by Jann Rowland
“Thank you, Marie,” said Darcy, eager to send her off as he sensed his cousin was about to break out into laughter. “Is there anything else of note that you can tell us?”
The maid mentioned a few more matters, such as the argument with Lady Catherine and Miss Bingley’s general complaints—which were about the Bennet family, more often than not. But she had little else of interest to tell them, and after a moment, Darcy dismissed her.
“Thank you again. We will show ourselves from the rooms. For now, I think you have earned your rest this evening.”
Flashing him a smile, Marie curtseyed and fled from the room, leaving the two cousins. The moment she left the room, Fitzwilliam burst into laughter.
“I have often thought Miss Bingley’s behavior odd, but the mystery now seems to have been solved! Surely those times she was a trifle disguised!”
“Really, Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy, shaking his head.
“Come now, Darcy; the woman practically invited derision. Surely you must own this. Furthermore, I suspect that is the reason why she was always so late in arising. Obviously, she was keeping company with Bingley’s fine French brandy and drank so much that she was drunk as a wheelbarrow! She spent the mornings sleeping it off!”
Darcy snorted. The image Fitzwilliam painted was amusing, and Darcy was certain that it was at least partially the truth. Miss Bingley, though it was not proper to speak ill of the deceased, had been a ridiculous woman at times.
“So what do you make of this?” asked Darcy, leaning forward to inspect the glass. “For Miss Bingley to have consumed that much poison, the killer must have put a lot into the brandy.”
“Not necessarily,” said Fitzwilliam, sobering. He hefted the bottle from where it stood and peered into the liquid. “No residue on the bottom. The poison must be dissolved into the liquor.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Oh, arsenic. Without a doubt.”
“It seems to make sense,” allowed Darcy. “As I recall, the Medicis used it frequently when they were prominent in Italy.”
Fitzwilliam turned and peered at Darcy. “Do you remember old Lord Winchester?”
“Did he not pass last year?”
“He did. I know you do not care much for society, so you most likely have not heard. It is suspected that his grandson grew tired of waiting and began slowly poisoning him with arsenic. If done carefully, it looks like a natural illness and may cause death in the elderly in only a few months.”
“Was he brought before the courts?” asked Darcy, curious. He had not heard any of these rumors.
Fitzwilliam shook his head and turned back to his inspection of the bottle. “There was never any proof.”
“The king of poisons or the poison of kings,” murmured Darcy. “Colorless, odorless, and tasteless, the symptoms are easily confused with cholera, and as such, it often goes undetected.
“We cannot even be certain that bottle contains the poison,” said Fitzwilliam. “Unless you wish to try drinking it to be certain.”
“I think I shall stick to port,” replied Darcy dryly.
“My brother even joked about using it to deal with my father the last time Father spoke of finding him a woman to marry.”
A snort was Darcy’s response. The Fitzwilliam brothers had both been close to him all his life, and Blakely, the viscount, was like his brother in essentials. No doubt he would have spoken of the matter in front of the earl, and Darcy suspected the earl would have laughed and jested in return.
“High quantities of arsenic, however,” said Fitzwilliam, “can kill very quickly, and in the same manner as we saw Miss Bingley expire.”
“Then we should determine where this bottle came from,” said Darcy. “And attempt to discover who tampered with it.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “If the killer was smart enough, he would have taken care not to be seen. With such a high concentration of poison, however, I wonder what the possible motive could have been.”
“I do not know, Cousin. But this is quickly becoming a serious situation.”
When they arrived in the kitchens, they found the housekeeper speaking with the cook. Both women rose in alarm at the sight of the two men invading their demesne, but Darcy spoke quickly to put them at ease.
“Mrs. Nichols, may we have a word with you about something which happened earlier today?”
Though still a little concerned, Mrs. Nichols nodded. The cook stayed silent.
“I understand Miss Bingley ordered a bottle of brandy today. Can you tell me how it was delivered to her rooms?”
Mrs. Nichols frowned. “The brandy was in the cellar, Mr. Darcy, as are all of Mr. Bingley’s bottles.”
“When was it brought upstairs? And who took it to Miss Bingley’s maid?”
“The bottle was brought up soon after Miss Bingley requested it, by one of the footmen, as I recall. At the same time, however, Miss Bingley created a bit of a to do before dinner this evening, requesting a different and more elaborate menu.”
“A dinner which went largely uneaten,” said the cook.
Darcy sympathized with the woman’s hard work going to waste. But there were more important matters to discuss.
“As a result of Miss Bingley’s request,” continued Mrs. Nichols, “the brandy sat on a counter in the kitchen for some time before Miss Bingley’s maid came to take it to her room.”
In consideration of the fact they had already spoken to the maid, Darcy said: “Please summon the footman who brought the brandy.”
Unfortunately, the footman was of little assistance, for he had fetched the brandy from the cellar as requested, but had then been called away for another task. Though it was possible that either the maid or the footman had used the time when they were alone with the brandy to poison it, he could not see a motive—especially from the footman. The maid, perhaps. But why? If she wished to leave Miss Bingley’s service, the opportunity was there, and no master would choose to withhold a reference from a hard-working servant.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the footman when Darcy dismissed him, “but may I ask what this is all about.”
“No, John, you may not!” said Mrs. Nichols. “You may go now.”
The footman, chastened, bowed his head and departed. But Darcy could see the look about him, which consisted of worry mixed with a healthy dose of fear. The servants were not blind, neither were they senseless. They knew what had happened in the house the past few days, and they were more than a little frightened.
“I apologize for John’s boldness, Mr. Darcy,” said Mrs. Nichols. “We are all a little on edge.”
“It is quite understandable,” said Fitzwilliam. “It is natural that you would be asking questions.”
“We do not have any answers at present,” added Darcy. “I am certain you are aware that three of the residents have died in recent days, and the situation begins to look suspicious. I do not think that the servants are in danger, but it would be best for everyone to take care.”
“If the servants are not in danger, why was Mr. Forbes the first to die, Mr. Darcy?”
That in itself could be deemed an impertinent question, but Darcy did not deny the woman’s right to ask it. “I do not know, Mrs. Nichols. We suspect that he might have been the victim of having discovered something he should not, but at this time we do not have answers. Please ensure the staff knows to carry out their tasks quickly and efficiently and stay with others at all other times. In that, I hope we can all remain safe.”
“Very well, Mr. Darcy.” It was clear that the woman accepted his assurances as the best he could do at present. But she did not even attempt to hide her skepticism.
Soon, Darcy and Fitzwilliam excused themselves, leaving the housekeeper and the cook—who had attempted to remain inconspicuous after her one outburst. The moment they were out of the room, Fitzwilliam turned a questioning look on Darcy.
“What do you think?”
; “Either the maid or the footman had the opportunity of adding poison to the bottle. But while the maid might have reason to, the footman did not. It was pure chance the footman brought at all—the task might have fallen to any of the others.”
“If the maid did kill Miss Bingley, that still does not account for either Lady Catherine or the butler.”
“Which is why we do not appear to be making any progress,” said Darcy.
Within a few moments, they entered Bingley’s study, and Fitzwilliam poured them each a generous measure of brandy. Darcy took his and gazed at it, wondering if he dared. Fitzwilliam, however, only grinned and tossed it back, grimacing at the way it burned its way down its throat.
“I cannot imagine every bottle of brandy in this house is tainted. But if I do expire, give the murderer an extra kick for me, Darcy.”
Darcy shook his head at his cousin’s manner and sipped his drink, staring moodily at the fireplace, which had long burned down to embers, leaving the room quiet and growing colder by the minute. For an instant, Darcy thought about summoning a footman to build it up again, but he discarded the notion soon after. They would not stay in this room for long, he suspected.
“I do not know what we are to do, Darcy,” said Fitzwilliam. He had poured himself another drink when it became evident there was nothing but brandy in the first. “But I will tell you this: if we do not discover the culprit soon or if the killer strikes again, the situation in this house will deteriorate into anarchy.”
“It has already begun,” replied Darcy.
“Do you wish to speak of possibilities? Perhaps talking through the problem will reveal some information we had overlooked or missed altogether.”
“In my mind, there is only one name: Wickham.”
Fitzwilliam shook his head. “He could explain two of the three deaths. But the third is problematic.”
“It is difficult to explain, no matter who you suspect,” said Darcy. “Though I cannot fathom the reason for it, I suspect the butler was a crime of opportunity.”
“Perhaps,” replied Fitzwilliam. “But humor me, Darcy. Can we count out all the Bennet sisters?”
Darcy could not help but laugh. “I cannot think that any of them would be a murderer. There is the problem of them even laying their hands on enough arsenic to poison Miss Bingley, to say nothing of the effort required to kill Lady Catherine.”
“No, I suppose you are correct, though I must wonder about Miss Lydia.”
With a laugh, Darcy shook his head. “I doubt it very much. What of the Bennet parents?”
“If Mr. Bennet killed anyone,” said Fitzwilliam, “I would think it would be his foolish cousin. Not only is the man a menace and a born toady, but I understand Mr. Collins is his heir through entailment.”
“And Miss Bingley used to crow her expectation that the Bennet sisters had nothing,” replied Darcy, thinking quickly. “Mrs. Bennet is too silly, though she too might consider the benefits of being rid of Mr. Collins. But either way, Mr. Collins is not the one who has died.”
“Either of the Bennets might have killed Lady Catherine,” said Fitzwilliam. “But Miss Bingley is not so clear. She was an unpleasant woman, certainly, and uniformly unkind to all the Bennets, except for Miss Bennet. But I would not consider being unpleasant to be a reason to take such drastic action against another.”
“What of Collins himself?”
Fitzwilliam nearly dropped his drink in his hilarity. “Mr. Collins?” managed Fitzwilliam around his laughter. “I was not aware you were such an amusing fellow, Darcy. Can you imagine Collins, of all people, murdering his patroness, the woman he venerates from morning until night on a daily basis?”
“He must be considered, Fitzwilliam.”
“The only way Mr. Collins may be considered is if we live in a world of utter silliness.” Darcy glared, and Fitzwilliam held out his hands. “I know, Cousin. Mr. Collins would seem like an unlikely suspect to me. What I said of his patroness is the truth. If he perceived that Miss Bingley was somehow disrespecting Lady Catherine, he might take action. But that does not account for the butler.”
“Mr. Collins is an unlikely suspect, I agree,” said Darcy. “That would leave only Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, and Bingley.”
“Who are also unlikely, for obvious reasons. But you forgot two others, Darcy.” When Darcy turned to regard his cousin, Fitzwilliam grinned. “Why, the two of us. You have so long been pursued by Miss Bingley, the motive is obvious. And Lady Catherine is equally evident.”
“And what of you, old boy?” asked Darcy, feeling all the amusement of Fitzwilliam’s jests.
“The same reasons as you,” replied Fitzwilliam flippantly. “Though my reasons would be to protect you from the harpy and the dragon.”
Darcy shook his head. “Though that is an amusing thought, I am afraid we are back to Wickham.” When Fitzwilliam made to speak, Darcy cut him off. “I know there are problems with respect to motive, for Wickham. But he is the only one who does not have serious problems attached to the notion of him as the culprit.”
“I would never have taken Wickham for a murderer,” said Fitzwilliam. “He possesses unpleasant habits aplenty, but to kill someone? I cannot believe it.”
“Until we discover something else, I am afraid that is the best explanation we have.”
“Then what do we do?” asked Fitzwilliam. “Do you suggest we lock him up?”
Darcy considered the matter for a few moments. “We do not need proof to take steps. But if we agree that Wickham is the most likely suspect, then his logical target is me. Perhaps we can lure him out and catch him in the act.”
“You are playing a dangerous game, Darcy.”
“Perhaps. But we have no proof, and at present, what we have would never stand up in a court. If we wish to solve this mystery once and for all, we need more to lay at his feet.”
“If you simply act against him and throw him in Marshalsea,” growled Fitzwilliam, “we would not need this proof.”
“But his debt receipts are three days away, and we are snowed in. I think this is the best way.”
“Very well.” Fitzwilliam drained the last of his glass and stood, bidding Darcy good night. But before he departed, he turned back to Darcy and shot him a devilish grin.
“Just remember, Cousin—if you are wrong about Wickham, the rest of the company may pay the price. For all you know, I am the murderer.”
Darcy rolled his eyes at his cousin, but Fitzwilliam grinned. “I am the only one of us who has ever killed, you know, albeit in battle. I despise Wickham as much as any man alive. Think about that before you convict Wickham without evidence.”
And with those chilling words, Fitzwilliam left the room. Darcy sat long into the night, considering all that had happened, and the words which Fitzwilliam glibly flung in his direction as he departed figured prominently in his thoughts.
Chapter XVIII
NOW THAT MISS BINGLEY was dead, Elizabeth did not know where to look or what to think. She had never been certain of the woman’s culpability, but she had seemed like the best possible suspect. As Elizabeth was herded from the sitting-room by her father, with her sisters closely in tow, Elizabeth noted two things. Mr. Darcy had stopped Colonel Fitzwilliam with a glance, making it clear he and his cousin intended to investigate further. Elizabeth wished she was able to attend him.
The second was how Mr. Wickham was watching them all. His ever-present sneer was firmly affixed to his face and only became wider when Mr. Darcy glared at him. Could Mr. Wickham be the one as Mr. Darcy had averred? As he began to move, provoked by Mr. Darcy’s glare, his gaze roved over the gathered Bennet sisters, leaving Elizabeth feeling breathless and troubled. For the first time, Elizabeth began to think of Mr. Wickham as possibly more than a charming rogue, and as a man who may contemplate murder to achieve his ends. Then he was gone, and the Bennets left the room too, following the quick pace of his boots striking the tiles as they faded off into the dista
nce.
“It seems we must band together to protect ourselves, Mr. Bennet.”
Startled by the voice, Elizabeth noted the presence of Mr. Collins. He was watching them all carefully, but the way his eyes roamed up and down the hall through which they walked as if he expected ten murderers to jump out and attack them, almost brought Elizabeth to laughter.
“I have no notion of who has been committing these iniquitous sins,” continued Mr. Collins when Mr. Bennet looked at him, mirth brimming in his own eyes. “But when I discover it, I shall call down the judgment of the heavens upon the one responsible. They have deprived the world of a veritable angel from heaven, a woman of such high nobility and character that we all must be less because of her absence from our lives!”
Such was the fanatical zeal in Mr. Collins’s voice when he spoke of his patroness, Elizabeth wondered at this man being a clergyman. Should the clergy not worship God instead of a woman?
“Her death is of no more importance to God than that of the butler or Miss Bingley, Cousin,” replied Mr. Bennet. Though Elizabeth knew her father to be laughing at his cousin, she could also hear the tension in his voice, understood the worry which had settled over him.
“God does consider us all to be equal, yes,” replied Mr. Collins, proving that he had some little knowledge of the religion he was sworn to promote. “But for us mere mortals, the loss of such a woman of virtue, goodness, and talent must be greater than the mere daughter of a tradesman.”
“Stop speaking of her as if she were a God herself!” Mrs. Bennet’s shrill voice interrupted their conversation, and Mr. Collins turned to regard Mrs. Bennet, astonished beyond all measure. “She was a mean, vicious, virago, who attacked my Lizzy and anyone who did not agree with her every word. Do not attempt to tell us what a wonderful woman that shrew was!”