The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy

by Regina Jeffers

  Darcy gingerly lifted each of Glover’s arms to search for wounds and then replaced them in the same position. It seemed important to maintain the scene until the authorities had reviewed the evidence. He next lifted the surgeon’s head, but there was no sign of bruising, only a bluing of the lips and the small veins about Glover’s nose. He replaced Glover’s cheek into the pool of tea. It bothered Darcy to do so, for Glover did not deserve such degradation. Despite the man’s affinity for Mrs. Ridgeway, Darcy could not speak ill of the surgeon. Glover had served the community well.

  Then he noticed something unusual: Glover had used crumbled bits of beet sugar to sweeten his tea. Darcy had seen many of his tenants do so. The mixture was cheaper than the sugar loaves used in Darcy’s kitchens. The spilled tea had left a sweet paste behind on the table’s surface. Upon closer inspection, Darcy could make out a few letters scrawled in the paste. He set the teacup aright before he leaned over Glover’s body for a closer look. “A,” he murmured. “R.” He thought the third letter was an “E” or an “S.” The sugary paste had obscured the bottom half. The final letter was another “E.” Darcy muttered, “A, R, E, E.” It made no sense. “A, R, S, E.” His first thought was the surgeon had thought himself an arse, but the beginning of the fifth letter proved that premise incorrect. “Arsenic,” Darcy announced to the empty room. “Someone has given the surgeon arsenic. There is no other explanation,” Darcy reasoned aloud. “A man does not commit suicide and then leave a note written in sugar on a table top. It makes little sense.”

  A little over an hour later, he stood in the same cramped kitchen, along with Mr. Williamson and Mr. Stowbridge. Other than an exceedingly well-equipped room for a country surgeon to use to treat his patients, they had taken no note of the unusual. The curate and the magistrate had quickly come to the same conclusions as had Darcy: Arsenic was the source of the surgeon’s demise. In reality, Williamson had made the logical connections, and Stowbridge had concurred. The magistrate’s concentration had been sorely absent, and Darcy held his suspicions as to the right of it. Mr. Stowbridge had brought Mrs. Ridgeway along in his coach.

  “Why do you not send the lady home while we deal with this tragedy?” Darcy had suggested diplomatically. “This is no place for a woman.”

  Stowbridge waved away Darcy’s objections. “Mrs. Ridgeway insisted on accompanying me. The lady and Mr. Glover were once dear friends.” Darcy regarded the magistrate with scathing incredulity.

  Darcy found it telling that Stowbridge had thought it appropriate for Mrs. Ridgeway to be exposed to Glover’s death, but the man had thought Elizabeth’s “feminine frailties” too pronounced to hear of Samuel Darcy’s death. Perhaps it was how Stowbridge thought of women: Elizabeth was a lady to be protected and patronized, whereas Mrs. Ridgeway was the magistrate’s property. Although he knew her current residence had been the housekeeper’s choice, Darcy experienced a twinge of self-reproach upon the woman’s behalf, which he purposely ignored. “The lady could have turned to Mr. Glover,” he warned his self-blaming thoughts. “Then perhaps we would not be making arrangements for the surgeon’s passing.”

  Secondly, Darcy could not justify Stowbridge’s benevolence in allowing Mrs. Ridgeway to express her grief over Glover’s passing. He could understand if Stowbridge had brought the woman along to bolster his own self-importance in the lady’s eyes, but if Mrs. Ridgeway was the man’s property, he would not normally wish to share her with the memory of Geoffrey Glover.

  “In that case, I must insist the lady remain in the drawing room. We must preserve the scene for the surgeon,” Darcy declared.

  “I will speak to her,” Stowbridge assured. The magistrate’s smile remained; yet, Darcy held the clear impression that Stowbridge had made a shift from indolent to watchful.

  Before they could reexamine the scene for additional clues, Mr. Drewe returned with a young surgeon by the name of Michael Newby. “I cannot believe Mr. Glover is gone,” Newby spoke confidentially to Darcy. “I trained under him at a private medical school in the North.”

  “That is odd,” Darcy said as he assisted Newby with Glover’s already-stiffening body. “I had thought Mr. Glover had spent a good number of years in this community.”

  “Oh, he has, Sir. In fact, Mr. Glover is the reason I chose to set up my practice in Dorset. He convinced several in my college to follow him. Mr. Glover was a dynamic instructor.” The young surgeon’s praise rubbed against Darcy’s early opinion of Glover. “I must say, Mr. Darcy, there will be more than a few fellows who will see Glover’s passing as a great loss.”

  Darcy examined Mr. Newby’s composure. The man appeared competent in a youthful sort of way. “If it would not be importuning you, I would be obliged if you would consider remaining in Wimborne; at least, until another surgeon can be enticed to the community. You might even use Mr. Glover’s quarters. I am certain no one would object.”

  Newby paused as in contemplation. “There are several more experienced surgeons than I in Christchurch. I might find my calling in a community which possessed a need for my services, and I would be honored to serve in Mr. Glover’s stead.”

  Darcy nodded his approval. “Perhaps a period of transition would serve the good people of Wimborne, as well as you. It appears prudent that such a relationship be mutually acceptable.” Darcy knew better than to speak for the villagers, but he observed nothing out of the ordinary in the young surgeon.

  Newby swallowed his anticipation. “Such appears logical,” he said softly.

  Judiciously, Darcy changed the subject. “What do you suspect for the cause of death?”

  “That is a simple diagnosis.” The surgeon pried Glover’s lips apart. “Can you smell the odor coming from Mr. Glover?”

  Darcy fought the gagging reflex. He had purposely opened doors and windows and had waited outside for Williamson’s and Stowbridge’s appearances. “Quite pungent.” He could not understand a man who would choose to perform these tasks for a living.

  “Your assumption of arsenic is accurate,” Newby assured. “The strong smell of garlic. The regurgitated remnants in Glover’s throat.” The surgeon rested Glover’s body against the back of the chair. He lifted Glover’s hand. “Notice the change in the color of Mr. Glover’s fingernails.” After Darcy’s quick perusal, Newby returned Glover’s hand to the older man’s lap. “Likely, Mr. Glover has been receiving small doses of arsenic over several weeks.”

  “How is that possible? Would not a surgeon recognize the symptoms?” Darcy asked skeptically.

  Newby shook his head in the negative. “A bit of arsenic would cause Glover stomach cramps. It might cause him to drink more water. Those are common symptoms, along with a few less savory possibilities.” Newby washed his hands in a nearby basin. “The arsenic could be in the water Glover used to make his tea. It is common in the wells in the North.”

  Darcy pressed, “It appears you have determined the source of Mr. Glover’s demise, but not how the surgeon came to have the arsenic in his system.”

  Newby explained, “If you are asking me if Mr. Glover was murdered, I cannot swear to it. Arsenic caused Mr. Glover’s passing; yet, I cannot say in all honesty how he came to have ingested the poison.

  Darcy nearly groaned aloud with frustration. “Another unsolved death.”

  “How did Mrs. Ridgeway react to Mr. Glover’s passing?” Elizabeth asked as they dressed for bed. Darcy sat behind his wife as she brushed her long hair. He preferred it when Elizabeth left her auburn locks free of her nightly braid. It was glorious to have the opportunity to run his fingers through the length of it, to feel the silky strands surrounding her shoulders.

  Darcy tore his attention from the auburn strands. “The lady shed what appeared to be genuine tears.”

  “If that is so, then why did Mrs. Ridgeway choose to accept Mr. Stowbridge’s veiled invitation?” She turned on the small padded stool to face Darcy. “Mr. Glover demonstrated an affection for the woman. I am certain the surgeon would have extended a
legitimate offer.”

  Darcy smiled easily at her. His beautiful wife possessed a sentimental heart. “I have thought long on just that question,” Darcy assured. “You noted Mr. Glover’s overt affection for Mrs. Ridgeway, but did the woman ever display a like interest in Glover?”

  Elizabeth paused in concentration. “None I might name,” she confessed. “But surely you are not suggesting that Mrs. Ridgeway affects Mr. Stowbridge?”

  Darcy shook his head in denial. “Hardly. What I suspect is Mrs. Ridgeway has an inflated opinion of her worth, and the lady thought being a surgeon’s wife below her.”

  Elizabeth’s features twisted in disapproval. “What Mr. Glover offered was a sensible choice for a woman with no family of which to speak. I possess no knowledge of Mr. Glover’s family, but the surgeon operated as a gentleman.” She came to sit beside Darcy, and he thanked his stars his wife’s hair remained unbound. Her long locks were a delicious distraction from the worries of late, and Darcy wrapped one curl about his finger. “A surgeon’s wife in a small rural community could wield great influence.”

  “Yet, not as much power as a squire’s wife. A husband who is also the local magistrate,” Darcy countered.

  Elizabeth appeared shocked by the possibility. “Could Mrs. Ridgeway believe that she can bring Mr. Stowbridge to the altar?”

  Darcy said sarcastically, “First, the woman would be required to enter the church.” He brought a strand of his wife’s hair to his nose to sniff the lavender oil she used to scent it. He said abstractedly, “I suspect Mrs. Ridgeway intends to withhold what Mr. Stowbridge most requires of her, using her person as an enticement for his making an honest woman of her.”

  “What a tangled web you weave, my husband,” Elizabeth accused.

  He required no reminders of the aggravating control this mystery had over Darcy’s life. He slid an arm about her shoulders. “Not everyone marries for love,” he said in firm tones. “We are the fortunate ones.”

  Elizabeth snuggled closer. “We stumbled into the best of worlds.”

  Darcy chuckled, “Stumbled is an appropriate word for our courtship.” He set her from him before standing. “I admit needing to know my bed.” He stretched his arms to the sides, and then overhead. “Would you mind if I turn in before you?”

  “Of course not.” Elizabeth immediately caught his hand to lead Darcy to the turned-down bed. “I would very much like to return to Cousin Samuel’s journals. I believe I am close to deciphering the passages.”

  Darcy yawned deeply. “Do not tire yourself with your efforts.” He kissed the top of her head before crawling under the sheets. “I would not have you exhaust your energies.”

  Elizabeth released the ties for the draped four-poster. Before closing the heavy material to block the light, she bent over him, and Darcy accepted the kiss his wife offered. “Rest, my husband,” Elizabeth said softly as she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “I shall serve as your sentry while you sleep.”

  Darcy’s eyes scanned her lovely countenance and the room’s décor before drifting closed. Unfortunately, reality invaded. His eyes shot open to attend to a most unusual object resting on the top of the wardrobe behind where his wife stood. He pushed himself to his elbows. “Please tell me that is not what it appears to be.” He nodded to the object.

  Elizabeth’s eyes followed Darcy’s gaze. She laughed lightly. “A gift from one of the maids,” she confessed.

  “It is a Sheela na gig,” Darcy said incredulously. “Why would a Woodvine maid present a fertility symbol to my wife?”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said in shocked surprise. “I suppose the carving could certainly represent a woman.” His wife giggled self-consciously. “Yet, I believe the wooden symbol is meant to protect us from evil, as are the painted eyes, the witch balls, the overuse of mirrors throughout the house, and the small gorgon figurines.”

  Darcy collapsed against the pillows and rolled his eyes in exasperation. He brushed his initial thoughts away. “At least, your explanation adds light to what I perceived to be my cousin’s sudden vanity in his declining years.” He glanced to the wooden symbol again. “Could we not turn the figure to face the wall, Lizzy? I am not certain I care to wake in the night’s middle to have that creature staring down at me.”

  Elizabeth’s smile turned up the corners of her mouth, and Darcy knew his wife bit back any condemning remark, which had crossed her mind. “Certainly, Mr. Darcy.” She reached for the three-inch carved symbol. “However, I accept no blame if the Sheela na gig’s powers are less effective because of your peculiar beliefs.” She giggled as she replaced the figure on the wardrobe’s top shelf.

  Darcy settled deeper into the bedding. “I absolve you of any fault, Wife,” he said dutifully.

  The urgent tapping on the door roused Darcy from a deep sleep. Darkness had filled the room, and he was slow to respond. A fog of exhaustion remained, and Darcy groaned as he rolled to his side and swung his legs over the bed’s edge. “Yes,” he said snappishly as he reached for his shirt. He had actually fallen asleep wearing his breeches, something he had not done since his wedding night.

  He staggered from the bed and stubbed his toe against a chair; a curse slipped from Darcy’s lips. He tottered toward the sound that had ruined his slumber: a tattoo against the wooden panel.

  “Mr. Darcy,” came a pleading female voice.

  He adjusted himself in the tight fit of the breeches before he jerked open the door to put an end to the annoying racket. From beside him Elizabeth slipped his robe into Darcy’s hand.

  “Thank God!” Mrs. Holbrook declared when the door opened. One of the cook’s hands held a fresh candle while the other was raised to knock again.

  “What is amiss?” Darcy demanded. He slipped the robe over his clothes. The sight of the distraught countenance of the manor’s cook brought him fully awake. Behind him, he could hear Elizabeth moving efficiently about the room. One light after another invaded the room’s darkness.

  “Oh, Mr. Darcy!” The cook swayed in place, and Darcy reached to steady her. “You must stop him, Sir.”

  “Stop whom?” he demanded. The sleep had retreated, but the need for a restorative rest had not, and Darcy’s tone held his frustration.

  The cook shivered visibly. “Mr. Barriton, Sir. He has taken Mrs. Jacobs.”

  “Barriton?” Darcy looked to Elizabeth for an explanation, but his wife’s shrug said she was as badly informed as he. “What has Mr. Barriton to do with Mrs. Jacobs?”

  As if the woman expected someone to stop her from carrying her tale to the manor’s master, the cook looked off toward the servants’ stairs. “She meant no harm,” Mrs. Holbrook explained. “Mrs. Jacobs be of the old sect, those who believe in fairies and familiars and omens. There be no mischief in a few figurines scattered about the house. The late Mr. Darcy housed enough bits of ancient superstition on every surface of this house—what be the difference if there be a few English ones mixed in?”

  Darcy considered how England had imported from Germanic peoples many of the superstitions the cook described as English, but rather than comment, he repeated his earlier request. “Tell me about Barriton.”

  The woman’s weight sagged heavily against the doorframe. She sighed deeply. “Millie Jacobs thought Mrs. Ridgeway be a witch, so Millie be hiding her witch bottles about the house to prevent the housekeeper from doing her evil.”

  Darcy glanced knowingly at his wife. They had held similar qualms regarding the housekeeper. Clarifying what Mrs. Holbrook was attempting to explain, he asked, “As Mrs. Ridgeway has taken herself off to Stowe Hall, what business does Mr. Barriton have in this madness? Did Barriton think to punish the maid for bringing her superstitions into this household?”

  Mrs. Holbrook paled. “Oh, aye, Sir, but not as ye think. Mrs. Ridgeway not be practicing witchcraft under Mr. Darcy’s roof, but Mr. Barriton has. He has taken Millie to the stones, Mr. Darcy. I fear he means to kill her.”

  Chapter 21

  The
y had left their horses in the wooded area and had approached the field on foot. In addition to Holbrook, Darcy had recruited Mr. McKye, for the man was well versed in the local traditions, and Mr. Castle, who, according to McKye, had been the best shot in Tregonwell’s former command. Castle was one of the men Darcy had hired as reinforcements. Over his wife’s objections, Darcy had brought several guns with him. He would not use them unless necessary, but he had argued, “I know not what I may encounter, Elizabeth. Mrs. Holbrook’s concerns were real, and I would be sore to ignore the strange world into which we have tumbled.”

  His wife had begged to accompany him, but Darcy would have none of it. “It is too dangerous,” he had insisted. “I will not permit it, Elizabeth, so place your arguments on the shelf. I will not be swayed.” He had quickly dressed to join the others.

  “I shall not sleep a wink until you return.” Elizabeth had followed him about the room as if she were his shadow. “Promise that you shall know care, Fitzwilliam.”

  Darcy gathered her quickly in his embrace. “On our wedding day, I made a sacred vow to see you through a long life and to provide you a family. I have not met those obligations. I will return, Elizabeth.” Darcy kissed her tenderly.

  “I swear, Fitzwilliam...” she began with tears in her eyes.

  “I know, Lizzy,” Darcy said softly. He caressed her cheek. “I give you my word I will do nothing foolish.” With that, he had left her with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “There!” McKye whispered close to Darcy’s ear. “See the fire.”

  Darcy’s mind had not understood the strange glow on the horizon until the man had brought it to his attention. “A fire?” His voice held a bit of awe.

  “Aye, Sir. I have seen it before, when my family lived near Edinburgh. Part of the Beltane festival. To mark the blossoming of spring. It is a beautiful celebration of life,” McKye explained. “The relighting of the world from the Need Fire. The purifying of the herd.” The man nodded toward the lighted field. “That be the way of my home, but what we are likely to find beyond those stones will bear little resemblance to what I have known.” Darcy leaned closer to hear the man’s tale. “There are rumors of the Wita calling upon the strength of the Celtic god Cernunnos to bring destruction to their neighbors. We know much of these tales, but we refuse to recognize the roots of such paganism within our souls. Have you not loved the stories of Sir Gawain and of Lincolnshire’s Robin, Mr. Darcy?”