Death Comes to Pemberley

1

The trial was scheduled to take place on Thursday 22nd March at eleven o’clock at the Old Bailey. Alveston would be at his rooms near the Middle Temple and had suggested that he wait upon the Gardiners at Gracechurch Street the day before, together with Jeremiah Mickledore, Wickham’s defence counsel, to explain the next day’s procedure and to advise Darcy on the evidence he would give. Elizabeth was anxious to take two days on the road so they proposed to stop at Banbury overnight, arriving in the early afternoon of Wednesday 21st March. Usually when the Darcys left Pemberley a group of the more senior staff would be at the door to wave goodbye and express their good wishes, but this departure was very different and only Stoughton and Mrs Reynolds were there, their faces grave, to wish them a safe journey and assure the Darcys that life at Pemberley would continue as it should while they were away.

To open the Darcy townhouse entailed considerable domestic disruption, and when visiting London for a short period for shopping, to view a new play or exhibition, or because Darcy had business with his lawyer or tailor, they would stay with the Hursts when Miss Bingley would join the party. Mrs Hurst preferred any visitor to none and took pride in exhibiting the splendour of her house and the number of her carriages and servants, while Miss Bingley could artfully drop the names of her distinguished friends and pass on the current gossip about scandals in high places. Elizabeth would indulge the amusement she had always taken in the pretensions and absurdities of her neighbours, provided no compassion was called for, while Darcy took the view that if family amity required him to meet people with whom he had little in common, it were best done at their expense not his. But on this occasion no invitation from the Hursts or Miss Bingley had been received. There are some dramatic events, some notoriety, from which it is prudent to distance oneself and they did not expect to see either the Hursts or Miss Bingley during the trial. But the invitation from the Gardiners had been immediate and warm. Here in that comfortable, unostentatious family house they would find the reassurance and security of familiarity, quietly speaking voices that would make no demands, require no explanations, and a peace which might prepare them for the ordeal ahead.

But when they reached the centre of London and the trees and green expanse of Hyde Park were behind them, Darcy felt that he was entering an alien state, breathing a stale and sour-smelling air, and surrounded by a large and menacing population. Never before had he felt so much a stranger in London. It was hard to believe that the country was at war; everyone seemed in a hurry, all walked as if preoccupied with their own concerns, but from time to time he saw envious or admiring glances cast at the Darcy coach. Neither he nor Elizabeth were disposed to comment as they passed into the wider and better-known streets where the coachman edged his careful way between the bright and gaudy shopfronts lit by flares, and the chaises, carts, wagons and private coaches which made the roads almost impassable. But at last they turned into Gracechurch Street and even as they approached the Gardiners’ house the door was opened and Mr and Mrs Gardiner ran out to welcome them and to direct the coachman to the stables at the rear. Minutes later the baggage was unloaded and Elizabeth and Darcy walked into the peace and security which would be their refuge until the trial was over.

2

Alveston and Jeremiah Mickledore came after dinner to give Darcy brief instructions and advice, and, having expressed their hopes and best wishes, left in less than an hour. It was to be one of the worst nights of Darcy’s life. Mrs Gardiner, unfailingly hospitable, had ensured that there was everything in the bedroom necessary for Elizabeth’s and his comfort, not only the two longed-for beds but the table between them with the carafe of water, the books and the tin of biscuits. Gracechurch Street could not be completely quiet but the rumble and creaks of carriages and the occasional calling voices, a contrast to the total silence of Pemberley, would not normally have been enough to keep him awake. He tried to put the anxiety about tomorrow’s ordeal out of his mind, but it was too occupied with even more disturbing thoughts. It was as if an image of himself were standing by the bed regarding him with accusatory, almost contemptuous eyes, rehearsing arguments and indictments which he had thought he had long disciplined into quiescence but which this unwanted vision had now brought forward with renewed force and reason. It was his own doing and no one else’s that had made Wickham part of his family with the right to call him brother. Tomorrow he would be compelled to give evidence which could help send his enemy to the gallows or set him free. Even if the verdict were “not guilty”, the trial would bring Wickham closer to Pemberley, and if he were convicted and hanged, Darcy himself would carry a weight of horror and guilt which he would bequeath to his sons and to future generations.

He could not regret his marriage; it would have been like regretting that he himself had ever been born. It had brought him happiness which he had never believed possible, a love of which the two handsome and healthy boys sleeping in the Pemberley nursery was a pledge and an assurance. But he had married in defiance of every principle which from childhood had ruled his life, every conviction of what was owed to the memory of his parents, to Pemberley and to the responsibility of class and wealth. However deep the attraction to Elizabeth he could have walked away, as he suspected Colonel Fitzwilliam had walked away. The price he had played in bribing Wickham to marry Lydia had been the price of Elizabeth.

He remembered the meeting with Mrs Younge. The rooming house was in a respectable part of Marylebone, the woman herself the personification of a reputable and caring landlady. He remembered their conversation. “I accept only young men from the most respectable families who have left home to take work in the capital and to begin their careers of independence. Their parents know that the boys will be well fed and cared for, and a judicious eye kept on their behaviour. I have had, for many years, a more than adequate income, and now that I have explained my situation we can do business. But first may I offer you some refreshment?”

He had refused it with no attempt at civility and she had said, “I am a woman of business and I never find it harmed by a little adherence to the formal rules of courtesy, but by all means let us dispense with them. I know what you want, the whereabouts of George Wickham and Lydia Bennet. Perhaps you will begin negotiations by stating the maximum you are prepared to pay for this information which, I can assure you, you will be unable to obtain from anyone but myself.”

His offer had, of course, not been enough, but in the end he had settled and had left the house as if it had been infected with the plague. And that had been the first of the large sums which it had been necessary to provide before George Wickham could be persuaded to marry Lydia Bennet.

Elizabeth, exhausted after the journey, retired to bed immediately after dinner. She was asleep when he came into the bedroom to join her, and he stood for some minutes quietly at her bedside, regarding with love her beautiful and peaceful face; for a few more hours at least she would be free of worry. Once in bed, he turned restlessly in search of a comfort which even the softness of the pillows could not provide, but at last felt himself drifting into sleep.

3

Alveston had gone early from his lodgings to the Old Bailey and Darcy was on his own when, shortly before half-past ten, he passed through the imposing hall which led to the courtroom. His immediate impression was that he had entered a birdcage of chattering humanity set down in Bedlam. The case was not due to be called for thirty minutes but the first seats were already packed with a gossiping crowd of fashionably dressed women, while the back rows were rapidly filling. All London seemed to be here, the poor crammed together in noisy discomfort. Although Darcy had presented his summons to the official at the door, no one showed him where he should sit or, indeed, took the least notice of him. The day was warm for March and the air was becoming hot and humid, a sickening mixture of scent and unwashed bodies. Near the judge’s seat a group of lawyers stood talking together as casually as if in a drawing room. He saw that Alveston was among them and, catching Darcy’s eye, he came immediately over to greet him and to show him the seats reserved for witnesses.

He said, “The prosecution are calling only the colonel and you to testify to the finding of Denny’s body. There is the usual pressure of time and this judge gets impatient if the same evidence is repeated unnecessarily. I will stay close; we may get a chance to talk during the trial.”

And now the hubbub died, as if noise could be cut with a knife. The judge had entered the court. Judge Moberley carried his honours with confidence but he was not a handsome man and his small-featured face, in which only his dark eyes were prominent, was almost extinguished by a large full-bottomed wig, giving him, to Darcy, the look of an inquisitive animal peering out of its lair. Groups of conferring lawyers separated and reformed as they and the clerk took their appointed places and the jury filed into the seats reserved for them. Suddenly the prisoner, with a police officer on either side of him, was standing in the dock. Darcy was shocked by his appearance. He was thinner, despite the food that had been regularly provided from outside, and his taut face was pale, less, Darcy thought, from the ordeal of the moment than from the long months in prison. Gazing at him Darcy was hardly aware of the preliminaries of the trial, the reading of the indictment in a clear voice, the selection of the jury and the administration of the oath. In the dock Wickham stood stiffly upright and, when asked how he pleaded to the charge, spoke the words “Not guilty” in a firm voice. And even now, in fetters and pale, he was still handsome.

And then Darcy saw a familiar face. She must have bribed someone to keep her seat in the front row among the female spectators, and she had taken it quickly and silently. She now sat there, hardly moving, among the flutter of fans and the rise and fall of the fashionable headdresses. At first glance he saw only her profile, but then she turned her face and, although their eyes met without acknowledgement, he had little doubt that she was Mrs Younge; even that initial glimpse at her profile had been enough.

He was determined not to catch her eye but peering from time to time across the courtroom he could see that she was expensively dressed, with an elegance and simplicity at odds with the gaudy ostentation around her. Her hat, trimmed with purple and green ribbons, framed a face which seemed as youthful as when they had first met. So had she been dressed when he and Colonel Fitzwilliam had invited her to Pemberley to be interviewed for the post of Georgiana’s companion, presenting before the two young men the picture of a well-spoken, reliable and well-born gentlewoman, deeply sympathetic to the young and aware of the responsibilities which would fall upon her. It had been different, but not so very different, when he had run her to ground in that respectable house in Marylebone. He wondered what power held her and Wickham together, strong enough to make her part of the audience of women who found entertainment in seeing a human being fight for his life.

4

Now, as the counsel for the prosecution was due to deliver his opening speech, Darcy saw that there was a change in Mrs Younge. She still sat upright, but was staring at the dock with an intensity and concentration of gaze, as if by silence and a meeting of their eyes, she could convey to the prisoner a message, perhaps of hope or of endurance. It lasted for a few seconds only, but it was a moment of time in which, for Darcy, the panoply of the court, the scarlet of the judge, the bright colours of the spectators, no longer existed and he was aware only of those two people and their absorption in each other.

“Gentlemen of the jury, the case before you is singularly distressing for us all, the brutal murder by a former army officer of his friend and erstwhile comrade. Although much of what happened will remain a mystery since the only person who can testify is the victim, the salient facts are plain and beyond conjecture, and will be put before you in evidence. The defendant, accompanied by Captain Denny and by Mrs Wickham, left the Green Man in Pemberley village, Derbyshire, at about nine o’clock on Friday 14th October to drive through the woodland path to Pemberley House where Mrs Wickham would spend the night and some indefinite period while her husband and Captain Denny were driven to the King’s Arms at Lambton. You will hear evidence of a quarrel between the defendant and Captain Denny while they were at the inn, and of the words spoken by Captain Denny as he left the chaise and ran into the woodland. Wickham then followed him. Gunshots were heard, and when Wickham did not return a distraught Mrs Wickham was driven to Pemberley and a rescue expedition was mounted. You will hear evidence of the finding of the body by two witnesses who vividly recall this significant moment. The defendant, bloodstained, was kneeling beside his victim and twice in the clearest words confessed that he had murdered his friend. Among much that is perhaps unclear and mysterious about this case, that fact stands at its heart; there was a confession and it was repeated and, I suggest to you, was clearly understood. The rescue party did not pursue any other potential murderer, Mr Darcy was careful to keep Wickham under guard and immediately to call the magistrate, and despite an extensive and most conscientious search there is no evidence that any stranger was in the woodland that night. The people in Woodland Cottage, an elderly woman, her daughter and a man on the point of death, could not possibly have wielded the kind of heavy stone slab which is thought to have made the fatal wound. You will hear evidence that stones of this type can be found in the woodland, and Wickham, who was familiar with these woods from childhood, would have known where to look.

“This was a particularly vicious crime. A medical man will confirm that the blow to the forehead merely disabled the victim and was followed by a lethal attack, made when Captain Denny, blinded by blood, was attempting to escape. It is difficult to imagine a more cowardly and atrocious murder. Captain Denny cannot be brought back to life but he can have justice and I am confident that you, gentlemen of the jury, will have no hesitation in delivering a verdict of guilty. I shall now call the first of the witnesses for the prosecution.”

5

There was a bellow – “Nathaniel Piggott” – and almost immediately the innkeeper of the Green Man took his place in the witness box and, holding the Testament aloft with some ceremony, pronounced the oath. He was carefully dressed in his Sunday suit in which he habitually appeared in church, but it was worn with the confidence of a man who feels at ease in his clothes, and he stood for a minute deliberately surveying the jury with the appraising look of one faced with unpromising candidates for a vacancy at the inn. Lastly he fixed his gaze on the prosecuting counsel as if confident to deal with anything that Sir Simon Cartwright could throw at him. As requested, he gave his name and address: “Nathaniel Piggott, innkeeper of the Green Man, Pemberley village, Derbyshire.”

His evidence was straightforward and took very little time. In reply to the counsel for the prosecution’s questions, he told the court that George Wickham, Mrs Wickham and the late Captain Denny had arrived at the inn on Friday 14th October last by hack-chaise. Mr Wickham had ordered some food and wine and a chaise to take Mrs Wickham to Pemberley later that night. Mrs Wickham had told him when he was showing the party into the bar that she was going to spend the night at Pemberley to attend Lady Anne’s ball the next day. “She seemed right excited.” In reply to further questions, he said that Mr Wickham had told him that after calling at Pemberley he required the chaise to continue to the King’s Arms at Lambton where he and Captain Denny would stay the night and, next morning, would be taking the London stage.

Mr Cartwright said, “So there was no suggestion at that time that Mr Wickham should also stay at Pemberley?”

“Not that I heard, sir, it wasn’t to be expected. Mr Wickham, as some of us know, is never received at Pemberley.”

There was a murmur in the court. Instinctively Darcy stiffened in his seat. They were venturing earlier than he had expected on dangerous ground. He kept his eyes on the prosecuting counsel but knew that those of the jury were fixed on him. But after a pause Simon Cartwright changed tack. “Did Mr Wickham pay you for the food and wine, and for the hire of the chaise?”

“He did, sir, while they were in the bar. Captain Denny said to Mr Wickham, “It’s your show, you will have to pay. I have only enough to last me in London.” ”

“Did you see them leave in the chaise?”

“I did sir. It was about eight forty-five of the clock.”

“And when they set out, did you notice what humour they were in, the relationship between the two gentlemen?”

“I can’t say that I noticed, sir. I was giving instructions to Pratt, the coachman. The lady was warning him to be careful putting her trunk into the chaise because it held her dress for the ball. I could see that Captain Denny was very quiet like he was when they was drinking in the inn.”

“Had either gentleman been drinking heavily?”

“Captain Denny only drank ale and no more than a pint. Mr Wickham had a couple of pints and then went on to whisky. By the time they set off he was red of face and none too steady on his feet, but he spoke clear enough, although loud, and got into the chaise without help.”

“Did you hear any conversation between them when they got into the chaise?”

“No sir, none as far as I remember. It was Mrs Piggott that heard the gentlemen quarrelling, as she told me, but that was earlier.”

“We shall be hearing from your wife. That is all I have to ask you, Mr Piggott, you may stand down unless Mr Mickledore has anything to ask you.”

Nathaniel Piggott turned to face the defence counsel with confidence, as Mr Mickledore rose. “So neither gentleman was in a mood for conversation. Did you get the impression that they were content to be travelling together?”

“They never said they weren’t, sir, and there was no argumenting between them when they set out on the journey.”

“No sign of a quarrel?”

“None sir, that I noticed.”

There was no further cross-examination and Nathaniel Piggott left with the satisfied air of a man who is confident he has made a favourable impression.

Martha Piggott was then called and there was a small commotion in the far corner of the courtroom where a stout little woman disentangled herself from a crowd of supporters murmuring encouragement and strutted her way to the stand. She was wearing a hat heavily trimmed with crisp pink ribbons which looked new, bought no doubt as a tribute to the importance of the occasion. It would have been more impressive had it not sat atop a bush of bright yellow hair and from time to time she touched it as if unsure whether it was still on her head. She fixed her eyes on the judge until the prosecuting counsel rose to address her, after bestowing on him an encouraging nod. She gave her name and address and took the oath in a clear voice and confirmed her husband’s account of the arrival of the Wickhams and Captain Denny.

Darcy whispered to Alveston, “She was not called to give evidence at the inquest. Is this something new?”

Alveston said, “Yes, and it could be dangerous.”

Simon Cartwright asked, “What was the general atmosphere in the inn between Mr and Mrs Wickham and Captain Denny? Would you say, Mrs Piggott, that this was a happy party?”

“I would not, sir. Mrs Wickham was in good spirits and laughing. She is a free-speaking and pleasant lady, sir, and it was she who told me and Mr Piggott when we were in the bar that she was going to Lady Anne’s ball and it was going to be a great lark because Mr and Mrs Darcy never even knew she was arriving and wouldn’t be able to turn her away, not on a stormy night. Captain Denny was very quiet, but Mr Wickham was restless as if he wanted to be off.”

“And did you hear any quarrel, any words between them?”

Mr Mickledore was immediately on his feet to complain that the prosecution was leading the witness and the question was rephrased. “Did you hear any of the conversation between Captain Denny and Mr Wickham?”

Mrs Piggott quickly grasped what was wanted. “Not while they were in the inn, sir, but after they had had their cold meat and drink Mrs Wickham asked for her trunk to be carried upstairs so that she could change her clothes before they set off for Pemberley. Not into her ball dress, she said, but something nice to arrive in. I sent Sally, my general maid, to help. After that I had occasion to go to the privy in the yard and when I opened the door – quietly like – to come out, I saw Mr Wickham and Captain Denny talking together.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“I did sir. They were no more than a few feet away. I could see that Captain Denny’s face was very white. He said, “It’s been deceit from start to finish. You are utterly selfish. You have no idea how a woman feels.” ”

“You are certain about those words?”

Mrs Piggott hesitated. “Well, sir, it could be that I got the order a bit mixed, but Captain Denny definitely said that Mr Wickham was selfish and didn’t understand how women feel and that there had been deceit from start to finish.”

“And what happened then?”

“So, not wanting the gentlemen to see me leaving the privy, I closed the door until it was almost shut and kept watch through the gap until they went off.”

“And you are willing to swear that you heard those words?”

“Well, I am sworn, sir. I am giving evidence under oath.”

“So you are, Mrs Piggott, and I am glad you recognise the importance of that fact. What happened after you went back inside the inn?”

“The gentlemen came in soon after, sir, and Mr Wickham went up to the room I set aside for his wife. Mrs Wickham must have changed by then as he came down and said that the trunk had been re-strapped and was ready to be lifted into the chaise. The gentlemen put on their coats and hats and Mr Piggott called for Pratt to bring round the chaise.”

“What condition was Mr Wickham in then?”

There was a silence as if Mrs Piggott was uncertain of his meaning. He said a little impatiently, “Was he sober or were there signs of drink in him?”

“I knew, of course, that he had been drinking, sir, and he looked as though he’d had more than enough. I thought his voice was slurred when he said goodbye. But he was still on his feet and got into the chaise without any help, and they were off.”

There was a silence. Prosecuting counsel studied his papers then said, “Thank you, Mrs Piggott. Will you stay where you are for the moment, please?”

Jeremiah Mickledore rose to his feet. “So, if there was this unfriendly talk between Mr Wickham and Captain Denny – let us call it a disagreement – it did not end in shouting or violence. Did either of the gentlemen touch the other during the conversation you overheard in the yard?”

“No sir, not that I saw. Mr Wickham would be foolish to challenge Captain Denny to a fight. Captain Denny was taller than him by a couple of inches, I would say, and much the heavier man.”

“And did you see when they entered the coach whether either of them was armed?”

“Captain Denny was, sir.”

“So as far as you can say, Captain Denny, whatever his opinion of his companion’s behaviour, could travel in the chaise with him without anxiety of any physical assault? He was the taller and heavier man and was armed. As far as you can remember, was that the situation?”

“I suppose it was, sir.”

“It is not what you suppose, Mrs Piggott. Did you see both gentlemen enter the chaise and Captain Denny, the taller of the two, with a firearm?”

“I did, sir.”

“So even if they had quarrelled, the fact that they were travelling together would have occasioned you no anxiety?”

“They had Mrs Wickham with them, sir. They wouldn’t be starting a fight with a lady in the chaise. And Pratt is no fool. As like as not, if he had trouble, he would have whipped up the horses and come back to the inn.”

Jeremiah Mickledore rose with one last question. “Why did you not give this evidence at the inquest, Mrs Piggott? Did you not realise its importance?”

“I wasn’t asked, sir. Mr Brownrigg came to the inn after the inquest and asked me then.”

“But surely you realised before Mr Brownrigg’s talk with you that you had evidence which should be given at the inquest?”

“I thought, sir, that if they needed me to speak, they would have come and asked, and I wasn’t going to have the whole of Lambton sniggering about me. It’s a proper disgrace if a lady can’t go to the privy without people asking in public about it. Put yourself in my position, Mr Mickledore.”

There was a small burst of quickly suppressed laughter. Mr Mickledore said he had no further questions and Mrs Piggott, clamping her hat more firmly on her head, stomped back to her seat in barely concealed satisfaction amid the congratulatory whispers of her supporters.

6

Simon Cartwright’s management of the prosecution was now apparent and Darcy could appreciate its cleverness. The story would be told scene by scene, imposing both coherence and credibility on the narrative and producing in court as it unfolded something of the excited expectancy of a theatre. But what else, thought Darcy, but public entertainment was a trial for murder? The actors clothed for the parts assigned for them to play, the buzz of happy comment and anticipation before the character assigned to the next scene appeared, and then the moment of high drama when the chief actor entered the dock from which no escape was possible before facing the final scene: life or death. This was English law in practice, a law respected throughout Europe, and how else could such a decision be made, in all its terrible finality, with more justice? He had been subpoenaed to be present but, gazing round at the crowded courtroom, the bright colours and waving headdresses of the fashionable and the drabness of the poor, he felt ashamed to be one of them.

George Pratt was now called to give evidence. In the dock he looked older than Darcy had remembered. His clothes were clean but not new and his hair had obviously been recently washed and now stood up stiffly in pale spikes round his face, giving him the petrified look of a clown. He took the oath slowly, his eyes fixed on the paper as if the language were foreign to him, then gazed at Cartwright with something of the entreaty of a delinquent child.

The prosecution counsel had obviously decided that kindness would here be the most effective tool. He said, “You have taken the oath, Mr Pratt, which means that you have sworn to tell the truth to this court both in reply to my questions and in anything you may say. I want you now to tell the court in your own words what happened on the night of Friday 14th October.”

“I was to take the two gentlemen, Mr Wickham and Captain Denny, and Mrs Wickham to Pemberley in Mr Piggott’s chaise and then leave the lady at the house and go on to take the gentlemen to the King’s Arms at Lambton. But Mr Wickham and the captain never got to Pemberley, sir.”

“Yes, we know that. How were you to get to Pemberley? By which gate to the property?”

“By the north-west gate, sir, and then through the woodland path.”

“And what happened? Was there any difficulty in getting through the gate?”

“No sir. Jimmy Morgan came to open it. He said no one was to pass through but he knew me and when I said I was to take Mrs Wickham to the ball he let us through. We was about half a mile or so down the path when one of the gentlemen – I think it was Captain Denny – knocked for me to stop, so I did. He got out of the chaise and made for the woodland. He shouted out that he wasn’t going to have any more of it and that Mr Wickham was on his own.”

“Were those his exact words?”

Pratt paused. “I can’t be sure, sir. He may have said, “You are on your own now, Wickham. I’ll have no more of it.” ”

“What happened next?”

“Mr Wickham got out of the chaise after him and called out that he was a fool and was to come back, but he didn’t. So Mr Wickham followed him into the woodland. The lady got out of the chaise calling out for him to come back and not leave her, but he took no notice. When he disappeared into the woodland she got back into the chaise and began crying something pitiful. So there we stood, sir.”

“You didn’t think yourself of going into the woods?”

“No sir. I couldn’t leave Mrs Wickham, nor the horses, so I stayed. But after a time there were shots and Mrs Wickham began screaming and said to me that we would all be killed and that I was to drive to Pemberley as fast as I could.”

“Were the shots close?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. But they was close enough to be heard plain.”

“And how many did you hear?”

“It could have been three or four. I can’t be certain, sir.”

“So what happened then?”

“I whipped the horses into a gallop and we made our way to Pemberley, the lady screaming all the while. When we pulled up at the door she almost fell out of the chaise. Mr Darcy and some of the company were at the door. I can’t rightly remember who but I think there was two gentlemen and Mr Darcy, and two ladies. The ladies helped Mrs Wickham into the house and Mr Darcy said I was to stay with the horses as he would want me to take him and some of the gentlemen back to the place where Captain Denny and Mr Wickham ran into the woods. So I waited, sir. And then the gentleman I now know is Colonel Fitzwilliam rode up the main drive very fast and joined the party. When someone had fetched a stretcher and some blankets and lanterns, the three gentlemen – Mr Darcy, the colonel and another man I didn’t know – got into the coach and we went back into the woodland. Then the gentlemen got out and walked in front until we came to the path to Woodland Cottage and the colonel went to see that the family was safe and to tell them to lock their door. Then the three gentlemen walked on further until I saw where I thought Captain Denny and Mr Wickham had disappeared. Then Mr Darcy told me to wait there and they went into the wood.”

“That must have been an anxious time for you, Pratt.”

“It was, sir. I was sore afraid having no one with me and no weapon, and the wait seemed very long, sir. But then I heard them coming. They brought Captain Denny’s body on a stretcher and Mr Wickham, who was unsteady on his feet, was helped into the chaise by the third gentleman. I turned the horses and we went slowly back to Pemberley with the colonel and Mr Darcy walking behind carrying the stretcher and the third gentleman in the chaise with Mr Wickham. After that it’s a muddle in my mind, sir. I know that the stretcher was carried away and Mr Wickham, who was shouting very loud and hardly standing on his feet, was taken into the house and I was asked to wait. At last the colonel came out and told me I should take the chaise on to the King’s Head and tell them that the gentlemen wouldn’t be coming but to get away quick before they could ask any questions, and when I got back to the Green Man I was to say nothing to anyone about what happened otherwise I would be in trouble with the police. He said they would be coming to talk to me next day. I was worried in case Mr Piggott asked me questions when I got back, but he and Mrs Piggott had gone to bed. By then the wind had dropped and there was a driving rain. Mr Piggott opened his bedroom window and called out if everything was all right and if the lady had been left at Pemberley. I said that she had and he told me to see to the horses and get to bed. I was dead tired, sir, and next morning was asleep when the police arrived just after seven o’clock. I told them what had happened, same as I’m now telling you, sir, as far as I can remember and with nothing held back.”

Cartwright said, “Thank you, Mr Pratt. That has been very clear.”

Mr Mickledore got to his feet immediately. He said, “I have one or two questions to put to you, Mr Pratt. When you were called by Mr Piggott to drive the party to Pemberley, was that the first time you had seen the two gentlemen together?”

“It was, sir.”

“And how did their relationship appear to you?”

“Captain Denny was very quiet and Mr Wickham had obviously taken drink, but there was no quarrel or argumenting.”

“Was there reluctance on the part of Captain Denny to enter the chaise?”

“There was none, sir. He got in happy enough.”

“Did you hear any talk between them on the journey before the chaise was stopped?”

“No sir. It would not have been easy with the wind and the rough ground unless they had been shouting really loud.”

“And there was no shouting?”

“No sir, not that I could hear.”

“So the party, as far as you know, set off on good terms with each other and you had no reason to expect any problems?”

“No sir, I had not.”

“I understand that at the inquest you told the jury of the trouble you had in controlling the horses when they were in the woodland. It must have been a difficult journey for them.”

“Oh it were, sir. As soon as they entered the woodland they were right nervy, neighing and stamping.”

“They must have been difficult for you to control.”

“They was, sir, proper difficult. There’s no horse likes going into the woodland in a full moon – no human neither.”

“Can you then be absolutely certain of the words Captain Denny spoke when he left the chaise?”

“Well sir, I did hear him say that he wouldn’t go along with Mr Wickham any more and that Mr Wickham was now on his own, or something like that.”

“Something like that. Thank you Mr Pratt, that is all I have to ask.”

Pratt was released, considerably happier than when he had entered the dock. Alveston whispered to Darcy, “No problem there. Mickledore has been able to cast doubt on Pratt’s evidence. And now, Mr Darcy, it will be either you or the colonel.”

7

When his name was called, Darcy responded with a physical shock of surprise although he had known that his turn could not be long in coming. He made his way across the courtroom between what seemed rows of hostile eyes and tried to govern his mind. It was important that he keep both his composure and his temper. He was resolute that he would not meet the gaze of Wickham, Mrs Younge or the jury member who, every time his own eyes scoured the jury box, gazed at him with an unfriendly intensity. He would keep his own eyes on the prosecuting counsel when answering questions, with occasional glances either at the jury or the judge who sat immobile as a Buddha, his plump little hands folded on the desk, his eyes half-closed.

The first part of the interrogation was straightforward. In answer to questions he described the evening of the dinner party, who was present, the departure of Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Darcy, the arrival of the chaise with a distraught Mrs Wickham, and finally the decision to take the chaise back to the woodland path to discover what had happened and whether Mr Wickham and Captain Denny were in need of any assistance.

Simon Cartwright said, “You were anticipating danger, perhaps tragedy?”

“By no means, sir. I had hoped, even expected, that the worst that had befallen the gentlemen would be that one had met with some minor but disabling accident in the woodland and that we should meet both Mr Wickham and Captain Denny making their slow way to Pemberley or back to the inn, one helping the other. It was the report by Mrs Wickham and subsequently confirmed by Pratt that there had been shooting which convinced me that it would be prudent to mount a rescue expedition. Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned in time to be part of the expedition and was armed.”

“The Viscount Hartlep will, of course, be giving his evidence later. Shall we continue? Will you please describe now the course of the journey into the woodland and the events leading to the discovery of Captain Denny’s body.”

Darcy had had no need to rehearse this but had nevertheless spent some time selecting the actual words which he should use and the tone in which he would speak. He had told himself that he would be in a court of law, not recounting a story to a circle of friends. To dwell on the silence, unbroken except for their trudging feet and the creaking of the wheels, would be a dangerous indulgence; all that would be needed were facts, baldly and convincingly stated. He recounted now that the colonel had briefly left the party in order to warn Mrs Bidwell, her dying son and her daughter that there might be trouble and to instruct them to keep the door locked.

“Did Viscount Hartlep, in going to the cottage, inform you that that was his intention?”

“He did.”

“And for how long was he absent?”

“No more, I think, than fifteen or twenty minutes, but it seemed somewhat longer at the time.”

“And you then proceeded?”

“We did. Pratt was able with some certainty to indicate where Captain Denny had entered the woodland and my companions and I then did the same and attempted to discover the path that either one or both might have taken. After some minutes, perhaps as many as ten, we came upon the glade and found the body of Captain Denny with Mr Wickham bending over him and weeping. It was immediately apparent to me that Captain Denny was dead.”

“In what condition was Mr Wickham?”

“He was greatly distressed and I think from his speech and the smell on his breath that he had been drinking and probably heavily. Captain Denny’s face was smeared with blood and there was blood on Mr Wickham’s hands and face – probably, I thought, from touching his friend.”

“Did Mr Wickham speak?”

“He did.”

“And what did he say?”

So here at last was the dreaded question and for a few appalling seconds his mind was a blank. Then he looked at Cartwright and said, “I think, sir, that I can recall the words with accuracy if not the precise order. As I remember, he said, “I have killed him. It is my fault. He was my friend, my only friend, and I have killed him.” Then he repeated, “It is my fault.”

“And what at the time did you think his words meant?”

Darcy was aware that the whole court was waiting for his answer. He shifted his gaze to the judge who now slowly opened his eyes and looked at him. “Answer the question, Mr Darcy.”

It was only then that he realised with horror that he must have remained silent for seconds. He said, speaking to the judge, “I was looking at a man in the greatest distress, kneeling over the body of his friend. I took Mr Wickham to mean that, had there not been some disagreement between them which caused Captain Denny to leave the chaise and run into the woods, his friend would not have been murdered. That was my immediate impression. I saw no weapons. I knew that Captain Denny was the heavier man and had been armed. It would have been the height of folly for Mr Wickham to follow his friend into the woodland without a light or a weapon with the intention of doing him to death. He could not even be sure that he would find Captain Denny in the dense bushes and trees with only moonlight to guide him. It seemed to me that this could not have been murder on Mr Wickham’s part, either on impulse or premeditated.”

“Did you see or hear any person other than Lord Hartlep or Mr Alveston either when you were entering the woodland or at the scene of the murder?”

“No sir.”

“So you are saying on oath that you found the body of Captain Denny with a bloodstained Mr Wickham leaning over him and saying, not once but twice, that he was responsible for his friend’s murder.”

And now the silence was longer. Darcy felt himself for the first time like a baited animal. At last he said, “Those are the facts, sir. You asked me what I thought at the time those facts meant. I told you what I believed then and I believe now, that Mr Wickham was not confessing to murder but speaking what was in fact the truth, that had Captain Denny not left the chaise and entered the woodland he would not have met his murderer.”

But Cartwright had not finished. Changing his tack, he said, “Had Mrs Wickham arrived at Pemberley House unexpectedly and without notice, would she have been admitted?”

“She would.”

“She, of course, is the sister of Mrs Darcy. Would Mr Wickham also be welcomed if he arrived in the same circumstances? Were he and Mrs Wickham invited to the ball?”

“That, sir, is a hypothetical question. There was no reason why they should be. We had not been in touch for some time and I did not know their address.”

“I suggest, Mr Darcy, that your answer is somewhat disingenuous. Would you have invited them had you known their address?”

It was then that Jeremiah Mickledore got up and addressed the judge. “My lord, what relevance can Mrs Darcy’s invitation list have to the murder of Captain Denny? We are surely all entitled to invite whom we wish into our homes, whether or not they are relations, without the necessity of explaining our reasons to a court of law in circumstances in which the invitation can have no possible relevance.”

The judge stirred himself, his voice unexpectedly firm. “You have a reason for this line of questioning, Mr Cartwright?”

“I have, my lord: to throw some light on the possible relationship of Mr Darcy to his brother and therefore indirectly to give the jury some insight into Mr Wickham’s character.”

The judge said, “I doubt whether the absence of an invitation to a ball can give much insight into the man’s essential nature.”

And now Jeremiah Mickledore rose. He turned to Darcy. “You know something of Mr Wickham’s conduct in the campaign in Ireland in August 1798?”

“I do, sir. I know he was decorated as a brave soldier and was wounded.”

“As far as you know, has he ever been imprisoned for a felony or, indeed, been in trouble with the police?”

“As far as I know he has not, sir.”

“And as he is married to Mrs Darcy’s sister you would presumably know these things?”

“If they were serious or frequent I think I would.”

“Wickham has been described as being under the influence of drink. What steps were taken to control him when you arrived at Pemberley?”

“He was put to bed and Dr McFee was sent for, to help both Mrs Wickham and her husband.”

“But he was not locked up or guarded?”

“His door was not locked but there were two watchers.”

“Was that necessary since you believed him innocent?”

“He was drunk, sir, and could not be left to roam round the house, particularly as I have children. I was also uneasy about his physical condition. I am a magistrate, sir, and I knew that everyone who was concerned in this matter should be available for questioning when Sir Selwyn Hardcastle arrived.”

Mr Mickledore sat and Simon Cartwright resumed his examination. “One last question, Mr Darcy. The search party consisted of three men, one of whom was armed. You also had Captain Denny’s gun, which might have been usable. You had no reason to suspect that Captain Denny had been killed some time before you found him. The murderer might well have been close and hiding. Why did you not mount a search?”

“It seemed to me that the first action necessary was to return as quickly as possible to Pemberley with the body of Captain Denny. It would have been almost impossible to detect someone hiding in the dense woodland and I assumed that the killer had made his escape.”

“Some people might think that your explanation is a little unconvincing. Surely the first reaction to finding a murdered man is to attempt to arrest his killer.”

“In the circumstances, sir, it did not occur to me.”

“No indeed, Mr Darcy. I can understand that it did not occur to you. You were already in the presence of the man who, despite your protestations, you believed to have been the murderer. Why indeed should it occur to you to go searching for anyone else?”

Before Darcy could respond, Simon Cartwright consolidated his triumph by speaking his final words. “I must congratulate you, Mr Darcy, on the acuity of your mind, which appears to have a remarkable facility for coherent thought even at moments when most of us would be shocked into a less cerebral response. It was, after all, a scene of unprecedented horror. I asked what was your reaction to the words of the defendant when you and your companions discovered him kneeling with bloodstained hands over the body of his murdered friend. You were able to deduce without a second’s delay that there must have been some disagreement which occasioned Captain Denny to leave the vehicle and escape into the woodland, recall to mind the difference in height and weight of the two men and its significance, and note that there were no weapons at the scene which could have been used to inflict either wound. It is certain that the murderer had not been so helpful as to leave them conveniently at hand. Thank you. You may now step down.”

Somewhat to Darcy’s surprise, Mr Mickledore did not again rise to cross-examine and he wondered whether this was because there was nothing the defence counsel could do to mitigate the damage he had done. He had no memory of returning to his seat. Once there he was filled with a despairing anger against himself. He cursed himself for an incompetent fool. Had not Alveston instructed him carefully how he should respond to examination? “Pause to think before you reply, but not so long that you appear calculating, answer the questions simply and accurately, say no more than has been asked, never embroider; if Cartwright wants more he can ask for it. Disaster in the witness box is usually the result of saying too much not too little.” He had said too much, and disastrously. No doubt the colonel would be wiser, but the damage had been done.

He felt Alveston’s hand on his shoulder. Darcy said miserably, “I have done the defence harm, have I not?”

“By no means. You, a prosecution witness, have made a very effective speech for the defence which Mickledore cannot do. The jury have heard it, which is the important thing, and Cartwright cannot wipe it from their minds.”

Witness after witness for the prosecution gave their evidence. Dr Belcher testified to the cause of death and the constables described in some detail their fruitless attempts to identify the actual weapons, although slabs of stone were discovered under the leaves in the woodland; despite exhaustive searches and inquiries, no evidence had been discovered of a deserter or other person in the woodland at the relevant time.

And now the call for Colonel the Viscount Hartlep to take the witness stand was followed by an immediate silence, and Darcy wondered why Simon Cartwright had decided that this important witness should be the last to give evidence for the prosecution. Was it perhaps that he hoped the impression made would be more lasting and effective if it were the final evidence the jury heard? The colonel was in uniform and Darcy remembered that he had an appointment later that day at the War Office. He walked to the witness stand as normally as if taking a morning stroll, gave a short bow to the judge, took the oath and stood waiting for Cartwright to begin the examination with, Darcy thought, the slightly impatient air of a professional soldier with a war to be won, who was prepared to show proper respect for the court while distancing himself from its presumptions. He stood in the dignity of his uniform, an officer who had been described as among the most handsome and gallant in the British Army. There was a whispering, quickly hushed, and Darcy saw that the rows of fashionable women were leaning intently forward – rather, Darcy thought, like beribboned lapdogs quivering at the smell of a tasty morsel.

The colonel was questioned minutely about every detail of events, from the time he returned from his evening ride to join the expedition until the arrival of Sir Selwyn Hardcastle to take over the investigation. He had ridden earlier to the King’s Arms inn at Lambton where he had been engaged in a private conversation with a visitor during the time Captain Denny was murdered. Cartwright then asked about the thirty pounds found in Wickham’s possession and the colonel said calmly that the money was given by him to enable the defendant to settle a debt of honour and that it was only the necessity to speak in court that had persuaded him to break a solemn promise between them that the transaction would be private. He did not intend to divulge the name of the intended benefactor, but it was not Captain Denny, nor had the money anything to do with Captain Denny’s death.

Here Mr Mickledore briefly rose. “Can you give the court an assurance, Colonel, that this loan or gift was not intended for Captain Denny or is in any way connected with the murder?”

“I can.”

And then Cartwright returned again to the meaning of Wickham’s words spoken over his friend’s body. What was the witness’s impression of their meaning?

The colonel paused for a few seconds before speaking. “I am not competent, sir, to look into another man’s mind, but I agree with the opinion given by Mr Darcy. For me it was a question of instinct rather than of immediate and detailed consideration of the evidence. I do not despise instinct; it has saved my life on several occasions, and instinct is, of course, based on an appreciation of all the salient facts, which is not necessarily wrong because it is subconscious.”

“And the decision not to leave Captain Denny’s body and immediately search for his murderer, was that ever considered? I take it that had it been, you, as a distinguished commander, would have taken the lead.”

“It was not considered by me, sir. I do not advance into hostile and unknown territory with an inadequate force, leaving my rear unprotected.”

There were no further questions and it was apparent that the evidence for the prosecution was now complete. Alveston whispered, “Mickledore has been brilliant. The colonel has validated your evidence and doubt has been cast on the reliability of Pratt’s. I am beginning to feel hopeful, but we still have Wickham’s speech in his own defence and the judge’s charge to the jury.”

8

It was evident from occasional snores that the heat of the courtroom had induced sleep, but now there was nudging and whispering and a stir of interest as Wickham at last stood up in the dock to speak. His voice was clear and steady but without emotion, almost, Darcy thought, as if he were reading, not speaking, the words which could save his life.

“I am here charged with the murder of Captain Martin Denny and to that charge I have pleaded not guilty. I am indeed totally innocent of his murder and here I stand having put myself on my country. I served with Captain Denny in the militia over six years ago when he became a close friend as well as a comrade-in-arms. That friendship continued and his life was as dear to me as my own. I would defend to the death any attack on him and would have done so had I been present when the cowardly attack which caused his death was carried out. It has been said in evidence that there was a quarrel between us when we were at the inn before setting out on that fatal journey. It was no more than a disagreement between friends, but it was my fault. Captain Denny, who was a man of honour and had deep human sympathies, thought that I had been wrong to resign my commission without having a sound profession and a settled home for my wife. In addition he thought that my plan to leave Mrs Wickham at Pemberley to spend the night there and to attend the ball the next day was both inconsiderate and would be inconvenient for Mrs Darcy. I believe that it was his increasing impatience with my conduct that made my company intolerable to him, and that it was this reason that led him to stop the chaise and run into the woodland. I went after him to urge him to return. It was a stormy night and the woodland is in places impenetrable and could be dangerous. I do not deny that I spoke the words attributed to me, but I meant that my friend’s death was my responsibility since it was our disagreement that had driven him into the woodland. I had been drinking heavily but, among much that I cannot recall, I remember clearly the abhorrence when I found him and saw his blood-smeared face. His eyes confirmed what I already knew, that he was dead. The shock, horror and pity of this unmanned me, but not so much that I neglected to take what action I could to apprehend his murderer. I took his pistol and fired several shots at what I thought was a fleeing figure and I pursued him deeper into the woodland. By then the drink I had imbibed had taken effect and I remember nothing more until I was kneeling by my friend and cradling his head. It was then that the rescue party arrived.

“Gentlemen of the jury, the case made out against me will not stand. If I struck my friend on the forehead and, more viciously, on the back of the neck, where are the weapons? After a most thorough search, neither weapon has been produced in court. If it is alleged that I followed my friend with murderous intent, how could I hope to prevail over a man taller and stronger than myself and armed with a weapon? And why should I do so? No motive has been alleged. The fact that there was no trace of a stranger lurking in the woodland cannot be taken to mean that no such man existed; he would hardly have waited at the scene of his crime. I can only swear, remembering that I am on oath, that I had no part in the murder of Captain Martin Denny and I put myself upon my country with confidence.”

There was a silence, then Alveston whispered to Darcy, “It was not good.”

In a low voice Darcy said, “How not good? I thought he had done enough. The main arguments were clearly made, no evidence produced of a serious quarrel, the absence of weapons, the irrationality of pursuing his friend with murderous intent, the lack of a motive. What was wrong?”

“It is difficult to explain but I have listened to so many speeches by the defendant and I fear this one may not succeed. For all the care in its construction it lacked that vital spark that comes from the assurance of innocence. The delivery, the lack of passion, the carefulness of it; he may have pleaded not guilty but he does not feel innocent. That is something that juries detect, don’t ask me how. He may not be guilty to this murder but he is burdened by guilt.”

“So are we all sometimes; is not to feel guilt part of being human? Surely the jury must have been left with a reasonable doubt. That speech would have been enough for me.”

Alveston said, “I pray it will be enough for the jury but I am not sanguine.”

“But if he was drunk?”

“He certainly claimed to be drunk at the time of the murder, but he was not too drunk to get into the chaise unaided at the inn. This question has not been pursued during the evidence, but in my view it is open to question how drunk he was at the time.”

During the speech Darcy had tried to focus on Wickham but now he couldn’t resist glancing at Mrs Younge. There was no risk that their eyes would meet. Hers were fixed on Wickham, and sometimes he saw her lips moving as if she were listening to a recital of something she herself had written, or perhaps was silently praying. When he looked again at the dock Wickham was staring ahead; he turned towards the judge as Mr Justice Moberley began his charge to the jury.

9

Mr Justice Moberley had made no notes and now he leaned a little towards the jury as if the matter could have no concern to the rest of the court, and the beautiful voice which at first attracted Darcy was clear enough to be heard by everyone present. He went through the evidence succinctly but carefully, as if time had no importance. The speech ended with words that Darcy felt gave credence to the defence, and his spirits rose.

“Gentlemen of the jury, you have listened with patience and obviously close attention to the evidence given in this long trial, and it is now for you to consider the evidence and give your verdict. The accused was previously a professional soldier and has a record of conspicuous gallantry for which he has been awarded a medal, but this should not affect your decision, which should be based on the evidence which has been presented to you. Your responsibility is a heavy one but I know you will discharge your duty without fear or favour and in accordance with the law.

“The central mystery, if I can call it that, surrounding this case is why Captain Denny ran into the woodland when he could have safely and comfortably remained in the chaise; it is inconceivable that an attack would have been made on him in the presence of Mrs Wickham. The accused has given his explanation of why Captain Denny so unexpectedly stopped the chaise, and you will wonder whether you find this explanation satisfactory. Captain Denny is not alive to explain his action, and no evidence other than Mr Wickham’s is available to elucidate the matter. Like much of this case, it has been supposition, and it is on sworn evidence, not on unsubstantiated opinions, that your verdict can safely be given: the circumstances under which members of the rescue party found Captain Denny’s body and heard the words attributed to the accused. You have heard his explanation of their meaning and it is for you to decide whether or not you believe him. If you are certain beyond reasonable doubt that George Wickham is guilty of killing Captain Denny then your verdict will be one of guilty; if you have not that certainty the accused is entitled to be acquitted. I now leave you to your deliberations. If it is your wish to retire to consider your verdict, a room has been made available.”

10

By the end of the trial Darcy felt as drained as if he himself had stood in the dock. He longed to ask Alveston for reassurance but pride and the knowledge that to badger him would be as irritating as it was futile kept him silent. There was nothing anyone could do now but hope and wait. The jury had chosen to retire to consider their verdict and in their absence the courtroom had again become as noisy as an immense parrots’ cage as the audience discussed the evidence and made bets on the verdict. They had not long to wait After less than ten minutes the jury returned. He heard the loud authoritative voice of the clerk asking the jury, “Who is your foreman?”

“I am, sir.” The tall dark man who had gazed at him so frequently during the trial and who was their obvious leader stood up.

“Have you arrived at a verdict?”

“We have.”

“Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Guilty.”

“And is that the verdict of you all?”

“It is.”

Darcy knew that he must have gasped. He felt Alveston’s hand on his arm, steadying him. And now the court was full of voices – a mixture of groans, cries and protests which grew until, as if by some group compulsion, the noise died and all eyes were turned on Wickham. Darcy, caught up in the outcry, closed his eyes, then forced himself to open them and fixed them on the dock. Wickham’s face had the stiffness and sickly pallor of a mask of death. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. He was clutching the edge of the dock and seemed for a moment to stagger, and Darcy felt his own muscles tightening as he watched while Wickham recovered himself and with obvious effort found the strength to stand stiffly upright. Staring at the judge he found a voice, at first cracked, but then loud and clear. “I am innocent of this charge, my lord. I swear before God I am not guilty.” Wide-eyed, he gazed desperately round the courtroom as if seeking some friendly face, some voice which would affirm his innocence. Then he said again with more force, “I am not guilty, my lord, not guilty.”

Darcy turned his eyes to where Mrs Younge had been sitting, soberly dressed and silent among the silks and muslins and the fluttering fans. She had gone. She must have moved as soon as the verdict was delivered. He knew that he had to find her, needed to know what part she had played in the tragedy of Denny’s death, to find out why she had been there, her eyes locked on Wickham’s as if some power, some courage were passing between them.

He broke free of Alveston and pushed his way to the door. It was being firmly held fast against a crowd outside who, from the increasing clamour, were apparently determined on admission. And now the bawling in the courtroom was rising again, becoming less pitiable and more angry. He thought he heard the judge threatening to call the police or army to expel the troublemakers, and someone close to him was saying, “Where is the black cap? Why in God’s name cannot they lay their hand on the damn thing and put it on his head?” There was a shout as if in triumph and, glancing round, he saw a black square being flourished above the crowd by a young man hoisted on his comrade’s shoulders and knew with a shudder that this was the black cap.

He fought his way to keep his place at the door and, as the crowd outside edged it open, managed to struggle through and elbowed his way to the road. Here too there was a commotion, the same cacophony of groans, cries and a chorus of shouting voices, more, he thought, in pity than in anger. A heavy coach had been drawn up, the crowd attempting to pull the driver down from his seat. He was shouting, “It weren’t my fault. You saw the lady. She flung herself right under the wheels!”

And there she lay, squashed under the heavy wheels as if she were a stray animal, her blood flowing in a red stream to pool under the horses’ feet. Smelling it, they neighed and reared and the coachman had difficulty in controlling them. Darcy took one look and, turning away, vomited violently into the gutter. The sour stink seemed to poison the air. He heard a voice cry, “Where’s the death van? Why don’t they take her away? It’s not decent leaving her there.”

The passenger in the coach made to get out but, seeing the sight of the crowd, shrank back inside and pulled down the blind, obviously waiting for the constables to arrive and restore order. The crowd seemed to grow, among them children gazing incomprehensibly and women with babes in arms who, frightened by the noise, began wailing. There was nothing he could do. He needed now to return to the courtroom and find the colonel and Alveston in the hope that they might offer reassurance; in his heart he knew that there could be none.

And then he saw the hat trimmed with purple and green ribbons. It must have fallen from her head and bowled along the pavement and had now stopped at his feet. He gazed at it as if in a trance. Nearby a staggering woman, yelling baby under one arm, gin bottle in her hand, pushed forward, stooped and clasped it crookedly on her head. Grinning at Darcy, she said, “No use to her any more, is it?” and was gone.

11

The competing attraction of a dead body had diverted some of the men by the door and he was able to fight his way to the front and was borne in with the last six to gain admission. Someone called in a stentorian voice, “A confession! They have brought a confession!” and immediately the court was in an uproar. It seemed for a moment that Wickham would be dragged from the dock, but he was immediately surrounded by officers of the court and, after standing upright for a few dazed moments, sat down with his hands over his face. The noise increased. And it was then that he saw Dr McFee and the Reverend Percival Oliphant surrounded by police constables. Amazed by their presence, he watched while two heavy chairs were being dragged forward and they both slumped into them as if exhausted. He tried to push his way through to them but the dense crowd was a heaving impenetrable mass.

People had left their seats and were now approaching the judge. He raised his gavel and used it vigorously, and at last was able to make his voice heard and the clamour died. “Officer, lock the doors. If there is any more disturbance I shall order the court to be cleared. The document which I have perused purports to be a signed confession witnessed by you two gentlemen, Dr Andrew McFee and the Reverend Percival Oliphant. Gentlemen, are these your signatures?”

Dr McFee and Mr Oliphant spoke together. “They are, my lord.”

“And is this document you have handed in the handwriting of the person who has signed it above your signatures?”

Dr McFee answered. “Part of it is, my lord. William Bidwell was at the end of his life and wrote his confession propped up in bed but I trust the writing, although shaky, is sufficiently clear to read. The last paragraph, as indicated by the change of handwriting, was written by me to dictation by William Bidwell. He was then able to speak but not to write, except to sign his name.”

“Then I shall ask counsel for the defence to read it. Afterwards I shall consider how best to proceed. If anyone interrupts he will be made to leave.”

Jeremiah Mickledore took the document and, adjusting his spectacles, scanned it and then began to read in a loud and clear voice. The whole courtroom was silent.

I, William John Bidwell, make this confession of my free will as a true account of what occurred in Pemberley woodland on the night of 14th October last. I do so in the sure knowledge that I am close to death. I was in bed upstairs in the front room but the cottage was otherwise empty except for my nephew, George, in his crib. My father was working at Pemberley. There had been a loud squawking from the chicken pen and my mother and my sister, Louisa, fearing that a fox was about, went to investigate. My mother did not like me to get out of bed since I had so little strength, but I was desirous to look out of the window. I was able to support myself on the bed until I got to the window. The wind was blowing strongly and there was moonlight, and as I looked out I saw an officer in uniform come out of the woodland and stand looking at the cottage. I drew back behind the curtains so that I could observe without being seen.

My sister Louisa had told me that an officer of the militia, stationed at Lambton the previous year, had attempted an assault on her virtue, and I knew instinctively that this was the man and that he had returned to take her away. Why else would he be at the cottage on such a night? My father was not there to protect her and it had always grieved me that I was a hopeless invalid, unable to work while he worked so hard, and too weak to protect my family. I put on my slippers and managed to make my way downstairs. Taking the poker from the hearth, I went out of the door.

The officer began to come towards me and held out his hand as if he came in peace, but I knew otherwise. I staggered towards him and waited until he approached me, then with all my strength I swung the poker so that the knob hit his forehead. It was not a strong blow but it broke the skin and the wound began to bleed. He tried to wipe his eyes but I knew he could not see. He stumbled back into the trees and I felt a great surge of triumph which gave me strength. He was out of sight when I heard a great noise like the crash of a falling tree. I went into the woodland supporting myself by clutching at the trunks of the trees and saw by the moonlight that he had tripped on the curb of the dog’s grave and fallen backwards, striking his head on the headstone. He was a heavy man and the sound of his falling had been great, but I did not know that the fall had been fatal. I felt nothing but pride that I had saved my darling sister, and as I watched he rolled from the stone on to his knees and began crawling away. I knew that he was trying to escape from me, although I had not the strength to attempt to follow him. I rejoiced that he would not return.

I have no memory of getting back to the cottage, only of wiping the knob of the poker on my handkerchief which I flung into the fire. My next memory is of my mother helping me up the stairs and into bed, and upbraiding me for my folly in leaving it. I said nothing of my encounter with the officer. I was told next morning that Colonel Fitzwilliam had called later at the cottage to tell her of the two missing gentlemen, but I knew nothing of that.

I kept silent about what had happened even after the announcement that Mr Wickham was committed for trial. I still held my peace for the months while he was in prison in London, but then I knew that I must make this confession so that, if he was found guilty, the truth would be known. I decided to confide in the Reverend Oliphant and he told me the trial of Mr Wickham was to take place in a few days’ time and that I must write this confession at once to get it to the court before the trial began. Mr Oliphant sent at once for Dr McFee and I have tonight confessed all to them both and have asked Dr McFee how long he expects me to live. He said he could not be sure, but I am unlikely to survive for more than a week. He too has urged me to make this confession and sign it, and so I do. I have written nothing but the truth knowing that I shall soon be answering for all my sins before the throne of God, and in the hope of His mercy.

Dr McFee said, “That document took him more than two hours to write sustained by a draught administered by me. The Reverend Oliphant and I had no doubt that he knew his death was imminent and that what he wrote was the truth before God.”

There was silence, and then the courtroom was again full of clamour, people were on their feet yelling and stamping and a few men began again a chant which was taken up by the crowd and became a concerted shout of “Let him go! Let him go! Free him!” There were now so many constables and court officials surrounding the dock that Wickham was hardly visible.

Again the stentorian voice called for silence. The judge addressed Dr McFee. “Can you explain, sir, why you brought this important document to court at the last moment of the trial when sentence was about to be pronounced? Such an unnecessarily dramatic arrival is an insult to me and to this court and I demand an explanation.”

Dr McFee said. “We apologise, my lord, most sincerely. The paper is dated three days ago when the Reverend Oliphant and I heard the confession. It was then late at night and we set out early the next morning for London in my carriage. We stopped only to take brief refreshment and to water the horses. As you will see, my lord, the Reverend Oliphant, who is now over sixty, is completely exhausted.”

The judge said pettishly, “There are too many of these trials when vital evidence has been delayed. However, it appears that you are not at fault and I accept your apologies. I shall now confer with my advisers on the next step to be taken. The defendant will be taken back to the prison in which he has been confined while the question of a royal pardon, which is, of course, in the gift of the Crown, is considered by the Home Secretary, the Lord Chancellor, the Lord Chief Justice and other senior law officers. I myself, as trial judge, will have a voice. In the light of this document I shall not pronounce sentence but the verdict of the jury must stand. You may rest assured, gentlemen, that courts in England do not sentence to death a man who has been proved to be innocent.”

There was some muttering but the courtroom began to clear. Wickham was standing, his fingers clasping the edge of the dock, his knuckles white. He was still and pale as if in a trance. One of the constables loosened his fingers one by one, as if he had been a child. A path opened between the dock and a side door and Wickham, without a backward glance, was helped in silence back to his cell.