The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy

by Regina Jeffers

  She cocked one sardonic eyebrow at him. “I am pleased you find my efforts on your behalf a source of entertainment, Mr. Darcy.”

  He learned forward to return the errant curl to its rightful place. “Oh, my dearest Elizabeth,” he whispered into her ear. “You bring me joy. Every day, I wake with a new happiness. It is not at your embarrassment that I smile.” He took a half step back where he might look upon her countenance. “Being with you is perfection.”

  Elizabeth sighed heavily. “When you say such exquisite things, I cannot remain the least out of sorts with you, and I must tell you, Mr. Darcy, that I find my inability to do so most disconcerting. You save me from useless remonstrance.”

  “We each can no longer afford to cherish pride or resentment,” he suggested. “Now, tell me of your discovery.”

  Her hands tightly gripped the still-dusty volumes. She thrust them into Darcy’s open palms. “The late Mr. Darcy’s journals,” she announced royally. “There was a locked chest hidden under a false bottom in your cousin’s wardrobe. I found the key earlier today, but I had no idea, at the time, what lock it might match,” she said on a rush. “I brought these. The dates show them to be samples I have chosen to represent the past ten years.” She reclaimed one of the leather tomes and thumbed through it. “From what I can tell upon my initial perusal, your cousin religiously summarized his thoughts each day. There are six books representing each year. The ones in your hands are from the prior two years.” She pointed to a date on one of the entries.

  Her spontaneous, untaught felicity regarding the discovery warmed Darcy’s heart. “You are magnificent,” he praised her honestly. “Have Murray move the chest to my carriage. I would not wish to leave Samuel’s private musings to just anyone. We will read them together at the cottage.” He wrapped the twine-tied stacks in his handkerchief and returned them to her. “Mr. Glover will arrive soon, if you care to join me.”

  Elizabeth smiled brightly. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam, for including me. I shan’t be long. I shall freshen my things.” She turned toward the door, but Elizabeth paused in her exit. “Perhaps it might be best if we do not share our discoveries with those of the late Mr. Darcy’s staff. We agreed to be less credulous in our dealings with those who knew your cousin.”

  Darcy looked pointedly at his wife. “Although I suspect you are correct, what else has triggered your hesitation?”

  Elizabeth winced visibly. “It is odd. I imagined a man of Samuel Darcy’s obvious intelligence not to succumb to superstitious talismans.”

  “I fear you hold me at a disadvantage, my dear.” Darcy stared at his wife impassively.

  Elizabeth shivered in disgust. “There are small painted eyes upon the walls and witch balls hanging at each window in your cousin’s bedchamber.”

  “And these are...” Darcy’s voice rose in question.

  “Are symbols for protection against spirits,” Elizabeth finished his sentence. “Do you know nothing of Witas and fairies, Fitzwilliam?” she asked in frustration.

  Darcy smiled with bemusement. “Obviously, my university education was greatly lacking in folklore.”

  Elizabeth sighed heavily. “Then I must bring you up to snuff, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Tonight, my dear,” he said seductively. “I will be an apt pupil for all your whims.”

  Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink before she turned once more toward the door. “If you had had a mind to do so, you would have made a fine London rake, my husband. You manage to turn every conversation to your benefit,” she teased. Elizabeth presented him with a brief curtsy. “I shall return momentarily. Order tea, Fitzwilliam.”

  Looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread, Darcy sighed contentedly. It was very vexatious how much he required her in his life. Now that Elizabeth had placed herself under his protection, Darcy was inclined to credit what she wished. “When she is happy, my days are favorable to tenderness and sentiment.”

  “It was a most unusual case,” Mr. Glover shared. The surgeon was a younger man than Darcy had expected, likely in his late thirties or early forties. “Your cousin’s body showed early signs of deterioration. After all, Samuel had lain on a wooded path for many hours before one of Stowbridge’s footmen found him. It was prudent to see to Samuel’s services as quickly as possible.” Glover presented Darcy and Elizabeth the branch without a bark. “Per the late Mr. Darcy’s instructions, his man prepared your cousin’s body, but Mr. Williamson refused to allow Mr. Crescent to practice the uncivilized arts the man learned in Egypt. They are too primitive by English standards. The good Christians in this community would have no man’s body mutilated, even at the gentleman’s final wishes,” he said pompously.

  Sorrow and horror clouded Darcy’s countenance. He protested, “If my cousin’s last wishes were to have his body mummified in the ancient arts he had studied, then I do not understand how others presumed to choose otherwise.”

  Glover shot a quick glance of concern at Elizabeth, but he described the Egyptian process nevertheless. “Christians consider the practice barbarous, Mr. Darcy. No Englishman would tolerate such tomfoolery,” he declared in repugnance. “As a surgeon, I am not unaccustomed to cutting into the human body, but most Christians believe that God never intended for a man to have his lungs, liver, stomach, and intestines removed and placed in a jar. Nor would any in Wimborne permit a man’s brain to be violently ripped from his skull.”

  Darcy tightened his grasp on Elizabeth’s hand, but his wife did not appear squeamish. On the contrary, her countenance reflected her genuine interest in what Glover had said. “I understand how a person might find the possibilities appalling,” Darcy said evenly. “Yet, I am equally aghast that Cousin Samuel’s last wishes were ignored. What I know of Samuel Darcy says he would not have made such a choice without careful analysis. If Samuel came to a difficult decision regarding his resting state, I would have been inclined to honor it.”

  Glover apparently was not one to admit an injury or a weakness, for he said, “What was or was not addressed cannot be undone. Samuel’s body had obviously served him well in this world, and as we have no idea what became of him, we must follow the example set by Mr. Williamson’s parishioners and simply pray for your cousin’s eternal soul.”

  Darcy bit back his retort. “Do you have a theory as to what happened the night the Rom was killed?”

  “I examined Besnik Gry after the explosion. Mr. Gry likely died immediately. The gunpowder blew away part of the man’s countenance and left a gaping hole in Gry’s chest,” Glover reported. The surgeon shifted his gaze to where Darcy studied him. News of an explosion a revelation. “By the time of my arrival, Mr. Gry had expired, and the villagers had whisked his contact to the Wimborne gaol.”

  Darcy’s dark eyes were troubled. He was never at ease when a puzzle required solving. “I was led to believe only Besnik Gry had been found that evening. Has Gry’s contact been properly questioned regarding the theft of Samuel’s body?”

  A shadow of sorrow crossed the surgeon’s countenance. “Unfortunately, the stranger did not survive. The explosion had sent shrapnel crisscrossing the man’s chest, and then again, the villagers had taken their ire out on the man. I treated the stranger, but he never awakened from his injuries. Two days after his incarceration, the accused passed quietly in his sleep.”

  A dark brow flicked upward. Regret and anger tinged Darcy’s voice. “And what of the other assailant?”

  “The first of the villagers to arrive in their nightshirts and gowns reported observing someone running away from the scene, but no one gave pursuit.”

  Darcy tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Another broken trail. He blew out a frustrated sigh. “Is there no end to this madness?” The uncertainty played havoc with Darcy’s need to control everything in his world. “Mrs. Darcy and I are being led on a merry chase, and I, for one, am exhausted by the duplicity.”

&nbs
p; They had enjoyed another stroll on the beach and a leisurely meal when they returned to their let cottage. “Obviously, we cannot trust anyone involved in this matter,” Elizabeth had declared.

  “It would appear so,” Darcy said as he sat heavily in his chair. “We should likely reconstruct our list.”

  “And burn the previous one,” Elizabeth observed. “I want no proof of what we suspect.”

  The continued quagmire pricked Darcy’s pride. A puzzle as complicated as discovering his cousin’s murderer had not been what he had expected when he had set a course for Dorset. “I would not consider documenting our concerns except I fear forgetting an important detail. I anticipate the colonel and whomever he has hired to aid in the investigation to arrive on Monday.”

  “I shall be pleased to speak to someone who does not believe we have lost our senses,” Elizabeth said. “When we first began to question the handling of the late Mr. Darcy’s death, I thought it simply some provincial malfeasance. Unfortunately, I now suspect more nefarious designs.”

  “I worry that I have placed you in danger,” Darcy confessed.

  Elizabeth sat on the chair’s arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. Darcy brought his arms about her. “I do not think either of us is in immediate danger,” she assured. “I feel this crime is more one of silence than it is of violence. It is as if everyone speaks in half truths.”

  Darcy and Elizabeth stepped from a millinery shop in Christchurch’s busy business district into the strong April sunshine. “It is a beautiful day,” Elizabeth observed. Darcy had insisted they not return to Woodvine Hall for a third day. “It may lessen suspicion,” he had reasoned. The more he had considered the evident dangers of their investigation, the more his protective instincts had increased. It was his duty to seek an answer to the question of his cousin’s death, but he held a more pressing duty to Elizabeth.

  He turned when he heard his name called. Recognizing the approaching gentleman, Darcy placed Elizabeth on his arm and prepared to greet a former acquaintance. “Tregonwell,” he called as he offered the man a bow. “What brings you from Cranborne’s doors to Christchurch?” Lewis Tregonwell had served as a captain in the Dorset Rangers. Darcy had made the man’s acquaintance at a house party several years prior, and they had corresponded with some regularity over the years since Darcy’s father’s passing and his coming into Pemberley’s ownership.

  “You have not heard?” Tregonwell asked as he amiably bowed to the Darcys. “I have purchased land from Sir George Ivison Tapps on Bourne Heath. Mrs. Tregonwell and I have built a summer home. We have been there a year last month. We spend more time at Bourne than we do at Cranborne Lodge,” he said jovially.

  Darcy explained, “Mrs. Darcy and I have set in at Bourne’s harbor.”

  Tregonwell smiled widely. “And this lovely lady must be the aforementioned Mrs. Darcy.”

  Darcy chuckled. “I have forgotten my manners. Mr. Tregonwell, allow me to present my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. Elizabeth, this is Captain Lewis Tregonwell.”

  Elizabeth curtsied. “I am pleased for the acquaintance, Captain Tregonwell.”

  “Have you come to Dorset for Mudeford’s famous healing waters?” Tregonwell asked.

  “We have, Sir,” Elizabeth said softly.

  Darcy added, “After we see to my cousin’s estate. Lady Cynthia Sanderson and I are his heirs.”

  Tregonwell said in disbelief, “Samuel Darcy. Of course, I should have made the connection.”

  Darcy said with hesitation. “You knew my cousin.”

  “Only by reputation,” Tregonwell confessed. “The loss of any man of letters leaves a gaping hole in Dorset’s future. I extend my condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Darcy said sincerely.

  Tregonwell nodded his understanding. “Despite the circumstances of your presence in Dorset, I am more than pleased to know of your recent marriage and to claim the acquaintance of Mrs. Darcy.” He motioned his waiting servant to precede him to his carriage. “Mrs. Tregonwell and I are hosting a small gathering tomorrow evening to celebrate our first year at Bourne. Please say you and Mrs. Darcy will join us. It is an intimate gathering of family and friends.”

  Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. He liked the idea of introducing her to his acquaintances. A country society would not be too intimidating for Elizabeth to assume her role as his wife. At Pemberley, during Derbyshire’s winter months, they had enjoyed their isolated existence, but it was time they claimed their place as a couple. “It would be our honor, Tregonwell.”

  “Excellent.” The captain made to leave them. “I will send a man around with a proper invitation. Where might you be staying, Darcy?”

  “The cottages.”

  Tregonwell grinned slyly. “Wonderful accommodations.”

  “Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Barrows said, “it is my understanding you are in Dorset to tend to your late cousin’s affairs.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Darcy said absentmindedly. He watched his wife charm her tablemates. Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and Darcy imagined how she had manipulated her words to offer the young Mr. Grantham a double entendre. Grantham sighed deeply, and Darcy smiled. He had once presented the world a similar countenance. Elizabeth Bennet had besotted him with her dazzling smile and her sharp wit. His wife shot him a quick glance, and Darcy winked at her.

  “And do you intend to be in Dorset long?” Mrs. Barrows continued.

  Reluctantly, Darcy turned his attention upon the woman. “My cousin’s niece is not expected until month’s end. Lady Cynthia is recovering from her lying-in. Mrs. Darcy and I have chosen to celebrate our joining by partaking of Mudeford’s waters.”

  Mr. Carnes, Tregonwell’s man of business, asked, “Recently married, Mr. Darcy?”

  Darcy nodded. “Since November. But Mrs. Darcy and I took no time for a holiday. I stand as guardian for my sister, and Miss Darcy and my wife wished to return to our family estate of Pemberley to open the manor’s doors for the neighborhood during the Festive Days. Unfortunately, Derbyshire’s winters often prevent travel. This has been our first opportunity to enjoy other parts of England.”

  “Yet, it is a sad occasion,” Mrs. Barrows noted. “Will you wear mourning, Mr. Darcy?”

  Darcy felt a sudden rush of protectiveness for his family’s name. “As Samuel Darcy was my second cousin and as he passed nearly a month prior, I see no need for my wife or I to don black. The honor we do my cousin is to organize his affairs.”

  Carnes added, “I am familiar with the late Mr. Darcy. He was a great collector of the unusual.”

  Darcy gazed steadily at his tablemates. His eyes darkened, and his expression became serious. “Samuel Darcy was a man of science. A man of great intelligence, but also a man of compassion. My family was blessed to count him among us.”

  Later, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Darcy sought his wife among the chattering women. She thumbed through the sheet music left behind on the pianoforte. He looked over her shoulder at the song titles. “Do you intend to entertain us, my dear?”

  Elizabeth glanced up at him. “I did not wish to commit myself to the card tables,” she confided.

  Darcy asked softly, “Would you prefer to make our departure? I hold no qualms regarding making our apologies.”

  Elizabeth chose several pieces from the stack. “Perhaps you would join me on the bench, my husband. I will play if you will turn the pages.”

  “Promise me you will sing at least one,” he said intimately. “Your voice provides me such contentment. It is as if I hear home calling to me.”

  Elizabeth blushed. “Likely you mistake my caterwauling for ‘home’” she said, but he noted how his compliment had pleased her.

  Darcy sat close enough to whisper intimacies in her ear. Elizabeth smiled and giggled. Her skills on the pianoforte had improved dramatically, thanks to his sister. Georgiana practiced very constantly, and his sister’s influence showed in Elizabeth’s performance. “Well, Mr. Darcy, what do
I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”

  “I care not which song you choose; I care only for the woman who performs it. My wish is to remain by your side all evening, Lizzy,” he said huskily. “You mesmerize me as much as you do the rest of Mr. Tregonwell’s guests. You have captured the room’s complete attention.”

  Elizabeth shrugged away his praise. This was typical for his wife: Elizabeth set her shoulders to the task at hand, but he noted how her gaze flickered with unspoken passion. Her protest was reflexive. “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution. For example, my sisters Georgiana and Mary greatly outshine my effort.”

  “Yet, neither possesses your easy and unaffected touch. Although another may eagerly succeed you at the instrument, your audience will appreciate your efforts with much more pleasure.”

  Although it was a Sunday, they had made an unannounced visit to Woodvine Hall. After having purposely stayed away for the two days, Elizabeth had insisted that they attend services in Cousin Samuel’s parish. “We could learn more of the Woodvine household if we mingle among the locals,” she assured Darcy. “You understand the ton and the maneuverings of the aristocracy, and I bow to your expertise, but in a country neighborhood, I hold the advantage. Although some believe,” she alluded to a remark he had once made during their days at Netherfield, “that in a country neighborhood one moves in a very confined and unvarying society, I contend that people themselves alter so much that there is something new to be observed in them forever. We may discover much by speaking to those with whom Cousin Samuel did business.”