by Jann Rowland
Though he had been lost in his own thoughts, Mr. Darcy responded immediately. “It seems there is nothing to do but continue to try to find more information. There may be something we have missed.
“Of more immediate concern, however, I suspect the weather is about to turn. If possible, I should like to send you and your family back to Longbourn for your protection.”
“But if we are allowed to leave the house, it becomes more likely the criminal will escape judgment,” protested Elizabeth.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Darcy. “But I think it is more important at present to ensure your safety and that of your sisters.”
Elizabeth nodded, though slowly. “Until that eventuality, we should gather as much information as we can.”
“We should,” agreed Mr. Darcy. “I think we must do whatever we can to unravel this puzzle as quickly as possible. It seems likely it is only a matter of time before our killer strikes yet again.”
Those words chilled Elizabeth to her very core. But she could not say Mr. Darcy was incorrect.
Chapter XIX
WHILE THERE WERE A few who did not appear, the majority of the residents of Netherfield eventually did descend, if only for a short time. It was not until luncheon, however, confirming Darcy’s suspicion about the likelihood of many of them requesting breakfast in their rooms. Or perhaps they had not eaten at all—Darcy could not claim to know them all well enough to predict their early morning habits.
When they gathered for luncheon, however, only the most obtuse would not notice the atmosphere of sorrow, confusion, and, above all, a pervasive fear which hung over them like a cloud. Suspicion too was part of the makeup of the group, and it seemed to Darcy like everyone in the company watched the others closely, as if one would rise in the middle of the meal to slay the rest where they sat.
Miss Elizabeth, as they were eating, caught Darcy’s eye and she smiled, and Darcy felt some of his cares fall away. It was silly, given the circumstance, but he felt it nonetheless. As Darcy ate, he considered what he had just been thinking. The Bennets, rather than eye each other with suspicion, were a tight-knit group, gathered together for their mutual protection. Likewise, no glares or glances passed between Darcy and his cousin, who was eating with seeming unconcern.
Bingley, of course, did not have a suspicious bone in his body, and he appeared to be wallowing in his grief. Hurst looked thoughtful, though his wife was not present, having sequestered herself in her room, refusing to emerge. Darcy’s eyes roamed a little further down the table, and he noted the ineffectual presence of Mr. Collins, the man watching everyone else, an almost comical suspicion evident as he peered up and down the table. And then there was Wickham . . .
“I say,” said the detested man at that moment, “I have never been in company with such dour people in all my life! Perhaps we should retire to the sitting-room and play a game.”
Several of those present glared at Wickham, while he only grinned back at them, seeming determined to wring every bit of enjoyment he could from the situation. Darcy had always known the man was a snake, but he was proving himself worse than Darcy had ever imagined.
“In case you were not aware, Mr. Wickham,” said Bingley, in the most disgusted tone Darcy had ever heard his friend use, “there have been several occurrences these last days which render frivolity impossible.”
“I dare say we have hit a spot of trouble,” said Wickham, still fixing them all with his insufferable grin. “But we must strive to keep our spirits up, to look forward to better times. I believe that is what our dearly departed would have wished.”
“Since you did not know any of the dearly departed,” said Bingley, “I suggest you do not speak as if you did.”
“Oh, very well. But nothing will improve if you all insist on these long faces and dreary attitudes.”
“You might wish to be silent, Wickham,” said Fitzwilliam. “I believe you are in great danger of losing some of your fine, white teeth. Or perhaps Bingley will simply throw you out into the cold and rain.”
Wickham smirked and raised his glass but did not say anything more. The rain was another development, though Darcy could not say that it was an improvement. The temperature had increased a little, and now, instead of the snow, it was raining, a fine, misty drizzle which would undoubtedly soak a person within minutes. As the ground was still frozen with ice and snow, the rain tended to freeze when it fell, creating an even more difficult situation for a team of horses or a carriage.
“I, for one, believe you should throw Mr. Wickham from the house.”
Darcy could not help but start in surprise to hear Miss Lydia Bennet speak. It appeared several others were in the same straits, though Wickham regarded the girl with a smile that was a little more forced than it had been only a few minutes before.
“That is just what I would have expected from you,” said Wickham. “From you all, in fact.” He shook his head and looked down at his breakfast mournfully. “I am naught but a lowly soldier, one who has been betrayed in every possible way and forced to make my way in the world alone.”
The scoffing sound Miss Elizabeth made summed up neatly the response to Wickham’s words. The man himself looked back at them all, seeming aggrieved, but Darcy, who knew him well, knew his anger was mounting. It was, he thought, primarily because Wickham’s lies had not been believed in this instance. That had been a rare occurrence in the past.
“He is a danger to us all,” persisted Miss Lydia. “I would not be surprised if he killed those people.”
It seemed there was one present who agreed with Darcy, though he could not fathom how she had come to that conclusion. Wickham, however, only rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“I am sure one as young as you, Miss Lydia, must see dangers lurking around every corner. I have never claimed to be a perfect man, but I am no murderer.”
“I think there is a more likely explanation for what has happened,” said Mrs. Bennet, eying Darcy with distaste.
“Yes, Darcy,” said Wickham with an unpleasant grin. “Where were you when Miss Bingley swallowed her final drink?”
“That is enough,” said Bingley. Once again, he was harsh, his glare at Wickham dark and severe. “Darcy is my greatest friend, and I will not hear one word against him. I would trust him with my very life. I suggest, Mr. Wickham, that you do not try my patience. I do not know that you have done anything wrong, but your behavior is insolent, and I will not tolerate it.”
“I can see my company is not wanted,” said Wickham, pushing his chair back and rising. “I will burden you with it no longer.”
“That is perhaps the most intelligent decision you have ever made, Wickham,” said Fitzwilliam as Wickham left the room. Wickham did not deign to answer, though Darcy was certain he had heard every word.
The rest of the meal passed in silence. Darcy noticed that the appetites of the company appeared lacking, as most did not eat as much as he had seen them consume before. Mrs. Bennet continued to watch him with distaste, but Darcy ignored her. The rest of them seemed content to tend to their own thoughts.
“Girls,” said Mr. Bennet when they had finished, “let us return above stairs. I want you to all stay together.”
As the Bennet women rose, Fitzwilliam nodded at Mr. Bennet in approval. “That is likely for the best.”
At the same time, Darcy stood and approached Mr. Bennet, speaking in a low voice. “Will you not join my cousin and me in Bingley’s study? I believe we must have some conversation about the situation.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes searched Darcy’s, and he nodded after a moment. “Allow me to see my wife and daughters settled, and I will join you.”
“I will accompany you above stairs and walk to Bingley’s study with you. None of us should be alone at present.”
A nod was Mr. Bennet’s response, and soon he was herding his family from the room. Darcy turned and nodded to Fitzwilliam, watching as he approached Bingley and Hurst for the same r
eason. Then Darcy followed the Bennets from the room.
When the ladies were settled, the two men walked down and entered the study, noting the other three had all gathered. Bingley was poking listlessly at the flames in the grate, while Hurst sat nearby, nursing a glass of port in his hand. Fitzwilliam was looking out the window at the front drive of Netherfield. Darcy was certain he did not like what he was seeing.
“Now we are all here, we should discuss the general situation in which we find ourselves.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyebrow rose at Darcy’s declaration. “I understand why you would not wish Wickham to be here, and I will not gainsay you. My cousin, however, is also not present. Though I do not think much of him in general, should we not call him to attend?”
“Do you truly think Mr. Collins would be of any assistance?” asked Darcy. “Or will he simply blather on about the mortal sin of murdering my aunt and calling for justice against the perpetrator?”
“I suppose you must be correct,” said Mr. Bennet. “Though I suspected a man very like his father when he came, I was proved only half correct. He is as odious and stupid as his father, but I suppose Mr. Thaddeus Collins beat the roughness out of him and made him into the servile creature we all now see before us.”
There were several snorts in response to Mr. Bennet’s words. Bingley appeared not to hear, as he was still poking at the fire. Fitzwilliam was grinning openly, and Hurst was shaking his head, taking a sip of his port.
“Very well, Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Bennet. “You have called us here. What do you wish to discuss?”
“We must speak of our situation. Fitzwilliam and I,” Darcy deemed it prudent to avoid informing Miss Bennet’s father of her contribution, “have been investigating, and we have discovered a few facts about Miss Bingley’s death. There is little enough to go on, which is why we would appreciate any input you might have.”
“Yes, Darcy,” said Bingley, his interest suddenly excited. “Let us hear what you have discovered.”
The light of intensity shone in Bingley’s eyes, such as Darcy had never seen before—or at least Darcy had not seen it at any time Bingley was not contemplating his latest angel. Though Darcy was certain Bingley had not even liked his sister much at times, it seemed Bingley burned with the need for justice. Or vengeance. Darcy could not quite determine which it was.
Shaking himself free of extraneous thoughts, Darcy launched into his explanation. He informed them of their suspicions regarding the tainted brandy, what they had learned from the housekeeper, as well as the fruits of Miss Elizabeth’s investigations from the previous night. Of Lady Catherine’s death, there was little but suspicion, as was the case with the butler. But Darcy explained what he knew, informed them of his suspicions regarding each of those present in the house—not excepting those in the room. When he ceased speaking, silence fell over the room.
“You have my apologies, my friend,” said Bingley. Darcy could hear the mournful quality in his voice, so unusual for his close friend “You have taken it upon yourself to look into these matters when rightfully that duty should have fallen to me as the master of this estate.”
“Do not concern yourself for such things, Bingley. You lost your sister only yesterday—it is understandable that you would be distracted.”
“And did you not lose your aunt?”
“An aunt who was only tolerated,” interjected Fitzwilliam.
“How many times did I only tolerate my sister?” asked Bingley. “You should be well acquainted with that state, Darcy, for I know you endured her for nothing more than the sake of our friendship.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Bennet, “perhaps we should move the conversation along. A situation such as this is so far beyond the purview the owner of an estate would be expected to manage as to be absurd. Mr. Bingley was distracted, so Mr. Darcy stepped in with the help of his cousin. There is no need to praise or censure.”
The sigh which Bingley released was forceful and full of exasperation. “I suppose you are correct, Mr. Bennet.” Bingley eyed them all with curiosity. “What do you all think of this information Darcy has given us?”
“It tells us little more than we knew,” came Hurst’s rumbling voice. “We might not even have considered Lady Catherine’s death as suspicious, had not Caroline died in the fashion she did.”
“How is Louisa coping?”
Hurst’s responding sigh was more sorrowful than Bingley’s. “Not well, I am afraid. Caroline tried even Louisa’s nerves at times, though they were close. She feels that she is somehow to blame for Caroline’s death.”
“But that is absurd!” exclaimed Bingley. “Louisa could no more have prevented it than she could have stopped the moon in its course.”
“That may be so. But we rarely think of such things when we are grieving. Caroline . . . Let us say her drinking of your brandy had become a problem these past months, especially since we came to Hertfordshire. She feels she should have done more to curb her sister’s habit, and that if she had, Caroline might still be alive.”
“Of course, she could not have,” said Mr. Bennet. “The inevitable would simply have been delayed unless your sister had eschewed it altogether. Then it would have been one of us who drank it.”
It was a sobering thought. Mrs. Hurst would eventually recover, Darcy thought. But the manner in which her sister had died would almost certainly stay with her for the rest of her life.
“Personally, I suspect Wickham,” said Darcy.
All eyes focused on him. “What is your reasoning?” asked Mr. Bennet.
“He is the only one of us who does not have a reason not to kill at least one of the victims—everyone else has some connection to one of the deceased.”
“I am not attempting to blame one of my family,” said Mr. Bennet, “but none of us have a connection to any of the deceased.”
“Could any of them have procured arsenic in sufficient quantities as to kill Miss Bingley with such swiftness?” asked Darcy.
“As I said, I do not think any of my children could have done it. But it seems to me, Mr. Darcy, that you have fixed on Mr. Wickham as the killer.”
Fitzwilliam snorted. “Aye, Mr. Bennet. I have told him that myself.”
“There is also the matter of his openly bragging to me he would seduce Miss Bingley for her fortune. And before you say that is not a reason to kill her, what if his attempts at charming her failed?”
Mr. Bennet held his eyes, his gaze even. “I understand you have a history with Mr. Wickham. Are you allowing that history to affect your judgment of the man?”
“I do have a history with him,” confessed Darcy. “But I believe I am as rational a man as any when it comes to Wickham.” Darcy gave a lazy wave at his cousin. “I would say that Fitzwilliam is much more apt to become irrational when confronted by his iniquities.”
“That is the truth!” said Fitzwilliam with a snort. “It is also what is so curious about this situation. When did I become the rational one between us?”
Darcy shrugged, and Fitzwilliam waggled his eyebrows. Mr. Bennet shook his head at them.
“I knew nothing of any of you before you came here. But I would assert that fixing on Mr. Wickham as the killer and ignoring any other possibilities is foolish. It might be anyone present who is responsible—it could be anyone in this very room.”
“I would never kill my own sister!” cried Bingley.
“With all due respect, Mr. Bingley, people killing family members is not unknown. I do not say this to accuse you. I am merely pointing out a fact.”
“He is correct,” said Hurst. “There were times when we, both of us, would have rejoiced had we known Caroline would not vex us again.”
“I never wished her dead.”
“Nor did I,” replied Hurst. “But you cannot deny how much your sister annoyed you, Bingley. She was enough to drive us both to Bedlam, and not only for her pursuit of Darcy.”
Bingley threw up his hands
and turned away. Darcy knew his friend, and the closest adjective he could state which described his friend’s behavior was sulky.
“I never meant this to become such a discussion,” said Mr. Bennet. “I merely wished to point out that the information we possess has not eliminated anyone as a suspect, though I will grant that Mrs. Hurst and Miss de Bourgh appear to be innocent.”
“The question then becomes what we do about it.”
No one had an answer for Fitzwilliam’s question. At least, no one could say anything more about who had committed the murders. For Darcy’s part, he was more interested in removing the ladies—one lady in particular—from harm’s way.
“What of the weather?” The rain does not appear any more promising than did the snow. Bingley, have you heard from your groundskeepers concerning the state of the roads?”
Bingley roused himself, grimaced, and said: “Nothing any of us would wish to hear. The rain has done nothing yet except to make the roads even worse. One of the men believes that the weather will turn significantly warming tomorrow, but that carries its own challenges. The bridge down by the end of the property is known to be submerged when there is excessive rain or melting of snow. That would prevent us from leaving via the main road, as it would be too dangerous. There are a number of other tracks, but they are too small for a carriage.”
“If this continues,” said Mr. Bennet, “I may just chance it. I would wager Elizabeth would be able to guide us home by lesser used tracks.”
“The problem remains of the deepness of the snow,” said Bingley. “I would not recommend trying to walk until several days of melting has passed.”
“Under normal circumstances, you may be correct. But given what has happened here, I am not certain. It would be better to be in our home and safe, even if we became wet and bedraggled on the way.”
“If you were able to arrive safely,” said Bingley.
His concern was clear for all to see and fixed squarely on the person of Miss Bennet. Darcy did not blame his friend at all, for he felt the same for Miss Elizabeth.
