Holbrook was at his side. “Mrs. Jacobs has several burns, but she will survive.” The groom braced Darcy to a steadier stance. “McKye and Castle have gone after Barriton.”
“Can you manage this alone?” Darcy was anxious to see an end to this badly staged burlesque.
“Aye, Sir.”
“Beware of this one,” he cautioned as the blonde pulled herself to a seated position.
Holbrook grinned wryly. “Like taming a headstrong horse, Sir.”
Darcy nodded his gratitude before trailing after the sound of shouting and hurried steps. He slowed his pace when he overtook Tregonwell’s men. “To the left,” McKye whispered. Darcy’s breathing had not fully recovered, but he managed to follow McKye’s command and move off to the left to circle the trees where they had taken cover earlier. McKye took the right and Castle the middle. Both men moved stealthily through the vegetation to emerge on the other side, and Darcy mimicked their moves.
He stepped gingerly over a fallen branch from the tallest of the three trees, only to be taken down by an uncloaked Barriton lying on the ground. Tumbling forward, Darcy encountered a fist to the side of his head that snapped his jaw to the right before he smacked the hard earth face first. Rolling to his knees, he lunged at the man, who had scrambled to his feet. His momentum carried them both backward, where Darcy pressed Barriton over the rotted wood. The punches and jabs came short and hard. He had often wrestled with Edward as a youth, but Darcy had only once used his knuckles on a man. Well, actually twice. But both times it had been the same man: George Wickham. Once when they were at university and Wickham had openly defamed Darcy’s father, the man who had treated Wickham as a beloved godson. The second time he had used his fists on the man was when Darcy had interrupted Mr. Wickham’s attempted elopement with Georgiana.
Now, he rolled and kicked and punched a man for whom he held no rancor, just disgust. He landed an uppercut on the point of Barriton’s chin and prepared to strike again, but the wily butler had his own designs. Barriton’s fingers caught the handle of the once-forgotten ceremonial knife, and the butler thrust upward to catch Darcy across his ribs. The knife cut through his waistcoat and shirt and left a three-inch gash across Darcy’s side.
Instinctively, Darcy reached for the wound. In doing so, he released his hold on Barriton’s lapels. The butler bolted away, and then a shot rang out. “No!” Darcy groaned as he staggered to his feet.
The butler lay face down on the grassy patch under the trees. The moon had lost its luster, but the sky held streaks of the morning sun. Bent over, Darcy half crawled to where Barriton rested; he rolled the butler to his back. “Barriton, Barriton,” he pleaded. “Speak to me.”
Slowly, the man opened his eyes. “Better than Jack Ketch,” he gritted through clenched teeth.
Darcy leaned closer. “Tell me the truth. Did you kill Hotchkiss, Bates, and the others?”
Barriton gurgled, and a stream of blood dribbled from the corner of the man’s mouth. McKye and Castle knelt beside him, but Darcy did not turn his head. He needed to hear the butler’s final words. Barriton’s eyes rolled Heavenward. He said through tight lips, “Yes, Hotchkiss discovered my secret. He followed me here.”
Darcy pressed his hand to his wound, but the blood seeped through his fingers. Ignoring the pain, he insisted, “And Bieder Bates? And Clarkson? And Falstad?”
“That is where you err.” The butler gasped for air. “Only Hotchkiss.” Barriton’s voice was barely a whisper. “There is more than one evil at Woodvine.”
Chapter 22
“His answers only leave more questions,” Darcy said in frustration as the butler released his last breath in a shuddering exhale.
Castle’s face paled. “I meant only to still his steps. I feared if he escaped that Barriton would attack you again.” Darcy knew real regret: Despite Mr. Barriton’s past crimes, Darcy had seen enough of death.
“We should see to the others,” he said as he stood.
McKye caught Darcy when he stumbled forward. “You are hurt, Sir?”
Darcy murmured, “A flesh wound.”
Castle braced Darcy’s right shoulder and McKye the left. Tregonwell’s men half dragged him to where the fire would provide them additional light. “Permit me to have a look,” McKye said as the men lowered Darcy to the ground. McKye ripped open Darcy’s waistcoat and tugged his shirt from his breeches. Then gently the man probed the area with his fingertips. “The wound does not appear deep, but it is bleeding quite heavily.” McKye pulled a small knife from an inside pocket. “Permit me to cut a strip from your shirt to bind the wound. Then I will send for the magistrate. With Glover’s passing, there is no surgeon in the area. I will return you to the care of Mrs. Darcy.” McKye tore several strips from the bottom of Darcy’s fine lawn shirt. He placed a clean linen against the wound before wrapping the strips about Darcy’s waist, and tied them tightly in place.”
As he sucked in a sharp breath, Darcy said, “Mr. Newby remains in Mr. Glover’s stead. Mrs. Jacobs will require his care. Send Holbrook for Newby and Stowbridge.” From where he rested against one of the large stones, which had brought him to this field, Darcy surveyed the circle. Women wept and clung to each other in misery. Holbrook and Castle secured the blonde by tying her hands behind the girl’s back, and Mrs. Jacobs rested on the ground. One of the dark capes served as a blanket. She moaned in pain. “So much mayhem,” he said sagely.
“At least, you have an answer to Mr. Hotchkiss’s death.”
Darcy’s gaze remained on the oddly expressed scene. “Yet, I fear it will not be enough.”
Stowbridge arrived before the surgeon. The magistrate had brought several of his servants with him to take possession of the prisoners. “Hell of a story,” Stowbridge said as he sat upon the ground beside Darcy. The man wore no cravat or waistcoat.
Darcy said solemnly, “The day we discovered his body, I retrieved several gold threads from Mr. Hotchkiss’s grasp. They are in my quarters at Woodvine. I believe you will find they match those on Mr. Barriton’s cloak.”
“The Thigpen girl triumphantly told me how Hotchkiss had followed Barriton when the butler came to the stone for the Oimelc celebration. Miss Thigpen says no one else was in attendance. Barriton meant to leave Mr. Rupp a warning sign, but the butler and Hotchkiss argued. Barriton hid Hotchkiss’s body behind the hedgerow until he could retrieve a shovel from Rupp’s barn. According to the girl, Barriton thought the steward was dead when he buried him, but evidently, the butler erred. The stone on Hotchkiss’s chest kept the steward from escaping the shallow grave.”
Darcy could do little but listen to the magistrate’s retelling. “Oimelc?” Darcy asked.
“It is a celebration of spring, right before our Candlemas. The Irish ‘imbolc’ is sometimes rendered as ‘Candlemas,’” Stowbridge explained.
Darcy did not understand the connection between a pagan celebration and an ecclesiastical one, but he kept his comments to himself. “What of Mrs. Jacobs?”
“The young surgeon says the woman will have a time of much discomfort, but Mrs. Jacobs will recover. I will have Holbrook see her to Woodvine. For now, Mrs. Rupp tends the maid in her home.”
Darcy had always found Stowbridge more than a bit incompetent, but in this matter, the magistrate had acted honorably. “I appreciate the speed at which you have responded to this matter.”
Stowbridge managed a warm smile of utter insincerity. Darcy had to work to keep his composure against a most untoward gravity of deportment. “It is but a token to what I owe Samuel Darcy’s memory.” The magistrate stood and stretched. “Will you be able to sit a horse, Darcy?”
Darcy rose slowly to stand beside the magistrate. “Although Newby has pronounced me in fair condition, I believe I will return to Woodvine and seek Mrs. Darcy’s tender care.”
Stowbridge brushed the dirt from his coat, his countenance a perfect study in stone. The early rays of sun had lightened the sky. “A woman can bring a man comfort,” the magist
rate said confidently. “Your wife would not suit every man, but Mrs. Darcy appears to complement you.” Darcy felt he should take the man to task for disparaging Elizabeth’s personality, but he considered it an act of futility. Stowbridge would never change his opinions of the fairer sex, nor would the magistrate learn to address women with more than an injudicious particularity, and the argument would delay Darcy’s return to Elizabeth’s side.
“By the way,” the magistrate continued, ignorant of Darcy’s earlier objection. “Mrs. Jacobs admitted that the footprints in Samuel’s hidden room were hers. She borrowed the younger maid’s shoes because Mrs. Jacobs’ pair had a hole in them, and the elder woman was to walk to the village to purchase several items for Mrs. Holbrook. Els knew nothing of the exchange, for Mrs. Ridgeway had given the girl some time off as Els suffered with her womanly woes. While Els slept, Mrs. Jacobs borrowed the girl’s shoes for her journey.
“Upon her return to Woodvine, Mrs. Jacobs came across a partially open passage leading to Samuel’s private room. The woman swears she knew nothing of the treasure room until that day. Mrs. Jacobs admitted to removing the map of this field and the Lemegeton.”
Darcy ran his fingers through his hair. “Mrs. Jacobs’ explanation sheds light on why the maid dropped the tea kettle when she overheard Mrs. Darcy and the Society men discussing the document. Mrs. Jacobs likely thought someone would discover her presence in Samuel’s private room,” he reasoned. “But where did the woman hide the papers? Mrs. Darcy and the colonel searched each servant’s quarters.”
“Evidently, when Mrs. Darcy excused Mrs. Jacobs to her quarters to tend the burn on her hand, Mrs. Jacobs hid the map and document behind several loose boards in the wall behind her bed.”
Darcy nodded his gratitude for the explanation. “If you require nothing else from me at this time, I will return to Woodvine. I am certain Mrs. Darcy has known no sleep in my absence.”
“You are very weak,” Stowbridge said with concern.
“I require my wife’s presence if I am to know peace. I must go.”
Elizabeth had finally fallen asleep with her head resting on her folded arms on the small escritoire in her chambers. In Darcy’s absence, she had removed Samuel Darcy’s journals from the hiding place among her most intimate wear to return to the coded passages. With Darcy searching for Mr. Barriton, it became more vital for her to solve the mystery of his cousin’s words. Steadfastly, she had manipulated the possible dates for Perdita Sanderson’s birthday, for Elizabeth was certain, after learning something of Samuel Darcy’s history with the child’s grandmother, that it seemed only natural for Darcy’s cousin to hold a heightened interest in the girl named for Samuel’s great love.
It had taken Elizabeth thirteen attempts before she had come across the correct combination. “14 September 1808,” she had announced to the empty room. “Fitzwilliam shall be surprised to learn that Perdita Sanderson is a year older than my dear husband recalled.”
Diligently, she had translated several related passages. She found with gratitude that Samuel had used the same coded pattern for the entries. In his own words, Samuel Darcy had spoken of contacting a gentleman in a newly minted state in what was once known as the Northwest Territory in America. According to the late Mr. Darcy, Ohio had become a state in 1803. Surprisingly, Samuel spoke of having explored several sections of the land beyond the mountains of Virginia some fifteen years prior, and having made the acquaintance of a Giles O’Grady. The gentleman of Samuel’s acquaintance had passed some ten years prior, but Samuel had encouraged the acquaintance of Mr. O’Grady’s son, Peter.
Three years ago, the younger O’Grady had contacted Samuel Darcy with news of an invention, which Peter thought would awaken Samuel’s scientific hunger. Samuel and the younger O’Grady had corresponded regularly, and Darcy’s cousin Samuel had offered financial support for the man’s efforts.
Samuel Darcy had traveled to America twice in the past eight years. The earlier of the journeys had served as a duty call on the O’Gradys, for Cousin Samuel had held a great affection for the elder. Samuel had written, “Giles O’Grady saved my life when I foolishly stumbled into a bear trap. Giles nursed me to health over a six-week period. In gratitude, I made O’Grady a loan so Giles could purchase his homestead. A proud one, Giles refused my thanks, but I finally convinced O’Grady to accept the money. I held no doubts of Giles’ success. As expected, my friend repaid me every penny.”
Elizabeth enjoyed reading of the O’Grady family, but when Samuel Darcy began to speak of the likelihood of the young O’Grady’s creation exploding if not handled properly, she had ceased her translation and had studied the sketches Samuel had made in the margins. “Fitzwilliam referred to this device as some sort of torpedo.” Elizabeth turned the sketch on its side, and upside down. “I have not the right of it,” she grumbled as she compared one sketch to another. Each drawing displayed more details than the previous one. “It is as if Cousin Samuel meant to construct his own explosive. I can give no account of what I have read,” Elizabeth said in frustration. “Perhaps Fitzwilliam or the colonel will understand these notations.”
She had left the pages resting on the small desk to stand and stare out the window. Heavily, she leaned against the frame. Elizabeth’s cheek rested against the cool pane. “Protect him, God,” she whispered to the night sky. She said no more. God would know her sentiments regarding the probability of Darcy’s demise.
There she had stood from three to five of the clock, staring out the window, gazing at the road, but seeing nothing. She had kept an anxious vigil awaiting Darcy’s return. As dawn’s fingers broke through the blackness, her anxiety increased. “Where is he?” she whispered as she searched the outline of trees and shrubbery on the horizon. Elizabeth reasoned, “If he were injured, Mr. Holbrook would have brought word.” For a brief moment, she felt the satisfaction of Darcy’s continued health, but the dread Elizabeth had forcibly placed aside returned. “But if Fitzwilliam were dead...” She stared intently at the narrow path leading to the main road, the same road her husband would ride upon his return. Hot tears pricked her eyes, and Elizabeth could not catch her breath. “Would they not inform me?” she sobbed. “Would they not permit me to comfort my husband in his last hours? His last minutes?”
A figure appeared at the far end of the path, and for the pause of three heartbeats, hope swelled in Elizabeth’s chest. She clung to the sash and watched as the figure moved closer. Her heart lurched. “Not Darcy,” she whispered. The figure belonged to a woman. “Too spry for Mrs. Jacobs,” she speculated.
Whoever it was, Woodvine was the female’s destination. Elizabeth turned from the window. She quickly gathered Samuel’s journals and shoved them from view between the mattresses of her bed. She would hide them more carefully upon her return. Elizabeth shed the satin robe she had worn over a simple chocolate-brown day dress to ward off the night’s chill. She had chosen the brown dress for its warmth when she had hoped to accompany Darcy to the field. When her husband had refused, Elizabeth had remained dressed for an impending emergency.
Now, she caught up a heavy wool shawl before rushing toward the servants’ stairs. Elizabeth meant to meet their visitor and learn news of her husband. Surely, a woman would not be on the road at this hour without words of pressing importance.
Elizabeth burst into the kitchen just as the door opened quietly upon the room. Few servants were about at this hour, and other than a scullery maid filling a kettle with water at the well, no one stirred. The familiarity of the visitor’s countenance subtracted from the surprise Elizabeth might have felt otherwise.
“Mrs. Ridgeway?” Elizabeth hissed. “What has brought you to Woodvine at this hour?”
The woman glanced to where the door to Mrs. Holbrook’s small room was propped open with a broom. She stilled, her features, initially, going flat. With a grimace, the housekeeper caught Elizabeth’s arm and tugged her in the direction of an alcove, which served as a stillroom. “I came to fetch you,
Mrs. Darcy,” she whispered.
“Why all the secrecy?” Elizabeth asked.
“Mr. Stowbridge did not want the others to know what happened in Mr. Rupp’s field.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. She let out a long exhale. It was her impatience showing, but Mrs. Ridgeway appeared to ignore Elizabeth’s exigency. “You have word of my husband.” The housekeeper nodded curtly. “Is Mr. Darcy in health?” Elizabeth asked through trembling lips.
Mrs. Ridgeway tugged Elizabeth along a passage to a side entrance. “I cannot say for certain,” she said seriously. “For I have not seen Mr. Darcy personally. Mr. Stowbridge thinks such matters are not in the realm of a lady’s disposition.”
Elizabeth could hear the strained words, a sound of contention between the housekeeper and the woman’s new employer, but she had more pressing concerns. “Speak to me of Mr. Darcy.” She rushed to keep pace with the housekeeper. They had exited Woodvine and had set off across the well-tended lawns.
Mrs. Ridgeway spoke over her shoulder at the trailing Elizabeth. “I possess only the knowledge of second tongue in what I overheard Mr. Holbrook tell Mr. Stowbridge.”
Elizabeth caught the housekeeper’s arm and dragged the woman to a halt. For a discomfiting moment, neither of them moved. “I understand,” she said with more calm than she possessed, “that Mr. Stowbridge did not confide in you. Yet, if you possess any knowledge of Mr. Darcy, I demand you speak of it immediately.”
Mrs. Ridgeway’s eyes appeared distant, and Elizabeth could not read the woman’s true intentions; yet, she would let nothing stand between her and her husband. The lady paused for what seemed forever, but was likely only a handful of seconds. Finally, Mrs. Ridgeway said, “If you will accompany me, I shall explain what I have learned. I think it best if we speak while we walk. It will save time, and, as I am certain you will wish to reach Mr. Darcy’s side as soon as possible, we should hurry our steps.”
The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy Page 33