Suspense & Sensibility m&mdm-2

by Carrie Bebris

  "Continue," Darcy said, "You went down to the larder?"

  "Yes. When I opened the door, there he was on the floor. All huddled up, like he'd been trying to keep warm."

  "Was the door locked?"

  "Bolted, sir.'

  "And that is normal?"

  "Well, of course, sir. The door must stay shut to keep the cold in."

  "Would Mr Dashwood have closed the door behind him

  when he entered?"

  "Oh. I doubt it, sir. Though he was well into his cups last night, and you never know what a man what's been drinking will do."

  Elizabeth recalled Sir Francis's state when she'd seen him the previous afternoon. He'd still seemed in possession of his faculties, but if he'd continued to consume brimstone at the rate she had observed, he would have been pickled by midnight.

  "The bolt can be operated only from the outside?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Might someone have seen the open door and closed it, not realizing Mr. Dashwood was inside?"

  "No one else was about. I'm always the last of the kitchen staff to retire. Last night I left a fresh pan of lemon ice in the larder before I went to bed. This morning, I was the first person with cause to go down there. The lemon ice was still there — along with the master."

  Darcy raised his gaze to Elizabeth's, and she saw that they had both reached the same conclusion. Someone had murdered Sir Francis.

  Further conversations with the staff confirmed as highly unlikely the chances that their master's death was accidental, sometime between midnight and five o'clock, when the cook retired and risen, an intoxicated Sir Francis had descended to the larder to indulge his sweet tooth. Someone had either followed him or happened upon him, bolted the door, and left him to die of cold. His mind muddled by drink, he quite possibly had not even heard his captor or realized his peril until it was too late. The room was so well insulated and so deep in the house that with the door sealed, no one would have been wakened by a shout.

  When Darcy dismissed the last servant, who joined her fellow domestics in hovenng outside the drawing room waiting for instruction, he shut the door. Elizabeth was glad to finally have a chance to discuss the situation privately.

  "Have you learned enough to identify a suspect?" she asked.

  "All London"

  "Splendid. I was afraid we would be unable to narrow the field."

  "Apparently, Sir Francis had instructed the staff to leave the back entrance unlocked at night so that his paramour might come and go as she pleased in anonymity. Though no one can say with certainty whether she visited the house last night, neither can anyone say she did not. That unlocked door, meanwhile, offers easy ingress to anyone who might harbor less than amiable feelings toward the house's owner. The way Sir Francis

  had been conducting himself, that list includes everyone from jealous husbands to government officials."

  "There is plenty of motive within the house, as well," Elizabeth said. "From what I was able to learn, it sounds as if he seduced half the female staff."

  Professor Randolph entered. He had gone downstairs to have a look at the corpse.

  "The body is as they describe." Randolph said. "Very cold, very stiff, and from the smell of liquor, very well preserved. His hands are quite bruised — I expect from beating against the door, trying to escape."

  "We should summon the authorities," Darcy said.

  "Not yet." countered Professor Randolph. "Once they arrive we'll lose all opportunity to help Mr. Dashwood."

  "I think he is beyond help."

  "Imeant the one in the mirror."

  "So did I," Darcy said. "Assuming Harry's soul is indeed trapped in the glass — an assumption about which you know I harbor doubt — with Sir Francis dead, we have no spirit to exchange for Harry's. His has left this earth, we certainly are not going to offer one of ours, and allowing anyone else to fall victim to the mirror is unconscionable."

  Darcy had voiced the conundrum that had weighed on Elizabeth's mind since the moment Mr. Dashwood's lifeless body had been discovered. Without Sir Francis, what were they to do?The murder had left them with a horrible dilemma: They could not sacrifice an innocent party to release Harry, but neither could they abandon him to an eternity of imprisonment

  in the glass. The whole situation had her stomach in knots.

  "Professor, is there not some way we can yet rescue Mr. Dashwood?" she asked.

  "I have been pondering that question. Sir Francis's death profoundly complicates matters. I must say, his murder occurred most inconveniently."

  "Murder usually does." Darcy said. "At least to its victims."

  "We are fortunate, however, in the manner of Mr Dashwood's death, as I believe the circumstances have left his body still viable. Between the cold and the liquor, it has not yet started to deteriorate. If we can release Harry's essence very soon, his body might yet sustain life."

  The weight on Elizabeth's chest eased. Her heart had grown heavier as the morning passed, but now she rejoiced that there was any hope at all for Harry

  "Very well." Darcy said. "His spirit has a place to go. But how do we transfer it there?"

  "That is the more difficult part. However, one account of the mirror suggests that it may be possible for a spirit to leave the glass and roam incorporeally for limited periods. It was a passing mention — an unsupported speculation, really. But the notion caught my attention, as it could explain how Sir Francis gathered his former associates to conduct the ceremony that

  imprisoned Harry."

  "It could also explain all those occasions when people observed him in places he later claimed he had not been," Elizbeth said.

  Randolph regarded her keenly. "What occasions?"

  "There were so many of them." She looked to Darcy for help. "He was seen in Bond Street, and outside Boodle's…"

  "At the Pigeon Hole and other gaming establishments. ."

  "All over town the week he was in Devonshire."

  "Yes. I saw him myself that week in his window."

  "Indeed?" Randolph asked. "Did these incidents occur before or after the night of the transference ritual?"

  "Before." Elizabeth said "We all went to Norland for Mr Dashwood's birthday, and the on-dits started shortly after we returned."

  "Is this when he first brought the mirror to London?"

  "No." said Darcy "He brought it wiih him on a previous trip."

  "He did, however, return at that time with this portrait of Sir Francis — Elizabeth pointed to the painting that still hung above the fireplace.

  Professor Randolph pondered that intelligence, and the portrait "This image of Sir Francis looks remarkably like the young Mr Dashwood I met in March. The people who saw Mr. Dashwood about town, after this ponrait arrived — they were quite sure it was Harry?"

  "They were all positive," Elizabeth said. "Though he ignored those who knew him best, and many thought they saw him in costume, as his clothes were quite out-of-date."

  Randolph nodded at the portrait. "That far out-of-date?"

  Elizabeth suited at the sudden realization. Darcy, deep in contemplation, stared at the portrait.

  "Think back. Mr. Darcy Are you certain you saw Dashwood in the window?" Randolph asked "Or could it have been Sir Francis?"

  "Until this moment, I would have sworn it was Harry Dashwood." Darcy said "But now—" His eyes met Elizabeth's. "Perhaps it was Sir Francis." She held his gaze a long moment, knowing what it had cost him to concede that.

  "It sounds as if Sir Francis's spirit was indeed able to leave mirror before the exchange." Randolph said. "So there is hope that Harry's might as well, if we can determine how Sir Francis managed to liberate himself. I suspect his freedom had something to do with this portrait. Has it hung here since its arrival?"

  Elizabeth recalled one of Harry's memories. "No. In the first memory I experienced of Sir Francis speaking to Harry, the portrait hangs behind me — him. I could see it in the glass."

  "Aha." Professor Rand
olph leaned back to better study the portrait. "Harry Dashwood unknowingly hung this portrait where Sir Francis could see himself as he was in life — no doubt triggering the same sense of loss and yearning that caused him become entrapped in the mirror in the first place. Just as his spirit once flew toward his reflection, it now went outward, toward the portrait. But without a body, you could not remain out-

  the glass for long. Or perhaps Sir Francis simply wasn't satisfied with a ghostly existence and wanted more. Either way, he decided to make his freedom permanent."

  At terrible cost to his own kin." Elizabeth declared.

  "Just one in a litany of moral transgressions, from what I understand " the professor said. "Now, if only we had a portrait of Harry Dashwood, we might use it to free him."

  "What about the birthday portrait?" Elizabeth said.

  "It is at Norland, which means it now belongs to Lord Lovejoy," Darcy reminded her. "And we have not time to send for it anyway."

  "Norland was filled with portraits of Harry," Elizabeth recalled. "Perhaps his mother has one in Harley Street. It would not be as recent—"

  "The particular image should not matter," said Randolph, " it is the same soul."

  A secretary stood in the comer of the drawing room. Elizabeth went to it and found a pen, ink, and paper. She got no further than the salutation before she realized she had no idea what to say. Dear Mrs. Dashwood — Though you never liked my sister and you have not spoken to your son in weeks, I need to borrow a portrait of him to release his soul from a cursed mirror and restore it to the recently vacated body his lecherous ancestor stole from him.Yours most sincerely—

  "Perhaps I would do better to call in person," she said.

  "Go immediately," Randolph urged "While you are gone, we will have Mr. Dashwood's body moved to the room with the mirror."

  "You truly believe this can work?" Darcy's skepticism remained obvious.

  "We must hope so. If it does not, I have one last idea, but is far more dangerous."

  "And what is that?"

  "You might call it a false exchange. Essentially, we deceive the mirror. One of us poses as a new victim and gazes into the glass to release Harry. At the very moment of transference, just as Harry emerges but before the new soul is drawn in, we break contact with the mirror. The importance of precise timing cannot be overstated — a second too soon or too late, and Harry could be lost, or a new victim claimed."

  Elizabeth shuddered. "I'll go retrieve that portrait."

  Twenty-Nine

  "I approached her with a sense of guilt which almost took from me the power of dissembling."

  — Mr Willoughby to Elinor Dashwood,

  Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 44

  "What is he? Six?"

  "Four, It was the only one she had."

  Elizabeth sank onto the sofa, having returned victorious from her deployment to Harley Street. Fanny Dashwood had loaned them a small portrait of a very young Harry, which Darcy now held. He was proud of his wife — he could never have charmed Harry's mother into cooperating, let alone in the mere half hour Elizabeth had required. She had spent more time traveling there and back than in the call itself.

  "How did you justify our need for it?"

  "Good heavens. I told so many falsehoods that I shall never be able to remember them all. And when those ran out, I flattered her in a manner that would put Mr Collins to shame. You can imaginc how much I enjoyed begging a favor of her — she was exceedingly condescending the whole while. Before I escaped, I'd agreed to sponsor her membership in the Rose Garden Club and make a donation in her name to the Ladies' Benevolent Aid Society. Oh — and I hope you have no plans for Friday?"

  "I do not believe so."

  "Good. You are engaged to polish her silver"

  The door opened to admit Professor Randolph. He appeared pleasantly surprised to find Elizabeth in the drawing room.

  "You have returned already. Mrs. Darcy? And with a portrait I see. Capital!"

  "Is Mr. Dashwood in place?" Darcy asked.

  Relocating Harry's body had proven more awkward than anticipated. He was so stiff from cold that his limbs were stuck in their huddled position — knees up, arms wrapped around legs — until he had an opportunity to thaw. The servants had carried him thus curled from the subcellar to the upper spare bedchamber.

  "He is. With the portrait now here, we can begin any time."

  "We should start immediately, then. I overheard the servants questioning why no one else has been summoned. I announced that Mrs. Darcy had gone to inform Mr. Dashwood's mother, which seemed to satisfy them, but now that Elizabeth has returned, they will start to wonder what we are about."

  "Let us say that Mrs. Dashwood is so overcome with shock that she cannot leave her bed, but requested the authorities not be called until she could lay eyes upon her son," Elizabeth said "Say further that I promised we would sit with him until she came, and we would like to commence our mourning undisturbed"

  Darcy regarded her with admiration. "I had no idea you could spin tales with such facility."

  "Nor did I." she responded. "I think I am still recovering from my call upon Fanny Dashwood."

  Once they were upstairs, the mood became heavier. The light rain that had been falling at breakfast time had grown stronger throughout the day, and now dark grey clouds cast the chamber in gloom. Darcy had hardly noticed the weather earlier, so preoccupied had he been with the business of Mr. Dashwood's death, but as they prepared to challenge the Mirror of Narcissus for Harry's soul, the steady patter of raindrops seemed an appropriate prelude.

  Or perhaps requiem. Mr. Dashwood's balled-up body lay on its side on the bed, his face toward the mirror. Darcy watched Elizabeth's countenance. He expected her first sight of the corpse to disturb her, but she only regarded it sadly.

  Poor Mr Dashwood," she said. "Even if we succeed, he will never be the same."

  Indeed, at one-and-twenty, Harry would inhabit a body he would not have had until his mid-fifties, and a very roughly lived one at that.

  "It is not a form I would wish to bear at this time of life," Darcy admitted.

  "But it is life," she said.

  Professor Randolph entered with a lit candelabrum and the portrait of Harry. The candles he set on a side table, where their flickering glow illuminated the room just enough to keep their party from stumbling in the dark as the sky rumbled outside.

  He shut the door. "Are we ready?"

  Elizabeth continued to gaze at the lifeless form on the bed. "Let us proceed."

  "I'm sure I need not remind either of you to avoid looking directly into the glass," said Randolph. "Mrs. Darcy, do you still wear the amulet?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you see Harry in your peripheral vision?"

  "Yes. He is trying to get my attention again."

  Darcy interposed himself between her and the mirror. He did not want Elizabeth glancing into the glass again, accidentally or intentionally. Nor did he want her close to the artifact if anything unusual did happen. Not that anything would.

  "Mr. Darcy, can you perceive Harry?"

  He stole sideways glances at the mirror, but detected nothing but an ordinary-looking glass. "No," he said. And the fact troubled him. What he could not see, he could not defend against.

  "Nor can I," said Randolph. He walked to the bed and propped the portrait against Mr. Dashwood's body so that the likeness faced the mirror. "What is Mr. Dashwood doing now. Mrs Darcy?"

  She leaned backward, trying to see around Darcy while using her side vision to answer the professors question. Darcy knew he was making her job difficult, but he felt better standing between her and the glass.

  "He is staring at his body on the bed.'

  ''I would, too.' Randolph said. "Probably quite a shock, seeing oneself displayed in such a state. Can he hear me?"

  "I think so."

  "Good." He crossed to the mirror and stood beside it, offering a three-quarters profile. "Mr. Dashwood. we are going to t
ry to release you from the glass. I would like you to concentrate very hard on this portrait of yourself."

  "He is listening," Elizabeth said.

  Randolph nodded. "Mr. Dashwood. imagine yourself as that child again. Before all this happened. Before the weight of worldly cares settled upon you. You are that child. Those are your innocent eyes. Those are your soft curls…"

  Randolph continued in a slow, soothing voice, weaving mesmerizing words until Darcy was almost ready to believe he was the boy in the portrait.

  "Now. Mr. Dashwood. 1 would like you to step out of the glass and into your body there on the bed."

  Darcy fought the urge to look at the mirror and see whether anyone emerged. He suspected the temptation was worse for Elizabeth. He took her hand and gripped it, willing her to look at him instead. Their gazes met.

  And then, from the comer of his eye, he saw a small figure dart across the room.

  It was the boy Harry — the child of the portrait. Or rather, the ghost of a boy. Darcy could at once see him and see through him as he climbed onto the bed. The bed did not respond to his movement. He added no weight; he made no impression on the counterpane.

  The child crawled to his lifeless adult body and threw himself over it. He lay on top. He pushed himself down. He passed through it and out. He tried again.

  And again. Spirit and shell would not merge.

  He moaned, a wail of desperation and anguish "What do I do? He spoke in his own voice, not a boy's. Yet the image was that of a tormented child, a little boy in dire need of aid and protection. It was a sight heartbreaking to behold.

  Randolph raised his hands helplessly. "I do not know."

  Harry looked up at Darcy "Mr Darcy?" His round child-eyes regarded him imploringly. "Can you help me?"

  Darcy was suddenly reminded of Harry at Norland, Harry as he had been just hours before all these terrible events were set into motion. Harry had been a fatherless boy seeking guidance as he matured and accepted his adult responsibilities. He turned to Darcy then, just as he turned to Darcy now, and Darcy had tried to teach him through example how a gentleman takes care of those dependent upon him.