Murder at Netherfield

by Jann Rowland

  While Elizabeth had fled the kitchen, certain her father was about to be murdered in his bed, sanity soon set in, and she stopped to take stock of her situation. She still had no proof that Mr. Collins, of all people, was behind the recent deaths, and even if he was, if he had been able to murder her father in his bed, he would already have done so. For the moment, at least, Elizabeth thought her father was safe.

  Of more immediate concern was her situation. The housekeeper had not followed through the halls, suggesting she had believed Elizabeth’s lie concerning her father’s presence in the library. Or been too shocked by Elizabeth’s sudden departure to pursue her. But alone as she was in the house late at night, she knew it would be best to return to the kitchen, confess, and request an escort back to her room. But while she knew her father was likely safe, she was loath to allow even one minute’s delay in returning to their rooms.

  A look down the long hall in both directions informed Elizabeth that there was no one present, though she could not discount the possibility of one of the rooms being occupied. All was silent and still as the grave. A moment’s more thought, and Elizabeth decided to return to her rooms on her own. That was when she saw the light.

  It was ahead of her, and near the end of the hallway where the entrance hall was situated, and given it was on the left side toward the back of the house, Elizabeth knew it was the library. Given what had happened in the library only the previous night, Elizabeth was loath to be in the room alone. But her path back to her family’s quarters led past that open door, and she was unwilling to be further delayed.

  On light steps, determined not to alert whoever was in the room of her presence, Elizabeth crept forward. The soft sounds of her slipper-clad feet barely reached her ears, but sounding as loud as the thudding of her heart in her breast, both filling her ears so much she thought it a wonder it was not heard all the way to Meryton. Elizabeth clutched her dressing gown around her form, feeling the cold clamminess of her hands, her eyes peering this way and that in the gloom. But nothing moved, nothing stirred, and the closer she came to the open door, the more she could see from the light spilling out into the corridor.

  After a brief hesitation, Elizabeth eased her way around the door frame, risking a glance inside the room which was lit by, perhaps, half the candles in the sconces. Other than the burning wicks, there did not seem to be anything at all in the room out of the ordinary. Frowning, her curiosity getting the better of her, Elizabeth crept forward a little further, her eyes darting this way and that, keeping to the balls of her feet, poised to flee at the first sign of hostility. But nothing greeted her questing gaze. The room was deserted.

  And then she saw it. On the right side of the room stood two bookcases, one on either side of the massive fireplace which provided heat to the room. One of the bookcases, however, had swung aside, leaving the gaping maw of an opening visible behind it. It was a passage, narrow and completely hidden by the shelf when closed, but only just tall enough for Colonel Fitzwilliam to walk through without hitting his head on the ceiling.

  Elizabeth stopped and frowned at what she was seeing, her mind whirling with possibilities. Whoever had opened it had neglected to close it, though whether that was due to forgetfulness or the knowledge that a swift retreat might be necessary, she could not say. But the existence of passages in the walls, of which Elizabeth had heard before, particularly in the novels Lydia and Kitty so enjoyed, would potentially provide unseen entrance into many rooms in the house. The implications were staggering.

  In Elizabeth’s defense, she knew it was best to depart, to leave the discovery and inform her father, who could rouse Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam to investigate. As she considered the opening before her, however, Elizabeth drifted forward, fascinated by what she was seeing. And as she was only a few steps away, she thought it would do no harm to look inside quickly and see if there was anything to be seen.

  There was not. The inside of the passage was dusty, as she might have thought, but with footsteps both leading away and toward the library. There was no light emanating from within, for which Elizabeth was grateful, for it suggested there was no one approaching. As she did not fancy setting off down the passage herself, she turned to leave.

  “Well, well, I must own that you have been clever. Unfortunately for you, too clever by half.”

  Chapter XXIV

  HAD DARCY BEEN A man who feared small, enclosed spaces, he might have found himself nervous in the passage he traversed with Fitzwilliam. His cousin would have it worse, as he was taller and wider than Darcy, a truly large man. It was, indeed, narrow, jagged edges of the rock of the walls protruding, to scratch and tear his clothing if he did not take care. It was also colder than the rooms of the house, a fact he attributed to the lack of a heat source, though he suspected the area behind the fireplace did receive some heat when it was lit.

  When they entered in, they noted that the passage did not go far to the right, as it would intersect there with the inner wall of the hall beyond. Darcy considered the layout of the house, and he determined that the entrance hall was on the other side of the passage. The realization caused him to curse, given what had happened there only days before.

  “What is it, Cousin?” asked Fitzwilliam. He glanced back at Darcy, his gaze filled with curiosity.

  “I suspect this passage was used only two days ago,” replied Darcy, still muttering to himself. “When Mr. Bennet and I were shot at, the culprit disappeared, and we could not even find any hint of him fleeing.”

  “Then it was an audacious attempt,” said Fitzwilliam. “Whoever it was, he could not have lain in wait for you long, for if he had, he might have been discovered.”

  “He may have simply taken an opportunity which presented itself.”

  “Perhaps.” Fitzwilliam shook his head and turned back toward the passage which yawned in front of them. “I do not dispute that this was likely the malefactor’s escape method. I am only stating that whoever it is, he must have a deep well of nerve.”

  Darcy did nothing more than grunt. The other side of the corridor ended, turning to the left, while a set of stairs led up and to the right, ascending up into the gloom. Fitzwilliam turned and eyed Darcy, a question in his gaze. Darcy shrugged, and they made their way toward the stairs. As they approached, Darcy noted they were wood, dusty, and he eyed them dubiously, uncertain if they would bear the weight of two grown men the size of himself and Fitzwilliam.

  “Come, Darcy,” said Fitzwilliam, laughing as he looked back. “What is life without the spice of the unknown?”

  “The unknown is all well and good,” replied Darcy. “But I prefer not to discover that the stairs cannot hold us when we are halfway to the upper floor.”

  Fitzwilliam laughed in his usually nonchalant manner. “If we hesitate now, the mystery will go unsolved.”

  With a quick and determined step, Fitzwilliam approached the stairs and climbed a few experimental steps. Darcy noted the creaking and groaning of the stairs under his cousin’s weight, but they seemed to be sturdier than they looked. But then Darcy’s eyes fell on something gleaming in the light of the candle he held.

  “Hold, Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy. He took no note of his cousin, who turned and looked at him askance, and stepped down, reaching through the gap in between the stairs, grasping the item which lay just within reach of his outstretched fingers. It was a pistol.

  Fitzwilliam let out a low whistle as he noticed what Darcy held, and he stepped down beside him to inspect it more closely. Darcy offered it up to him, knowing his cousin was more knowledgeable about such things.

  “A smoothbore pistol, it seems,” said Fitzwilliam, taking it from Darcy and turning it this way and that. “Not a newer pistol with rifling, but not ancient either. It seems like whoever used it did not wish to be discovered with it and, so, dropped it in a location where he thought it would remain hidden.”

  “Or if it was discovered, it would have no immediate connection t
o him.” Darcy paused and considered. “The possession of this weapon seems to suggest our murderer came here with the intent to commit murder.”

  A nod was Fitzwilliam’s response. “That is certainly possible, though not evidence, of course. But we still do not know who—the one intending to commit murder—nor do we know why.”

  “But we do know how he has been able to make his way through certain parts of the house without being seen.”

  “To that end,” said Fitzwilliam, looking about in interest, “perhaps we should explore this level first.”

  Darcy agreed, and they set off, eschewing the stairs up for the time being. The corridor which now ran along the outer wall, descended a few steps until Darcy thought they were passing below the library windows along the back of the house. It ran the entire length of the house, with several branches back toward the middle, no doubt leading to doors such as the one through which they had just passed. The tracks in the dust were fewer in this part of the passage, but near the end, they discovered another answer to their long-held questions.

  “I suspect this door leads to the corridor outside the kitchens,” said Fitzwilliam, pausing in front of what appeared to be a door back to the main part of the house.

  “Which suggests it was as the means by which the killer reached the brandy Miss Bingley drank,” replied Darcy.

  “And the door shows signs of recent use.”

  They inspected the area for a few moments before they backtracked again to the stairs and took themselves to the upper floor of the house. There they found a long passage which seemed to go the entire length of the house. Netherfield was not truly large enough to have separate family and guest wings, but Miss Bingley had placed the newer arrivals—the Bennets and Lady Catherine and her daughter—on the opposite side of the stairs from where her brother inhabited the master’s suite, and she and her sister also had apartments. It was strange, but Fitzwilliam had also been housed next to Darcy himself, though whether that presaged some intention on the lady’s part to pursue him should Darcy prove impossible, Darcy could not say.

  “The steps toward the master’s chambers are fewer,” said Fitzwilliam, pointing out the thick layer of dust which had been little disturbed.

  “And more toward where Lady Catherine had her rooms,” replied Darcy, looking in the other direction.

  Without speaking, they first went in the direction of Bingley’s chambers. As the corridor was situated along the back of the house, he knew Bingley’s suite, as well as that which had been occupied by Miss Bingley, had been on the back of the house, overlooking the gardens. Darcy pointed this out to Fitzwilliam as they walked and inspected.

  “Then on the other side,” said Fitzwilliam, “would be Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s suite, that of Lady Catherine, Anne, and then Mr. Collins, if I am not mistaken.”

  “And the Bennet sisters on the other side,” replied Darcy. “Mr. and Mrs. Hurst are on the opposite side of the house close to Miss Bingley’s chambers, and you are nearby them.”

  “There will be a similar passage on the front side of the house. And entrances from the first floor to the upper levels.”

  “Which means there is likely a similar hall running perpendicular to these long corridors on the opposite side of the house from the library.”

  “Well, there does not seem to be much to be seen here,” said Fitzwilliam. “Though there are footsteps, it seems our ghost was only familiarizing himself with the layout of the house.” Fitzwilliam bent forward and examined a door which stood in front of them, Miss Bingley’s unless Darcy was incorrect. “This door does not appear to have been opened in many years.”

  “Then let us backtrack to the other side of the house.”

  They made their way back according to Darcy’s suggestion. A little past the stairs they had climbed, they found an identical set leading down, confirming their suspicion that they were connected to passages on the lower level on the south side of the house. Beyond that, however, was where it became interesting.

  “Mr. Bennet’s door appears to be jammed,” said Fitzwilliam, pointing to the rust on the hinges, so thick that Darcy thought them to be immovable. “And the tracks outside Mr. Bennet’s door are thick.” Then Fitzwilliam gestured to damage to the door itself. “It appears whoever did this lost his temper on at least one occasion, for there are some chips in the mortar in the back, where someone struck the door repeatedly.”

  Darcy frowned. “Is this not Mrs. Bennet’s door? I am certain her room is closer to the stairs than Mr. Bennet is.”

  “Ah, but look at the distance we have traversed from the stairs,” said Fitzwilliam, his gaze back down the corridor drawing Darcy’s own eyes. “I suspect that as the rooms are joined, there is no door to Mrs. Bennet’s bedchamber.”

  Comprehension filled Darcy’s mind. “Then the next chamber should be Lady Catherine’s.”

  A grim nod was Fitzwilliam’s reply. He continued, and they soon stood in front of the door to Lady Catherine’s room. The dust and cobwebs had been disturbed, indicating someone had used it.

  “I think we have discovered the killer’s means of entrance,” said Fitzwilliam. “And if you look at the tracks, they continue to be heavy from here toward the southern end of the house.”

  Darcy nodded, feeling rather bleak himself. He pushed past Fitzwilliam and continued to follow the tracks, certain he knew what he would find. His supposition turned out to be correct.

  “Most of the tracks come from this room, Fitzwilliam,” said he quietly. “There are a few which continue toward Wickham’s room, but the majority lead to this room.”

  “Mr. Collins?” queried Fitzwilliam with disgust. “Of all those in residence, I would have expected him to be our killer the least. The man is obsequious and seems to be afraid of his own shadow.”

  “Anyone can wear a mask before the world,” said Darcy, thinking of his own situation. “Do we enter and confront him in his room?”

  “No,” replied Fitzwilliam. “Let us go down below. I would prefer to have a few sturdy footmen at my back when we challenge him.”

  Darcy allowed that his cousin’s plan was prudent, and they made their way back toward the stairs.

  The sound of a voice behind her startled Elizabeth, and she whirled about, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. Every fear she had harbored of being caught in the house with no one else about rushed into her mind, and along with the beating of her heart, she could hear the rush of air, as if she was caught in a gale. There, near the door through which she had entered, stood a man, watching her, a sneering sort of smirk directed at her.

  It was Mr. Collins. The last man she wished to corner her in that room.

  “My dear, Cousin,” said he, in what she was certain was a mocking tone, “why are you wandering the halls late at night with no escort? If I was not already certain of your character, I might have thought it was you who was bedeviling us these past days.”

  “I could not sleep and thought to obtain some tea from the kitchens,” said Elizabeth. She shifted slightly to the side, putting a chair between herself and Mr. Collins, a motion he did not seem to notice. “As I was returning to my rooms, I saw a light and thought to investigate.”

  Mr. Collins’s eyes glittered as he watched her, his eyes darting between Elizabeth and the open door of the passage. He strolled a little further into the room, his movements casual and unthreatening. With Elizabeth’s epiphany, everything this man did was now suspect, and she did not believe his nonchalance for a moment. The most disturbing thing about him, however, was his behavior. It was not the Mr. Collins she knew and detested. There was nothing of servility about him; his continual bowing was absent, and even his condescending tone when speaking was lacking. He was cold, his ice-like eyes watching her with amusement, disdain shining in their depths.

  “It seems you have discovered something, indeed,” said Mr. Collins, gesturing toward the passage. “I had no notion you would make such a discovery, or t
hat you even suspected there were passages in the walls. Tell me, Cousin: how did you work it out?”

  At once Elizabeth realized Mr. Collins thought she had opened the door, which meant that someone else had. If he had opened it and left it open himself, why would he think that she had? Hope surged in Elizabeth’s breast. Someone was investigating those passages even now! If she could stall him long enough, maybe help would come to her.

  “It truly was not difficult,” said Elizabeth. Now that she thought on the matter, she wondered why she had not considered the possibility before. “Whoever had access to Lady Catherine must have been able to move unseen. Furthermore, when the killer shot at my father and Mr. Darcy, he could not be located—they did not even manage to catch sight of him.”

  A sage nod was Mr. Collins’s response, and Elizabeth was again struck by how different he was acting from what she was accustomed. “How perspicacious of you, my dear cousin. It is, unfortunately, a miscalculation. Your father should not have educated you in the manner in which he did, a mistake for which you shall pay dearly. But do not worry, Cousin Elizabeth, for he will soon be joining you.”

  “You have been trying to murder him!!” accused Elizabeth.

  “Murder is not a nice word at all, Cousin,” said Mr. Collins, his tone chiding. “I have merely attempted to take what is my own.”

  “Your own?” demanded Elizabeth. She warily watched the man for any movement. For now, however, he seemed to content to exchange words with her. “What could my father possibly have that you would wish to own so much that you would kill him over it?”

  “Why, Longbourn, of course!” said Mr. Collins, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I have lived in squalor long enough. It is time for me to take my rightful place among the elite of society.”

  “You are delusional! Not only have you killed four others instead of my father, but Longbourn is not rightfully yours. And now it will never be yours!”