In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

Chapter Five Shrieks in the Night

Honestly, Darcy, we can manage matters from here on. I was going to be tarrying hereabouts with my wife’s family for a couple of weeks anyway. Frankly, this will give me something to occupy my time besides pretending to enjoy their chatter.” Kinnison grinned. “Go home to your new wife and child. We will send regular dispatches, I promise.”

“You and Mr. Keith are far more proficient at the paperwork and financial issues,” Shultz grumbled from where he reclined and fanned his perspiring face. He was covered with soot and grime, having spent the past three hours revamping several of the damaged spinning mules. It was actually very cold outside, clouds gathering rapidly and darkening threateningly by the moment. “You better get a move on if you want to beat the storm. I think it bodes to be a bad one.”

He was right. Flurries were already falling by the time Colonel Fitzwilliam and Darcy mounted their stallions and headed out of town. Richard was questioning the wisdom in riding through what promised to become a blizzard before it was over. Darcy, however, refused to discuss waiting. His prescient prediction of Derbyshire weather was not failing him; he simply ignored it in the urgent need to be home. It would prove to be a horrible mistake, one that he was rapidly recognizing before they were three miles north of town.

It was miserable. Snow fell in thick sheets, wind hitching furiously and driving the increasingly solidified ice into their faces, cold seeping through the layers of thick woolens they wore, and visibility falling to near zero. The horses plodded along slowly, riders bent double over their backs. It was when they passed the barely seen sign for “Belper, 2 miles” that Richard grabbed Darcy’s arm.

“William, we have traveled eight miles in nearly an hour, with twenty more to go! We cannot do this. I say we stop in Belper for the night.”

Darcy nodded, heart sinking; with the storm raging, he would have no method of alerting Elizabeth. Being comfortably settled at the small but hospitable carriage inn in Belper, dry and warm in front of the blazing fire with steaming mugs of coffee and a platter of roasted lamb with sautéed vegetables did little to ease the ache in his heart. Richard prattled on in his typical humorous fashion, the room was lively with other waylaid travelers and a country fiddler in the corner, but Darcy volunteered little. Eventually he would relax, make the best of a troublesome situation, and even join in a game of darts that Richard won, naturally.

The bed was comfortable and clean, welcomed by a weary Darcy even if it was the fourth night of sleeping alone. He tossed a bit, always finding it difficult to settle now that he was so dependent on his wife’s warm and soft body molded into his, but finally drifted asleep. He dreamt happily, confident that he would see their beloved faces, kiss their beloved lips, and hold their beloved bodies close on the morrow.

He had no way of knowing that he was wrong.

The blizzard raged all through the dark hours of the night. Wind screeched wildly in tones reminiscent of fighting tomcats or a woman in pain. It was one of those rare storms that old men would talk about in decades to come: “Remember the blizzard of 1817? Ushered in the new year with a vengeance, that one!” Temperatures dropped to alarming levels, with negative consequences to some livestock and vegetation that would be felt in a variety of ways. Snow fell in record amounts, the landscape as white as an untouched canvas. It was the singular object that marred the otherwise pristine surrounds; vague flashes of brown tree trunks, the multihued bricks and stones of buildings, and partially frozen blues of waterways and lakes the only spots of color between the lopsided blown drifts of powdery snow.

Darcy woke hours before the dawn, shivering under the pile of blankets. It required an exceptional cold to cause his internal furnace to dampen, evidenced further by visible mist with each shuddering exhale. He rose, struggling into trousers and a thick robe to aid the apparently useless nightshirt in warding off the chill. With a sleep numbed mind, he jerked to the dead fireplace, shaking as he set about the familiar task of building a fire and sending a thankful prayer heavenward for the competent Pemberley staff that he knew would not allow his family and friends to suffer unduly from the extreme weather. Without the slightest doubt, he knew that fires would be raging in all the occupied bedchambers, especially those of his wife and son.

In minutes he had a steady blaze going, chafed hands practically touching the flames in order to absorb the heat. He sat on the hearth, momentarily too cold to think of rising and checking the outside. It was yet too dark anyway, but he could tell that the violent wind had died down somewhat and the furious tinkling of icy flakes hitting glass was no more. Darcy’s lifetime of dwelling in Derbyshire told him what he already needed to know without the necessity of gazing upon the countryside: the snow would be deep. Whether his faithful and vigorous mount could trudge through the banked flakes was not the question; it was whether the storm had abated enough to allow for travel. He sighed deeply, closing weary eyes for a moment and leaning his head onto the warming stones. The worst of the winds and thrashing snow may have dissipated, but he knew the storm continued.

Anger rose in his chest, aiding in warming his flesh but causing fists to clench and fresh shaking to erupt. I must get home! Darcy had never been the type of man to suffer from bouts of impatience, being generally reasonably long-suffering, but at the present, his impetuosity consumed him. With forced effort he inhaled deeply numerous times, struggling with eventual success to calm the turbulence. Oddly, he discovered that meditating on Elizabeth’s face, envisioning her sitting placidly with Alexander at her breast, aided his serenity.

The hours passed as the obscured sun slowly rose. Darcy eventually lit several lamps, passing the time in relative peace with book in hand as he sat near the fire. He must have dozed off without realizing it because the sudden earsplitting scream which rent the silence jolted him from his chair. He grasped the chair arm to steady himself, moving toward the door seconds later.

The hallway was rapidly becoming a mass of surging bodies and rising noise as doors opened all along the passageway. Servants and inn guests appeared by the dozens it seemed, confusion abounding as all eyes swiveled to the hysterically shrieking maid embraced by a middle-aged man wearing a robe where they stood blocking a widely open door near the end of the long hallway. From Darcy’s room some forty feet away, nothing in the room could be seen, but from the antics of the maid and pallor of the gentleman, it must be bad.

He stood under the jamb observing the mayhem in silent bafflement and started slightly when Richard spoke into his ear. “What is going on?”

“No idea. Fix your hair.”

Richard ran fingers through his unruly russet locks absently, glancing at Darcy who was attending to the chaos at the end of the hallway. “Tighten your robe.” Darcy did so, flushing faintly at the realization that his entire upper chest was exposed, but no one was looking their direction, and all the abruptly roused guests were in varying states of undress.

At that moment, the innkeeper, Mr. Allenton, appeared on the landing, voice raised loudly as he inquired as to the upset. The maid had calmed somewhat, no longer yelling, but now sobbing uncontrollably in the obviously dazed man’s arms.

“What is all the fuss?” Mr. Allenton asked, waving and nodding apologetically to the agitated guests. “So sorry, ladies and gentlemen. Please accept my apologies for the disturbance. So excitable these young girls are. Please excuse me. Pardon me, sir. Now, Alice, what is the meaning of this unseemly display? Quite horrid of you! Really should be more control…”

At which point he glanced into the room and halted with a gasp and hand raised to his mouth. Instantly, all the blood drained from his face. “Merciful God! Spare us!” He whispered.

This supplication was followed by a fresh screech from a woman who had eased herself through the crowd to peek over Mr. Allenton’s shoulder. “She is dead! Saint’s preserve us! A girl, dead!”

At that proclamation, pandemonium broke loose. Yells and cries, bodies backing into each other in a frantic effort to escape, frightened eyes suspiciously gazing at their neighbor, and families grasping onto loved ones to ensure their existence. Nothing remotely resembling order prevailed; even the innkeeper was paralyzed in the doorway.

A shrill whistle pierced the uproar. All voices fell, the silence abrupt and complete. Darcy swiveled to his cousin who seemed to have grown taller and added years in a matter of seconds. A uniform was not necessary for all instantly to sense that here was a man of authority.

“Listen here!” he commanded forcefully. “You all must return to your rooms and stay inside until the matter can be appropriately dealt with. Now!” Only a heartbeat’s hesitation before every last soul responded to the directive, shuffling hastily and quietly. In seconds, the corridor was empty of all but Colonel Fitzwilliam, Darcy, Mr. Allenton, a handful of servants, and the befuddled gentleman comforting the weeping maid.

Richard approached the innkeeper, Darcy trailing behind. “Mr. Allenton, I am Colonel Fitzwilliam if you recall. This is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Perhaps we may be of assistance.” He looked into the room, expression unchanged as he returned his attention to the innkeeper.

Mr. Allenton peered into Richard’s face blankly for a moment, the man clearly stunned. “I do not… What?”

“Get a grip on yourself, man! You, sir, whom might you be?” Richard said, the latter addressed to the older man holding the maid.

“I am Carlyle, Colonel. Room nine, here, across the hall. I heard the girl and responded first. She, well, she is obviously distraught.”

Richard nodded crisply. “You there!” He gestured to a servant, a boy of approximately fifteen. “Take Miss Alice to the common room. Give her some warm tea and a shot of brandy. No one is to leave this establishment, do you understand?” The boy nodded, eyes round and frightened. Richard turned to Mr. Allenton. “Who of your staff is the most trustworthy? We need to send for the Sheriff.”

Mr. Allenton had managed to collect himself. He remained pale but was focused and responded in a firm voice. “Milton,” he said to the boy, “take Alice as the Colonel commands. Bolton,” he signaled to another lurking servant, this one an enormous black man, as Milton and Alice moved away. “Send Mackenzie for the Sheriff. The remainder of the staff is to wait in the common room. No one is to leave! You guard the door.”

This accomplished, Richard again addressed the innkeeper. “Do you recognize the young lady, Mr. Allenton?”

He swallowed, eyes closing in silent prayer before bravely looking into the room and taking a hesitant step over the threshold. Richard followed, Darcy pausing in the doorway.

The girl was no more than sixteen. There was no doubt that, in life, she would have been a pretty thing, shapely figure with full breasts and narrow waist, all of which were tragically on display. She lay exposed on the bed, chemise ripped open and body splayed in a bizarre angle with smudges of blood on her thighs and the bed sheets by her legs. Her once lovely, innocent face now bluish tinged and frozen in an expression of horror. Darcy had witnessed death in all its ugliness on more occasions then he wished to recall, but nothing that compared with the raw brutality before him. It required every ounce of discipline at his disposal to remain standing calmly, but his stomach churned.

Mr. Allenton released a moan, fist clenched before his mouth with voice faint. “It is Mr. Hazeldon’s daughter. Oh sweet Jesus! How could this happen? In my inn!” He broke down in sobs, rushing from the room and leaning into the hallway wall where Mr. Carlyle still stood.

“Richard, how should we handle this?” Darcy asked in a quiet, sick tone.

Richard was staring at the girl with a frown on his face. “I remember her. In the dining room with her parents, I assume, and a younger sister. I only noticed because I thought the gentleman looked vaguely familiar. I could not place from where, and as I do not know a Mr. Hazeldon, it must just be that he resembles another. Be that as it may, I was startled at one point because this young lady was staring at me with a flirtatious expression. I have been on the receiving end of enough such coquettishness to recognize it. This startled me, however, as she is so young and I am not in uniform, which is generally the stimulus.”

“I do not recall her at all.”

“Of course not. You were brooding far too much and rarely noticed a pretty face even when you were unattached. What an absolute pity! Come. We should leave her be and let the Sheriff deal with this.”

“Someone needs to find the parents. They obviously do not know she is missing.” He stopped, throat tight and eyes misty. “Can we not at least cover her?”

Richard nodded tersely, lips compressed as he stepped to the bed and drew the counterpane over her pale and lifeless body. “Go with God, little one,” he murmured.

The following hours were tense ones to be sure. Richard and Darcy retired to their respective rooms to shave and dress. Mr. Allenton coped with the situation as well as possible, placing a guard in front of the ill-fated girl’s door and appeasing the upset staff. He prayed that the Hazeldon family, who were situated in two rooms on the third floor, would remain asleep until the Sheriff arrived. In this, at least, he was fortunate.

Those guests and servants who knew of the tragedy trembled in their chambers behind stoutly locked doors. It would be the Sheriff who first uttered the word, but they were all thinking it: Murder.

Richard joined Darcy in his room once dressed. The two sat in silence, waiting.

Now that the sun was well over the horizon, the outer world beyond the cold glass and benumbed atmosphere within the walls could be seen. Darcy’s prediction was accurate. Snow sat in deep drifts with fresh flakes falling airily. The sky was grayish-black with thick clouds offering nominal breaks to visualize sunny blue sky. The winds had died, thankfully, but the snowfall itself volunteered no hint of abating anytime soon.

He experienced pangs of guilt over the thought, but the honest truth was that Darcy merely wanted to be home. He did not know the girl, but that did not preclude him from sympathizing with the family. In fact, it was the image of his beloved sister, who was not much older that the stricken girl, in such a horrific pose that increased his urgency to be with his family. The additional responsibilities now lying upon his shoulders as a husband and father were keenly felt and taken very seriously. He trusted the Pemberley staff, knew with fair certainty that the house and its occupants were well protected, but this incident proved that the criminal element stalked and would strike indeterminately. In a reaction typical of most men, he illogically believed that his mere presence would shield his family from any tragedy.

“As soon as feasible, I wish to depart. Are you prepared to brave the cold?”

“Under the circumstances, yes. Suddenly Pemberley has never appealed to me more, or Rivallain for that matter. Depending on whether we ever have breakfast, I may desert you at Matlock.”

Darcy sighed. “I would be delighted just to have coffee. What will be the procedure, Richard? You know more of the law than I do.”

Richard shrugged. “I know military law, which is different. I imagine the Sheriff will need to question everyone, try to piece together what happened. My God, William! A crime such as this not eight doors down! Did you hear anything?”

“A number of doors opening and closing as you and I retired earlier, but nothing untoward. Just the wind howling incessantly. I slept well, but woke at four-thirty absolutely freezing. The wind had died down to a moderate whine, and it was fairly quiet aside from the usual crashing of over-burdened tree branches. Whatever transpired was likely long since concluded.”

“She was strangled.” Richard said softly from where he stood by the window. “That was evident. I have seen death from strangulation a number of times, although not as often as…” He paused, turning to Darcy. “She was violated, William, before. I am sure of it. Someone who is here, a guest or servant perhaps.”

Darcy stared at his cousin, neither man speaking for a time. Colonel Fitzwilliam, commander of soldiers in numerous battles, warrior and dealer of death in times of war, was no stranger to the evil that haunted this world. There were things he had seen, things he himself had done in the name of Country and Honor that no one knew, not even Darcy. He was far from innocent, by any stretch of the imagination. Serving the Crown was frequently the polar opposite of glorious. It was more often ugly, dirty, brutal, messy, repugnant, and hellish. The contemptible reality of the baser elements had hardened his heart to a great degree. Nothing truly shocked him.

Darcy, on the other hand, for all his education and awareness of the broader world, was an innocent. His knowledge of evil in its myriad manifestations was primarily read about in books and newspapers. The death and subsequent grief that was a part of his life was of a normal nature, the result of accidents or fate. Other than a couple of incidents of thievery among his workers and once with a Pemberley servant, the typical scheming machinations of businessmen, and cheating with cards or dice, Darcy had no personal experience of truly heinous sinfulness.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor and lifted voices reached their ears. Individual words could not be distinguished, Richard returning to his contemplation of the snow while Darcy closed his eyes.

When the agonizing wails of a man and woman reached their ears, they barely flinched. Unconsciously, they had been expecting it and were strangely relieved to have the tormenting anticipation over. The muffled murmur of placating voices filtered through the cries, the sporadic bark of a dictate uttered by a voice of authority, and the tread of multiple feet.

It was Richard who answered the knock when it came. A deputy stood without, bowing briskly. “Mr. Darcy?”

“I am afraid not. I am Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“Excellent! Sheriff Weeden wishes to speak with you Colonel as well as Mr. Darcy. If you please?”

Bypassing the brawny attendant guarding the scene of the crime, they followed the deputy down the stairs and eventually to a cluttered office located beyond the kitchen. The clink of pans and pottery mingled with pleasing aromas caused both men’s hungry stomachs to growl. Sheriff Weeden sat behind the desk, several pieces of parchment laid before him as he scribbled. Without glancing up at the Deputy’s introduction, he waved both men to the seats situated before the desk.

“Cross, bring us fresh coffee and a tray of something to eat. I do not know about you gents, but I am famished. Roused from my warm bed with news of a murder does not allot the liberty of a leisurely breakfast.” As he spoke, the Sheriff continued to write, not yet formally acknowledging either gentleman nor even meeting their eyes.

Darcy frowned, not at all used to such rudeness, glancing toward Richard whose brows were raised with a similar expression of surprise. The room was small and windowless, disorderly with stacks of papers and boxes stuffed to overflowing with an assortment of items. A pair of mounted, smoky oil sconces and one lamp on the messy desk provided the only illumination. The fastidious Darcy found the whole environment depressing. His desk may be a bit cluttered, but it was an organized clutter and always clean.

The Sheriff of Belper was a middle-aged man, short and portly, with graying black hair and a face tired and lined. Thick, bushy eyebrows framed small, sunken eyes aside the bulbous nose of a chronic drinker.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” the Sheriff spoke abruptly, looking at Richard with an intimidating stare. “I am to understand that you were the first to look closely at the deceased?”

“I suppose that is true.”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon? I do not understand—”

“Why did you feel it your place to exert your authority and examine a crime scene? Are you a professional investigator?”

Richard bristled. “I believe you are mistaken, Sheriff Weeden. I did not ‘examine’ anything. We entered with Mr. Allenton to identify the girl. That is all.”

“You covered her, yes?”

“Only to preserve decency. I disturbed nothing, I can assure you.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps. Why did you feel the need to get involved at all?”

“It was utter chaos and Mr. Allenton was unable to cope with the situation. I was merely trying to help.”

“Did you know the girl, Colonel?”

Richard inhaled several times in an attempt to calm his irritation before replying. “Sheriff Weeden, I am not appreciative of your tone. I comprehend that you have questions but do not approve of the rudely accusatory inflections.”

“A crime of the most heinous variety took place in this establishment last night, Colonel, and I intend to find out who did it. Forgive me for not extending the customary pleasantries, but under the circumstances, it is a waste of my time. I repeat: did you know the girl?” His voice had risen slightly, fleshy chin thrust forward pugnaciously.

“No, I did not. I recall seeing her with her family while dining and later in the common room briefly. I did not speak to her, exchanged the merest glances, do not know her family, nor did I see when she left the room.”

“You were present as well, Mr. Darcy?” Darcy nodded, face a mask of regulated disapproval. “Did you know the girl or speak to her at any time?”

“I did not notice her at all.”

“What brings you two to Belper?”

Darcy answered, “We were caught in the storm and could go no further. I am sure it is a similar tale for most of the guests.”

“Traveling north or south?”

“North from Derby.”

“Why, pray tell, were you in Derby so soon after Christmas? Why would you not be at Pemberley with your new wife, Mr. Darcy?” Darcy’s eyes were flinty, lips a tight line as he pierced the Sheriff with his most menacing stare. He did not reply. The Sheriff steepled his fingers and sat back into the chair, meeting Darcy’s gaze unflinchingly. “Refusing to answer me is not wise, Mr. Darcy.”

“I will answer any question you place before me that is of relevance to the matter at hand. My personal affairs have no bearing.”

“Oh, but they do. A young girl was raped and killed. And I have before me two men without female companionship who leapt at the opportunity to place themselves on the scene, a devious method of displacing suspicion, one of whom it was reported to me had a light shining from his room at the wee hours of the night! Can you explain that, Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy was absolutely livid. He stood stiffly, back straight and tense fury emanating from him in waves. Nonetheless, his voice was soft and calm, “I regret that I can shed no light on this tragedy, Sheriff Weeden. I heard nothing and saw nothing until the tumult this morning. I awoke at 4:30 and started a fire as my room was cold. I rang no one, instead sitting and reading. That is all I have to offer on the subject I am afraid. If you have further need of me, I will be at Pemberley.”

He turned to exit the room, the Sheriff’s smug voice staying his steps. “You will be going nowhere, Mr. Darcy. Until the guilty party is discovered, all here are suspects, including yourself. I am the authority now, sir. Remember this. Colonel, you may go back to your room as well. I will call if I have further questions.” And he recommenced his writing without another word.

Noon approached with the atmosphere unchanged. The staff resumed some of their duties, primarily the preparation of food, always watched over by the deputy guarding the rear door. Rooms were not cleaned or beds made, baths were not drawn, and most of the guests preferred to dress themselves rather than interact with anyone. Meals of plain fare were served in the dining room, people sitting alone and eating quickly. Conversation was minimal and suspicious glances abounded. Word had spread despite the subdued environment, the full fate of the girl known by all.

A pall of death had fallen over the entire building. The weather remained cloudy, with steadily falling snow fostering the sensation of exclusion from the rest of the world. The exception to the rule was the coroner and undertaker, who reported by mid-morning, and later left with the shrouded body accompanied by a grieving father. Mrs. Hazeldon remained in their chambers, well sedated thanks to the laudanum graciously supplied by a fellow guest.

It seemed to bode well for the investigation that the inn was not filled to capacity. Overall, the establishment was of modest size, a small country coaching public house frequently bypassed for the fancier places in Derby or Matlock. Being the holiday season as well as a particularly cruel winter, travelers were few, and thus, nearly half the available rooms were vacant. Aside from the Hazeldons, the only other entire family was the Westmorelands. Both groups were returning home after spending Christmas with relatives, tarrying only due to the inclement weather. The remaining guests were mostly single men journeying for a variety of business or pleasure purposes, such as were Richard and Darcy, and two couples. Sheriff Weeden suspected everyone, granting no quarter arbitrarily.

One by one, each male resident was filed into the dank office where Sheriff Weeden presided. Every man was treated to his tactics with abrupt questions and harshly glaring beady eyes. It would continue at a snail’s pace for many hours.

Darcy exited the interrogation absolutely fuming. With back stiff and tread a hairbreadth away from stomping, he ascended the stairs with Colonel Fitzwilliam trailing silently behind him. Richard was offended by the Sheriff’s tone and disgusting insinuations, but could tolerate the intimations with equanimity, as he understood to a degree why they had been rendered and he was not as easily affronted as his morally staunch cousin. They entered Darcy’s chamber, the incensed man heading directly to the armoire and removing his saddle bag. Without a word, he yanked the fastidiously hung shirts and jackets, shoving them into the large pockets with angry vigor.

“Ah, Darcy? What, pray tell, are you doing?”

“I am packing and I am leaving. You can accompany me or not, I do not care which, but I am going home.”

Richard drew close, voice soft but firm. “William, listen to me. I sympathize with your feelings, I truly do, but you cannot leave.”

“Watch me.”

“What I will watch is one, or probably all three, of those burly deputies tackle you to the ground, clap you in irons, and lock you in one of the basement storage rooms. Furthermore, such an action will only cast greater doubt on your innocence. Aside from the distress this will cause your wife, imagine the confusion it will cause. You must think beyond your own selfish desires!”

Darcy had continued to thrust items haphazardly into the pouches, apparently ignoring Richard, until the final words, at which point he rounded on him with a visage of icy fury. “Speak cautiously, Cousin.”

“I will speak sense and it would behoove you to calm down and listen! A girl has been murdered, William! This horrendous occurrence takes precedence over your wishes. I am sorry for the brutality of that truth, but there it is. Sheriff Weeden may be a bit rough around the edges, but he has a job to do. Our responsibility as citizens of Derbyshire is to assist him in any way possible, and certainly do nothing that will distract him.”

“It is ludicrous, Richard. We have nothing to do with this and he knows that. The man merely wants to exert his authority and is taking advantage of a woeful calamity to do so. It is disgusting.”

“All that is true, but you are forgetting one incontrovertible fact, Cousin.”

“What?”

“He is the Sheriff and even you, Master of Pemberley, cannot overcome that. Do you think I like this any better? Being ordered about by a subordinate? I am a colonel for God’s sake!” He shrugged and spread his hands, mouth lifted in a faint smile.

Darcy was assuredly not in the mood for humor, but Richard’s words did have the effect of dousing his anger. He sat onto the edge of the bed, hands falling between his knees as he leaned forward with a deep sigh. “How long do you think this will take? I do not have much faith in the murderer stepping forward and confessing his crimes, do you?”

“Not especially. I suppose it depends on the situation.” Darcy looked at him questioningly. Richard shrugged again and sat next to his cousin on the bed. “I do not claim to be an expert in these sorts of crimes, but I do have some experience with the lower dregs of society and criminal element. Either this man is a calculated killer and has likely done such a thing before, or it was an accident. If it the former, then it may be impossible to discover the culprit, unless Sheriff Weeden is an excellent interrogator. If the latter—which is what I tend to believe—the perpetrator will be easier to crack.”

Darcy smiled and lifted a brow. “You have a theory, Inspector Fitzwilliam?”

He shook his head and laughed faintly. “Not really. Perhaps I simply prefer to think we do not have a soulless, homicidal maniac lurking about.” He slapped his palms onto his knees and stood up abruptly, “Enough speculating! I am famished, and I know food will improve your disposition. Let us see what the cooks have managed to throw together. Cheer up, Cousin! You still have me for company!”

Darcy met Richard’s grin with a sardonic shake of his head. “Marvelous.”

Darcy’s attitude was not much improved by coffee and a full stomach, but physically he felt better. He and Richard reposed in friendly companionship at the small table nestled near the fire. Darcy had purposefully crossed to the table farthest away from the window, having no wish to stare at the gloomy surroundings. The dining room was empty except for two other tables, one with an elderly couple and the other with a distinguished gentleman of some sixty years. They ignored each other completely. The girl who nervously served related that the other guests had all eaten and quickly returned to their rooms.

The food was plain but satisfying. Aside from the undercurrent of persistent tension, it was a relaxing interval in a cozily warm room. The cousins conversed softly about a variety of subjects, none of which involved the current crisis. Mr. Allenton entered at one point, speaking timidly with Darcy and Richard before moving on to the other guests.

“Poor man,” Richard said. “I doubt anything remotely like this has ever happened to him.”

“I do pray his business does not suffer due to this event.”

At that instant, a handsome young man of approximately twenty years appeared on the threshold. He was well dressed, comportment clearly revealing him to be a gentleman of means, but there was an air of distress about him that was equally evident. An accompanying servant pointed to Mr. Allenton and the young man hastily approached. Richard and Darcy curiously observed the interaction as Mr. Allenton frowned, then paled and glanced about the room. With readily apparent relief, he settled on Richard and Darcy, striding swiftly toward their table with the young man trailing him.

“Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, this is Mr. Hugh Stafford. He and his brother are guests here, have been for a week now. Anyway, he is concerned as his brother, Mr. Jared Stafford, is not answering the knock at his door and Mr. Stafford here says he heard odd noises coming from inside.”

“What sort of odd noises?”

Mr. Stafford swallowed, clearing his throat nervously before answering. “It makes no sense at all, Mr. Darcy. We retired to our rooms late having, well, imbibed fiercely.” His face was beet red, head hanging as if expecting the older men to scold him. Richard smiled faintly, recalling his first youthful indiscretions and feeling for the lad. However, the events of late did not lend well to humor. Mr. Stafford resumed, “I was worse off than Jared, but we were both well in our cups. He is younger then I, but generally better able to recuperate from these overindulgences. Not that we do this often, you understand!”

“Of course not, Mr. Stafford.” Darcy said placatingly. “Continue.”

“I just rose an hour ago and was surprised Jared had not woken me earlier. I went to his room, but the door is locked and he does not answer. I hear banging about and”—he hesitated in embarrassment, face flushing—“I think… crying.”

The three older men exchanged significant glances. “Mr. Stafford, are you aware of what has transpired at the inn today?”

“No, Mr. Darcy.”

“A girl was murdered last night, Mr. Stafford. Miss Hazeldon. Do you know her?”

But the question was redundant, as all the blood had drained from Mr. Stafford’s face, his knees giving out as he sank into a nearby chair. “Sweet Jesus! Miss Felicity? Do you mean Miss Felicity? Murdered? No! It cannot be! Oh dear God! Who could do such a thing? How…” His voice broke in a sob, “How did she…? Oh God!”

“How well did you know the young lady, Mr. Stafford?” Richard asked sharply.

“I… That is, I knew her a little. They have… the Hazeldons have been here for, what four days now, Mr. Allenton? She is a lovely young lady, so sweet and kind. Jared will be crushed! He fancied her a bit, you see. Her poor, poor parents! This is horrible! Too horrible!” He released a moan, head cradled in shaking hands. “Have they caught the villain who did this?”

Mr. Allenton had watched and listened with a dawning fear that he attempted with all his might to submerge. He honestly liked both young men, judged them of the finest caliber, so the thought of either of them being involved had not entered his mind despite the friendly association between the two families. Mr. and Mrs. Hazeldon were also fond of the fellows, knew them to be reputedly of an excellent family, so had not inhibited the acquaintance between their eldest daughter and Mr. Jared Stafford. The innkeeper had placed their names last on the guest list given to Sheriff Weeden and obviously Mr. Hazeldon had not mentioned their names with any sort of suspicion. Given the rather flirtatious and forwardly improper personality of the deceased girl, Mr. Allenton had reckoned it could be any of the dozen men currently residing at his establishment.

Darcy and Richard were grim. “Mr. Allenton, has Sheriff Weeden spoken with Mr. Jared Stafford? Does he know about the girl?”

“I have not seen him yet this morning, sir. The Staffords are last on the list and I know the Sheriff has not seen everyone yet.” He paused, spreading his hands. “I do not know for certain, sir, but think it unlikely. They were quite intoxicated last night.”

Richard looked at Darcy. “Locked in his room and sobbing? Seems an odd crapulent reaction, no matter how intense the headache. Sounds like guilt to me.”

“Or fear.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Mr. Stafford was glancing from one troubled face to the other in confusion. “Are you suggesting… Wait!” He jumped up angrily, “Are you suggesting my brother had something to do with Miss Felicity? That is absurd! How dare you—”

“Calm down, Mr. Stafford.” Richard rose and placed his hand lightly onto the upset young man’s shoulder. “Lead us to your brother’s room and let’s see what we can discover.”

The chamber of Mr. Jared Stafford was at the end of the hallway, just beyond Richard and Darcy’s chambers. The three older men stepped in the wake of a fuming Mr. Hugh Stafford, who paused before the closed door and angrily glanced at the others before pressing his lips together and rapping on the solid wood.

“Jared? It’s Hugh. Open up and let me in.” Silence. “Come on, Jared! It is well past the lunch hour and I am famished. We need food, Brother.” Nothing. “Jared, you are worrying me. Open the door, please.”

“Go away, Hugh,” a muffled, slurry voice issued from behind the stout door. “Run back to mother and father. Tell them I am dead. Gone, gone… into the abyss… no hope… no bloody hope…” The words trailed off into hushed gibberish accented by the crash of something glass shattering against the wall.

No longer angry but merely frightened, Hugh looked to the older men. The face barely on the edge of manhood was now reverted to the pleading desolation of a confused youth. Darcy nodded to Mr. Allenton who retrieved a bundle of keys from his pocket. The muted scrape of a heavy object dragging across the wooden floor reached their ears as Mr. Allenton finally found the correct key and inserted it into the lock. He turned the knob, throwing the door open and nimbly stepping aside, clearly not wishing to be the first to view what they all feared to behold.

It was far worse than any of them had imagined.

The small chamber was freezing cold from the yawning windows and in utter ruin. Broken shards of glass and pottery lay everywhere; the linens had been violently flung off the bed with numerous ripped strips of fabric littering the floor; the curtains had been slashed with a knife and then wrenched from the wall, rod and all, to lie in a heap by the window; the tall mirror was smashed in four places by the heavy crystal tumblers whose remains could be seen in a pile at the mirror’s base; pictures were jerked from their wall hooks and tossed randomly; deep gashes marred one of the thick bedposts as if a sword fight had ensued with the unoffending column; and through it all were splatters of blood and bloody footprints.

As appalling as the room itself, even more gruesome was the sight of the eighteen-year-old boy slumped in the chair positioned before the unlit fireplace. He stared with lifeless eyes into the ashes, holding a sharp knife in his right hand and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey in the other. Whether he was a handsome lad could not be discerned, so ravaged was his visage. His entire being was depraved: shoulder-length blond hair loose and snarled; eyes red rimmed and bloodshot; four deep, bloody fingernail scratches down his left cheek; torn, gaping, and blood smeared linen shirt displaying a bruised upper chest; stocking clad feet lacerated and bleeding from a dozen shard-inflicted wounds; and tremoring hands with swollen, bruised knuckles lifting the bottle to pale, dry lips. He muttered indecipherable words under his breath, momentarily unaware of the four shocked men standing in the doorway.

“Jared!” Hugh whispered. “My God, what happened to you?”

Jared glanced up blearily, blinking several times to focus, eyes alighting on his elder brother with bare recognition. “Brother. I told you to leave. Let me die as I deserve. Tell Mother… tell her I love her. Now, go away.” His voice was flat and low, and he turned away dismissively for further contemplation of the ashes.

Richard and Darcy shared glances. Richard cleared his throat and stepped forward, while Darcy whispered to Mr. Allenton to fetch the Sheriff. Hugh was shocked beyond words or coherent thought and stood pale and silent.

“Mr. Stafford, my name is Colonel Fitzwilliam. This is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. We are here at your brother’s behest to offer assistance.” He stepped closer, carefully avoiding the glass. “Perhaps you can share with us what has you so distraught?”

Jared shook his head, tears springing to his eyes. “No point. There is no point. It is over… my life is over.” He choked out a sob, drinking the last drops of whiskey and then staring into the container as if baffled why it was empty. “Over… over and done.” He laughed hysterically then frowned, his face darkening as rage abruptly swept through each feature. With a harsh yell he heaved the drained decanter at the opposite wall where it shattered.

“All over!” Jared screamed, lurching unsteadily to his feet and fixing Richard with a baleful glare. “Because she lied to me! Lied and screamed and screamed and screamed!”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Stafford. Are you talking about Miss Hazeldon?”

“Yes! Her! The lying strumpet! Said she loved me, wanted me!” He was raging and pacing imperviously through the rubble, dangerously brandishing the long knife, and words barely decipherable. “Said, ‘Meet me, Jared. Once we are truly lovers we can be together forever. No one can stop us.’ Then she says no. No! Can you believe it? First she wants it, wants me, then she doesn’t! Tease! Whore! A woman cannot do that! Then she starts screaming and would not stop! I told her to stop, begged her to stop, but she wouldn’t. Told me I was hurting her. Why would I hurt her? I was making love to her! I loved her!”

He halted suddenly, swaying as he glowered defiantly toward Richard. Darcy had moved cautiously into the room, circling to the left. Hugh was crying unabashedly from his weak slouch near the door, hands covering his face. None of them noticed the return of Mr. Allenton with Sheriff Weeden and two deputies by his side.

“Mr. Stafford, please, put down the knife and…”

“No! Go away I tell you! All of you!” Twirling about toward Darcy with knife raised in a surprisingly firm grip given his obvious level of intoxication, Jared stepped backward toward the open balcony doors. “Stay away! Leave me be so I can die in peace. Die like she… like… Oh God!” Releasing wracking sobs with head hanging dejectedly and knife dangling loose at his side, Jared succumbed momentarily to grief and remorse.

Darcy, who was now nearer, leapt forward and grasped onto the weapon-wielding arm of the deranged youth. His control was fleeting, however, as Jared reared precipitously, bodily knocking into the far larger man. Surprise was on his side, as Darcy was unbalanced and lost his grip. The knife was jerked out of Jared’s hand and flew through the air, nearly impaling Richard, who again called upon his excellent reflexes and ducked just in time.

An animalistic growl erupted from the young man’s throat, eyes scanning the room and noting the additional men. With a final shove square on Darcy’s chest, sending him staggering backward into the splintered bedpost, Jared pivoted and dashed toward the balcony.

“Jared, no!” Hugh yelled, brought out of his stasis and launching after his brother, but they were too late. Jared catapulted himself off the balcony.

Darcy and Hugh reached the railing simultaneously, just in time to see a miraculously unhurt Jared struggling to free himself from an enormous snowdrift mere inches from the rearward side of the solid woodshed. Covered with powdery snow, he managed to right himself enough to commence plowing through the knee-high drifts, heading in a zigzag pattern toward the woods.

“Jared!” Hugh yelled.

“He is heading for the woods.” Darcy proclaimed, twirling and hastening toward the door with long strides. “Damned fool will die out there dressed like that.”

“Thankfully his trail will be easy to follow,” Richard added, joining his cousin in his rapid exodus from the devastated chamber, Sheriff Weeden and the deputies marching along behind.

What ensued was a wild trek through the wet, frigid surrounds. The snow was thick in places; the terrain obscured so that frequent submersions into pits or painful collisions with bushes occurred. The continued snowfall and winds created flurries and fogs that distorted vision. Nonetheless, a weakened, inebriated youth was no match for six healthy men on his trail.

Jared Stafford was finally cornered against the trunk of a broad oak, huddled and shivering on a bare patch of frozen ground. The shock of all that had transpired in the past twelve or so hours caught up to him, and from there it was an easy matter, the tragic youth no longer offering any fight.

Richard and Darcy gladly returned to the warmth of the inn, leaving the issue in the capable, legal hands of the Sheriff. Word of the murderer’s capture spread hastily through the halls; the mixture of horror and relief generated an atmosphere of bizarre giddiness that would reign until late in the night. Neither Darcy nor Colonel Fitzwilliam were in the mood to share their part in the tale, retreating to their respective rooms early in the evening, thankful that the drama was behind them and abundantly prepared to return to the seclusion of Pemberley.