by P. D. James
The change in the line of questioning was unexpected but Darcy took it calmly. ‘No. She would of course be received at Pemberley had she arrived unexpectedly at any time.’
‘Not invited, but received, unlike her husband. It is common knowledge that George Wickham is never received at Pemberley.’
Darcy said, ‘We are not on those terms.’
Sir Selwyn placed his book with some ceremony on the table. He said, ‘His character is well known locally. A good beginning in childhood but thereafter a decline into wildness and dissolution, a natural result of exposing a young man to a lifestyle he could never hope to achieve by his own efforts, and companions of a class to which he could never aspire to belong. There are rumours that there could be another reason for your antagonism, something to do with his marriage to your wife’s sister?’
Darcy said, ‘There are always rumours. His ingratitude and lack of respect for my father’s memory and the differences in our dispositions and interests are sufficient to explain our lack of intimacy. But are we not forgetting the reason for my visit? There can be no link between my relationship with George Wickham and the death of Captain Denny.’
‘Forgive me, Darcy, but I disagree. There are links. The murder of Captain Denny, if murder it is, took place on your property and the person responsible could be a man who, in law, is your brother and with whom you are known to be at variance. When matters of importance come to mind I tend to express them. Your position is one of some delicacy. You understand that you cannot take part in this investigation?’
‘That is why I am here.’
‘The High Constable will have to be informed, of course. I take it that this has not yet been done.’
‘I thought it more important to notify you immediately.’
‘You were correct. I shall notify Sir Miles Culpepper myself and shall, of course, give him a full report of the state of the investigation as it proceeds. I doubt, however, that he will take much personal interest. Since marrying his new young wife he seems to spend more time enjoying the various divertissements of London than he does on local affairs. I have no criticism of this. The position of High Constable is in some sense invidious. His duties, as you know, are to enforce statutes and carry out the executive decisions of the justices, and also to oversee and direct the petty constables under his jurisdiction. Since he has no formal authority over them it is difficult to see how this can be done effectively but, as with so much in our country, the system works satisfactorily as long as it is left to local people. You remember Sir Miles, of course. You and I were two of the justices who swore him in at the quarter sessions two years ago. I will also get in touch with Dr Clitheroe. He may not be able to take an active part but he is usually invaluable on questions of law and I am reluctant to take all the responsibility. Yes, I think between the two of us we shall manage very well. I shall now accompany you back to Pemberley in my coach. It will be necessary to collect Dr Belcher before the body is moved and I shall bring the mortuary van and two petty constables. You know them both – Thomas Brownrigg, who likes to be known as a headborough to distinguish his seniority, and young William Mason.’
Without waiting for Darcy to comment, he got up and, moving to the bell-cord, gave it a vigorous tug.
Buckle arrived with a promptness which suggested to Darcy that he had been waiting outside the door. His master said, ‘My greatcoat and hat, Buckle, and rouse Postgate if he is in bed, which I doubt. I want my carriage ready. I shall be driven to Pemberley, but calling en route to collect two petty constables and Dr Belcher. Mr Darcy will ride alongside us.’
Buckle disappeared into the gloom of the corridor, clanging the heavy door closed with what seemed unnecessary force.
Darcy said, ‘I regret that my wife may be unable to receive you. I hope that she and Mrs Bingley will have retired for the night, but the upper servants are still on duty and Dr McFee is in the house. Mrs Wickham was in a state of considerable anguish when she arrived at Pemberley and Mrs Darcy and I thought it right that she should have immediate medical attention.’
Sir Selwyn said, ‘And I think it right that Dr Belcher, as the doctor called in to advise the police on medical matters, should be involved at this early stage. He will be used to having his nights interrupted. Is Dr McFee examining your prisoner? I take it that George Wickham is under lock and key.’
‘Not under lock and key but continually guarded. When I left, my butler, Stoughton, and Mr Alveston were with him. He also has been attended by Dr McFee and may now be asleep and unlikely to wake for some hours. It might be more convenient if you arrived after daybreak.’
Sir Selwyn said, ‘Convenient for whom? The inconvenience will be largely mine, but that is no matter when it is a question of duty. And has Dr McFee in any way interfered with Captain Denny’s body? I take it that you have ensured that it is inaccessible to anyone until my arrival.’
‘Captain Denny’s body is laid out on a table in the gunroom and is under lock and key. I thought that nothing should be done to ascertain the cause of death until your arrival.’
‘You were right. It would be unfortunate if anyone could suggest that there had been any interference with the body. Of course ideally it should have been left in the woodland where it lay until it could be seen by the police, but I can understand that that seemed impractical at the time.’
Darcy was tempted to say that he had never considered leaving the body where it lay, but thought it prudent to say as little as possible.
Buckle had now returned. Sir Selwyn put on his wig, which he invariably wore when on official duty as a justice of the peace, and was helped into his greatcoat and handed his hat. Thus clad and obviously empowered for any activity expected of him, he seemed both taller and more magisterial, the embodiment of the law.
Buckle led them to the front door and Darcy could hear the sound of three heavy bolts being shot while they waited in the darkness for the carriage. Sir Selwyn showed no impatience at the delay. He said, ‘Did George Wickham say anything when you came upon him, kneeling, as you say, beside the body?’
Darcy knew that the question would be asked sooner or later, and not only of himself. He said, ‘He was greatly agitated, weeping even, and hardly coherent. It was apparent that he had been drinking, possibly heavily. He seemed to believe that he was in some way responsible for the tragedy, presumably by not dissuading his friend from leaving the carriage. The woodland is dense enough to provide cover for any desperate fugitive and a prudent man would not walk there alone after dark.’
‘I would prefer, Darcy, to hear his exact words. They must have impressed themselves on your mind.’
They had, and Darcy repeated what he had remembered. ‘He said, “I have killed my best friend, my only friend. It is my fault.” I may have got the words in the wrong order but that is the sense of what I heard.’
Hardcastle said, ‘So we have a confession?’
‘Hardly that. We can’t be sure to what precisely he was admitting, nor the condition in which he was at the time.’
The old and cumbersome but impressive carriage was now rattling round the corner of the house. Turning for a last word before he got in, Sir Selwyn said, ‘I do not look for complications. You and I have worked together for some years now as magistrates and I think we understand each other. I have every confidence that you know your duty, as I know mine. I am a simple man, Darcy. When a man confesses, one who is not under duress, I tend to believe him. But we shall see, we shall see, I must not theorise in advance of the facts.’
Within minutes Darcy’s horse had been brought to him, he mounted and the carriage creaked into motion. They were on their way.
5
It was now after eleven o’clock. Elizabeth had no doubt that Sir Selwyn would set out for Pemberley the moment he had been told of the murder and thought that she should check on Wickham. It was extremely unlikely that he would be awake but she was anxious to satisfy herself that all was well.
But within four
feet of the door she hesitated, gripped by a moment of self-knowledge which honesty compelled her to accept. The reason she was here was both more complex and compelling than her responsibility as hostess and, perhaps, more difficult to justify. She had no doubt that Sir Selwyn Hardcastle would remove Wickham under arrest and she had no intention of seeing him taken away under police escort and possibly in fetters. He could at least be spared that humiliation. Once gone it was unlikely that they would ever meet again; what she now found unbearable was the prospect of having that last image of him forever imprinted on her mind, the handsome agreeable and gallant George Wickham reduced to a shameful blood-spattered drunken figure shouting expletives as he was half-urged, half-dragged over the threshold of Pemberley.
She moved forward resolutely and knocked on the door. It was opened by Bingley and she saw with surprise that Jane and Mrs Reynolds were in the room standing by the bed. On a chair was a basin of water, pink with blood and, as she watched, Mrs Reynolds finished drying her hands on a cloth and hung it over the side of the bowl.
Jane said, ‘Lydia is still asleep but I know she will insist on being united with Mr Wickham as soon as she is awake and I did not want her to see him as he was when he was brought here. Lydia has every right to see her husband even if he is unconscious, but it would be too horrible if his face were still smeared with Captain Denny’s blood. Some of it may be his own; there are two scratches on his forehead and some on his hands, but they are slight and probably due to his trying to find a way through the bushes.’
Elizabeth wondered whether washing Wickham’s face had been wise. Wasn’t it possible that Sir Selwyn, when he arrived, would expect to see Wickham in the same state as he had been when discovered stooped over the body? But she wasn’t surprised at Jane’s action or at Bingley’s being present to show his support. For all her gentleness and sweetness there was a core of determination in her sister and once she had decided that an action was right, no arguments were likely to deflect her from her purpose.
Elizabeth asked, ‘Has Dr McFee seen him?’
‘He checked on him about half an hour ago and will do so again if Mr Wickham wakes up. We hope that by then he will be quiet and able to have something to eat before Sir Selwyn arrives but Dr McFee thinks that unlikely. He was only able to persuade Mr Wickham to take a little of the draught but, given its strength, Dr McFee thinks it should be enough to ensure some hours of restorative sleep.’
Elizabeth moved over to the bed and stood looking down at Wickham. Dr McFee’s draught had certainly been effective, the stertorous stinking breath was no more and he was sleeping as deeply as a child, his breathing so shallow that he could have been dead. With his face cleaned, his dark hair tumbled on the pillow, his shirt open to show the delicate line of the throat, he looked like a young wounded knight exhausted after battle. Gazing down on him, Elizabeth was visited by a tumble of emotions. Her mind unwillingly jerked back to memories so painful that she could recall them only with self-disgust. She had been so close to falling in love with him. Would she have married him if he had been rich instead of penniless? Surely not, she knew now that what she had then felt had never been love. He, the darling of Meryton, the handsome newcomer with whom every girl was besotted, had sought her out as his favourite. It had all been vanity, a dangerous game played by them both. She had accepted and – worse – had passed on to Jane his allegations about the perfidy of Mr Darcy, the spoiling of all his chances in life, Darcy’s betrayal of their friendship and the callous neglect of the responsibilities towards Wickham laid on him by his father. Only much later had she realised how inappropriate those revelations, made to a comparative stranger, had been.
Looking down on him now, she felt a resurgence of shame and humiliation at having been so lacking in sense and judgement and the discernment of the character of others on which she had always prided herself. But something remained, an emotion close to pity which made it appalling to contemplate what his end might be, and even now, when she knew the worst of which he was capable, she couldn’t believe that he was a murderer. But whatever the outcome, with his marriage to Lydia he had become part of her family, part of her life, as her marriage had made him part of Darcy’s. And now every thought of him was besmirched by terrifying images: the howling crowd suddenly silenced as the handcuffed figure emerged from prison, the high gallows and the noose. She had wanted him out of their lives, but not that way – dear God, not that way.
Book Three
Police at Pemberley
1
When Sir Selwyn’s carriage and the mortuary van drew up at the main entrance to Pemberley the door was immediately opened by Stoughton. There was a little delay until one of the grooms arrived to take Darcy’s horse, and he and Stoughton, after a brief discussion, agreed that Sir Selwyn’s carriage and the van would be less visible by any watcher from the window if they were taken from the front of the house and through to the stables and the back courtyard, from which Denny’s body could eventually be swiftly and, it was hoped, discreetly removed. Elizabeth had thought it right formally to receive this late and hardly welcome guest, but Sir Selwyn quickly made it obvious that he was anxious to set to work immediately and paused only for the customary bow on his part and curtsey on Elizabeth’s and his brief apology for the lateness and inconvenience of his visit, before he announced that he would begin by seeing Wickham and would be accompanied by Dr Belcher and the two policemen, Headborough Thomas Brownrigg and Petty Constable Mason.
Wickham was being guarded by Bingley and Alveston, who opened the door to Darcy’s knock. The room could have been designed as a guardroom. It was simply and sparsely furnished with a single bed under one of the high windows, a washbasin, a small wardrobe and two upright wooden chairs. Two additional and more comfortable chairs had been brought in and placed one each side of the door to provide some ease for whoever would be keeping watch during the night. Dr McFee, who was sitting to the right of the bed, stood up at Hardcastle’s arrival. Sir Selwyn had met Alveston at one of the Highmarten dinner parties and was, of course, familiar with Dr McFee. He gave both men a brief bow and nod of acknowledgement, and then approached the bed. Alveston and Bingley, after a glance at each other, recognised that they were expected to leave the room and quietly did so, while Darcy remained standing a little apart. Brownrigg and Mason took up positions one on each side of the door, and stared ahead as if to demonstrate that, although it was not at present appropriate for them to take a more active part in the investigation, the room and the guarding of its occupant would now be their responsibility.
Dr Obadiah Belcher was the medical adviser called in by the High Constable or magistrate to help with inquiries and, not surprisingly for a man accustomed to dissecting the dead rather than treating the living, had acquired a sinister reputation not helped by his unfortunate appearance. His hair, almost as fine as a child’s, was so fair as to be almost white, drawn back from a sallow skin, and he looked at the world through small suspicious eyes under the thin line of the brow. His fingers were long and carefully manicured and the public reaction to him was fairly summed up by the cook at Highmarten. ‘I’ll never let that Dr Belcher put his hands on me. Who’s to know where they’ve been last?’
His reputation as a sinister eccentric was also not helped by his having a small upstairs room equipped as a laboratory where it was rumoured that he conducted experiments on the time taken for blood to clot under different circumstances and on the speed with which changes took place in the body after death. Although nominally he was in general practice, he had only two patients, the High Constable and Sir Selwyn Hardcastle, and as neither had ever been known to be ill, their status did nothing to enhance his medical reputation. He was highly thought of by Sir Selwyn and other gentlemen concerned with administering the law, since in court he gave his opinion as a medical man with authority. He was known to be in communication with the Royal Society and exchanged letters with other gentlemen who were engaged in scientific experiments, and in gener
al the most knowledgeable of his neighbours were more proud of his public reputation than afraid of the occasional minor explosion which shook his laboratory. He seldom spoke except after deep thought, and now he drew close to the bed and stood looking down at the sleeping man in silence.
Wickham’s breathing was so gentle that it could hardly be heard, his lips slightly parted. He was lying on his back, his left arm flung out, his right curved on the pillow.
Hardcastle turned to Darcy. ‘He is obviously not in the state in which you gave me to understand he was brought here. Someone has washed his face.’
There were seconds of silence, then Darcy looked Hardcastle in the eyes and said, ‘I take responsibility for everything that has happened since Mr Wickham was brought into my house.’
Hardcastle’s response was surprising. His long mouth twitched momentarily into what could, in any other man, be thought of as an indulgent smile. He said, ‘Very chivalrous of you, Darcy, but I think we can look to the ladies for this. Isn’t that what they see as their function, to clean up the mess we make of our rooms and sometimes of our lives? No matter, there will be evidence enough from your servants of Wickham’s state when he was brought into this house. There appear to be no obvious signs of injury on his body except small scratches on his forehead and hands. Most of the blood on his face and hands will have been Captain Denny’s.’
He turned to Belcher. ‘I take it, Belcher, that your clever scientific colleagues have not yet found a way of distinguishing one man’s blood from another’s? We would welcome such assistance although, of course, it would deprive me of my function and Brownrigg and Mason of their jobs.’
‘I regret not, Sir Selwyn. We do not set out to be gods.’
