colonel Coates, and they had a brief, whispered conversation, after which Colonel Coates addressed Mr. Withrow.

“We are hoping that you might help us identify the body. Miss Bennet said she saw you with this man on the eighth of September.”

Mr. Withrow gave her a brief but calculating look, which frightened her a little. He now knew that she had followed him into the forest.

“Miss Bennet is correct,” Mr. Withrow said smoothly. “This is Mr. Frederick Holloway, and I spoke with him at Castle Durrington. He is… He was a clergyman in Crawley.”

“Thank you,” said the colonel. “I will make sure word is sent.”

“His parents will appreciate that,” said Withrow.

“I apologize for the question in advance, but what were you speaking about with Mr. Holloway?”

“He was acting as an intermediary for me for a potential business deal with several gentlemen in Crawley. After our conversation, he was headed to Worthing on other business, I know not what. Perhaps what he did there was related to this unfortunate circumstance.”

Colonel Coates nodded. “It seems quite likely that Mr. Holloway met his unfortunate end within a day or two of when you spoke with him. Do you know anyone here, or in the surrounding area, that would mean him harm?”

“He had many acquaintances in Worthing, but I am not aware of any who meant him harm.” His eyes strayed to the body, and then returned to Colonel Coates. “I apologize, but I do not think I know of anything more that will be useful to you or to the magistrate. You have sent for Sir Richard Pickering, I am sure?”

“I had meant to,” said Colonel Coates. “I shall do so now. Oh—I do not have quill or paper. It shall have to wait until I return to Worthing.”

Colonel Coates directed