Darcy's Redemption

by M. A. Sandiford

  ‘Then stop visiting me. Really, Lizzy! I thought you were supposed to be clever.’

  Elizabeth managed a twisted smile. ‘You’re saying you don’t need me?’

  ‘You found me a place to live, for which I’m grateful. But Pete and I can manage alone.’

  ‘I see that. But I can’t bear to submit to such an unreasonable demand.’

  There was a tap on the door, and Ellen entered.

  ‘Shall I clean up and do the fires now, Mrs Cobb?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lydia rose. ‘Come on, Lizzy, let’s go for a walk. We can pick up some supper from the pie stall.’

  ‘How about Peter?’

  ‘Ellen will be here another hour.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Elizabeth dressed warmly, wishing that she could acquire some of Lydia’s resilience.

  When Elizabeth emerged into the busy street, a man leaning against a lamp-post turned sharply, and for a second she saw his face. He limped away immediately.

  As Lydia joined her, Elizabeth pointed. ‘Did you see?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That man has been following me, but this time he got too close.’ She lowered her voice to a hiss. ‘It seems incredible, but I think he’s Mr Wickham.’

  Lydia gasped. ‘Let’s go after him!’

  Elizabeth regarded her anxiously. ‘Is that a good idea?’

  ‘Come on!’ Lydia tugged her arm.

  They hid behind other pedestrians, keeping the man in view. Elizabeth wondered if it could really be Wickham. The pleasant features were familiar; so was the impudent smirk. But there was something feral about him, like a cat, once sleek and domesticated, that has been driven out to scrabble for food in the gutters.

  The man turned towards the river. Once or twice he looked round, but showed no sign of spotting them. At the Strand he joined the queue for a horse bus.

  ‘We’ll lose him now,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘I want to find out where he lives.’ Lydia pointed at a hackney. ‘Quick!’

  They told their driver to stay near the bus so that they could watch passengers getting off. By now Elizabeth was worried about Lydia. Was it conceivable that she was still infatuated with the man who had ruined her life? Or was she intent on taking revenge by giving his address to the authorities? The bus trundled down the Strand into Fleet Street, where the man got off.

  Elizabeth thrust a handful of coins over to the driver, and ran after their quarry, who was crossing into a street she knew well. It led to St Paul’s Churchyard.

  People were sparser here, and Lydia pulled her back.

  ‘Don’t get too close, Lizzy.’

  Slowing down, the man hobbled to the cathedral. Elizabeth frowned as he paused near the main entrance. Was he going inside? To pray? It did not seem likely.

  He looked up at the clock, then edged towards a gate at the east side which Elizabeth knew well. There was a paved yard broad enough for carriages to park, an area of lawn, a few trees and hedges. The man found a bench on the grass, and sat down, breathing heavily.

  The cathedral clock struck six.

  A tall man in a cassock came out of a side door.

  Elizabeth pulled Lydia behind a hedge, and put a finger to her lips.

  The clergyman waited in the shadows under a buttress, out of sight of the road, and beckoned the other man to join him.

  ‘Do you know the priest?’ Lydia whispered.

  ‘He looks like …’ Elizabeth hesitated. It was impossible. Then the clergyman spoke, and she was sure.

  ‘It’s Fredo! Quiet.’

  She strained to hear as the man with the limp began to reply.

  Lydia gripped Elizabeth’s arm in excitement, and they exchanged a nod of agreement.

  It was indisputably Wickham.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve known your wife longer than you have. You’re right, she lives with the Earl and Countess of Ballytore. But every day she scoots off to visit Darcy House. Stays late. Then Darcy takes her home. You should see them! Talking nineteen to the dozen, laughing. Except this morning …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She rushes over in a state. Darcy puts his arms around her. She stays until lunchtime, then leaves in his cabriolet. I flagged down a cab and got back on her trail. She’s staying near Covent Garden. Chandos Street. Number 14.’

  Elizabeth gasped in horror. There could be no reconciliation with Fredo if he believed this report.

  Sibley hesitated, then muttered, ‘Is that all?’

  ‘The apartments had nameplates for Bingley and Mayfield. Which is interesting, since Darcy has a friend called Bingley. No-one entered or left until late in the afternoon, when your wife came out with another woman. I had to look sharp, or she might have spotted me.’

  Another pause. ‘Did you recognise the other woman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bingley, you say.’ Sibley reached into a pocket. ‘If that is all, I have other matters to attend to. I will pay you £15, as agreed. I do not expect us to meet again.’

  ‘I could carry on watching. Same rate.’

  ‘That will not be necessary. Chandos Street you said?’

  ‘I had to pay for the hackney.’

  ‘I paid you expenses last time.’ Sibley sniffed in distaste. ‘Have you been drinking again?’

  ‘No. Well, a nip to keep out the cold. Listen, I’ve spent more than you gave me on cabs and buses. I’ve given you valuable information. I’m entitled to a bit more, don’t you think?’

  Elizabeth ducked down as Sibley took a step forward. He looked up and down the yard to check the coast was clear.

  ‘Twenty then, and not a penny more.’

  Elizabeth whispered into Lydia’s ear. ‘I’m not standing for this. Wait here!’

  ‘Careful Lizzy …’

  But Elizabeth was too angry to exercise caution. There could be no deceiving Fredo now. He knew where Lydia lived. He would sue Darcy for criminal conversation and win a large settlement. Only one defence remained to her: to discredit Wickham. Boldly she came out of hiding and strode towards the two men, who looked round in horror.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Sibley’s voice trembled. ‘How …’

  ‘Fredo, do not trust this man!’ She ran to Fredo’s side as he stood poised, his outstretched hand holding a bundle of £5 notes. ‘He is Mr George Wickham. The scoundrel that eloped with my sister. An inveterate liar. He will tell you anything, if he thinks you will pay.’

  Sibley glared at Wickham. ‘You said your name was Smith.’

  Wickham ignored him and made a grab for the money. But Sibley snapped back his hand.

  ‘Be off! And shame on you for staining the good name of my wife.’

  Wickham bared his teeth. ‘I told you what I saw. You owe me £20. Pay up or it will be the worse for you.’

  Another grab, but Sibley was too quick.

  ‘I see,’ Wickham sneered. ‘If that’s how you want to play it, you leave me no choice.’

  Elizabeth flinched, fearing he would attack Fredo, but instead he grabbed her shoulder, darted behind her, and wrapped an arm around her windpipe.

  ‘Well, Reverend Sibley? After showing such touching faith in your wife’s virtue, will you pay to save her life?’

  Elizabeth almost gagged as she smelled the liquor on Wickham’s breath and the mustiness of his clothing. She found his left wrist and tried to lever it off. But his other hand came up holding a knife, which he pricked into her neck.

  ‘Keep still, my lovely.’ Wickham looked up menacingly at Sibley. ‘Hand over the money.’

  Sibley counted out four five-pound notes and handed them over—an awkward transaction since Wickham’s left arm was still around Elizabeth’s neck, and his right hand gripped the knife. But by twisting his left hand, Wickham managed to trap the notes in his fingers.

  Sibley stepped back. ‘You have been paid in full. Now leave. And take care not to injure my dear wife.’

  Wickham’s grip loosened, then tightened again.<
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  ‘I’m most grateful, Reverend, but the rate just went up. Another £10 for my trouble will serve, if you want your dear wife back in one piece.’

  Elizabeth doubted Wickham would harm her deliberately, but he might cut her if she struggled. She kept very still as Sibley searched for more cash.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Wickham growled.

  With Wickham’s attention on Fredo, Elizabeth turned her head a fraction to view the hedge next to the gate. Lydia was watching intently, as if wondering whether to intervene. Elizabeth tried a little shake of the head, as if to say No! Stay where you are! It was not the moment to tackle the man with the knife. Once Wickham had the money, he would release her to make his getaway.

  Sibley held out his hand. ‘This is all I have. Release my wife, and go.’

  Wickham relaxed his hold on Elizabeth’s neck so that he could add the extra notes to the bunch in his left hand. Breathing more easily, Elizabeth assumed the matter was now concluded. Fredo would step back, Wickham would run off with his booty. Instead, to her shock, Sibley made a dart for Wickham’s right hand, which held the knife. The move took Wickham completely by surprise. Instinctively he freed his left arm, releasing Elizabeth and allowing the precious bank notes to flutter to the ground. The two men staggered across the yard with Sibley gripping Wickham’s wrist and trying to force out the knife.

  Elizabeth whirled round, screaming. ‘Call for help!’

  But Lydia was already running to the road, yelling for a constable. Elizabeth turned back to the fight, wondering whether she should intervene. They were veering towards a verge where an ornamental wire fence protected a flower bed. She wished Fredo would release Wickham, whose primary objective must now be to escape before the police turned up. But instead, Fredo hung on, as if in fear that his opponent would repeat his attack on her.

  Hardly breathing, Elizabeth watched as they stumbled into the fence. It was flimsy, and barely six inches high, but locked together, the two men had no means to recover their balance. They teetered, and as if by a soldier’s instinct Wickham twisted so that he landed on top.

  Sibley grunted, as if the air had been driven from his lungs, and lay motionless, at his enemy’s mercy. Elizabeth was terrified that Wickham would take vengeance. Instead he rolled off, and climbed to his feet, empty-handed.

  ‘You blackguard!’ Elizabeth almost spat at Wickham, too furious to feel fear. But he did not retaliate. He saw one of the five-pound notes, picked it up, looked for the others. Ignoring him, Elizabeth ran to Fredo, still lying on the grass. He tried to sit up, croaked, and fell down again. Then Elizabeth saw the knife. Its bone handle protruded from the left side of his chest, where blood was spreading on his surplice. Instinctively she reached for the handle, then withdrew.

  ‘Be still, dear,’ she said gently. ‘Do not move.’

  She jumped up, shouting for help. Wickham had given up looking for the lost money and was limping past the gate. Lydia had disappeared, presumably still looking for a policeman. But as Wickham reached the pavement outside the churchyard, Lydia ran back into view.

  Elizabeth froze in horror as Wickham stumbled into Lydia’s path.

  ‘Hallo, George.’ Lydia’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘Don’t you recognise me?’

  He gaped. ‘Lydia? Listen, you must help me …’

  ‘Sorry mate. Not this time.’

  ‘Get out of the way, then.’

  As Wickham pushed past, Lydia closed and drove her fist into his midriff. Elizabeth stared in disbelief, fearing Wickham would strike back. But he was hopelessly winded. With a groan he folded to the pavement gasping for breath, while Lydia leaned over him.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, sunshine.’

  Two policemen ran from the street, and after a hurried conversation with Lydia, one detained Wickham while the other ran to Elizabeth.

  ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

  ‘My husband has been stabbed.’

  The policeman bent over Sibley and grimaced.

  ‘Stay here, ma’am. Don’t touch the knife. I’ll be back soon.’

  Elizabeth knelt beside Sibley again. His eyes were open now, and he was shivering.

  ‘Elizabeth …’

  She stroked his forehead. ‘Keep still, dearest. You will be all right. We just need to wait for help.’

  ‘That man …’

  ‘Has been arrested. He can do us no more harm.’

  ‘I should not have doubted you …’

  Guilt overwhelmed her, but she tried to stay calm. ‘Do not upset yourself. Relax, breathe gently. The doctor will come soon.’

  ‘I feel so … cold.’

  Elizabeth draped her coat over him, taking care not to touch the knife. His hand felt clammy. She rubbed it gently. ‘Hold on, dear Fredo.’

  ‘I have always loved …’ His eyes flickered. He tried to draw breath, but she heard only feeble puffs.

  Priests came from the cathedral to join the eerily silent crowd. Elizabeth felt Lydia’s arm around her. Constables cleared a path for two men carrying a stretcher. She withdrew as a junior surgeon kneeled beside the injured man and felt for a pulse. He did not remove the knife, but put his hands either side and pressed. Then he called for scissors, cut away a circle of clothing, coiled a dressing round the entry point, and pressed again.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Elizabeth whispered.

  ‘Depends how deep it is. Are you a relative, ma’am?’

  ‘Wife.’ She pointed to Lydia. ‘And sister-in-law.’

  ‘We’ll take him to St Bart’s, just round the corner. Do you know the way?’

  ‘I’ll accompany you, ma’am,’ a constable said.

  Elizabeth looked at Lydia. ‘You need to get back.’

  Another police officer offered to take Lydia home so that he could note down her witness statement. Elizabeth followed as Sibley was carried to a hospital transport carriage parked outside the gate. In a daze, she said farewell to Lydia and left for the hospital.

  25

  As the cathedral clock chimed quarter to nine, Elizabeth waited outside the Carter Lane house where, six months earlier, she had been mistress.

  An unfamiliar manservant answered, the maid Harriet hovering behind him.

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘I am Mrs Sibley. And you are …’

  ‘Dawson, ma’am.’

  ‘Did you get my message?’

  Harriet stepped forward. ‘How is master?’

  ‘May I come in?’

  The maid looked at Dawson. ‘Master said …’

  ‘Sadly my husband has passed away. It therefore falls to me to run this household and pay your wages.’

  Harriet’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Poor children …’

  ‘Indeed.’ Elizabeth stepped forward, and after an uneasy pause, Dawson stood aside to let her pass.

  ‘I assume Grace and Robert are still away?’ she said.

  Again Harriet looked at Dawson, as if uncertain how much to tell. ‘Yes. Ma’am.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I … cannot say. I mean, I don’t know.’

  Elizabeth asked Dawson, ‘Have you any clue to their whereabouts? Letters? A chance word overheard?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Very well. Harriet, I’m going to stay here this evening. Can you make sandwiches and a pot of tea? My usual.’

  ‘There’s broth left over, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. In the dining room, please.’

  Elizabeth hung up her coat, and with a feeling of unreality began to explore the house.

  She went first to her chamber, which had been left unaltered, with the bed made. In the wardrobe hung dresses which for months had been inaccessible. A bookcase reminded her what she had been reading. She fingered these possessions while re-imagining obsessively the tragic events of the evening. If only she had refused to follow Wickham. Or remained in hiding behind the hedge. Or tugged Fredo away from the struggle with Wickham.

  At St Bartholomew’
s, Fredo had spoken no more. She had stayed at his bedside after surgeons had removed the knife and stemmed the bleeding, but he had rapidly faded. Afterwards, the constable took her witness statement, and the hospital sent a messenger to inform the coroner. The inquest would take place at the Old Bell Tavern in Fleet Street the following afternoon. Details would be sent in the morning to her address at Carter Lane.

  Elizabeth went to the dining room, where Harriet had laid her meal. The hot soup helped bring her to her senses. Guilt and grief must wait: she had duties to perform. Inform the family. Locate the children.

  In the study she wrote a note to Sir Nicholas Sibley, to be sent by express to his estate at Great Notley in Essex. Dawson left immediately to dispatch it, with a copy to the Sibleys’ town house. She included the bare facts of how Fredo had met his death, and the probable time and place of the inquest, along with a matter-of-fact request to return Grace and Robert to Carter Lane. She did not know for sure the children were in Essex, but it seemed likely. Meanwhile, she would search for further clues.

  She had received at the hospital a bunch of keys found in Fredo’s pocket. One fitted the front door; others were probably for the cathedral. There was a smaller key which she tried on the locks in the study. It fitted a drawer on a robust oak unit with book-shelves over low cupboards. Inside were keys to the other drawers.

  Guiltily, as if invading a shrine, she explored records of Fredo’s private life. Letters, mostly from academics or clerics. Notes on theological issues. A diary of upcoming duties. Yearly account books noting incomes and expenses, including wages for the servants and rentals on the house. No will: this would presumably be lodged with his lawyer. She scanned recent letters from Fredo’s brother and sister, but found no mention of the children except for the bare statement that they were doing well.

  Harriet tapped on the door.

  ‘May I have a word, ma’am?’

  Elizabeth began putting away papers. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We were wondering, Dawson and me, should we look for other positions? And will you be giving us references, in spite of …’ The maid blushed. ‘What happened.’

  Elizabeth pondered: their anxiety was understandable. She had not thought about the house, but the rent would be paid for now, and wages too, at least for a week.