Page 105 of A Debt Inherited

The room held the mild disorder of a young woman who expected to return before anyone had cause to notice it. A book lay face down upon the window-seat. A ribbon trailed from the dressing table. One drawer stood open by an inch, checked by a fold of muslin caught at the edge. The bed had been made with Mrs Hill’s strict hand; the pillow bore no sign of last night’s rest.

Bennet looked first at the wardrobe.

“Her pelisse?”

Mrs Hill crossed to it and opened the door. “Here, sir.”

“Shawl?”

“The light one is gone. The blue remains.”

“Walking boots?”

Mrs Hill bent and looked beneath the chair. “The older pair is gone, sir. The others are here.”

He nodded. Each answer struck its mark. Pelisse not taken. No bundle. No travelling gown. No second pair of shoes. No woman preparing flight could make so poor an argument for herself.

His gaze moved to the small writing desk. “Open it.”

Mrs Hill hesitated only long enough for him to feel the trespass. Then she took the little key from the dish beside the glass and lifted the lid. Papers lay within, folded neatly; sealing sand, a penknife, sticks of red wax, one of green, and three unfinished notes, none addressed.

Green wax. Her favourite colour.

No letter of farewell. No secret confession. No foolish line to excuse a vanished daughter.

Bennet looked away first.

On the chair by the hearth lay a clean towel. Mrs Hill had folded it too carefully.

“There,” Bennet said.

Mrs Hill went still.

“Let me see it.”

She unfolded the towel. Elizabeth’s bonnet lay within, crushed at the crown, one ribbon torn and dark with stain. The thorn still clung near the knot.

Bennet took the bonnet in both hands. He did not think of the lane at first. He thought of Elizabeth standing before the glass, impatient with the tie beneath her chin, laughing because the brim would not sit as she wished. Then the memory gave way to the thing itself: crushed straw, dragged silk, bramble, force.

He touched the torn ribbon.

“No blood,” Hill said quietly.

“No.” Bennet set the bonnet back upon the towel. “Little that be of comfort.”

He looked once more about him. The book upon the window-seat. The open drawer. The closed writing desk. The pelisse hanging in its place. The little want of preparation everywhere.

“She meant to come home,” he said.

Mrs Hill pressed the towel around the bonnet again. “Yes, sir.”

Bennet turned for the door. “Keep that here. No maid sees it.”

“No, sir.”

In the passage, Hill waited until the door closed behind them. “Perkins has gone by the back way. Weller and Dawes likewise. I have set John at the yard gate with word to admit no one without your order.”

“What word?”