He sipped the bracing liquid. Edwards lingered beside the desk.
“Was there something else?” Darcy looked up.
“The report, sir. Headquarters is waiting.”
“I’ll have it in an hour.”
“What about the supply order?”
Darcy grunted. Rifling through a stack of papers on his desk, he pulled out the form and signed it with a flourish. “Here.”
Edwards reached for it. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“Fine.”
With a nod his aide retreated out of the door.
Darcy sat back, dragging his hand down his face. Elizabeth had been gone two weeks, and the strain was taking its toll on him. Sleepless nights blurred into foggy days, only sustained by copious cups of strong coffee and a steady supply of cigarettes.
The only new information he had was from an apologetic Bingley. Upon learning that Elizabeth had disappeared without a trace, Caroline confessed to sending Elizabeth a friendly letter where she might have included some suspicions voiced by Dr. Cowart. But even with that, the search for Elizabeth had come to a dead end.
He reached for the package of Helmars and drew out a cigarette. Lighting it, he rose to his feet and moved to the window. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, his mind replayed the details of Elizabeth’s disappearance for the hundredth time. She’d been enjoying Pemberley, and everything was fine when Mrs. Reynolds brought her breakfast, the newspaper, and a letter that morning. Even at luncheon nothing seemed out of the ordinary. At some point Elizabeth packed a few things, then disappeared in the rain without a word. At the gazebo, Sapper took two shots at her before the gamekeeper took him down. A hat and some footprints were found in the woods, a letter to Jane was posted in Lambton, and a woman fitting her description helped an amputee at the railway station. Then she vanished. But why? At first it seemed obvious—a damning newspaper article and finding herself on the wrong side of a revolver’s barrel belonging to a supposed friend would be enough to provoke anyone to flee. But on further consideration, it didn’t add up.
Darcy braced a hand on the doorframe and inhaled the fine Turkish cigarette. If Sapper had somehow forced her to leave, then why did she run from the gamekeeper trying to help her? If the newspaper article or even the letter had been the catalysts for flight, then wouldn’t she at least have wired him or left a note? And why would a woman on the run make such an obvious scene at the railway station? It didn’t make sense. They were missing something. But what? If he knew the answer to that question he would have spent the last fortnight sleeping instead of pondering. Damn! He smacked the window frame. If only he’d been able to warn her of the danger she was in.
“Excuse me, sir,” Edwards peered around the cracked door, “Colonel Fitzwilliam on the phone for you.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened. “Patch him through.”
Three strides returned Darcy to his altar table desk. He perched on his chair, hovering his hand over the receiver. As soon as it rang, he picked up.
“Richard?”
“Darcy, we got him. Wickham’s been arrested.”
Darcy released his breath with a whoosh. “What has he said? Where’s Elizabeth?”
“He hasn’t said anything. Yet. He’s being held in St. Omer. He says he’ll talk, but only to you.”
“He wants to talk to me? How fast can you meet me there?”
“I’m at the War Department offices in London for two more days, and he’ll only talk to you.”
Darcy glanced at his watch. “If I catch the next train, I can be in St. Omer before teatime.”
“Ripping. Wire me with any pertinent developments.”
“Will do.”
Six hours later the smell of sweat, beans, and Bully Beef assaulted Darcy’s nostrils as he followed a guard down a prison corridor. Angry voices echoed through the cavernous halls. The corporal ushered Darcy through an iron-clad door that groaned on its hinges and then closed with a clang behind him. Darcy glanced back at the barrier and shuddered. The prisoners housed in this ward faced a bleak future.
The guard showed him into a small room, devoid of anything but a table, two chairs, and an ashtray. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling.
“I’ll fetch the prisoner, sir.” The corporal saluted, then disappeared.
Darcy chose a chair, waiting in silence. George Wickham. The squit had been a thorn in Darcy’s side as long as he could remember. And when he tried to seduce Georgiana a few years ago—. He shook his head. And now this? Coursing adrenaline flared into fury, but Darcy gritted his teeth. He’d have to watch himself. Wickham had an uncanny ability to get under his skin—and knew it. The blackguard had no doubt concocted this meeting as a final opportunity to bait and provoke Darcy. But if he could garner information about Elizabeth, it would be worth it.
He pulled a Helmar from his pocket and lit it. Inhaling, the soothing vapour calmed his nerves. He blew out the smoke, then inhaled again, exhaling with a grunt. Wickham’s schemes had him resorting to smoking! He snuffed the cigarette and crossed his legs.
Rattling chains approached. Wickham laughed. Darcy stiffened.
The chains of Wickham’s shackles scraped the concrete floor as the guards brought him around the table. Darcy steeled himself to appear unaffected by the sight of his nemesis.
Smirking, Wickham raised a limp hand in a half-hearted salute.
“Sit down.” Darcy said matter-of-factly.
“Greetings to you too.” Wickham relaxed into the vacant chair.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Indeed.” Wickham folded his hands in his lap. “I thought you might like to know how my schemes eluded you for so long.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“The opportunity to take pleasure in your pain.”
Darcy sat back, his eyes never leaving Wickham’s.
“I hear your beloved Elizabeth is gone.” The corner of Wickham’s lip turned up in a sinister smile.
Darcy shifted.
Wickham threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, yes. I see the pain. It was all worth it.”
Darcy hardened his expression.
“Admit it, Darcy. I outwitted you this time. I won.”
“I hardly think being arrested for espionage can be deemed a victory.”
“But I outsmarted you. For six months. And used Miss Bennet to do it.”
“You know she’s innocent.” Darcy sneered.
“That hardly matters. When her name—her real name—hits the newspapers after this trial, her reputation and anyone willing to be associated with her will be ruined.”
“So she’s alive?” Darcy sprang to his feet.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You bastard!” Darcy lunged across the desk, but the two guards restrained him.
“What’s important is that, dead or alive, you’ll never have her. And I have the added satisfaction of knowing I denied you your beloved Miss Bennet, and you will agonise over the loss for a long time to come.”
“What have you done with her?” Darcy strained at his captors.
Wickham held out a halting hand. “Patience, my friend. Today is all about The Ritz. You’ll have to wait until the trial for details of Miss Bennet.”
Darcy jerked away from the two guards and straightened his tunic. “Then get on with it.”
Wickham glanced at the ashtray then looked up. “A Helmars would help me recall the particulars.”
Darcy expelled the air in his lungs. “Very well.” He tossed the package and a lighter onto the table and sank into his chair.
Wickham flicked the lighter, then inhaled, taking his time. Sitting back, he blew out the smoke. “Let’s see, where shall we begin?” He glanced at the ceiling stroking a mock moustache, then returned his attention to Darcy. “Perhaps with Miss Bennet’s trollop of a sister, Lydia.” His lip curled into a sly smile. “Annoying as she was, I owe her a debt of gratitude for tipping me off to your...association with Miss Bennet. And Lydia’s th
irst for excitement made her more than willing to cross the Channel and join me in the trenches. Then all it took was the promise of a hot bath and some glad-rags to convince her the Jerries could be her friends. She made a damn good spy masquerading as Lorna. Even fooled her own sister—your dear Elizabeth.”
Darcy glared. “You took advantage of Lydia, a naïve and gullible young girl.”
“She relished every minute of it. Still does, from what I’ve heard. Married a German officer.”
“You put her up to spying and extracting information from Elizabeth.”
Wickham chuckled. “What a stroke of luck. A broken leg landed me in the ward of Sister Bennet, a woman happy to write letters to Sapper’s dear sister Lorna. Miss Bennet was the perfect mole, and she didn’t even know it. I’ll bet she wondered who tipped off the Matron in Boulogne that she was too young to serve as a VAD.”
“So you admit Miss Bennet is innocent?”
“That’s for the courts to decide.”
Darcy pressed his lips, restraining his rising ire. “What about Monsieur Dubois? Was he in on your scheme?”
Wickham scoffed. “Not officially. He was so willing to gab about everything and everyone to Bongaerts, there was no need to recruit him. By the way, your Elizabeth had quite a gift with words. Her letters to Lorna were rather entertaining.”
“You and Sapper funnelled the letters from Miss Bennet to Lorna through the washerwoman, didn’t you?”
Wickham sniggered. “It took you long enough to figure it out. Lucky for us, Sapper’s charm won everyone over. Even you, Darcy.”
Darcy clenched his fist, wishing he could ram it down Wickham’s throat.
Wickham flicked his ashes on the floor. “I suppose you eventually figured out how Bongaerts used the windmill and canal to liberate the prisoners.”
“I did.”
“Did you know he did it at British Army’s expense?”
“If you mean he stole boots, blankets, and Bully Beef, then yes, I know.”
Wickham chuckled. “Such fools.” He took a drag on the cigarette, then crossed his legs and exhaled the smoke. “What else would you like to know?”
“What about the map case? Why was Bongaerts interested in it, and how did he know Cowart had taken it on the picnic with Elizabeth?”
“Sapper, of course. He found plenty of excuses to visit Dubois’ study, which was conveniently adjacent to your office. It was clear the map case held something of importance to you. Keeping your office locked and the arrival of a weekly courier were a dead giveaway. It was good of you all to play into our hands.” He tsked his tongue. “It’s a pity Bongaerts sent a boy to do a man’s job in procuring the maps. But it didn’t matter. It all worked out in the end.”
“So Cowart wasn’t one of your agents?”
Wickham huffed. “Only the British would be foolish enough to recruit such a clod as an agent. But he knew too much. Snooped around too much.”
“So you killed him. Then sent the medal to Miss Bennet on his behalf.”
“Congratulations.” Wickham clapped slowly with a patronising sarcasm.
“But in the end, the medal was your mistake.”
“My mistake?” Wickham pointed at himself, the smoke curling from his cigarette. “It wasn’t my mistake. You won’t find my name on those lists from the cemetery.”
“But it’s the medal that has you sitting here today. You needed some place to record the location of the list of agents, and you thought a code on the back of the medal dangling on Miss Bennet was the perfect place. And if the code was discovered, then Miss Bennet would appear to be caught red-handed.” Darcy speared his finger at Wickham. “But the Belgians got wise to you, so you ordered Miss Bennet eliminated.”
“You’re damn right I did,” he shouted back. “She knew too much. We needed to dispose of her and that medal. Using the air raid as a cover to destroy her tent was the perfect solution.”
Darcy leaned forward. “But she wasn’t in her tent that night. And when you realised she’d gone to Pemberley, you sent Sapper after her.”
“Ah-ah-ah.” Wickham wagged his finger with a smug smile. “Remember, no discussion of Miss Bennet’s whereabouts.”
Seething, Darcy forced himself to relax in the chair. Taking a deep breath, he levelled his gaze at Wickham. “Then tell me this, were you following me when I saw you at the hotel bar in Boulogne?”
Wickham blew out a cloud of smoke. “I’ll only say that if I’d known Miss Bennet was with you, she’d never have slipped across the Channel.”
“You thought she was dead. And that’s what you meant when you said you were sorry to hear of her misfortune and couldn’t have orchestrated my demise any better had you planned it.”
“Did I say that?” Wickham chuckled. “Regardless of the particulars of her misfortune, I accomplished my objective. I made you miserable by separating you from something you loved. And I’ve even had the pleasure of watching it torture you.”
He flicked his ashes, then looked up with a broadening smile. “Aren’t you wondering why I never had you taken out? Give me three hundred francs and I’ll tell you.”
Darcy huffed. “You’re a fool if you think I have three hundred francs on me. And a bigger one if you think I’d give it to you if I did.”
Wickham took a leisurely drag on his Helmars, nonchalantly staring back. Finally he exhaled and smiled. “Well, I suppose I won’t tell you then.”
Darcy released a lungful of air.
Wickham threw back his head and laughed.
“I’ve heard enough.” Darcy rose to his feet. “I see no need in prolonging this charade. I’ve learnt nothing I didn’t already know or suspect.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Captain.” Wickham nodded but remained seated in a final act of disrespect. The guards jerked him to his feet.
“I look forward to seeing you get the justice you deserve, Lieutenant.” Darcy turned away and stepped towards the door.
“Don’t count on it,” Wickham called out. “I may have lost the battle, but I won the war. I sent the men. And you can credit me for the letter, too,” he shouted as Darcy crossed the threshold.
Darcy paused. Men? Someone in addition to Sapper? And a letter? What letter? He continued on without a backward glance, knowing Wickham was baiting him. That blackguard! Darcy clenched his fist as his boots echoed down the prison corridor and Wickham’s laugh faded behind him. Wickham may have had the last word, but in the end he would get his due. Darcy would see to it if it was the last thing he did. But for now there was nothing to do but wait for the trial. Hopefully justice would take its course, and he would be rid of the rip forever.
An hour later Darcy sped north on the train, his mind dissecting Wickham’s words. I may have lost the battle, but I won the war. I sent the men. And you can credit me for the letter, too. “Losing the battle” surely referred to Wickham’s being in custody. What did “I won the war” mean? Probably that he’d succeeded in separating Elizabeth from him. But what did he mean by “You can credit me for the letter?” What letter? Elizabeth’s letter to Jane? And if Wickham sent men, there must have been more than one. Had he sent two? More? Where were they now? Did they have Elizabeth? Darcy grunted. Maybe Wickham was just bluffing about all of it.
Darcy sighed. There was no way to know. All he could do was wait for the trial—and hope that somehow Providence would reunite him with Elizabeth.
One more time.
~ELEVEN~
Six days later
Darcy blew out a cloud of smoke and looked up from his desk as Richard’s footfalls sounded outside his office.
The door swung open. “Darcy—.” His cousin stopped short. “Crikey, you look like hell.”
Darcy flicked his ashes, ignoring the comment. “Glad you enjoyed your leave. How’s Georgiana?”
Richard dropped into the opposite chair. “Fine. Fine. Georgiana is fine.” Richard tossed his officer’s cap onto the desk then locked his eyes on Darcy’s. “Wickham’s dea
d.”
“Dead?” Darcy sat up. “But the trial—? What happened?”
“Killed in a prison fight. Some sort of gambling chicanery gone wrong.”
Darcy released a heavy breath, sagging back in his chair. “That’s it.” He threw up his hands. “That trial was my best hope for information about Elizabeth. That bastard!” Darcy smacked the desk and rose to his feet.
“Don’t lose heart, Darcy. Now that she’s no longer an official suspect, she may turn up yet.”
Darcy spun around, his words riding on a cloud of smoke. “I want a full report in the newspaper. Complete disclosure of Wickham, his ploy, and acknowledgement of Elizabeth’s innocence. If by chance she’s alive, maybe she’ll see it and—.”
Richard shook his head. “Top Brass put the gag on all reporting of the conspiracy and the trials—”
“What? They didn’t object when a Canadian reporter published unsubstantiated claims that helped drive Elizabeth away in the first place.”
Richard sighed. “Things have changed. War Department fears it will create a public relations nightmare. If word got out that a bugger like Wickham set up a whole operation right under our noses.... Well, let’s just say it would hardly boost morale.”
Darcy turned away and released a heavy breath. “So Elizabeth will be made to pay for morale and keeping up appearances.”
“I’m afraid so. The army’s often forced to make decisions for the greater good at the sacrifice of a few.”
Darcy braced a hand on the window frame, then took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled. “Any leads on the men Wickham said he sent?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Darcy whirled around.
“In the three days between the time Elizabeth left France and Sapper took shots at her, we discovered that a handful of the nearly three thousand men transported across the Channel were recorded as dead. Unfortunately it is unclear as of yet if they died en route, or if they could have been Wickham’s cohorts travelling under the name of a deceased. Two more names were particularly suspicious. But if indeed Sapper had accomplices, we can’t assume they crossed the Channel. They could have come from Yorkshire, for all we know.”
Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Page 7