The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy

by Regina Jeffers

  McKye dried his face and arms with the towel Holbrook handed him before asking, “Do you wish me to bring up the gypsy first, or one of the others?”

  Edward demanded, “One of the others? What mean you by this?”

  McKye leaned easily against a large boulder along the shoreline. “I spied two others in the same vicinity as the gypsy. Likely all went under from the same spot. No way to tell until we finish our search as to whether that is the extent of the lake’s secrets.”

  “Dear God,” Darcy groaned. “I feel I am in one of those Gothic novels of which Mrs. Darcy is so fond. We have three dead at last count and now some three more. Is this estate cursed?”

  Edward caught Darcy’s shoulder. “I will assist McKye,” his cousin declared. “The fewer who know of this tragedy the better.”

  Darcy reluctantly agreed. “Mrs. Darcy has charged me with your protection. Do not make me disappoint my wife.”

  A little over an hour later, four bodies were stretched out upon the shore. Glover examined each carefully.

  “Can you tell how these men died?” Darcy asked cautiously. “Is it possible they were struck in a manner similar to Cousin Samuel?”

  Glover’s fingers had prodded the distorted skin of each victim. “It would be difficult at this point. When the body sinks, it skims the bottom, often suffering a series of abrasions. Small fish attack the soft tissue of the face. Any head injuries I could identify could have come before the man was submerged, or it could be the result of the shifting waters and the rocks on the lake’s bottom.”

  In the background, Darcy could hear Holbrook relieving himself of his earlier meal. Three of the bodies resembled no human Darcy had ever seen: Each was a greenish brown, excepting the gypsy, who had already taken a tête de nègre appearance. The bodies had swollen and just touching the gooselike skin caused a soft soaplike material to squirt from beneath Glover’s fingers.

  “These bodies have been below for several months. It will be difficult to identify them,” Glover concluded. “I see no reason to cut upon what remains. Leave these men a bit of dignity.”

  Edward straightened the line of his coat. “We cannot simply bury these men as if they never existed,” he declared. “They must have names and families.”

  Holbrook, who had recovered somewhat, said, “I will search the clothing, Mr. Darcy.”

  Noticing the tenuous steps of the groom, Darcy suggested, “Perhaps Mr. Glover might assist you. I believe the good doctor has more experience in such matters.” In comparison to Holbrook, Glover held a fascination with the decomposing body.

  Holbrook’s tongue licked away the dryness from his lips. “It be odd. I can look upon birth but not death.”

  Darcy said, “My cousin and I will return the Rom to the camp.”

  Darcy noted the guarded look in Holbrook’s eyes. “Be wary, Mr. Darcy. There be danger and menace among that one’s people.” The groom gestured to where Elizabeth’s attacker lay.

  Darcy and Edward had hoisted the gypsy’s body upon the back of Darcy’s horse. They had loosely tied the man across the horse’s rump and had purposely not covered the body with a blanket or a rug. “We will announce our disdain by treating their dead with our utter disregard,” Edward had said.

  For Darcy, it was more than that. The gypsy’s death had cheated him of revenge for the interloper’s actions against Elizabeth. His total disregard for the dead would be a salve for his hard resolve. As they rode into the camp, nausea roiled his stomach. In all his years, Darcy had never faced an evil such as the one he had found at Woodvine. In Derbyshire and London, he had dealt quickly and decisively with those who would have cheated him of his family’s fortune, but he had no experience with those who would manipulate and murder with such ease.

  “Follow my lead,” Edward cautioned under his breath. “And do not permit any Rom to tarry behind you. They are known to be deadly accurate with a knife.”

  Darcy nodded his understanding, for the truth was unavoidable: He operated under the impediment of principles and good manners. Darcy feared he possessed no skills to defend his wife’s honor under these bizarre circumstances. A duel would have easily expressed the contempt he felt, but men of breeding dealt differently with honor than did these men. Yet, he held the responsibility to right the wrong exacted against his wife, even if Elizabeth had told him in her indomitable manner that she required no such revenge.

  Gry met them when they entered the gypsy camp. As they had done the previous time, several of the band gathered behind their leader. “Mr. Darcy? Colonel?” the gypsy asked tentatively. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Gry glanced to the corpse. Intent crossed his countenance, and Edward warned menacingly, “Do not mistake our purpose, Gry.”

  The gypsy asked stiffly, “Of what is my cousin accused that he would deserve such disrespect? Or is his only crime that of being a Rom?”

  “Your cousin,” Darcy growled, “had the audacity to insert himself into the life at Woodvine.”

  “And for that crime Vandlo Pias met his death?” Gry accused. “I would know Vandlo’s offense. What did my cousin do? Flirt with one of Mr. Samuel’s servants?”

  Edward nudged his horse between Darcy and the gypsy leader. He swore beneath his breath when he noticed the darkskinned youth stepping from the clearing. Darcy purposely planted his heel in the horse’s side, and the animal dutifully kicked his hind legs. “Best not to stand too close,” Darcy said blandly. “I do not know this mount.” He motioned with the gun he had produced prior to their riding into the camp. “I suggest you join your family.”

  With a knife he had palmed for protection, Edward leaned over to cut the two ropes securing the corpse to the horse’s hindquarters. The one Gry called Vandlo Pias unceremoniously slammed into the dirt. His distorted features told part of the tale.

  Gry’s expression changed instantly from his usual feigned respect to one of pure hatred.

  Darcy could almost feel the gypsy plunging his knife into Darcy’s chest. “Desperate situations,” he heard his father’s voice as a warning. Darcy said indignantly, “Despite my better judgment, I have returned your cousin’s body.”

  Gry hissed, “I have yet to hear of Vandlo’s crime.”

  Before the gypsy leader’s words died in the late spring breeze, Darcy was off his horse and striding toward the man. He caught Gry up by the man’s open-necked shirt. Behind him, he heard Edward’s horse whinny sharply, and he knew his cousin had, literally, protected Darcy’s back. “Your filthy cousin placed his bloody hands on my wife,” he growled within inches of Gry’s face. “Left his fingerprints on Mrs. Darcy’s wrists. I watched in horror as my wife fought the bloody bastard. As he attempted to drown her. You speak of injustice, Gry. Where was the justice when your cousin attacked an innocent woman? If he held me at fault for some matter, then I should have been his target. Instead, the bloody coward looked for a victim.”

  Gry’s eyes betrayed guilt’s edge. “A woman brought about Vandlo’s end?”

  The thought made Darcy smile. “Not just any woman, Gry, but my woman. Why do you think I rushed to make Mrs. Darcy my wife? Elizabeth Darcy is as magnificent as she is invincible. Your cousin was no match for her.”

  Gry asked defiantly, “Then why are you here?”

  Darcy shoved Gry from him. “I want you and yours gone from this place within the hour. If you ever come near Dorset again, I will see your family brought up on charges for assault and for horse theft. And Heaven help you if you think of entering Derbyshire during my lifetime.”

  “An hour?” Gry repeated incredulously.

  Darcy strode to his horse. He easily swung into the saddle. “Would you care to vie for half that time?” he growled. “At one minute past the hour, my men and the local magistrate will take anyone remaining on Woodvine land to gaol.” With that, he turned his horse and swiftly rode away from the scene. His anger had transformed into cold wrath. He had erred in permitting the gypsies to remain on Woodvine land. He
vividly recalled Elizabeth’s self-imposed silence and her vulnerability. He had hoped never to taste such fear again. Fear that he had utterly failed her. He bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on his accountability. Darcy slowed his horse’s pace as Edward came abreast of him. He could no longer afford to cherish pride or resentment. He required a large glass of his cousin Samuel’s best brandy and the presence of the one woman whose spell had captured him some nineteen months prior. The soft certainty of Elizabeth’s love was Darcy’s only reason to live, or to seek honor.

  Within the half hour, they rode into Woodvine’s stable yard. Seeing Holbrook scrubbing the planks of the flat wagon to remove the stench of the bodies surprised them. “What happened to the other three?” Edward inquired.

  Holbrook wiped the sweat from his brow. “Glover went for the curate while Mr. McKye and I brung the bodies around. Once Mr. Williamson arrived to claim the deceased, the curate thought it best to git the deceased in the ground as soon as possible. By and by, the gentleman be recalling the clothing of one of our discoveries and the gold watch we found on another.”

  “Did you recognize the names Williamson provided?” Darcy asked as he dismounted.

  “No, Sir, but Mr. Williamson seemed to know enough of each to think that he could contact those the man left behind.”

  “Where is McKye? Glover?” Darcy glanced to his cousin, who was patiently watching and waiting.

  “Dun’t know ’bout Glover. Supposin’ he had others to tend to. Said something about having to git home to wash up after his examination. Didn’t look so good if’n you ask me. Looked as pale as I did earlier.” The man wiped his neck with a large handkerchief. “Seeing how three more of Tregonwell’s men arrived while we be at the lake, McKye assisted the curate with transporting the bodies to the church.”

  Darcy desperately wished to see to his wife’s recovery, but as the afternoon had gotten away from him, he said, “We should speak to the curate before dusk.” He caught the saddle and mounted once again.

  His cousin’s brow gathered in deep thought. “We might wish to send Holbrook and a couple of Tregonwell’s men to be certain the gypsies have departed.”

  Darcy glanced to the house. “Take Murray and Jatson also,” he instructed the groom. “I have told Gry that I want him and his family off Darcy land within the hour. If he has not obeyed me, send for Stowbridge.”

  “Aye, Sir. I be glad to see that lot gone. Never understood why the late Mr. Darcy be tolerating them such about.” Holbrook dropped the brush he had been using on the wooden slats into a bucket of water. “I be bringing me gun.”

  “No one is to use force unless the gypsies initiate a confrontation,” the colonel cautioned.

  “Does no harm to be prepared,” Holbrook assured as he walked away.

  Darcy might have once cared for the outcome of the ejection of the gypsies from Woodvine land, but his interest in the result had died the moment Vandlo Pias had touched Elizabeth Darcy. Instead, he turned his head, his mount, and his heart from the possibility.

  Without discussion, he and his cousin set a comfortable pace. It was not far to the village. Darcy doubted that Edward approved of Darcy’s actions in dealing with the gypsies. The colonel was a man of diplomacy; yet, his cousin would think differently once Edward married. Even if the colonel settled for a marriage of convenience, rather than one based on true affections, a married Edward Fitzwilliam would have sought revenge on the gypsy camp, likely exacting a more violent response than had Darcy. Edward was slow to rile, but he was dangerous once he was. “The curacy is just ahead,” Darcy said as he dismounted outside the entrance gate.

  “Mr. Williamson and his sexton have been kept busy this past week,” Edward observed as they let the knocker drop on the weathered door.

  “Much to my chagrin,” Darcy remarked. “We have uncovered five bodies in less than a week. How will this community ever recover?”

  Edward said seriously, “By uncovering the perpetrator.”

  The door opened upon the normally jovial curate on the other side. Darcy noted how the dark eyes acknowledged them grudgingly. His cousin’s affairs had introduced deceit into the society of this country. “We had thought to speak to you before the additional deaths become common knowledge.”

  The curate stepped aside to admit them to his austere quarters. “I have asked Mr. Sharp to hire additional diggers, and I will conduct the ceremony tomorrow,” Williamson explained. “Mr. Glover assures me the bodies will decompose quicker once they have been brought to the surface. I thought to keep the services very private. It requires a delicacy of feeling.”

  Darcy nodded his agreement. “I trust your judgment on such matters, Williamson. I will see to the costs if you will send me a tally of the expenses.”

  Williamson gestured to a cluster of chairs. “You are everything that is generous and considerate, Mr. Darcy. The church members will be glad to know that charity will not be necessary.”

  Edward expressed his regret at the sudden intrusion of death upon the village.

  The curate’s dark eyebrows drew together in a pronounced frown. “One does not anticipate so much devastation in the space of days, but I suppose I should have expected something would go amiss. Our little village has known God’s benevolence for too long not to face the world’s worst as a test of its worthiness.” Williamson paused before saying, “I have failed to recognize the obvious, Mr. Darcy.”

  Darcy leaned forward with interest. “Would you care to explain?”

  In an attempt to clear his thinking, the curate scrubbed his face with his dry hands. “In this matter, I have sought similarities, as I am certain have you, Mr. Darcy.”

  Darcy inclined his head aristocratically. “You perhaps have the better of me in that matter. I have no knowledge of the relationships that bind Wimborne’s residents to one another.”

  The curate offered tea, which both Darcy and his cousin declined. Finally, the man said, “From what I know of three of the victims, they each planned to marry.”

  “I am not certain I understand,” Edward interrupted.

  The curate explained, “As I am the vicar’s representative in this village, those who plan to marry often call upon me for advice and to arrange for a calling of the banns.” He paused as if to gather his thoughts. “As such, some time last autumn, Mr. Meurig Pugh called upon the curacy. I recall most vividly how Mr. Pugh extolled his future wife’s many fine qualities, which I thought quite amusing because the gentleman had yet to meet the woman. A friend of an acquaintance had suggested a correspondence between Pugh and his lady, and they had regularly written for nearly a year before Pugh had decided that they should meet and marry. As his home parish was in the western reaches of Wales, I suggested that Pugh establish a residence in the area while the banns were called.

  “He left my parlor on that day with a promise to return once he had earned the lady’s hand. Unfortunately, I never saw the man again. I made the assumption that the woman had sent Pugh packing.”

  “What did Pugh say of the lady?” the colonel inquired.

  “The Welshman spoke of a woman I could not envision. At the time, I had thought that perhaps the lady resided in another parish. He spoke of a woman who had known something of the world. One who had earned her living as a governess before arriving in Dorset to tend to her brother’s household.”

  “Anything else of significance?”

  “I have studied upon it, but I cannot recall any other details,” the curate assured.

  “How did you recognize the man?” Darcy asked.

  Williamson smiled easily. “That atrocious waistcoat. Purple and green and yellow. I have seen nothing to compare in the country. Perhaps in some of London’s ballrooms. I thought it quite comical that Pugh believed it appropriate for wooing his ladylove. There was little of the man’s clothing remaining intact, but the waistcoat announced Pugh’s identity.”

  “Then we speak of the one with the darker hair.” Suspended only by interval
s of astonishment, Darcy spoke his thoughts aloud. “Did Pugh ever mention the lady’s name?” he asked as an afterthought.

  Williamson shook his head in the negative. “As I said earlier, I could not think of any among my congregation who fit the man’s description, nor one who would write to a stranger in another land. When I asked of the lady’s identity, Pugh said he would prefer to wait until he had spoken to the woman before sharing her name. For all I know, Pugh could have had the directions in error, or he could have overestimated the lady’s interest. Some men take words spoken in kindness as being deeper than they are meant.”

  “Who else thought of marriage?” Edward asked in a tone of great amazement.

  “The slim man with the dark blond hair,” Williamson confided. “A Norwegian with an English mother by the name of Cawley Falstad. He arrived in Wimborne in November of last year with a tale similar to Pugh’s but different enough that I took no note at the time.”

  Darcy asked, “How so?”

  “Falstad claimed his mother had wanted to return to England after her husband’s passing, but she feared her son’s lack of understanding of English society would prove a detriment to their remaining in the country. In addition, Mrs. Falstad reasoned a man married to an English-born wife would fare better than a foreign-born country gentleman. Falstad was to inherit a small estate from his mother’s family.

  “Falstad’s mother made inquiries and found a woman who had reportedly lost her bloom and was willing to marry a man wealthy enough to provide her a suitable home. They were to marry in his mother’s home shire of Lincolnshire. I thought nothing amiss when Falstad did not return to Wimborne. I assumed he was successful. I had thought to hear of how one of the local beauties had chosen to marry, but when I considered my conversation with Falstad, in hindsight, the man had not said the woman was from Wimborne, only that she resided in Dorset.”

  “And I am to understand you know something of Mr. Falstad’s watch?” Darcy inquired.