by Jann Rowland
“Or it is possible he is meeting with the other person we overheard last night,” said Darcy. “We should check the rooms below stairs, particularly the library.”
Fitzwilliam gestured for Darcy to lead the way, which he did. They made their way to the library in silence, taking the stairs swiftly, Darcy eager to discover the information he was certain Wickham held, while he thought Fitzwilliam was more interesting in extracting retribution from the other man’s hide. It was in the library where they made the gruesome discovery.
“Wickham!” gasped Darcy as he entered the room and took in the sight which was spread out before them.
Wickham—for it was immediately evident that was the identity of the body—was lying in a pool of his own blood, much of it already beginning to congeal. Beside him on the floor lay a broken candlestick, the heavy type a butler would use to provide light in the darkness as he walked through a house. It had been used on the unfortunate bounder, as the wounds on the back of his head, from which the blood had flowed, clearly announced.
“I suppose there lies our proof that Wickham was not the murderer,” said Fitzwilliam. Darcy turned to his cousin in wonder—Fitzwilliam’s voice had displayed no emotion, rather a clinical detachment Darcy had never heard before.
His cousin only shrugged. “You did not like him any more than I did, Darcy. There is no point in pretending otherwise. If I am honest with you, the only thing I feel at his death is relief. He was a millstone about your neck and worse.”
“I know,” replied Darcy softly. “But I cannot help but mourn for what he could have been.”
“By all means, do so,” said Fitzwilliam, stepping closer to the body to inspect it. “But do not mourn the man he became. He was not a good man. You know this better than anyone alive.”
Darcy followed Fitzwilliam as he stepped to the body and crouched down. “The candlestick was used to kill him,” said Fitzwilliam as he looked Wickham over. “He was struck several times, as if in great anger.
“Look here,” said he, pointing to the wounds on Wickham’s head. “He was struck at least five times that I can see and with great force. I suspect the killer only stopped when his weapon became unusable.”
Fitzwilliam rose and looked about. “It seems he was sitting in this chair,” continued he, looking over the furniture in question. “There is blood spattered on the top and behind, likely from when the killer struck him the first time. I suspect that he fell asleep in the chair and his enemy came on him unaware. Then after he fell to the floor after the first strike, the killer continued to beat him.”
“I am impressed you are able to deduce this much,” said Darcy. “I might not have put all these clues together.”
“I have had occasion to investigate certain crimes in the past,” said Fitzwilliam with a shrug. “I am not an expert, but the signs are obvious enough that they are easy to see.”
“There is nothing here that indicates who might have killed him,” said Darcy, sighing with resignation.
“No,” said Fitzwilliam. “But the force with which the killer struck Wickham over and over suggests that our killer was almost certainly spattered with his blood. We may successfully discover him from that evidence.”
“If he has not managed to wash it from the affected garments,” muttered Darcy.
Fitzwilliam nodded in distraction. He turned and looked around the room. Darcy waited for him to speak, knowing his cousin was deeply immersed in his thoughts.
“If my theory about Wickham falling asleep is correct, it was the last mistake he ever made. It is the only thing that makes sense. Otherwise, he would not have been taken unaware.”
“Could he not have left the door open?” asked Darcy.
“He might have,” said Fitzwilliam. “But this chair is situated away from both doors, commanding a view of them both. If he had been awake and alert, he would not have been caught.”
Darcy nodded. He allowed Fitzwilliam to search the room more thoroughly, but there was nothing else to be found. While he watched his cousin, Darcy was at a loss. They had been so close to uncovering the person who had done this. If only he had acted on his suspicions the previous evening!
“There is nothing else to be found at present,” said Fitzwilliam, breaking Darcy’s thoughts a few moments later. “We should call the butler in to take care of the body and remove this rug.” Fitzwilliam kicked at it. “The stain will not be removed.”
A growl escaped Darcy’s lips. “We were so close!” He began to pace the room, feeling the restless energy built up within his frame. “Had I only acted last night, we might, even now, have the killer in our grasp.”
“That is possible,” said Fitzwilliam with a shrug. “But it is also possible Wickham would have refused to give him up.”
“What of your conviction you would have pulled the name from his unwilling lips?” asked Darcy with a snort.
A lazy shrug was Fitzwilliam’s response. “Wickham was unpredictable at times. He may have withheld the information until the time it would have benefited him the most to release it. He might have hoped to barter it for money.”
“Aye, that is something he would have done.” Darcy scowled at the body. “I know he was worthless, Fitzwilliam. But his passing has affected me, though I cannot explain it.” He shook his head. “It is as if my last link to my father is now gone.”
“He has not been such a link for many years,” said Fitzwilliam, directing a pointed look at Darcy. “If you wish for a link to your father, consider your dear sister, not a man who squandered every opportunity he ever had.”
“You are correct, of course.” Darcy released an explosive sigh. “It is all such a waste, and we are no closer to the identity of our tormentor.”
“We will be, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam turned and glanced around again, introspection settling over him. “There is something off, something I am missing. I am certain of it. If I think on it, I am certain it will come to me.”
“I will call the butler and go speak with Bingley,” said Darcy, prompting a distracted nod from his cousin.
The butler’s eyes were filled with fear when Darcy told him of the situation. He was instructed to gather a pair of footmen and go to the library, to which he agreed readily enough. Darcy did not even bother to ask the man to keep the situation quiet—the footmen would speak of it, and the servants would know of it before breakfast, Darcy was certain. At least none of the maids had come upon the gruesome sight, unlike Mr. Forbes’s discovery.
Bingley was distressed, of course, as Darcy might have predicted. He insisted on viewing the body himself, though Darcy told him it was not necessary. They arrived back at the library when the footmen were removing Wickham, and Bingley, appearing white as a sheet, watched them as they bore it away, the same as the other three bodies.
“Whatever shall we do?” moaned Bingley when the three gentlemen were alone in the room. “I cannot even begin to fathom what has happened here. I curse the day I ever heard of this estate!”
“I understand your feelings,” said Darcy. Unhappy though the events were, he personally would never curse anything which led him to Miss Elizabeth. “But this time it appears Wickham attempted to swindle the wrong person and paid for it with his life.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Bingley.
Darcy explained what had happened the previous evening, Bingley listening intently. He expressed dismay that they had lost the opportunity to learn the identity of the killer, but nothing of censure toward Darcy escaped his lips. Before Darcy could complete his narration, however, a pair of ladies appeared at the door, looking in with curiosity.
“Do not enter, ladies,” said Fitzwilliam, stepping toward them before Darcy could move. A quick glance revealed the bloodstains on the tiles were still present from where they had seeped through the rug on which Wickham had lain.
“What has happened?” gasped Miss Bennet.
“Has there been another incident?” added Mi
ss Elizabeth.
“I am afraid there has,” said Fitzwilliam. He escorted the sisters from the room, Darcy and Bingley rising to follow them. “It appears Mr. Wickham is no longer with us.”
A stifled gasp was Miss Bennet’s response, though Miss Elizabeth appeared to take the news with stoic gravity. Tears appeared in Miss Bennet’s eyes, and she began to weep, more for the situation than any sorrow over Wickham’s death, Darcy thought. Bingley, it appeared, could not endure her tears, for he stepped forward, offering his handkerchief. It was all he could do, under the circumstances.
“Do not cry, Miss Bennet,” said he. He stepped close, grasping one of her hands between his own. “It shall all be well in the end. You will see.”
They stood close together, Bingley offering comfort while Miss Bennet wiped at her eyes and nodded at his words. Fitzwilliam had slipped back into the room, Darcy thought to ensure the floor was cleaned. Miss Elizabeth, who had been watching her sister, sidled up to Darcy.
“Mr. Wickham, was it?” When Darcy nodded, she spoke only one more word: “How?”
Careful to avoid injuring her delicate sensibilities, Darcy informed her of what they had discovered, though keeping as much of the details from her as he could manage. Miss Elizabeth listened with grave attention, her brow furrowed in deep thought. It was incongruous to the situation they now faced, but he found even this mannerism of hers nigh irresistible, unable to keep the admiration from welling up within him.
“I can scarce believe we have lost yet another,” said Miss Elizabeth at length.
“I will own I am at a loss, Miss Elizabeth,” replied Darcy. “Wickham seemed the one whom the facts fit, though I will own the evidence was not perfect. Now we are back at the beginning, and I do not know what to think.”
“It all seems to return to whoever was in the room with Mr. Wickham last night,” said Miss Elizabeth.
“I do not suppose you recognized the voice?” said Mr. Darcy, with a half-hearted attempt at seriousness.
“The second voice was quiet, almost inaudible.” Miss Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. “There is no hope from that perspective.”
“Then we shall have to continue as we were,” said Darcy. “Stay with your sisters, Miss Elizabeth. I cannot help but think that Netherfield has become extremely dangerous for us all.”
Mr. Darcy’s ominous words stayed with Elizabeth for the rest of the day. Though it was possible Mr. Darcy had meant to keep Mr. Wickham’s death a secret from all but the gentlemen, and she could understand his reasons, it was not to be. When she and Jane returned to the family rooms, the matter was quickly pulled from them by their mother.
“That is the end,” said her father, looking out over all his progeny. “You will all stay in these rooms until we are to depart for Longbourn. No exceptions.”
It was clear to Elizabeth that her father was speaking more to her than her sisters, and she agreed to his stipulation. Even Lydia and Kitty, tired of being confined as they were, gave no objections to their father’s command.
Several times through the day, either Mr. Darcy or Colonel Fitzwilliam came to the door and spoke with her father in low tones. Mr. Bennet even left with them a time or two, though he always returned swiftly. Of what they were speaking, Elizabeth could not determine, and her father declined to be explicit. On one occasion, however, Elizabeth was able to induce him to inform her of the content of his discussions.
“I assume you have looked out the window, Lizzy,” said he, his own eyes finding the panes of glass separating them from the outside.
“It has begun to rain in earnest,” replied Elizabeth.
“It has, indeed. Unfortunately, rather than making the situation better, it is making it much worse. The flooding concerns concerning the bridge have been realized—the water is flowing over the top of it, and it will be a miracle if it is not washed away.”
“But surely it will return to normal quickly,” said Elizabeth.
“I have reason to believe it will,” replied her father. “It will, however, confine us to Netherfield until at least tomorrow, and likely until the day after. The tenants are also suffering it seems, particularly those down by the river. It will take significant effort to return things to what they were before, and I can only guess the state of Longbourn’s lands.”
“We shall weather it, Papa,” said Elizabeth. “This is not the first time Mother Nature has played havoc with our lives.”
Her father responded with a grin, though it did not take anything away from his worried countenance. “You have always been the most resilient of your sisters, Lizzy. I am happy and privileged to be your father. But more than this, I am eager to leave this estate behind and return to our home, where I can see to the safety of you, your mother, and your sisters myself.” Mr. Bennet paused, and his eyes were unfocused for a moment. “I think I shall insist on Mr. Collins’s return to his parish as soon as may be arranged. It would be better if we did not host anyone at present.”
While Elizabeth would not wish for one gentleman caller, in particular, to be turned away from Longbourn’s door—and knew Jane felt the same way about her caller—she knew her father spoke nothing but sense. As such, she agreed with his assessment.
“The other issue,” said Mr. Bennet, returning to his serious demeanor, “is that the servants have begun to abandon the estate.”
“I suppose we should have anticipated that,” said Elizabeth. “How bad has it become?”
“Thus far only a footman,” said Mr. Bennet. “I do not know what the chances are of his reaching his destination safely, but he announced his intention to depart to another, and left the house.”
Elizabeth gasped. “Could he be the one responsible?”
“It does not seem likely,” replied her father with a shaken head. “I have been speaking with Mr. Darcy today, and we are almost assured that the murderer in one of us.”
With that pronouncement, Mr. Bennet moved away and left Elizabeth to her sisters. She could not fault their conclusions—she had always suspected someone of the company herself. Their number was diminishing, however, and soon it would not be possible to continue to take lives and not be discovered.
They continued in this way throughout the entire day. The Bennet sisters were kept in their room by the command of their father, who was intent upon seeing them all protected. They largely split into two groups. Kitty, Lydia, and Mrs. Bennet, from what Elizabeth could determine, occupied themselves by speaking this piece of gossip or that, ruminating about the officers they had not seen since the night of the ball, interspersed with complaints of ennui and the wish they could leave Netherfield. Elizabeth largely sat with Mary and Jane, and while Mary’s society was made irksome by her frequently stated desire to go to the music room for the pianoforte, the three young ladies did well enough together.
Only once was their solitude challenged. Not long after Elizabeth’s discussion with her father, there was a knock on the door. Mr. Bennet motioned to his daughters to stand clear, and he went and opened it himself. The identity of the person on the other side was immediately evident by the loud voice and grand pronouncements, though Mr. Bennet kept the door in a position which did not allow Elizabeth to see the parson. It also soon devolved into an argument.
“Ah, my dear cousin!” said Mr. Collins. “I can see you are keeping your lovely and amiable daughters sequestered away in your rooms. Good for you! As we are all members of the same family, I know you will wish to allow me entrance, particularly when I have not seen your fair daughter Elizabeth since yesterday. I am quite certain she is pining for my presence.”
Elizabeth felt like gagging at the notion she would wish to see Mr. Collins, but her father, fortunately, was not amused by the parson’s silliness. “These are bedchambers, Mr. Collins,” said he. “Regardless of the situation, it would not be proper for you to be within them. I am certain Elizabeth can manage without your presence.”
“But, Cousin! I am alon
e, and given what has happened, I am convinced we shall all have a greater chance at safety should we stay together. I am confident that as I am a man of the family—the next head of the family when you should go to your reward—that there is no impropriety.”
“There you would be wrong, Collins,” was Mr. Bennet’s testy reply. “I have already informed you of the impropriety of your request, and I have told you numerous times that my daughters are free to marry whomever they choose. I would ask you to cease speaking of Elizabeth as if she is your betrothed. I have it on very good authority she will refuse you, should you possess the poor judgment to offer for her.”
And with those final words, Mr. Bennet closed the door, quietly, but firmly. If Elizabeth thought that was the end of the matter, she would have been sorely mistaken.
“But, Mr. Bennet!” wailed her mother. “Our daughters must marry! This talk of Elizabeth waiting is all nonsense. Mr. Collins’s offer is before her; she must accept it!”
“Mrs. Bennet,” said Mr. Bennet, his tone one which he rarely used with any of them, but one which they all knew was not to be questioned. “Please recall that it is I who have the responsibility of agreeing to suitors’ requests for our daughters. If Elizabeth were forced into marriage with Mr. Collins, she would be miserable.”
Her mother seemed about to object again, but Mr. Bennet’s countenance softened, and he approached her, smiling at her. “All is not as bleak as you think, my dear. I suspect you will be pleased with the man Lizzy eventually marries. Indeed, I cannot think of how you could possibly object.”
Then with a wink, Mr. Bennet moved away. Elizabeth felt herself the focus of Mrs. Bennet’s curious glances, and she thought more than once her mother would speak to work on her to accept Mr. Collins, but in the end, she allowed the matter to rest and remained silent.
And so it continued. The Bennets requested their dinners in the room, and after dinner, there was naught to do but go to bed. Elizabeth did not think she was fatigued, but she soon fell into a slumber.