The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy

by Regina Jeffers

  Even in the moonlight she could see the man’s countenance pale. “Aye, Ma’am.” The man’s voice betrayed his anxiousness. “Unless the deceased be one of the founding families, we place the departed in rows from the center to the outside boundaries. Of late, we have had more than our share.” The man laughed nervously when he realized what he said. To cover his faux pas, Mr. Sharp led the way along the path. “The gypsy known as Besnik and the stranger who assisted him in dishonoring the late Mr. Darcy’s resting place be in the row with the charity cases, as is the one who attacked you, Ma’am.” Elizabeth shivered, and she pulled Darcy’s coat closer about her. “Go on, Mr. Sharp,” she coaxed.

  “I apologize, Ma’am, if I sound insensitive.” When Elizabeth did not respond, he nervously continued. “The two men not identified by Mr. Williamson or Mr. Holbrook be mixed among those.”

  Edward encouraged, “A new grave, Mr. Sharp.”

  “Yes, Sir.” He led them along a narrow path between the rows. “These graves be awaiting a marker,” Sharp observed. “This first one be Mr. Hotchkiss. Then Mr. Bates. Mr. Pugh.” The sexton counted his recent work on his fingers. “Falstad. Clarkson. Lawson. And Mr. Glover.”

  Edward’s voice asked the question Elizabeth could not. “Is that all of them?” A thirteenth grave remained open.

  Sharp frowned noticeably. “The last one be for Mr. Barriton. Mr. Williamson asked me to prepare it today. We must put the Woodvine butler on the row with the gypsies and the other thieves and charity cases. Considering his crime and all. In most villages, those types would not be afforded a place within the church’s land.” The man appeared proud of the village’s benevolence.

  Elizabeth clutched at Edward’s arm. “There must be some mistake.” Her voice sounded hauntingly empty. “I am certain Mrs. Stowbridge and Mr. Gaylord have executed a most grievous crime against my husband. They had no time to dig a proper grave, and I am convinced the pair meant to place my husband in an open gravesite. As bizarre as this story sounds, are there any other possibilities?”

  The man shifted his weight fretfully. “I kin think of none, Ma’am. All those in this area be accounted for.”

  Edward pressed, “Are there other open graves on the property? Perhaps one for a villager not involved with the chaos at Woodvine.”

  “Can’t say that there are, Colonel,” Sharp responded. “Only one not occupied be the one reserved for Samuel Darcy. I prepared that one again after the incident with the explosion. I be thinking that someone would recover Mr. Darcy’s body.”

  “Why not bury Mr. Darcy in Mr. Darcy’s grave?” Elizabeth murmured.

  “Show us where Samuel Darcy’s gravesite is located,” Edward demanded.

  Sharp gestured behind him. “It be beside the Darcy crypt.” He led them toward the revered sites of the village elite. “I thought it best to keep it close so Mr. Darcy could be moved into his memorial once it was properly repaired.”

  Elizabeth and Edward trailed close on the sexton’s heels. “Please God,” she whispered. “Allow us to be in time.”

  “The grave be right over...” The man stopped abruptly. “Someone has filled her in.”

  Edward pushed past him. “How deep is this?” he demanded. He was digging the loose dirt out with his hands. “We need shovels, Mr. Sharp, and make it quick.”

  Elizabeth dropped to her knees beside the colonel. She dug her hands into the packed dirt. “Hurry!” she yelled at the astounded sexton. The man scurried away. “Dig, Colonel,” she encouraged. “And pray.”

  The air had grown thin, and Darcy knew his time had drawn near. He held no doubt Mrs. Stowbridge had exacted a most well-devised revenge: Darcy would know he was going to die and, therefore, grieve for his inability to change his fate. She had drugged him long enough to place him in another’s coffin and lower him into a grave. A blanket lined the bottom and sides of the box. Darcy could smell the scent of freshly cut wood, but also the distinct smell of gunpowder. And it was that odor which worried him. He feared he had encountered Samuel Darcy’s great treasure.

  Darcy had no doubt the explosion which had killed Besnik Gry had been because of the torpedo with which Samuel Darcy had experimented before his death. “Likely placed in Samuel’s coffin by Mr. Crescent,” he murmured. Samuel’s valet had been willing to face Society’s censure by preparing his master’s body in the manner of the ancient Egyptians, so it only made sense that the valet had protected Samuel into the next world.

  “Why did I not see the possibility earlier?” he chastised his foolish pride. “Because you were not on Death’s threshold previously.” Darcy answered his own question. Because your own mortality brings clarity.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Stowbridge’s words came back to him. “One lives. My youngest has recently passed. But the elder is a strong leader of my husband’s family.”

  Besnik Gry, Darcy thought. The lady ran off with a gypsy. Drewe’s poem spoke of Mab and nomadic tribes. And Andrzej Gry argued with the woman we knew as Mrs. Ridgeway. These revelations explain why the housekeeper sold the horses to the gypsies and also why Stowbridge objected to their presence in the area. His wife’s sons reminded the magistrate daily of everything the man had lost.

  “Now, if some miracle would permit me a means from this death trap...”

  Cowan and Sharp reappeared with shovels in hand. “Here, Colonel.” The Runner handed Edward the tool they had retrieved from the sexton’s work shed. “Move away, Mrs. Darcy.”

  “I want to be of assistance,” Elizabeth protested.

  Edward pulled her to her feet. “Then assist Mr. Williamson with the lanterns. We will require light to see what we are doing.”

  Reluctantly, Elizabeth stepped away from the grave. She watched anxiously as the three men attacked the gravesite.

  “Mrs. Darcy,” the curate said softly beside her. He handed Elizabeth a lantern and struck a flint. “Here is the candle,” the man offered. Elizabeth automatically lit several candles, but her eyes never left the spot where the men worked frantically. As soon as the lanterns were lit, Elizabeth placed them along the rim of the memorial so they would shine downward into the hole.

  “Would you wish to pray?” Mr. Williamson suggested as he set his lanterns beside hers.

  Elizabeth did not wish to leave her husband, but she nodded her agreement. With the curate’s assistance, she stepped to the other side of the Darcy family crypt.

  Initially, the curate’s reverence and benevolence was a soothing balm on Elizabeth’s anxious heart. Mr. Williamson spoke of hope, of love, and of compassion, but when the man’s words spoke of accepting whatever happened as God’s will, Elizabeth interrupted, “Forgive me, Mr. Williamson.” Elizabeth gave herself a sound mental shake. “I realize this is blasphemous, but I shall never accept Fitzwilliam’s death as God’s plan. I cannot believe that God would take him from us. And until that moment arrives I will not entertain such thoughts.” With a quick curtsy, Elizabeth returned to the site.

  “Colonel?” she asked uneasily.

  “A few more minutes.” Edward strained to lift a large shovelful of dirt.

  Elizabeth stood at the foot of the grave. She swayed from side to side, and soon she lifted her voice in song.

  Running out of air, Darcy fought to keep his senses about him, but his eyes felt heavy. He dreamed of Elizabeth. He could see her teasing him at Sir William Lucas’s party. He could visualize how he had foolishly followed her about the room because he had begun to wish to know more of her, and as a step toward conversing with her himself, had attended to her conversation with others. He could hear Miss Lucas insisting upon Elizabeth’s lending her beautiful voice to the evening’s entertainment. Could hear Elizabeth’s singing the same song as she had that evening. So close, it seemed his wife stood above him. Looking down upon him. If only he could touch her, speak words of affection in her ear.

  Automatically, Darcy’s hands reached for her. “Elizabeth,” he said weakly when his fingers grazed the wooden lid. “Sing for me, L
izzy.”

  “We have hit something hard, Colonel,” Cowan said as his shovel’s tip struck the wooden frame.

  Edward lifted another shovel of dirt to the side. “Keep digging,” he ordered. The sweat poured from his face and down his back, but Edward would not stop. Elizabeth had been correct. Someone had buried a coffin in Samuel Darcy’s grave. God! Was his cousin even now taking his last breath? “Sing louder, Elizabeth,” he encouraged. “Sing for Darcy.”

  She raced to the grave’s edge and began her song again, directing her voice to the outline of a box, which had emerged from the pit. “Fitzwilliam!” she called through her sobs.

  Edward struck the box with the tip of his shovel. “Darcy!” he shouted, accenting his efforts with the tap of the metal to the wood. “Answer me, Darcy!”

  Crazy as it seemed, Darcy could swear his wife’s voice had moved closer and that she called his name. In addition to Elizabeth’s pleading was a complementary sound of his cousin’s commanding baritone. Darcy made his mind acknowledge their pleas. Forced his lids open to stare into the blackness. A thud vibrated the box. “The torpedo!” Darcy’s brain formed the word, but his lips would not cooperate. Necessity caused his heart to race. He must stop them! If his cousin and Elizabeth meant to rescue him—to remove him from the coffin—they would meet Besnik Gry’s fate, which was exactly what Areej Stowbridge had planned.

  Chapter 29

  Darcy attempted to make a fist, but his hands had lost all sensation. So, instead of pounding on the lid for attention, he slapped at it, creating a musical tattoo to accent his wife’s singing. “No!” he called over and over. “No!”

  Edward was the first to feel the vibration beneath his feet. “Quiet!” he ordered. “No one move.”

  Weakly a dull thud came from below, deep in the grave. “He is alive!” Elizabeth squealed. “Fitzwilliam is alive. Oh, hurry, Colonel.”

  Elizabeth scooted to the side, where she could scoop armfuls of dirt from the grave. “Oh, please, God,” she prayed as tears streamed down her face. “We must reach him. Dear God, we must reach him.” She slung the dirt behind her, handful after handful, clawing her way into the earth.

  The three men redoubled their efforts, and within minutes, Edward straddled the upper section of the coffin. On all fours, he crawled along the edges, knocking dirt from the surface. “Darcy,” he called as he tapped on the lid. “Darcy, we are here.” Placing his ear to the lid, Edward listened carefully. Nothing else moved in the cemetery. He looked up with a frown.

  “What is it, Colonel?” Cowan asked the question no one else dared to ask.

  “Whoever or whatever is inside this box appears to be saying ‘No.’”

  Elizabeth grabbed another armful of dirt. “I care not for my husband’s objections,” she asserted. “I want him out of this box. Out of this grave.”

  “Give me a hammer, Mr. Sharp,” Edward demanded. “Cowan, assist Mrs. Darcy with the dirt behind me. We do not want it to collapse in on my cousin.”

  Edward placed his mouth as close to the lid as possible. He brushed more loose dirt away. “Darcy,” he shouted. “Turn your head to the right. I mean to tear part of this away.” With that, he wedged the hammer against the edge of the wood. Using the claw, Edward ripped away at the upper left corner of the box.

  Within less than a minute, the colonel had opened a small hole, perhaps two inches by three. “Hand me a light,” he yelled, and Elizabeth scrambled to do his bidding.

  “Are we in time?” she pleaded as she lowered the lantern into the hole.

  “Fortunately, Mrs. Stowbridge and Mr. Gaylord have wedged the coffin into the hole at an odd angle,” Edward explained. “The coffin has not been buried as deeply as I had originally expected.” He did not confide the fact that he kept his full weight from the lid in fear of plummeting the box deeper into the earth. It would prove of no use to have Elizabeth in more distress. Straddling the sides of the box, the colonel balanced precariously on the edge. Lowering his weight onto the coffin, he lifted the light to peer into the small opening. “Darcy? Can you hear me?”

  A quick inhale of air rewarded the colonel’s efforts. “Move away,” a weak familiar voice ordered. “Dangerous.”

  Although muffled by the wood and the depth of the hole, the message’s urgency stayed the colonel’s efforts. “Everyone, step away from the grave,” he ordered.

  In the soft lantern light, Elizabeth’s eyes flared with disapproval. “Why?” she demanded.

  Edward’s shoulders stiffened. “Your husband claims it is dangerous to be here.” The colonel spoke with more calm than he felt. “Please step clear of the area until I can ascertain what Darcy means by the warning.”

  Kneeling at the grave’s edge, Elizabeth defiantly refused to budge. “I will not leave him.”

  “Elizabeth, please,” Edward implored.

  “You know my mind, Colonel. Be on with it.” She lay out full on the ground where she could reach into the hole.

  Edward nodded to Cowan and Sharp to step behind the crypt’s solid wall. “No sudden moves, Elizabeth,” the colonel warned. “Allow me to assess the situation.” When his cousin’s wife made no further protest, Edward eased forward to where he could speak into the opening. “Are you injured, Darcy?”

  A weak “No” escaped the small hole in the lid. “Only what...what remains of my earlier...confrontation with...Mr. Barriton and...this afternoon...with Mrs. Stowbridge.” Behind him, the colonel heard Elizabeth stifling a sob of concern. However, Edward felt no such emotion. A breathless panic had taken its hold on the colonel’s heart. Darcy should be begging for a quick release from his prison; instead, his cousin had ordered his rescuers from the site.

  “Why would you send us away?” he asked slowly, enunciating each word clearly.

  A long silence told the colonel his cousin considered his words carefully. Edward concentrated his full being on understanding what Darcy meant to say. “There is something...something attached to my left leg.” A hesitation followed. “It is my opinion...Mrs. Stowbridge has buried...buried Samuel’s torpedo model with me. I fear if you remove me...from this hard bed...the torpedo will explode.”

  A sick feeling spread through Edward’s veins. He had an overwhelming desire to discover if Bedlam was to be his next home. The dire situation had magnified. “You cannot expect me to walk away,” he said cautiously. His chest tightened in a frightening manner, and Edward swiftly pointed out, “We must do something.”

  “What does Fitzwilliam say?” Elizabeth pleaded. Her eyes widened in fear.

  Edward waved away her apprehension. Instead, he listened for his cousin’s honest response. “See my wife to Pemberley,” Darcy’s choked response spoke of the emotions flooding his cousin’s chest. “I charge you, Cousin, to see to Elizabeth’s and Georgiana’s futures.”

  “Damn it, Darcy,” Edward growled. “No one is prepared to abandon you to an early death, so set your mind to our salvation.” He bit back his fear of inadequacy. “I plan to rip more wood from this coffin so Mrs. Darcy might look upon your countenance while I devise a means to extricate you from this hellhole.” He retrieved the hammer from the lip of the grave. “Now close your eyes and turn your head to the opposite side.”

  As he ripped away at the wood, anger filled Edward’s heart. Anger at Mrs. Stowbridge and the Woodvine steward for their felonious actions. Anger at himself for not recognizing the depth of madness into which his cousin’s honor had led Darcy. Anger at his cousin for his willingness to die in order to save them all. Also, anger at Darcy for not realizing his cousin’s sacrifice would destroy Elizabeth and Georgiana. And anger at the idea that he would never know such unselfish love.

  Fortunately, the second board, which had run horizontally across the top of the coffin, came free easily. With the larger opening, Edward was able to pull the nails holding the planks free. He tossed the offending pieces of wood from the hole to expose his cousin’s pale face.

  Darcy sucked in his first full breath i
n what seemed a lifetime, and, in fact, it had been just that. He had been given a second life. Slowly, he opened his eyes to take in the worried countenance of his cousin. “Thank you, Colonel,” he said honestly.

  “No gratitude yet,” the colonel said brusquely. “Not until you are free of this latest puzzle.” Edward reached into the box to squeeze Darcy’s shoulder. “I will remove myself from this hole so you might feast upon your wife’s countenance. Meanwhile, I will confer with Cowan to determine how to proceed.”

  Eager to see Elizabeth well, Darcy nodded his agreement. When his cousin had climbed from the hole, Darcy’s eyes searched the open space above his head for Elizabeth’s fine features. For a long moment, Darcy recalled the first time he had seen her standing with her sister and Miss Lucas as he and Bingley had made their way across the Meryton Assembly hall. There had been a stunning sense of recognition, as if he had known her all his life. Finally, Elizabeth appeared above him. Like a hovering angel, she gazed lovingly at him. The shadows kept part of her face in darkness, but it was comforting to know she had survived her ordeal.

  “Fitzwilliam,” she said on a rasp, and Darcy had instantly understood his wife’s sentiment.

  “Be strong, my Lizzy,” he said to comfort her. “We will see this through together.”

  “I love you.” His wife leaned precariously over the grave’s lip. “I feared we would not be in time.”

  Darcy licked his dry lips. The taste of laudanum remained, but he refused to grimace so as not to worry his wife. “You never gave up,” he said simply. He knew enough of his wife’s personality to know she had bullied the colonel and Cowan into submission.