“Pray tell, which bastards, Richard? I’m in the dark.” Robert crossed his arms.
Richard lit a Gold Flake and tossed the package onto the desk. “After Darcy pummelled the Belgian, the contents of the boxes confirmed Darcy’s hunch. Each contained the names of half a dozen contacts—including the washerwoman, Bongaerts, and that Sapper chap.”
“But Elizabeth Bennet’s name wasn’t among them,” Darcy added.
“But neither was the Miss Bennett with two t’s.” Richard glanced at Darcy then turned back. “We returned to The Ritz and finally had a chat with the Canadian reporter, Forsyth. Apparently a young man came to the Ritz with a drawing, looking for the girl in the picture. When Forsyth told him the Brits had evacuated, he spilled his story to the Canuck instead.”
Robert thumped a cigarette from Richard’s package. “Now, who is this young man, and what’s his connection to The Ritz?”
Darcy flexed his sore fingers. “He’s the brother of the woman whose baby I delivered a month or so ago.”
“Ah, yes.” Robert’s blond cowlick bobbed in recollection. “I presume the drawing was of Miss Bennet. How did this chap come to have a sketch of her?”
Darcy shifted. “Richard requested that I sketch suspicious locations and suggested including other details in the drawing to make it appear innocuous. I sketched Miss Bennet in front of the washerwoman’s cottage because I could easily recall her features.”
Robert threw his head back with a rumbling laugh.
Darcy coughed, dipping his chin in embarrassment.
Richard blew out a cloud of smoke. “The young man claimed Bongaerts had hired him to do odd jobs, one of which was to steal Darcy’s map case. He assumed Bongaerts was after the maps. Having never owned a piece of art, much less one that included an attractive female, he kept the drawing. The other sketch in the case was of the warehouse on the canal—which was sabotaged a few days after the boy delivered the case to his employer. When he realised what Bongaerts was up to, he bolted. He only came back to the area when his sister was in a desperate situation. After the kindness of Darcy and Miss Bennet, his conscience got the best of him, and he returned to warn Miss Bennet that she could be next on the hit list.”
“Was his name on either of the lists dug from the graves?”
“No.” Richard flicked his ashes.
“You’re acquainted with the locals, Darcy. Do you know him?” A ribbon of smoke rose from Robert’s cigarette.
“Unfortunately not. My only association with him was on the day I delivered his sister’s child. He was young—not more than fourteen, I’d guess. I suspect he was only in the area a short time.”
Robert shook his head. “Of all the luck. If he’d returned the drawing when we’d been there, we could’ve solved this case and spared Miss Bennet this whole bloody mess.”
The threesome sat a moment contemplating the situation as smoke clouded the room.
Robert shifted. “So how did the boy’s intended warning to Miss Bennet turn her into a suspect?”
Richard snuffed the end of his cigarette in the ashtray. “The reporter already knew there had been a recent prisoner escape and that a British nurse had disappeared—that’s what brought him to The Ritz in the first place. With the boy’s intelligence exposing Bongaerts, Forsyth began poking around. Local children recognised the picture of Miss Bennet. They mentioned having seen her the day after the evacuation as well as frequenting the road to Bongaerts and rambling the countryside. Why would a Sister be gallivanting about the countryside at all hours of the day instead of attending to duty at the clearing station hospital? To top it off, the children had only heard her called Chérie or Florence—nicknames used by her French employer and The Ritz staff.
Robert nodded. “I suppose that did put a bullseye on her as a suspect.”
Richard went on. “Forsyth paid a visit to the convent here hoping to wheedle information, but you were overrun with patients and the staff kept their mouths shut. But with less than a dozen sisters here, it wasn’t hard to deduce that none resembled the woman in the sketch. He figured the one in the drawing must have been the one who disappeared, then published his conclusions, pointing to her as a suspect.”
Darcy rubbed the back of his neck. “Obviously he was unaware that there were two women very similar in appearance working at The Ritz. One, the two-t Miss Bennet, a nurse, and the other the Frenchman’s nursemaid, and neither evacuated to the convent. Was there any mention of anything else in the map case? I’d already added the coded note to you explaining the sketches.”
“No. Hopefully they discarded it, not realising its importance.”
“Excuse me, Colonel.” Edwards poked his head in the door, holding out a slip of paper. “A telegram from London. And Derbyshire Intelligence is on the line. Oh, and one of the surgeons is looking for Dr. Knightley.”
Richard plucked the telegram from the corporal’s hand, scanned it, then held it out to Darcy, meeting his eyes.
Darcy sprang from the chair and snatched the paper, his eyes darting across the scrawled text as Richard strode out of the door.
Mrs. Bingley received letter today from sister postmarked Lambton. It reads: “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.... It’s all for the best. I’m innocent....”
“What is it?” Robert paused at the door.
Darcy released a relieved breath. “Jane Bingley received a letter from Elizabeth.”
“What does it say?”
Darcy held out the slip of paper.
Robert read the message and looked up. “At least she’s alive, old chap.” Robert patted Darcy’s shoulder and headed for the door.
She’s alive! But if she was innocent, why was she running? Did Jane verify it was Elizabeth’s handwriting? What day was it posted? Had she been coerced to write it?
Darcy limped back to his desk and thumped out a cigarette. Striking the match, his mind swirled with more questions. What did Elizabeth mean, “It’s all for the best?” Was she referring to her disappearance? And how could disappearing possibly be “for the best?”
Inhaling on the Gold Flake, Darcy’s pulse surged. If Elizabeth had written to Jane, could she have written to him as well?
He sagged against the desk as he blew out the smoke. Even if she had written him, it would be a day or two before the letter travelled across the Channel. Blast it!
But maybe she had left him a clue. Hanging the cigarette between his lips, he scrambled for his writing box and the letter she’d written him on her first day at Pemberley. Unfolding it, he sank into his chair. His eyes darted across Elizabeth’s feminine script as he sucked on the cigarette.
My dearest Fitzwilliam,
I spent the day rambling about your glorious estate, marvelling at all that is under your care. Pemberley’s beauty is all you have said and more. The valley is aglow in blazing reds and fiery yellows, and a minute ago three deer bounded up the hill across the lake. How I wish you were here to share it with me!
Sitting here in your magnificent library surrounded by books, I feel your presence. I wonder which books you’ve touched, which you’ve read, and long for you all the more.
This afternoon your groom told me that the stables once held stalls of the finest horses. Knowing how you love to ride, I can only be sorry they were requisitioned for this terrible war that now separates us. But I cannot overlook the fact that were it not for this great convulsion, I would never have made your acquaintance. Truly, beauty has risen from the ashes. I can only close waiting for you to come home to me, Fitzwilliam.
I love you,
~ Elizabeth
Darcy sat back and released a gusty sigh. Her response to Pemberley was everything he’d hoped it would be. They were touching words but held no clues.
He inhaled the Gold Flake’s calming vapour. What could have happened in the two days that followed the writing of the letter? Richard was on the phone with Derbyshire, maybe he had some—
Darcy’s head snapped up at Richa
rd’s approaching footsteps. The door swung open. Darcy sprang to his feet. “Did they find her?”
Richard paused at the threshold. “No. But there is a trail.” He shoved the door closed, then crossed the room and perched on the desk. “Mrs. Reynolds reported Miss Bennet was in good spirits when she delivered breakfast along with a letter and the newspaper yesterday morning. Luncheon in the dining room was uneventful.”
“Who was the letter from?”
“Mrs. R didn’t know. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until the gamekeeper stormed in that afternoon to report Miss Bennet had run off and that he’d shot a man who’d fired on her.”
“Was he sure it was Miss Bennet?”
“She turned when he called out to her.”
“Then why’d she keep running?”
Richard shook his head. “Don’t know. They found a hat in the woods and some footprints assumed to be hers, but the heavy rains the day before obscured her trail.”
Darcy sighed and rammed the cigarette’s stub into the ashtray.
“Investigators will circulate her name to all the ports should she attempt to flee the country. They’ve also compared your inventory list to what remained at Pemberley. Not much missing—only a few garments, some personal items, and the carpetbag. It appears she intended to flee on foot with minimal baggage.”
Darcy looked up. “She left no note or letter?”
“None that was found. I’m sorry, Darcy.”
Darcy threw up his hands and turned away, massaging his sore knuckles. Where could she have gone? If she was avoiding relatives, how long would her money last? My money box! Had she visited his chamber? He turned back and opened his mouth to voice the question then closed it. It might not be wise to reveal he’d offered her carte blanche of his funds.
Richard leaned forward. “What is it?”
Darcy released a breath. “Nothing. What else do you have? What about the gunman?”
“Dead. Identity unknown.” Richard lit a Gold Flake. “Investigators took a photograph. They’ll circulate it in the area and send us a copy. All we know is that he has brown hair, and his uniform indicates he’s from a Scottish—”
Darcy slammed his hand on desk. “Sapper! That rat! No wonder she fled. She was accused of being a spy and then attacked by someone she trusted. She must feel like the sky’s falling in on her.”
“But if she was innocent, why not go to the authorities? Darcy—”
“Don’t tell me again you think she’s the mole, Richard.” Darcy raked a frustrated hand through his hair. “I don’t know why she’s running, but I sure as hell plan to find out.”
~NINE~
The next morning
Elizabeth’s heart quickened as she looked out of the tram window at the endless rows of huts erected in Myatt’s Fields Park for additional hospital ward space. And they weren’t even the main part of First London General Hospital. She craned her neck for a better view of the red brick structure where she was to assist Dr. Scott.
They passed a cluster of Tommies hovered around a park bench, smoking their Woodbines. Clad in their ill-fitting blue flannel suits with legs and cuffs turned up, white lapels, and red tie, they looked more like circus clowns than patients on the mend. Officers up and about were fortunate. They were exempted from hospital blues and instead allowed to merely add a white armband with the king’s crown to their uniform.
A moment later she stepped off the tram outside the hospital’s gate and looked up at the school-turned-hospital. She inhaled, then released a cleansing breath. This was the first day of her new future. It wasn’t with Fitzwilliam, but given her situation, it was the best she could hope for.
The bells of Big Ben across the Thames faintly chimed the one o’clock hour as she glanced at Major Townsend’s instructions. Six steps conveyed her to the building’s entrance where she entered the double doors. Moving down the hallway, her heels clicked on the black and white chequered floor, and the tarry scent of carbolic soap hung in the air. She passed two territorial nursing Sisters in their grey uniforms, then smiled at a VAD pushing a Tommy in a wheelchair. The sights and smells of a hospital with broken men—it was familiar.
She rounded the corner to the main corridor, then climbed the stairs to the orthopaedic wards on the second floor.
“Ah, Miss Thomas, welcome.” The balding major approached her. “Dr. Scott is most eager to meet you and get started.”
Elizabeth followed him down the hall and into a large classroom filled with beds. Splinted arms and legs hung from an array of wooden frames and pulleys. Elizabeth smiled to herself recalling her brief stint as the night VAD in the orthopaedic ward in Boulogne the year before.
“Miss Thomas, meet Dr. Scott.” Major Townsend stopped at a bed where a handsome red-headed man in blue striped pyjamas lay with his left leg suspended over the foot of his bed.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, doctor.” Elizabeth smiled and nodded, ignoring the last traces of purple bruising on his cheek and the fresh scar on his forehead. For a man of his reputation, he was much younger than she expected.
“Indeed, Miss Thomas, I would return your greeting by standing if my leg allowed, or even take your hand if my fingers weren’t incapacitated. But, alas, if I could take your hand, then there would be no cause to bring you here today, and I would miss the opportunity altogether.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“Well, now that the two of you have been introduced, I will leave you to get acquainted.” The major pushed a chair next to the bed for Elizabeth, then nodded and took his leave.
“So, Miss Thomas, I hear you have a personal interest in ophthalmology.”
“Yes. My father was going blind.” Elizabeth laid her carpetbag on the floor and settled into the seat.
“And you taught him braille?”
“I had learnt it myself and was beginning to teach him, but his mind wasn’t as sharp as it once was. He died before going blind enough to rely on it.”
“Learning braille is quite an accomplishment.”
“I was already a telegraphist, so I approached braille as another kind of code—although much more difficult to learn than Morse code.”
“I grew up in Kent where my father was a coach driver for a prominent family. My mother had glaucoma. It was the catalyst that sparked my interest in medicine and ophthalmology. My mother died just after my sixteenth birthday, and my father followed shortly thereafter. When the estate’s master died, his nephew was kind enough to take me on in his stables and later paid for my education. I’m forever indebted to him for his kindness. Your parents are deceased as well?”
“Yes. In America.”
“I’m sorry. So you have now returned home to support the war effort by becoming a VAD?”
“Yes. I’d like to serve in France or perhaps in Egypt.”
“Well, I imagine if you’ve had medical training and studied journals, your knowledge far exceeds the rudimentary nursing instruction necessary for VAD certification. If you are willing to review the Red Cross manuals in the evenings and attend the afternoon classes on basic cookery, bed-making and such, I could see about expediting your certification. I have to admit, my accident has left me weak, and I expect my stamina will be spent by most afternoons, so the arrangement would work for me as well. Would you like for me to speak with the medical officer in charge on your behalf?
“Certainly.” Expediting her VAD certification meant expediting her disappearance overseas.
Dr. Scott smiled with a half smirk. “I must confess I have another motive for wanting to hasten your certification. There is a hostel here for blind veterans who have recovered from their war wounds but need training to live productive lives as blind men. If you were serving at St. Dunstan’s, you could be my eyes and ears—to give me a daily report on the success of their methods. An occasional visit from me would not provide as accurate a picture as someone working there on a regular basis. Besides, they are always looking for assistance in teaching bra
ille.”
Elizabeth couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She could hardly be more invisible than at a home for blind men. “It sounds like a wonderful opportunity to use my skills and experience. I can’t thank you enough.”
The doctor chuckled. “Just promise you won’t abandon me for France until I’ve published my research.”
Elizabeth smiled. “After your generosity, I couldn’t do such a thing. Besides, it will be several months before I’m eligible for foreign service anyway.”
“Good. Now that we have that settled and are acquainted, shall we begin?”
Elizabeth took his dictation as fast as she could write. Not only was the red-headed doctor interesting and good-natured, he had a brilliant mind and innovative methods for treating cranial and eye injuries. Elizabeth felt certain they’d get on well.
Families visiting other patients in the ward came and went, yet it seemed she and the doctor had only been working a short time when Elizabeth smelled roasted chicken. “Is it time for dinner already?”
“Oh, yes. Forgive me, I nearly forgot. I’m sure you are curious about your accommodations. A Captain Fitzwilliam Darcy has offered his town home in Grosvenor Square. He’s opened it to families visiting loved ones in our military hospitals.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Are you acquainted with the family?”
Dr. Scott turned serious. “More than acquainted. I’m indebted. Captain Darcy elevated me from my humble circumstances and paid for my education.”
Elizabeth nearly wept. Dearest Fitzwilliam!
But she’d just committed herself to work for a family friend of the Darcys and would be living in Fitzwilliam’s London home.
Goodbye frying pan, hello fire.
~TEN~
Two weeks later
“Thank you, Edwards.” Darcy laid his pen on the desk and took the enamel cup of steaming coffee from his aide—his third cup of the morning.
Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Page 6