Death Comes to Pemberley

1

Instinctively Elizabeth had moved forward to help but Lydia thrust her aside with surprising strength, crying, “Not you, not you.” Jane took over, kneeling beside the chair and holding both Lydia’s hands in hers, gently murmuring reassurance and sympathy, while Bingley, distressed, stood impotently by. And now Lydia’s tears changed to an unnatural whooping as if she were fighting for breath, a disturbing sound which seemed hardly human.

Stoughton had left the front door slightly ajar. The postilion, standing by the horses, seemed too shocked to move and Alveston and Stoughton dragged Lydia’s trunk from the chaise and carried it into the hall. Stoughton turned to Darcy. “What about the two other pieces of luggage, sir?”

“Leave them in the chaise. Mr Wickham and Captain Denny will presumably be travelling on when we find them so there is no point in leaving their baggage here. Get Wilkinson, will you Stoughton. Rouse him if he’s in bed. Tell him to fetch Dr McFee. He had better take the chaise; I don’t want the doctor riding through this wind. Tell him to give Dr McFee my compliments and explain that Mrs Wickham is here at Pemberley and requires his attention.”

Leaving the women to cope with Lydia, Darcy moved quickly to where the coachman was standing by the horses’ heads. He had been gazing anxiously at the door but, at the approach of Darcy, drew himself up and stood stiffly to attention. His relief on seeing the master of the house was almost palpable. He had done his best in an emergency and now normal life had returned and he was doing his job: standing by his horses and awaiting instructions.

Darcy said, “Who are you? Do I know you?”

“I’m George Pratt, sir, from the Green Man.”

“Of course. You are Mr Piggott’s coachman. Tell me what happened in the woodland. Make it clear and concise, but I want to know the whole story, and quickly.”

Pratt was obviously anxious to tell it and immediately broke into rapid speech. “Mr Wickham and his lady and Captain Denny came to the inn this afternoon but I wasn’t there when they arrived. Come eight o’clock or thereabouts this evening Mr Piggott told me I was to drive Mr and Mrs Wickham and the captain to Pemberley when the lady was ready, using the back road through the woodland. I was to leave Mrs Wickham at the house to go to the ball, or so she was saying earlier to Mrs Piggott. After that my orders was to take the two gentlemen to the King’s Arms at Lambton and then return with the chaise to the inn. I heard Mrs Wickham saying to Mrs Piggott that the gentlemen would be travelling on to London the next day and that Mr Wickham was hopeful of getting employment.”

“Where are Mr Wickham and Captain Denny?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir. When we was about halfway into the woodland Captain Denny knocked to stop the chaise and got out. He shouted something like, “I’m finished with it and with you. I’ll have no part in it,” and ran off into the woodland. Then Mr Wickham went after him, shouting to him to come back and not be a fool, and Mrs Wickham started screaming for him not to leave her and made to follow, but after she got down from the coach, she thought better of it and got back in. She was hollering something dreadful and making the horses nervous so that I could hardly hold them, and then we heard the shots.”

“How many?”

“I couldn’t rightly say, sir, things being all awry with the captain making off and Mr Wickham running after him and the lady yelling, but I heard one shot for certain, sir, and maybe one or two more.”

“How long after the gentlemen left did you hear the shots?”

“Could be fifteen minutes, sir, maybe longer. I know we was standing there an awful long time expecting the gentlemen to come back. But I heard shots all right. It was then Mrs Wickham started screaming that we’d all be murdered and ordered me to drive at speed to Pemberley. It seemed the best thing to do, sir, seeing as how the gentlemen were not there to give orders. I thought they was lost in the woodland but I couldn’t go looking for them, sir, not with Mrs Wickham screaming murder and the horses in a right state.”

“No, of course not. Were the shots close?”

“Close enough, sir. I reckon someone was shooting maybe within a hundred yards.”

“Right. Well, I’ll need you to take a party of us back to where the gentlemen went into the woodland and we’ll go in search.”

It was apparent that this plan was so deeply unwelcome to Pratt that he ventured an objection. “I was to go on to the King’s Arms in Lambton, sir, and then back to the Green Man. Those was my clear orders, sir. And the horses will be sore afeared of going back into the woodland.”

“Obviously there is no point in going on to Lambton without Mr Wickham and Captain Denny. From now on you take your orders from me. They will be clear enough. It is your job to control the horses. Wait here, and keep them quiet. I will settle matters later with Mr Piggott. You will not be in any trouble if you do what I say.”

Inside Pemberley, Elizabeth turned to Mrs Reynolds and spoke quietly. “We need to get Mrs Wickham to bed. Is there one made up in the south guest room on the second floor?”

“Yes madam, and a fire has already been lit. This room and two others are always prepared for Lady Anne’s ball in case we get another October night like the one in ’97 when the snow was four inches deep and some guests who had made a long journey could not get home. Shall we take Mrs Wickham there?”

Elizabeth said, “Yes that would be best, but in her present state she cannot be left alone. Someone will have to sleep in the same room.”

Mrs Reynolds said, “There is a comfortable sofa as well as a single bed in the dressing room next door, madam. I can get the sofa moved in with blankets and pillows. And I expect Belton is still up and waiting for you. She must be aware that something is wrong and she is utterly discreet. I suggest that at present she and I take turns at sleeping on the sofa in Mrs Wickham’s room.”

Elizabeth said, “You and Belton should get your sleep tonight. Mrs Bingley and I should be able to manage.”

Returning to the hall, Darcy saw Lydia being half-carried up the stairs by Bingley and Jane, led by Mrs Reynolds. The whooping had sunk into quieter sobbing, but she wrenched herself free from Jane’s supporting arms and, turning, fixed a furious gaze on Darcy. “Why are you still here? Why don’t you go and find him? I heard the shots, I tell you. Oh my God – he could be injured or dead! Wickham could be dying and you just stand there. For God’s sake go!”

Darcy said calmly, “We are getting ready now. I shall bring you news when we have any. There is no need to expect the worst. Mr Wickham and Captain Denny may be already heading this way on foot. Now try to rest.”

Murmuring reassurance to Lydia, Jane and Bingley had at last gained the top step and, following Mrs Reynolds, moved out of sight down the corridor. Elizabeth said, “I am afraid Lydia will make herself ill. We need Dr McFee; he could give her something to calm her.”

“I have already ordered the chaise to collect him, and now we must go into the woodland to look for Wickham and Denny. Has Lydia been able to tell you what happened?”

“She managed to control her weeping long enough to blurt out the main facts and to demand that her trunk be brought in and unlocked. I could almost believe that she is still expecting to go to the ball.”

It seemed to Darcy that the great entrance hall of Pemberley, with its elegant furniture, the beautiful staircase curving up to the gallery, and the family portraits, had suddenly become as alien as if he were entering it for the first time. The natural order which from boyhood had sustained him had been overturned and for a moment he felt as powerless as if he were no longer master in his house, an absurdity which found relief in an irritation over details. It was not Stoughton’s job, nor was it Alveston’s, to carry luggage, and Wilkinson, by long tradition, was the only member of the household who, apart from Stoughton, took his orders directly from his master. But at least something was being done. Lydia’s luggage had been carried in and the Pemberley chaise would go now to fetch Dr McFee. Instinctively he moved to his wife and gently took her hand. It was as cold as death but he felt her reassuring, answering pressure and was comforted.

Bingley had now come down the stairs and was joined by Alveston and Stoughton. Darcy briefly recounted what he had learned from Pratt, but it was apparent that Lydia, despite her distress, had indeed managed to gasp out the essentials of her story.

Darcy said, “We need Pratt to point out where Denny and Wickham left the carriage, so we shall be taking Piggott’s chaise. You had better stay here, Charles, with the ladies, and Stoughton can guard the door. If you will be part of this, Alveston, we should be able to manage between us.”

Alveston said, “Please use me, sir, in any way in which I can be of help.”

Darcy turned to Stoughton. “We may need a stretcher. Is there not one in the room next to the gunroom?”

“Yes sir, the one we used when Lord Instone broke his leg in the hunt.”

“Then fetch it, will you. And we shall need blankets, some brandy and water and lanterns.”

Alveston said, “I can help with those,” and immediately the two of them were gone.

It seemed to Darcy that they had spent too long talking and making arrangements, but looking at his watch he saw that only fifteen minutes had passed since Lydia’s dramatic arrival. It was then that he heard the sound of hoofs and, turning, saw a horseman galloping on the greensward at the edge of the river. Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned. Before he had time to dismount, Stoughton came round the corner of the house carrying a stretcher over his shoulder followed by Alveston and a manservant, their arms laden with two folded blankets, the bottles of brandy and water and three lanterns. Darcy went up to the colonel and rapidly gave him a concise account of the night’s events and what they had in mind.

Fitzwilliam listened in silence, then said, “You are mounting quite an impressive expedition to satisfy one hysterical woman. I daresay the fools have lost themselves in the woodland, or one of them has tripped over a tree root and sprained an ankle. They are probably even now limping to Pemberley or the King’s Arms, but if the coachman also heard shots we had better go armed. I’ll get my pistol and join you in the chaise. If the stretcher is needed you could do with an extra man and a horse would be an encumbrance if we have to go into the depths of the woodland, which seems likely. I will bring my pocket compass. Two grown men getting themselves lost like children is stupid enough, five would be ludicrous.”

He mounted his horse and quickly trotted towards the stables. The colonel had offered no explanation of his absence and Darcy, in the trauma of the evening’s events, had given no thought to him. He reflected that wherever Fitzwilliam had been, his return was inopportune if he were to hold up the enterprise or demand information and explanations which no one could yet supply, but it was true that they could do with an extra man. Bingley would stay to look after the women, and he could, as always, rely on Stoughton and Mrs Reynolds to ensure that all doors and windows were secure and to cope with any inquisitive servants. But there was no undue delay. His cousin was back within a few minutes and he and Alveston lashed the stretcher to the chaise, the three men got in and Pratt mounted the leading horse.

It was then that Elizabeth appeared and ran up to the chaise. “We’re forgetting Bidwell. If there’s any trouble in the woodland, he should be with his family. Perhaps he is already. Has he left to go home yet do you know, Stoughton?”

“No madam. He is still polishing the silver. He was not expecting to go home until Sunday. Some of the indoor staff are still working, madam.”

Before Elizabeth could reply, the colonel got quickly out of the chaise saying, “I’ll fetch him. I know where he will be – in the butler’s pantry,” and he was gone.

Glancing at her husband’s face, Elizabeth saw his frown and knew that he was sharing her surprise. Now that the colonel had arrived it was apparent that he was determined to take control of the enterprise in all its aspects, but she told herself that this was not perhaps surprising; he was, after all, accustomed to assuming command in moments of crisis.

He returned quickly, but without Bidwell, saying, “He was so distressed at leaving his work half-finished that I did not press the matter. As usual on the night before the ball Stoughton has already arranged for him to stay overnight. He will be working all day tomorrow, and his wife will not expect to see him until Sunday. I told him that we would check that all is well at the cottage. I hope I have not exceeded my authority.”

Since the colonel had no authority over the Pemberley servants to be exceeded, there was nothing Elizabeth could say.

At last they moved off, watched from the door by a small group consisting of Elizabeth, Jane, Bingley and the two servants. No one spoke and when, minutes later, Darcy looked back, the great door of Pemberley had been closed and the house stood as if deserted, serene and beautiful in the moonlight.

2

No part of the Pemberley estate was neglected but, unlike the arboretum, the woodland to the north-west neither received nor required much attention. Occasionally a tree would be felled to provide winter fuel or timber for structural repairs to the cottages, and bushes inconveniently close to the path would be cut back or a dead tree chopped down and the trunk hauled away. A narrow lane rutted by the carts delivering provisions to the servants’ entrance led from the gatehouse to the wide courtyard at the rear of Pemberley, beyond which were the stables. From the courtyard, a door to the back of the house led to a passage and the gunroom and steward’s office.

The chaise, burdened with the three passengers, the stretcher and two bags belonging to Wickham and Captain Denny, was slow-moving and all three passengers sat in silence which, in Darcy, was close to an unaccountable lethargy. Suddenly the chaise shook to a stop. Rousing himself, Darcy looked out and felt the first sharp rain stinging his face. It seemed to him that a great fissured cliff face hung over them, bleak and impenetrable which, even as he looked, trembled as if about to fall. Then his mind took hold of reality, the fissures in the rock widened to become a gap between closely planted trees, and he heard Pratt urging the unwilling horses onto the woodland path.

Slowly they moved into loam-smelling darkness. They had been travelling under the eerie light of the full moon which seemed to be sailing before them like some ghostly companion, at one moment lost and then reappearing. After some yards, Fitzwilliam said to Darcy, “We would be better on foot from now on. Pratt may not be precise in memory and we need to keep a close watch for the place where Wickham and Denny entered the woodland and where they may have come out. We can see and hear better outside the chaise.”

They got out of the chaise carrying their lanterns and, as Darcy had expected, the colonel took his place at the front. The ground was softened with fallen leaves so that their footfalls were muted and Darcy could hear little but the creak of the chaise, the harsh breathing of the horses and the rattle of the reins. In places the boughs overhead met to form a dense arched tunnel from which only occasionally he could glimpse the moon, and in this cloistered darkness all he could hear of the wind was a faint rustling of the thin upper twigs, as if they were still the habitation of the chirping birds of spring.

As always when he walked in the woodland, Darcy’s thought turned to his great-grandfather. The charm of the woodland for that long-dead George Darcy must have lain partly in the wood’s diversity, its secret footpaths and unexpected vistas. Here in his remote tree-guarded refuge where the birds and small animals could come unimpeded to his home, he could believe that he and nature were one, breathing the same air, guided by the same spirit. As a boy playing in the woodland, Darcy had always sympathised with his great-grandfather and he had early realised that this seldom-mentioned Darcy, who had abdicated his responsibility to the estate and the house, was an embarrassment to his family. Before shooting his dog, Soldier, and himself, he had left a brief note asking to be buried with the animal, but this impious request had been ignored by the family and George Darcy lay with his forebears in the enclosed family section of the village churchyard, while Soldier had his own woodland grave with a granite headstone carved simply with his name and the date of his death. From childhood Darcy had been aware that his father had feared that there might be some inherited weakness in the family and had early indoctrinated in him the great obligations which would lie on his shoulders once he inherited, responsibilities for both the estate and those who served and depended on it, which no elder son could ever reject.

Colonel Fitzwilliam set a slow pace, swinging his lantern from side to side and occasionally calling a halt so that he could take a closer look at the occluding foliage, searching for any signs that someone had broken through. Darcy, aware that the thought was ungenerous, reflected that the colonel, exercising his prerogative to take charge, was probably enjoying himself. Trudging in front of Alveston, Darcy walked in a bitterness of spirit broken from time to time by surges of anger, like the rush of an incoming tide. Was he never to be free of George Wickham? These were the woods in which the two of them had played as boys. It was a time he could once recall as carefree and happy, but had that boyhood friendship really been genuine? Had the young Wickham even then been harbouring envy, resentment and dislike? Those rough boyish games and mock fights which sometimes left him bruised – had Wickham perhaps been deliberately over-boisterous? The petty, hurtful remarks now rose into his consciousness, beneath which they had lain untroubling for years. How long had Wickham been planning his revenge? The knowledge that his sister had only avoided social disgrace and ignominy because he was rich enough to buy her would-be seducer’s silence was so bitter that he almost groaned aloud. He had tried to put his humiliation out of mind in the happiness of his marriage but now it returned, made stronger by the years of repression, an intolerable burden of shame and self-disgust made more bitter by the knowledge that it was only his money that had induced Wickham to marry Lydia Bennet. It had been a generosity born of his love for Elizabeth, but it had been his marriage to Elizabeth which had brought Wickham into his family and had given him the right to call Darcy brother and made him an uncle to Fitzwilliam and Charles. He might have been able to keep Wickham out of Pemberley but he could never banish him from his mind.

After five minutes they reached the path which led from the road to Woodland Cottage. Trodden regularly over the years, it was narrow but not hard to find. Before Darcy had time to speak, the colonel moved at once towards it, lantern in hand. Handing his firearm to Darcy, he said, “You had better have this. I am not expecting any trouble and it will only frighten Mrs Bidwell and her daughter. I will check that they are all right and tell Mrs Bidwell to keep the door locked and on no account to let anyone in. I had better let Mrs Bidwell know that the two gentlemen may be lost in the woodland and that we are seeking them. There is no point in telling her anything else.”

Then he was gone and was immediately out of sight, the sound of his departure deadened by the density of the wood. Darcy and Alveston stood still in silence. The minutes seemed to lengthen and, looking at his watch, Darcy saw that the colonel had been gone for nearly twenty minutes before they heard the rustle of parted branches and he reappeared.

Taking back his gun from Darcy, he said curtly, “All is well. Mrs Bidwell and her daughter both heard the sound of gunfire which they thought was close but not immediately outside the cottage. They locked the door at once and heard nothing more. The girl – Louisa is it not? – was on the verge of hysteria but her mother managed to quieten her. It is unfortunate that this is the night when Bidwell is not at home.” He turned to the coachman. “Keep a sharp eye and stop when we get to the place where Captain Denny and Mr Wickham left the chaise.”

He again took his place at the head of the little procession and they walked slowly on. From time to time Darcy and Alveston raised their lanterns high, looking for any disturbance in the undergrowth, listening for any sound. Then, after about five minutes, the chaise rocked to a stop.

Pratt said, “About here I reckon, sir. I remember this oak tree on the left and those red berries.”

Before the colonel could speak Darcy asked, “In which direction did Captain Denny go?”

“To the left, sir. There’s no path that I could see but he just charged into the wood as if the bushes wasn’t there.”

“How long before Mr Wickham followed him?”

“No more than a second or two, I reckon. Like I said, sir, Mrs Wickham clutched at him and tried to stop him going, and kept hollering after him. But when he didn’t come back and she heard the shots she told me to start moving and get to Pemberley as quick as possible. She was screaming, sir, the whole way, saying as how we was all going to be murdered.”

Darcy said, “Wait here, and don’t leave the chaise.” He turned to Alveston, “We had better take the stretcher. We shall look fools if they’ve just got lost and are wandering unharmed, but those shots are worrying.”

Alveston untied and dragged down the stretcher from the chaise. He said to Darcy, “And bigger fools if we get lost ourselves. But I expect you know these woodlands well, sir.”

Darcy said, “Well enough, I hope, to find my way out of them.”

It was not going to be easy to manoeuvre the stretcher through the undergrowth but, after discussion of the problem, Alveston shouldered the rolled canvas and they set off.

Pratt had made no reply to Darcy’s command that he should stay with the chaise but it was apparent that he was unhappy at being left alone and his fear communicated itself to the horses, whose jostling and neighing seemed to Darcy a fitting accompaniment to an enterprise he was beginning to think ill advised. Thrusting their way through the almost impenetrable bushes, they walked in single file, the colonel leading, slowly casting their lanterns from side to side and halting at every sign that someone might recently have passed that way, while Alveston manoeuvred the long poles of the stretcher with difficulty under the low-hanging branches of the trees. Every few steps they halted, called out and then listened in silence, but there was no reply. The wind, which had been hardly heard, suddenly dropped and in the calm it seemed that the secret life of the woodland was stilled by their unwonted presence.

At first, from the torn and hanging twigs of some of the bushes and a few smudges which could be footprints, there was hope that they were on the right trail, but after five minutes the trees and bushes became less thick, their calls were still unanswered and they stopped to consider how best to proceed. Afraid to lose contact in case one or other of them got lost, they had kept within yards of each other, moving west. Now they decided to return to the chaise by turning eastward towards Pemberley. It was impossible for three men to cover the whole extensive woodland; if this change of direction produced no results they would go back to the house and, if Wickham and Denny had not returned by daylight, call in estate workers and perhaps the police to institute a more thorough search.

They trudged on, when suddenly the barrier of tangled bushes was less dense and they glimpsed a moonlit glade formed by a ring of slender silver birch trees. They pressed forward with renewed energy, crashing through the undergrowth, glad to break free of the imprisonment of the tangled shrubs and the thick unyielding trunks into freedom and light. Here there was no overhanging canopy of boughs and the moonlight silvering the delicate trunks made this a vision of beauty, more chimera than reality.

And now the glade was before them. Passing slowly, almost in awe, between two of the slender trunks, they stood as if physically rooted, speechless with horror. Before them, its stark colours a brutal contrast to the muted light, was a tableau of death. No one spoke. They moved slowly forward as one, all three holding their lanterns high; their strong beams, outshining the gentle radiance of the moon, intensified the bright red of an officer’s tunic and the ghastly blood-smeared face and mad glaring eyes turned towards them.

Captain Denny lay on his back, his right eye caked with blood, his left, glazed, fixed unseeing on the distant moon. Wickham was kneeling over him, his hands bloody, his own face a splattered mask. His voice was harsh and guttural but the words were clear. “He’s dead! Oh God, Denny’s dead! He was my friend, my only friend, and I’ve killed him! I’ve killed him! It’s my fault.”

Before they could reply, he slumped forward and began a wild sobbing which tore at his throat, then collapsed over Denny’s body, the two bloody faces almost touching.

The colonel bent over Wickham, then straightened up. He said, “He’s drunk.”

Darcy said, “And Denny?”

“Dead. No, better not touch him. I know death when I see it. Let us get the body onto the stretcher and I’ll help carry it. Alveston, you are probably the strongest among us, can you support Wickham back to the chaise?”

“I think so, sir. He’s not a heavy man.”

In silence Darcy and the colonel lifted Denny’s body onto the canvas stretcher. The colonel then moved to help Alveston get Wickham to his feet. He staggered but made no resistance. His breath, which came in sobbing gasps, polluted the air of the glade with its stink of whisky. Alveston was the taller man and, once he had managed to raise Wickham’s right arm and placed it over his shoulder, was able to support his inert weight and halfdrag him a few steps.

The colonel had bent down again and now straightened up. There was a pistol in his hand. He smelled the barrels then said, “Presumably this was the weapon which fired the shots.” Then he and Darcy grasped the poles of the stretcher and with some effort lifted it. The sad procession began its laboured way back to the chaise, the stretcher first and Alveston, burdened with Wickham, some yards behind. The evidence of their passing was plain and they had no difficulty in retracing their footsteps but the journey was slow and tedious. Darcy trudged behind the colonel in a desolation of spirit in which a dozen different fears and anxieties jostled in his mind making rational thought impossible. He had never let himself wonder how close Elizabeth and Wickham had been in the days of their friendship at Longbourn, but now jealous doubts, which he recognised as unjustified and ignoble, crowded his mind. For one terrible moment he wished that it was Wickham’s body he was straining his shoulders to carry, and the realisation that he could wish, even for a second, that his enemy was dead appalled him.

Pratt’s relief at their reappearance was apparent, but at the sight of the stretcher he began shaking with fear and it was only after the colonel’s sharp command that he controlled the horses who, smelling blood, were becoming unmanageable. Darcy and the colonel lowered the stretcher to the ground and Darcy, taking a blanket from the chaise, covered Denny’s body. Wickham had been quiet on the walk through the woodland but now was becoming belligerent and it was with relief that Alveston, helped by the colonel, managed to get him into the chaise and took his seat opposite him. The colonel and Darcy again grasped the stretcher poles, and with aching shoulders took up their burden. Pratt at last had the horses under control and in silence and a great weariness of body and spirit Darcy and the colonel, following the chaise, began the long trudge back to Pemberley.

3

As soon as Lydia, now grown calmer, had been persuaded into bed Jane felt able to leave her in Belton’s care and joined Elizabeth. Together they hurried to the front door to watch the departure of the rescue party. Bingley, Mrs Reynolds and Stoughton were already there, and the five of them stared into the darkness until the chaise had become two distant and wavering lights and Stoughton turned to shut and bolt the door.

Mrs Reynolds turned to Elizabeth, “I will sit with Mrs Wickham until Dr McFee arrives, madam. I expect he will give her something to calm her and make her sleep. I suggest that you and Mrs Bingley go back to the music room to wait; you will be comfortable there and the fire has been made up. Stoughton will stay at the door and keep watch, and he will let you and Mrs Bingley know as soon as the chaise comes into sight. And if Mr Wickham and Captain Denny are discovered on the road, there will be room in the chaise for the whole party, although it will not perhaps be the most comfortable of journeys. I expect the gentlemen will need something hot to eat when they do return, but I doubt, madam, whether Mr Wickham and Captain Denny will wish to stay for refreshments. Once Mr Wickham knows that his wife is safe, he and his friend will surely want to continue their journey. I think Pratt said that they were on their way to the King’s Arms at Lambton.”

This was exactly what Elizabeth wanted to hear, and she wondered whether Mrs Reynolds was being deliberately reassuring. The thought that either Wickham or Captain Denny could have broken or sprained an ankle while struggling through the woodland and would need to be taken in, perhaps even for the night, was a deeply disturbing possibility. Her husband would never refuse shelter to an injured man, but to have Wickham under Pemberley’s roof would be abhorrent to him and could have consequences which she feared to contemplate.

Mrs Reynolds said, “I shall check, madam, and see that all the staff working on the preparation for the ball have now gone to bed. Belton, I know, is happy to stay up in case she is needed, and Bidwell is still working but he is absolutely discreet. No one need be told about this night’s adventure until the morning, and then only as much as is necessary.”

They were beginning to mount the stairs when Stoughton announced that the chaise sent for Dr McFee was returning and Elizabeth waited to receive him and briefly explain what had happened. Dr McFee never entered the house without being given a warm welcome. He was a middle-aged widower whose wife had died young leaving him her considerable fortune, and although he could afford to use his carriage, he preferred to do his rounds on horseback. With his square leather bag strapped to his saddle, he was a familiar figure in the roads and lanes of Lambton and Pemberley. Years of riding in all weathers had coarsened his features but, although he was not considered a handsome man, he had an open and clever face in which authority and benevolence were so united that he seemed destined by nature to be a country doctor. His medical philosophy was that the human body had a natural tendency to heal itself if patients and doctors did not conspire to interfere with its benign processes but, recognising that human nature demands pills and potions, he relied on draughts prepared by himself in which his patients had absolute faith. He had early learned that a patient’s relatives are less trouble if they are kept busy in the sufferer’s interest and had devised concoctions whose efficacy was in proportion to the time taken to prepare them. He was already known to his patient, as Mrs Bingley would call him in if husband, child, visiting friends or servants showed the slightest signs of indisposition and he had become a family friend. It was an immense relief to take him up to Lydia, who greeted him with a new outburst of recrimination and grief but became calmer almost as soon as he drew close to the bed.

Elizabeth and Jane were now free to begin their watch in the music room where the windows gave a clear view of the road to the woodland. Although both she and Jane tried to relax on the sofa, neither could resist walking ceaselessly to the window or moving restlessly about the room. Elizabeth knew they were making the same silent calculations and at last Jane put them into words.

“My dear Elizabeth, we cannot expect them to return very quickly. Let us suppose it takes them as long as fifteen minutes for Pratt to identify the trees where Captain Denny and Mr Wickham disappeared into the wood. They might then have to search for fifteen minutes or longer if the two gentlemen are indeed lost, and we should allow some time for returning to the chaise and making the return journey. And we must remember that one of them will need to call at Woodland Cottage to check that Mrs Bidwell and Louisa are safe. There are so many incidents which could hamper their journey. We must try to be patient; I calculate that it could be an hour before we see the chaise. And, of course, it is possible that Mr Wickham and Captain Denny finally found their way to the road and have decided to walk back to the inn.”

Elizabeth said, “I think they would hardly do that. It would be a long walk and they told Pratt that after Lydia was left at Pemberley they were proceeding to the King’s Arms at Lambton. Besides, they would need their luggage. And surely Wickham would want to ensure that Lydia had arrived here safely. But we can know nothing until the chaise returns. There is every hope that the two will be found on the road and we shall see the chaise soon. In the meantime, we had better get such rest as we can.”

But rest was impossible and they found themselves constantly walking to and from the window. After half an hour they lost hope of a quick return of the rescue party but still stood in a silent agony of apprehension. Above all, remembering the gunshots, they dreaded to see the chaise moving as slowly as a hearse with Darcy and the colonel following on foot with the loaded stretcher. At best it could be carrying Wickham or Denny, not seriously injured but unable to tolerate the jolting of the chaise. Both tried resolutely to put out of their minds the vision of a shrouded body and the appalling task of explaining to a distraught Lydia that her worst fears had been realised and that her husband was dead.

They had been waiting an hour and twenty minutes and, weary with standing, had turned away from the window when Bingley appeared with Dr McFee.

The doctor said, “Mrs Wickham was exhausted both with anxiety and with prolonged weeping and I have given her a sedative. She should soon be sleeping peacefully, I hope for some hours. The maid Belton and Mrs Reynolds are with her. I can make myself comfortable in the library and check on her condition later. There is no need for anyone to attend me.”

Elizabeth thanked him warmly and said that, indeed, that was what she would wish. And when the doctor accompanied by Jane had left the room, she and Bingley went again to the window.

Bingley said, “We should not give up hope that all is well. The shots could have been a poacher after rabbits, or perhaps Denny fired his gun as a warning to someone lurking in the woods. We must not allow our imagination to conjure up images which reason must surely tell us are imaginary. There can be nothing in the woodland to tempt anyone with evil intent towards either Wickham or Denny.”

Elizabeth did not reply. Now even the familiar and well-loved landscape looked alien, the river winding like molten silver under the moon until a sudden gust of wind set it trembling into life. The road stretched in what seemed an eternal emptiness in a phantom landscape, mysterious and eerie, where nothing human could ever live or move. And it was just as Jane returned that, at last, the chaise came into sight, at first no more than a moving shape defined by the faint flicker of the distant lights. Resisting the temptation to dash to the door, they stood intently waiting.

Elizabeth could not keep the despair from her voice. She said, “They are moving slowly. If all were well they would come at speed.”

At that thought she could wait at the window no longer but ran downstairs, Jane and Bingley at her side. Stoughton must have seen the chaise from the ground floor window for the front door was already ajar. He said, “Would it not be wise, madam, to return to the music room? Mr Darcy will bring you the news as soon as they arrive. It is too cold to wait outside and there is nothing any of us can do until the chaise arrives.”

Elizabeth said, “Mrs Bingley and I would prefer to wait at the door, Stoughton.”

“As you wish, madam.”

Together with Bingley they went out into the night and stood waiting. No one spoke until the chaise was a few yards from the door and they saw what they had feared, the shrouded shape on the stretcher. There was a sudden gust of wind, tossing Elizabeth’s hair around her face. She felt herself falling but managed to clutch at Bingley who put a supporting arm round her shoulders. At that moment the wind lifted the corner of the blanket and they saw the scarlet of an officer’s jacket.

Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke directly to Bingley. “You can tell Mrs Wickham that her husband is alive. Alive but unfit to be seen. Captain Denny is dead.”

Bingley said, “Shot?”

It was Darcy who replied. “No, not shot.” He turned to Stoughton, “Fetch the outdoor and indoor keys to the gunroom. Colonel Fitzwilliam and I will carry the body across the north courtyard and lay it on the gunroom table.” He turned again to Bingley. “Please take Elizabeth and Mrs Bingley inside. There is nothing they can do here and we need to bring Wickham in from the chaise. It would be distressing for them to see him in his present condition. We need to get him to a bed.”

Elizabeth wondered why her husband and the colonel seemed unwilling to lower the stretcher to the ground, but they stood as if rooted until Stoughton came back within minutes and handed over the keys. Then almost ceremoniously, with Stoughton preceding them like an undertaker’s mute, they made their way through the courtyard and round to the rear of the house and the gunroom.

The chaise was now rocking violently and between the gusts of wind Elizabeth could hear Wickham’s wild, incoherent shouting, railing against his rescuers and the cowardice of Darcy and the colonel. Why hadn’t they caught the murderer? They had a gun. They knew how to use it. By God, he’d tried a shot or two, and he would be there now had they not lugged him away. Then came a stream of oaths, the worst of them borne away by the wind, followed by an outburst of weeping.

Elizabeth and Jane went inside. Wickham had now fallen and Bingley and Alveston together managed to pull him to his feet and began half-dragging him into the hall. Elizabeth had one glimpse at the wild-eyed, blood-besmirched face and then retreated out of sight while Wickham tried to fight himself free of Alveston’s grasp.

Bingley said, “We need a room with a strong door and a key. What do you suggest?”

Mrs Reynolds, who had now returned, looked at Elizabeth. She said, “The blue room, madam, at the end of the north corridor would be the most secure. There are only two small windows and it’s the furthest from the nursery.”

Bingley was still helping to control Wickham. He called to Mrs Reynolds, “Dr McFee is in the library. Tell him he is needed now. We cannot manage Mr Wickham in his present state. Tell him that we shall be in the blue bedroom.”

Bingley and Alveston grasped Wickham’s arms and began half-pulling him up the stairs. He was quieter now but still sobbing; as they reached the last step, he wrestled himself free and, glaring down at Darcy, hurled his final imprecations.

Jane turned to Elizabeth. She said, “I had better return to Lydia. Belton has been there for a long time and may need some relief. I hope Lydia will be sound asleep now, but we must reassure her that her husband is alive as soon as she is conscious. At least we have something to be grateful for. Dear Lizzy, if only I could have spared you this.”

The two sisters clung together for a moment and then Jane was gone. And now the hall was quiet. Elizabeth was shivering and, feeling suddenly faint, sat down on the nearest chair. She felt bereft, longing for Darcy to appear, and soon he was with her, coming from the gunroom through the back of the house. He came to her immediately and, raising her up, drew her gently to him.

“My dear, let us get away from here and I will explain what happened. You have seen Wickham?”

“Yes, I saw him carried in. He was a dreadful sight. Thank God Lydia did not see.”

“How is she?”

“Asleep, I hope. Dr McFee gave her something to calm her. And now he has gone with Mrs Reynolds to help with Wickham. Mr Alveston and Charles are taking Wickham to the blue bedroom in the north corridor. It seemed the best place for him.”

“And Jane?”

“She is with Lydia and Belton. She will spend the night in Lydia’s room with Mr Bingley in the dressing room next door. Lydia would not tolerate my company. It has to be Jane.”

“Then let us go to the music room. I must have some moments with you alone. Today we have scarcely seen each other. I will tell you as much as I know, but it isn’t good. Then I must go tonight to notify Sir Selwyn Hardcastle of Captain Denny’s death. He is the nearest magistrate. I cannot have any part in this; it will be for Hardcastle to take over from now on.”

“But can it not wait, Fitzwilliam? You must be exhausted. And it will be after midnight if Sir Selwyn comes back tonight with the police. He cannot hope to do anything until morning.”

“It is right that Sir Selwyn should be told without delay. He will expect it, and he is right to expect it. He will want to remove Denny’s body and probably see Wickham, if he is sober enough to be questioned. In any case, my love, Captain Denny’s body should be moved as soon as possible. I do not want to seem callous or irreverent but it will be convenient to have it out of the house before the servants wake. They will have to be told what has happened but it will be easier for all of us, particularly for the servants, if the body is no longer here.”

“But you could at least stay and have something to eat and drink before you go. It is hours since dinner.”

“I will stay for five minutes to take some coffee and to make sure Bingley is fully in the picture, but then I must be off.”

“And Captain Denny, tell me what happened? Anything is better that this suspense. Charles is talking about an accident. Was this an accident?”

Darcy said gently, “My love, we must wait until the doctors have examined the body and can tell us how Captain Denny died. Until then it is all conjecture.”

“So it could have been an accident?”

“It is comforting to hope so, but I believe what I believed when I first saw his body – that Captain Denny was murdered.”

4

Five minutes later Elizabeth waited with Darcy at the front door for his horse to be brought round, and did not re-enter the house until she saw him break into a gallop and melt into the moonlit darkness. It would be an uncomfortable journey. The wind, which had spent its worst fury, had been succeeded by a heavy slanting rain, but she knew that the ride was necessary. Darcy was one of the three magistrates serving Pemberley and Lambton but he could have no part in this investigation and it was right that one of his colleagues should be informed of Denny’s death without delay. She hoped, too, that the body would be removed from Pemberley before morning when the waking household would have to be told by Darcy and herself something of what had happened. The presence of Mrs Wickham would have to be explained and Lydia herself was unlikely to be discreet. Darcy was a fine horseman and even in poor weather a night ride away from the house would hold no terror for him, but straining her eyes to see the last flashing shadow of the galloping horse, she had to fight down an irrational fear that something terrible would happen before he reached Hardcastle and that she was destined never to see him again.

For Darcy the gallop into the night was a release into temporary freedom. Although his shoulders still ached from the weight of the stretcher and he knew he was exhausted in mind and body, the smack of the wind and the cold rain stinging his face were a liberation. Sir Selwyn Hardcastle was the only magistrate known to be always at home and living within eight miles of Pemberley who would be able to take the case and would indeed be glad to do so, but he was not the colleague Darcy would have chosen. Unfortunately Josiah Clitheroe, the third member of the local magistrates, was incapacitated by gout, an affliction as painful as it was undeserved since the doctor, although known to be partial to a good dinner, never touched port wine, which was commonly believed to be the chief cause of this disabling complaint. Dr Clitheroe was a distinguished lawyer respected beyond the borders of his native Derbyshire, and accordingly regarded as an asset to the bench despite his garrulity which arose from a belief that the validity of a judgment was in proportion to the length of time spent in arriving at it. Every nuance of a case with which he was concerned was scrutinised in meticulous detail, previous cases researched and discussed and the relevant law propounded. And if the dictates of an ancient philosopher – particularly Plato or Socrates – could be seen as adding weight to the argument, they were produced. But despite the circuity of the journey, his eventual decision was invariably reasonable and there were few defendants who would not have felt unfairly discriminated against if Dr Clitheroe had not paid them the compliment of at least one hour’s incomprehensible dissertation when they appeared before him.

For Darcy, Dr Clitheroe’s illness was particularly inconvenient. He and Sir Selwyn Hardcastle, although they respected each other as magistrates, were not comfortable colleagues and until Darcy’s father succeeded to the Pemberley estate the two houses had been at enmity. The disagreement dated back to the time of Darcy’s grandfather, when the young servant from Pemberley, Patrick Reilly, had been found guilty of stealing a deer from the then Sir Selwyn’s deer park and was subsequently hanged.

The hanging had produce outrage among the Pemberley villagers but it was accepted that Mr Darcy had tried to save the boy, and Sir Selwyn and he became set in their publicly prescribed roles of the compassionate magistrate and the harsh upholder of the law, the distinction helped by Hardcastle’s seemingly appropriate name. The servants followed the example of their masters and resentment and animosity between the two houses were bequeathed from father to son. Only with the succession of Darcy’s father to the Pemberley estate was any attempt made to heal the breach, and then not until he was on his deathbed. He asked his son to do what he could to restore accord, pointing out that it was neither in the interests of the law nor of good relations between the two estates for the present hostility to continue. Darcy, inhibited by his reserve and a belief that openly to discuss a quarrel might only confirm its existence, took a more subtle path. Invitations to shooting parties and occasionally to family dinners were given and were accepted by Hardcastle. Perhaps he too had become increasingly aware of the dangers of the long-standing animosity, but the rapprochement had never developed into intimacy. Darcy knew that in the present trouble he would find in Hardcastle a conscientious and honest magistrate, but not a friend.

His horse seemed as glad of the fresh air and exercise as was its rider, and Darcy dismounted at Hardcastle House within half an hour. Sir Selwyn’s ancestor had received his barony in the time of Queen Elizabeth when the family house had been built. It was a large, rambling and complicated edifice, its seven high Tudor chimneys a landmark above the tall elms which surrounded the house like a barricade. Inside, the small windows and low ceilings gave little light. The present baronet’s father, impressed by some of the building by his neighbours, had added an elegant but discordant extension, now rarely used except as servant accommodation, Sir Selwyn preferring the Elizabethan building despite its many inconveniences.

Darcy’s tug on the iron bell-pull produced a clanging loud enough to awaken the whole house, and the door was opened within seconds by Sir Selwyn’s elderly butler, Buckle, who like his master apparently managed without sleep since he was known to be on duty whatever the hour. Sir Selwyn and Buckle were inseparable and the position of butler to the Hardcastle family was generally regarded as being hereditary since Buckle’s father had held it before him, as had his grandfather. The family resemblance between the generations was remarkable, every Buckle being squat, heavily built and long-armed, with the face of a benevolent bulldog. Buckle divested Darcy of his hat and riding jacket and, although the visitor was well known to him, asked him his name and, as was his invariable custom, instructed him to wait while his arrival was announced. The delay seemed interminable but eventually his heavy footsteps were heard approaching and he announced, “Sir Selwyn is in his smoking room, sir, if you will follow me.”

They went through the great hall with its high vaulted roof, many-paned window, impressive collection of armour and the mounted head of a stag, somewhat mouldy with age. It also housed the family portraits and down the generations the Hardcastles had gained a reputation among the neighbouring families for the impressive number and size of them, a reputation founded more on quantity than quality. Every baronet had bequeathed at least one strong prejudice or opinion to instruct or inconvenience his successors, among them being the belief, first formed by a seventeenth-century Sir Selwyn, that it was a waste of money to employ an expensive artist to paint the women of the family. All that was necessary to satisfy the pretensions of husbands and the vanity of wives was that the painter make a plain face pretty, a pretty face beautiful, and spend more time and paint on the sitter’s clothes than on the features. Since the Hardcastle men shared a propensity to admire the same type of female beauty, Buckle’s three-branch candelabrum, held high, illumined a line of poorly painted identical disapproving pursed lips and hostile protruding eyes, as satin and lace succeeded velvet, silk replaced satin, and silk gave way to muslin. The male Hardcastles had fared better. The strongly inherited, slightly hooked nose, the bushy eyebrows much darker than the hair, a wide mouth with almost bloodless lips looked down on Darcy with confident assurance. Here, one could believe, was the present Sir Selwyn, immortalised down the centuries by distinguished painters, in his various roles: responsible landowner and master, paterfamilias, benefactor of the poor, captain of the Derbyshire Volunteers, richly uniformed with his sash of office, and last of all the magistrate, stern, judicial but fair. There were few lowly visitors to Sir Selwyn who were not deeply impressed and suitably intimidated by the time they reached the Presence.

Darcy now followed Buckle into a narrow corridor towards the back of the house at the end of which Buckle, without knocking, opened a heavy oak door and announced in a stentorian voice, “Mr Darcy of Pemberley to see you, Sir Selwyn.”

Selwyn Hardcastle did not get up. He was sitting in a high-backed chair beside the fire wearing his smoking cap, his wig on a round table beside him which also held a bottle of port and a half-filled glass. He was reading from a heavy book which lay open in his lap and which he now closed with obvious regret after placing a bookmark carefully on the open page. The scene was almost a live reproduction for his portrait as magistrate and Darcy could imagine that he had a glimpse of the painter flitting tactfully through the door, the sitting over. The fire had obviously been recently tended and was now burning fiercely; against its small explosions of sound and the crackling of the logs, Darcy apologised for the lateness of his visit.

Sir Selwyn said, “It is no matter. I seldom end my reading for the day before one o’clock in the morning. You seem discomposed. I take it that this is an emergency. What trouble now is affecting the parish – poaching, sedition, mass insurrection? Has Boney at last landed, or has Mrs Phillimore’s poultry been raided once again? Please sit. That chair with the carved back is said to be comfortable and should hold your weight.”

Since it was the chair Darcy usually occupied he had every confidence that it would. He seated himself and told his story fully but succinctly, giving the salient facts without comment. Sir Selwyn listened in silence, then said. “Let me see if I have understood you correctly. Mr and Mrs George Wickham and Captain Denny were being driven by hired chaise to Pemberley where Mrs Wickham would spend the night before attending Lady Anne’s ball. Captain Denny at some stage left the chaise while it was in the Pemberley woodland, apparently after a disagreement, and Wickham followed him calling him to return. There was anxiety when neither gentleman reappeared. Mrs Wickham and Pratt, the coachman, said that they heard shots some fifteen minutes later and, naturally fearing foul play, Mrs Wickham, becoming overwrought, instructed the chaise to proceed at speed to Pemberley. After she arrived in considerable distress you initiated a search of the woodland by yourself, Colonel the Viscount Hartlep and the Honourable Henry Alveston, and together discovered the body of Captain Denny with Wickham kneeling over him apparently drunk and weeping, his face and hands bloodied.” He paused after the exertion of this feat of memory and took some sips of his port before speaking. “Had Mrs Wickham been invited to the ball?”

The change in the line of questioning was unexpected but Darcy took it calmly. “No. She would of course be received at Pemberley had she arrived unexpectedly at any time.”

“Not invited, but received, unlike her husband. It is common knowledge that George Wickham is never received at Pemberley.”

Darcy said, “We are not on those terms.”

Sir Selwyn placed his book with some ceremony on the table. He said, “His character is well known locally. A good beginning in childhood but thereafter a decline into wildness and dissolution, a natural result of exposing a young man to a lifestyle he could never hope to achieve by his own efforts, and companions of a class to which he could never aspire to belong. There are rumours that there could be another reason for your antagonism, something to do with his marriage to your wife’s sister?”

Darcy said, “There are always rumours. His ingratitude and lack of respect for my father’s memory and the differences in our dispositions and interests are sufficient to explain our lack of intimacy. But are we not forgetting the reason for my visit? There can be no link between my relationship with George Wickham and the death of Captain Denny.”

“Forgive me, Darcy, but I disagree. There are links. The murder of Captain Denny, if murder it is, took place on your property and the person responsible could be a man who, in law, is your brother and with whom you are known to be at variance. When matters of importance come to mind I tend to express them. Your position is one of some delicacy. You understand that you cannot take part in this investigation?”

“That is why I am here.”

“The High Constable will have to be informed, of course. I take it that this has not yet been done.”

“I thought it more important to notify you immediately.”

“You were correct. I shall notify Sir Miles Culpepper myself and shall, of course, give him a full report of the state of the investigation as it proceeds. I doubt, however, that he will take much personal interest. Since marrying his new young wife he seems to spend more time enjoying the various divertissements of London than he does on local affairs. I have no criticism of this. The position of High Constable is in some sense invidious. His duties, as you know, are to enforce statutes and carry out the executive decisions of the justices, and also to oversee and direct the petty constables under his jurisdiction. Since he has no formal authority over them it is difficult to see how this can be done effectively but, as with so much in our country, the system works satisfactorily as long as it is left to local people. You remember Sir Miles, of course. You and I were two of the justices who swore him in at the quarter sessions two years ago. I will also get in touch with Dr Clitheroe. He may not be able to take an active part but he is usually invaluable on questions of law and I am reluctant to take all the responsibility. Yes, I think between the two of us we shall manage very well. I shall now accompany you back to Pemberley in my coach. It will be necessary to collect Dr Belcher before the body is moved and I shall bring the mortuary van and two petty constables. You know them both – Thomas Brownrigg, who likes to be known as a headborough to distinguish his seniority, and young William Mason.”

Without waiting for Darcy to comment, he got up and, moving to the bell-cord, gave it a vigorous tug.

Buckle arrived with a promptness which suggested to Darcy that he had been waiting outside the door. His master said, “My greatcoat and hat, Buckle, and rouse Postgate if he is in bed, which I doubt. I want my carriage ready. I shall be driven to Pemberley, but calling en route to collect two petty constables and Dr Belcher. Mr Darcy will ride alongside us.”

Buckle disappeared into the gloom of the corridor, clanging the heavy door closed with what seemed unnecessary force.

Darcy said, “I regret that my wife may be unable to receive you. I hope that she and Mrs Bingley will have retired for the night, but the upper servants are still on duty and Dr McFee is in the house. Mrs Wickham was in a state of considerable anguish when she arrived at Pemberley and Mrs Darcy and I thought it right that she should have immediate medical attention.”

Sir Selwyn said, “And I think it right that Dr Belcher, as the doctor called in to advise the police on medical matters, should be involved at this early stage. He will be used to having his nights interrupted. Is Dr McFee examining your prisoner? I take it that George Wickham is under lock and key.”

“Not under lock and key but continually guarded. When I left, my butler, Stoughton, and Mr Alveston were with him. He also has been attended by Dr McFee and may now be asleep and unlikely to wake for some hours. It might be more convenient if you arrived after daybreak.”

Sir Selwyn said, “Convenient for whom? The inconvenience will be largely mine, but that is no matter when it is a question of duty. And has Dr McFee in any way interfered with Captain Denny’s body? I take it that you have ensured that it is inaccessible to anyone until my arrival.”

“Captain Denny’s body is laid out on a table in the gunroom and is under lock and key. I thought that nothing should be done to ascertain the cause of death until your arrival.”

“You were right. It would be unfortunate if anyone could suggest that there had been any interference with the body. Of course ideally it should have been left in the woodland where it lay until it could be seen by the police, but I can understand that that seemed impractical at the time.”

Darcy was tempted to say that he had never considered leaving the body where it lay, but thought it prudent to say as little as possible.

Buckle had now returned. Sir Selwyn put on his wig, which he invariably wore when on official duty as a justice of the peace, and was helped into his greatcoat and handed his hat. Thus clad and obviously empowered for any activity expected of him, he seemed both taller and more magisterial, the embodiment of the law.

Buckle led them to the front door and Darcy could hear the sound of three heavy bolts being shot while they waited in the darkness for the carriage. Sir Selwyn showed no impatience at the delay. He said, “Did George Wickham say anything when you came upon him, kneeling, as you say, beside the body?”

Darcy knew that the question would be asked sooner or later, and not only of himself. He said, “He was greatly agitated, weeping even, and hardly coherent. It was apparent that he had been drinking, possibly heavily. He seemed to believe that he was in some way responsible for the tragedy, presumably by not dissuading his friend from leaving the carriage. The woodland is dense enough to provide cover for any desperate fugitive and a prudent man would not walk there alone after dark.”

“I would prefer, Darcy, to hear his exact words. They must have impressed themselves on your mind.”

They had, and Darcy repeated what he had remembered. “He said, “I have killed my best friend, my only friend. It is my fault.” I may have got the words in the wrong order but that is the sense of what I heard.”

Hardcastle said, “So we have a confession?”

“Hardly that. We can’t be sure to what precisely he was admitting, nor the condition in which he was at the time.”

The old and cumbersome but impressive carriage was now rattling round the corner of the house. Turning for a last word before he got in, Sir Selwyn said, “I do not look for complications. You and I have worked together for some years now as magistrates and I think we understand each other. I have every confidence that you know your duty, as I know mine. I am a simple man, Darcy. When a man confesses, one who is not under duress, I tend to believe him. But we shall see, we shall see, I must not theorise in advance of the facts.”

Within minutes Darcy’s horse had been brought to him, he mounted and the carriage creaked into motion. They were on their way.

5

It was now after eleven o’clock. Elizabeth had no doubt that Sir Selwyn would set out for Pemberley the moment he had been told of the murder and thought that she should check on Wickham. It was extremely unlikely that he would be awake but she was anxious to satisfy herself that all was well.

But within four feet of the door she hesitated, gripped by a moment of self-knowledge which honesty compelled her to accept. The reason she was here was both more complex and compelling than her responsibility as hostess and, perhaps, more difficult to justify. She had no doubt that Sir Selwyn Hardcastle would remove Wickham under arrest and she had no intention of seeing him taken away under police escort and possibly in fetters. He could at least be spared that humiliation. Once gone it was unlikely that they would ever meet again; what she now found unbearable was the prospect of having that last image of him forever imprinted on her mind, the handsome agreeable and gallant George Wickham reduced to a shameful blood-spattered drunken figure shouting expletives as he was half-urged, half-dragged over the threshold of Pemberley.

She moved forward resolutely and knocked on the door. It was opened by Bingley and she saw with surprise that Jane and Mrs Reynolds were in the room standing by the bed. On a chair was a basin of water, pink with blood and, as she watched, Mrs Reynolds finished drying her hands on a cloth and hung it over the side of the bowl.

Jane said, “Lydia is still asleep but I know she will insist on being united with Mr Wickham as soon as she is awake and I did not want her to see him as he was when he was brought here. Lydia has every right to see her husband even if he is unconscious, but it would be too horrible if his face were still smeared with Captain Denny’s blood. Some of it may be his own; there are two scratches on his forehead and some on his hands, but they are slight and probably due to his trying to find a way through the bushes.”

Elizabeth wondered whether washing Wickham’s face had been wise. Wasn’t it possible that Sir Selwyn, when he arrived, would expect to see Wickham in the same state as he had been when discovered stooped over the body? But she wasn’t surprised at Jane’s action or at Bingley’s being present to show his support. For all her gentleness and sweetness there was a core of determination in her sister and once she had decided that an action was right, no arguments were likely to deflect her from her purpose.

Elizabeth asked, “Has Dr McFee seen him?”

“He checked on him about half an hour ago and will do so again if Mr Wickham wakes up. We hope that by then he will be quiet and able to have something to eat before Sir Selwyn arrives but Dr McFee thinks that unlikely. He was only able to persuade Mr Wickham to take a little of the draught but, given its strength, Dr McFee thinks it should be enough to ensure some hours of restorative sleep.”

Elizabeth moved over to the bed and stood looking down at Wickham. Dr McFee’s draught had certainly been effective, the stertorous stinking breath was no more and he was sleeping as deeply as a child, his breathing so shallow that he could have been dead. With his face cleaned, his dark hair tumbled on the pillow, his shirt open to show the delicate line of the throat, he looked like a young wounded knight exhausted after battle. Gazing down on him, Elizabeth was visited by a tumble of emotions. Her mind unwillingly jerked back to memories so painful that she could recall them only with self-disgust. She had been so close to falling in love with him. Would she have married him if he had been rich instead of penniless? Surely not, she knew now that what she had then felt had never been love. He, the darling of Meryton, the handsome newcomer with whom every girl was besotted, had sought her out as his favourite. It had all been vanity, a dangerous game played by them both. She had accepted and – worse – had passed on to Jane his allegations about the perfidy of Mr Darcy, the spoiling of all his chances in life, Darcy’s betrayal of their friendship and the callous neglect of the responsibilities towards Wickham laid on him by his father. Only much later had she realised how inappropriate those revelations, made to a comparative stranger, had been.

Looking down on him now, she felt a resurgence of shame and humiliation at having been so lacking in sense and judgement and the discernment of the character of others on which she had always prided herself. But something remained, an emotion close to pity which made it appalling to contemplate what his end might be, and even now, when she knew the worst of which he was capable, she couldn’t believe that he was a murderer. But whatever the outcome, with his marriage to Lydia he had become part of her family, part of her life, as her marriage had made him part of Darcy’s. And now every thought of him was besmirched by terrifying images: the howling crowd suddenly silenced as the handcuffed figure emerged from prison, the high gallows and the noose. She had wanted him out of their lives, but not that way – dear God, not that way.