by Jann Rowland
When she woke, the darkness of the room attested to the lateness of the hour, and she tried to once again drift off to sleep. But as she tried, her mind remained awake, becoming more alert by the moment. Something was bothering her, something Mr. Collins had said earlier. And regardless of her father’s edict, she could not rest until she learned the truth of the matter.
Thus, Elizabeth silently rose and donned her robe, and slipped out the door.
Chapter XXIII
“UNFORTUNATELY, DARCY,” SAID FITZWILLIAM, “I cannot make heads nor tails of this. There must be something linking the four victims together, but if there is, it is eluding me.”
Darcy nodded, rose, and went to the fireplace, sticking the poker in and pushing the coals about, sending sparks shooting up into the chimney. They had made their way to his room after dinner, not that dinner had been much of an affair at all. They had seen no one else, except for Bingley for a few short moments, and Mr. Collins, who carried on with his pompous nothings until Darcy told him in no uncertain terms that he did not wish to speak with a sycophant. The rest of the company had remained in their rooms, requesting dinner there, and even the servants were paired up when delivering the meals.
“I was convinced it was Wickham,” said Darcy at length.
“I know you were, Cousin. And I can understand your suspicions, given your history with him.” Though Darcy was turned with his back to his cousin, he heard Fitzwilliam sigh and shift in his chair. “I have little desire to exonerate Wickham in anything. But I will say that he has never struck me as a killer—a bounder, a debtor, a seducer, and perhaps every other vice known to man, yes. But a killer? I never thought he had the stomach for it.”
Darcy sighed. “When I was shot at, it seemed so obvious.” Turning, Darcy looked at his cousin. “Who else would have wished to kill me in such a manner?”
“I think you are missing something here, Cousin.” Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his eyes fixed upon Darcy. “You were not the only one present when the shot was fired.”
He had not thought of that. “You suspect the shooter was aiming for Mr. Bennet?”
“I am only suggesting it is possible. That is part of the reason you were so fixed on Wickham—the idea that it must have been you who was the target. What if that were not the case?”
“Then it seems we must consider who might have wished to kill Mr. Bennet. There is one obvious suspect, but considering what I know of him, I can hardly think he would have been responsible.”
Fitzwilliam barked a laugh. “It does seem ridiculous, does it not? To think an ineffectual bootlicker such as Collins might have attempted to shoot Mr. Bennet sounds like something out of a novel. I am not even certain the man knows what end of a pistol to fire.”
A chuckle escaped Darcy’s lips, and he was forced to agree that his cousin was entirely correct. “But I suppose we should not eliminate him, regardless of how stupid he presents himself to be.”
“The important consideration, then, is whether Mr. Bennet might have anything in common with any of the others.”
Darcy paused and considered the matter. “Mr. Bennet having something in common with Lady Catherine? I cannot think of what if there is something. And Miss Bingley?” Darcy snorted. “I would think that Miss Bingley would have more in common with Lady Catherine, rather than Mr. Bennet. And the butler is nothing like any of the others.”
“Except, perhaps, his looks.”
Curious, Darcy turned to regard Fitzwilliam, noting his distracted air. “What do you mean? Mr. Bennet looks nothing like Mr. Forbes.”
“From the front, no,” replied Fitzwilliam. “But one could easily be mistaken for the other from behind if you do not take into account the slight difference in height and that of dress.”
“Are you suggesting that Mr. Forbes was murdered because he was mistaken for Mr. Bennet?”
Fitzwilliam did not immediately respond, and when he did, he spoke slowly. “I do not know I am suggesting anything, Darcy. Now that I think of it, however, it strikes me that Mr. Forbes was a man of approximately Mr. Bennet’s age, I believe, and they both have a similar look from behind. In a darkened hall, it is quite possible one who wished Mr. Bennet harm might have mistaken the butler for him.”
“Very well,” said Darcy, frowning in thought. “If we assume that, it seems that Mr. Collins is the most likely suspect. The problem, however, lies with the fact that Mr. Collins would never have killed Lady Catherine.”
“Could there have been some sort of chain of murders, one leading to the next?”
“I do not know how that could be,” replied Darcy. “If I understand what you are attempting to say, that would mean Lady Catherine killed the butler, was in turned killed by Miss Bingley, who was slain by Wickham and then he by someone else. Beyond the fact that Lady Catherine would have no reason to kill Mr. Forbes, I cannot imagine anyone would have been motivated to vengeance for his sake, lest of all Miss Bingley.”
“I do not necessarily mean that the killings were vengeance motivated, one after the other. I only wondered if there could have been a chain of events which led to each one.”
“If there is, then I do not believe either of us is intelligent enough to decipher it.”
They fell silent for a time after, Darcy stalking the room, his mind a whirl, trying to solve the riddle. It appeared that Fitzwilliam slept, for his eyes were closed and he made not a move. Darcy, however, was filled with restless energy, felt it rolling off him in great waves. He was incapable of sitting still and would be able to sleep not a wink, even should he attempt it.
“It seems to me, Darcy,” said Fitzwilliam, his eyes cracking open and following Darcy’s movement about the room, “it all comes back to what you and Miss Bennet overheard last night. Wickham was speaking about blackmailing someone, and I can imagine no other reason he would attempt to do such a thing unless he had deciphered the riddle.”
Darcy stopped and turned to consider his cousin. “He was insufferably smug, more so than he usually was. He seemed to think he knew something I did not.”
“We have returned to not wishing to attribute anything good to George Wickham. But much as I detested him, he was not unintelligent. It is quite possible he discovered the truth.”
“And it would be just like him to keep the knowledge to himself for his own gain,” growled Darcy.
With a sudden motion, Fitzwilliam rose to his feet. “Come, Darcy. I wish to check the library again. I have had a sudden thought.”
Then, without speaking another word, Fitzwilliam strode from the room.
Elizabeth knew she had made a tactical error the moment she walked into the kitchen. Her only thought had been the questions she had wished to ask the housekeeper, and she had not taken any thought for how the woman would react to seeing her wandering the house alone again.
“Miss Elizabeth!” exclaimed Mrs. Nichols when she entered. “Why are you here again, and at such an hour?”
She felt like a young girl, caught stealing cookies from the kitchens at Longbourn. Though her courage was equal to the task of withstanding the anger of Netherfield’s housekeeper, she had no desire to justify her actions. Thus, she said the first words which came to her mind.
“I came with my father. He is in the library and is awaiting my return.”
Mrs. Nichols was openly skeptical of Elizabeth’s explanation, but Elizabeth did not allow her any time to consider it. “I had another question if you do not mind.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Nichols. Her tone was more conciliatory, as she seemed to remember that she was speaking with a guest and a gentlewoman. “How can I help you?”
“I wished to know of the brandy which was sent up to Miss Bingley’s room. Is there anything else you can think of which might shed some light on it? Brandy, for example, is a man’s drink—I am surprised Miss Bingley had it in her room, rather than sherry.”
“I remember thinking the same,” said Mrs. Nichols. “
But Miss Bingley drank more brandy than even her brother, given the number of times we were called upon to replenish what she kept in her room.”
“Is it possible someone might have thought the brandy was intended for a man?”
“Of course, it is possible,” said Mrs. Nichols. “Were you thinking of anyone in particular?”
“No,” confessed Elizabeth. “It just struck me as odd that someone would have known to poison that particular bottle of brandy when a woman would usually choose other, milder liquors.”
“I suppose,” muttered Mrs. Nichols. “But I assure you that the servants have not gossiped. I do not know of any way any of the other guests would have learned of Miss Bingley’s predilection.”
“Then they could not have known to poison the brandy unless one of the servants had been induced to share who had requested it.”
“I have questioned all the servants myself, Miss Bennet. None of them reported anything unusual from any of the guests.”
Elizabeth bit her lip in frustration. She was certain the answer was just beyond her grasp, could almost feel her fingers brushing up against it, sending it fluttering just a little further out of reach. She was so close—she could feel it!
“Could someone have been trying to poison Mr. Bingley?” asked she, more to herself than the housekeeper. “Or Mr. Darcy or Colonel Fitzwilliam? If it had been port wine, I might almost have thought it was intended for my father.”
“Port wine, did you say?” asked Mrs. Nichols.
A glance up confirmed what Elizabeth had heard in the woman’s voice. She appeared almost spooked at whatever Elizabeth had said, though Elizabeth could not hope to fathom the meaning of her reaction.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “My father’s predilection for port is well-known among his friends and family—he rarely has anything else in his study.”
Eyes wide, Mrs. Nichols swallowed thickly. “I have just recalled, Miss Bennet, that there was also a request that day for a bottle of port wine to be taken to your father’s room. In fact, I believe the port and the brandy sat together for a little time before Miss Bingley’s brandy was taken above stairs. The port was not delivered until later in the day.”
A chill raced through Elizabeth’s veins, though she attempted to contain her shock and fear. She thought she did a credible job of hiding her reaction to the housekeeper’s words, as the woman did nothing more than look at her in shock. When she felt she had mastered herself enough, Elizabeth attempted to speak again.
“The port and brandy sat together?”
“Yes. I did not remember it until this moment, as we had all focused on the brandy.”
“Then it is possible that whoever poisoned the brandy, thought it was destined for my father’s room. Not expecting a woman to be requesting brandy, he might have made an assumption and been tragically wrong.”
“That is possible. But who would wish to kill your father?”
In fact, Elizabeth thought she knew quite well who would wish to murder her father. But another thought entered her mind, and she gave voice to it before even taking a moment to consider it.
“Mrs. Nichols, another question: are you aware of Lady Catherine’s insistent demands for a better room?”
An expression of disgust from the housekeeper told Elizabeth she was well acquainted with it. “The woman sought me out herself no less than thrice. She argued with Miss Bingley too, on several occasions, from what I understand.”
“Do you know with whom she wished to exchange rooms?”
“She required a change of rooms for both her and her daughter, with an adjoining door between them,” replied Mrs. Nichols.
“I believe she had words with your father. As you know, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were assigned adjoining rooms.”
Elizabeth was well aware of it, for had she not spent the last two days complete trapped in that room with her sisters, hoping they survived long enough to return home? Her mind flashed back to the argument she had witnessed between her father and Lady Catherine, and she distinctly remembered Mr. Collins watching them as well. The implications were stunning. Not only had two bottles of liquor been prepared to be taken above stairs, but might Mr. Collins not have assumed his great patroness would carry the day, ousting her parents from their rooms? Then, logically, they would have been installed in Lady Catherine’s room. And Lady Catherine was murdered overnight.
“I . . . I must go,” stammered Elizabeth, turning and making for the door without seeing where she was going.
“Miss Elizabeth!” exclaimed Mrs. Nichols. “Should I not escort you?”
By this time, Elizabeth was running, heedless of whatever was said by the housekeeper. In the recesses of her mind, she could see images of a vengeful Mr. Collins entering her parents’ bedchamber even now, his despicable actions leaving her and her sisters orphans. The need to return to her family was nigh overwhelming. Elizabeth ran.
The library was dark and cold, the fire having burnt down in the grate. The candle Darcy had had the presence of mind to take from his room provided scant light, its flickering casting shadows on the walls, undulating like some tortured ghosts. The room was deserted and quiet, though a wind had sprung up, howling outside, some ominous music wailing in tune with the beating of Darcy’s heart.
“What do you hope to find?” asked Darcy of Fitzwilliam as his cousin began to look about the room.
“A passage in the walls, perhaps,” said Fitzwilliam, his distraction causing him to murmur lowly. Darcy was forced to strain to hear him. “Light some of these candles,” said Fitzwilliam, gesturing about the room to the candles in the sconces. “We will need some light to find what we are looking for.”
Darcy did as he was bid and spoke at the same time. “Do you truly think there are passages in the walls?”
“It is possible,” said Fitzwilliam absently. “Snowlock has them, as I am certain you remember. Some houses are positively rife with them.”
Nodding, Darcy continued to light candles, and in a few moments, enough were shining on the room as to give them some light by which they could see. Then Darcy turned back to his cousin, who was surveying the room and speaking in a soft tone.
“Not on the outside wall. The inner wall, too, has not enough room to hide a passage.” Fitzwilliam strode to the door on the side of the room and peered through it, nodding to himself as he did so. “This wall is also too narrow to accommodate a passage. Thus, if there is one, it could only be in this wall.”
He spoke his last words pointing to the wall near where they had found Wickham. In that particular wall, the large fireplace was set and flanking it were two bookshelves, each taller than Darcy and almost as wide as he could spread his arms. Most of Bingley’s small collection were resting on the shelves on the inner wall, leaving these cases almost bare.
“That would make sense, of course,” said Fitzwilliam, speaking with what Darcy thought was an absence of mind. “It has bothered me since we found Wickham that he might have been taken unaware, even if he had fallen asleep. If the murderer was able to come upon him from behind, that would better explain it.”
“There does not appear to be any break in the wallpaper,” said Darcy, running his hands over the far side of the wall away from the fireplace. “Except for the obvious seams between the sheets. That would leave the bookcases.”
Fitzwilliam nodded, though he had been inspecting a section near the outer wall. “Then the bookcases it is.”
“This room is a disgrace,” muttered Darcy. He began to run his hands along the sides of the bookshelf, searching for anything out of the ordinary. His cousin was doing the same with the other one.
“I assume you mean the lack of books here?” Fitzwilliam shook his head and chuckled. “Not everyone is as intent upon reading every book in the world as you are, Darcy.”
“I am not intent upon reading every book,” said Darcy, teasing his cousin with his lofty tone. “Only the good ones.”
Fi
tzwilliam barked a laugh. “I fear there are far too many of those for you to read them all in one lifetime.”
“You may be correct,” said Darcy, far from perturbed. “But I shall do my best, regardless.”
They did not speak for several moments, each concentrating on their task. The wood was cool to the touch and smooth, and as Darcy continued to search, he caught a hint of the scent of the polish which caused the wood to gleam. The grains were clear of dirt and other substances, free of dust, which prompted Darcy’s approval—the housekeeper knew her business and took care to ensure that even unused pieces of furniture were cleaned regularly.
“Darcy. I think I have found something.”
Darcy glanced at his cousin, to see him working at a section of the bookcase near the floor. Leaving his bookshelf, Darcy stepped forward, only to hear the click of a latch being released and see the shelf swing out an inch or two. There was naught but darkness beyond.
“It is hidden in the wood of the bottom shelf,” explained Fitzwilliam.
He pulled the bookcase forward, and it swung on silent hinges, leaving a narrow corridor, shadowed and dusty. As Darcy grasped the candle in its holder, he noted that there were tracks in the dust—several tracks, both leading to and from the library. He quickly pointed them out to his cousin.
“The hinges are hidden well, too,” said Fitzwilliam, gesturing to where they were situated behind the edge of the bookcase. “And they have been oiled recently, as they made no sound.”
Fitzwilliam stooped and ran a finger along the lower hinge, his finger coming away with a line of dark liquid clinging to it. Darcy raised the candle, inspecting the walls and ceiling of the passage.
“I suspect cobwebs have been cleaned away too,” said Darcy.
“Well, then,” said Fitzwilliam turning a grin on Darcy. “Shall we?”
Nodding, Darcy stepped in, leading the way with his candle. It was not the first time he had walked such eerie steps. But he could not help the shudder which passed through him.