Death Comes to Pemberley

1

When Sir Selwyn’s carriage and the mortuary van drew up at the main entrance to Pemberley the door was immediately opened by Stoughton. There was a little delay until one of the grooms arrived to take Darcy’s horse, and he and Stoughton, after a brief discussion, agreed that Sir Selwyn’s carriage and the van would be less visible by any watcher from the window if they were taken from the front of the house and through to the stables and the back courtyard, from which Denny’s body could eventually be swiftly and, it was hoped, discreetly removed. Elizabeth had thought it right formally to receive this late and hardly welcome guest, but Sir Selwyn quickly made it obvious that he was anxious to set to work immediately and paused only for the customary bow on his part and curtsey on Elizabeth’s and his brief apology for the lateness and inconvenience of his visit, before he announced that he would begin by seeing Wickham and would be accompanied by Dr Belcher and the two policemen, Headborough Thomas Brownrigg and Petty Constable Mason.

Wickham was being guarded by Bingley and Alveston, who opened the door to Darcy’s knock. The room could have been designed as a guardroom. It was simply and sparsely furnished with a single bed under one of the high windows, a washbasin, a small wardrobe and two upright wooden chairs. Two additional and more comfortable chairs had been brought in and placed one each side of the door to provide some ease for whoever would be keeping watch during the night. Dr McFee, who was sitting to the right of the bed, stood up at Hardcastle’s arrival. Sir Selwyn had met Alveston at one of the Highmarten dinner parties and was, of course, familiar with Dr McFee. He gave both men a brief bow and nod of acknowledgement, and then approached the bed. Alveston and Bingley, after a glance at each other, recognised that they were expected to leave the room and quietly did so, while Darcy remained standing a little apart. Brownrigg and Mason took up positions one on each side of the door, and stared ahead as if to demonstrate that, although it was not at present appropriate for them to take a more active part in the investigation, the room and the guarding of its occupant would now be their responsibility.

Dr Obadiah Belcher was the medical adviser called in by the High Constable or magistrate to help with inquiries and, not surprisingly for a man accustomed to dissecting the dead rather than treating the living, had acquired a sinister reputation not helped by his unfortunate appearance. His hair, almost as fine as a child’s, was so fair as to be almost white, drawn back from a sallow skin, and he looked at the world through small suspicious eyes under the thin line of the brow. His fingers were long and carefully manicured and the public reaction to him was fairly summed up by the cook at Highmarten. “I’ll never let that Dr Belcher put his hands on me. Who’s to know where they’ve been last?”

His reputation as a sinister eccentric was also not helped by his having a small upstairs room equipped as a laboratory where it was rumoured that he conducted experiments on the time taken for blood to clot under different circumstances and on the speed with which changes took place in the body after death. Although nominally he was in general practice, he had only two patients, the High Constable and Sir Selwyn Hardcastle, and as neither had ever been known to be ill, their status did nothing to enhance his medical reputation. He was highly thought of by Sir Selwyn and other gentlemen concerned with administering the law, since in court he gave his opinion as a medical man with authority. He was known to be in communication with the Royal Society and exchanged letters with other gentlemen who were engaged in scientific experiments, and in general the most knowledgeable of his neighbours were more proud of his public reputation than afraid of the occasional minor explosion which shook his laboratory. He seldom spoke except after deep thought, and now he drew close to the bed and stood looking down at the sleeping man in silence.

Wickham’s breathing was so gentle that it could hardly be heard, his lips slightly parted. He was lying on his back, his left arm flung out, his right curved on the pillow.

Hardcastle turned to Darcy. “He is obviously not in the state in which you gave me to understand he was brought here. Someone has washed his face.”

There were seconds of silence, then Darcy looked Hardcastle in the eyes and said, “I take responsibility for everything that has happened since Mr Wickham was brought into my house.”

Hardcastle’s response was surprising. His long mouth twitched momentarily into what could, in any other man, be thought of as an indulgent smile. He said, “Very chivalrous of you, Darcy, but I think we can look to the ladies for this. Isn’t that what they see as their function, to clean up the mess we make of our rooms and sometimes of our lives? No matter, there will be evidence enough from your servants of Wickham’s state when he was brought into this house. There appear to be no obvious signs of injury on his body except small scratches on his forehead and hands. Most of the blood on his face and hands will have been Captain Denny’s.”

He turned to Belcher. “I take it, Belcher, that your clever scientific colleagues have not yet found a way of distinguishing one man’s blood from another’s? We would welcome such assistance although, of course, it would deprive me of my function and Brownrigg and Mason of their jobs.”

“I regret not, Sir Selwyn. We do not set out to be gods.”

“Do you not? I am glad to hear it. I rather thought that you did.” As if aware that the conversation had become inappropriately light, Hardcastle turned to Dr McFee, magisterial and sharp-voiced. “What have you given him? He looks unconscious, not asleep. Did you not know that this man could be the principal suspect in a murder inquiry and that I would want to question him?”

McFee said quietly, “To me, sir, he is my patient. When I first saw him he was obviously drunk, violent and becoming out of control. Later, before the draught I gave him had time to take full effect, he became incoherent with fear, calling out in terror but none of it making sense. Apparently he had a vision of bodies hanging on gibbets, their necks stretched. He was a man inhabiting a nightmare even before he slept.”

Hardcastle said, “Gibbets? Hardly surprising given his situation. What was the medication? I assume it was some kind of sedative.”

“One I mix myself and have used in a number of cases. I persuaded him to take it to lessen his distress. You could have had no hope of getting sense out of him in that state.”

“Nor in his present state. How long before you expect him to be awake and sober enough to be questioned?”

“That is difficult to say. Sometimes after a shock the mind takes refuge in unconsciousness and sleep is deep and prolonged. Judging from the dose I administered, he should be conscious by nine tomorrow morning, possibly earlier, but I cannot be precise, I had difficulty in persuading him to take more than a few mouthfuls. With Mr Darcy’s consent I propose to stay until my patient is conscious. I have also Mrs Wickham under my care.”

“And no doubt also sedated and unfit to be questioned?”

“Mrs Wickham was hysterical with shock and distress. She had convinced herself that her husband was dead. I was attending a grievously disturbed woman who needed the relief of sleep. You would have got nothing out of her until she became calmer.”

“I might have got the truth. I think you and I understand each other, Doctor. You have your responsibilities and I have mine. I am not an unreasonable man. I have no wish to disturb Mrs Wickham until the morning.” He turned to Dr Belcher. “Have you any observation to make, Belcher?”

“None, Sir Selwyn, except to say that I concur with Dr McFee’s action in administering a sedative to Wickham. He could not usefully have been questioned in the state described and, if he were later committed for trial, anything he did say might be challenged in court.”

Hardcastle turned to Darcy. “Then I shall return at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Until then, Headborough Brownrigg and Petty Constable Mason will be on guard and will take possession of the key. If Wickham requires attention from Dr McFee they will call for him, otherwise no one will be admitted to this room until I return. The constables will need blankets, and some food and drink to see them through – cold meats, bread, the usual.”

Darcy said shortly, “Everything necessary will be attended to.”

It was then that Hardcastle seemed for the first time to take note of Wickham’s greatcoat slung over one of the chairs and the leather bag on the floor beside it. “Is this all the baggage there was in the chaise?”

Darcy said, “Apart from a trunk, a hatbox and a bag belonging to Mrs Wickham there were two other bags, one marked GW and one with Captain Denny’s name. As I was told by Pratt that the chaise had been hired to take the gentlemen on to the King’s Arms at Lambton, the bags were left in the chaise until we returned with Captain Denny’s body, when they were brought into the house.”

Hardcastle said, “They will, of course, need to be handed over. I will confiscate all the bags except those of Mrs Wickham. In the meantime, let us see what he had on his person.”

He took the heavy greatcoat in his hands and shook it vigorously. Three dried leaves caught in one of the capes fluttered to the floor and Darcy saw that there were a few adhering to the sleeves. Hardcastle handed the coat to Mason and himself dug his hands into the pockets. From the left-hand pocket he drew out the usual minor possessions which a traveller might be expected to carry: a pencil, a small notebook but with no entries, two handkerchiefs, a flask which Hardcastle, after unscrewing the top, said had contained whisky. The right-hand pocket yielded a more interesting object, a leather notecase. Opening it Hardcastle drew out a wad of notes, carefully folded, and counted them.

“Thirty pounds precisely. In notes, obviously new, or at least recently issued. I’ll give you a receipt for them, Darcy, until we can discover their legal owner. I’ll place the money in my safe tonight. Tomorrow morning I may get an explanation of how he came by such a sum. One possibility is that he took it from Denny’s body and, if so, we may have a motive.”

Darcy opened his mouth to protest but, deciding that he would only make matters worse, said nothing.

Hardcastle said, “And now I propose to view the body. I take it that the corpse is under guard?”

Darcy said, “Not under guard. Captain Denny’s body is in the gunroom, the door of which is locked. The table there seemed convenient. I have in my possession the keys both to the room and to the cupboard containing the weapons and ammunition; it hardly seemed necessary to arrange any additional safeguards. We can go there now. If you have no objection, I would like Dr McFee to accompany us. You may feel a second opinion on the state of the body would be an advantage.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hardcastle said, “I can see no objection. You yourself will doubtless wish to be present and I shall need Dr Belcher and Headborough Brownrigg but no others will be necessary. Let us not make a public spectacle of the dead. We shall, of course, need plenty of candles.”

Darcy said, “I had foreseen that. Extra candles have been placed in the gunroom ready to be lit. I think you will find that the light is as adequate as it can be at night.”

Hardcastle said, “I need someone to watch with Mason while Brownrigg is away. Stoughton would seem an appropriate choice. Can you call him back, Darcy?”

Stoughton, as if expecting the summons, was waiting close to the door. He entered the room and stood silently next to Mason. Picking up their candles, Hardcastle and the party left, and Darcy heard the key being turned in the lock behind them.

The house was so quiet that it could have been deserted. Mrs Reynolds had ordered any servants still preparing food for the morrow to go to their beds and of the staff only she, Stoughton and Belton remained on duty. Mrs Reynolds was waiting in the hall beside a table which held a group of new candles in high silver candlesticks. Four had been lit and the flames, burning steadily, seemed to emphasise rather than illuminate the surrounding darkness of the great entrance hall.

Mrs Reynolds said, “There may be more than needed, but I thought you might want additional light.”

Each man took up and lit a fresh candle. Hardcastle said, “Leave the others where they are at present. The constable will fetch them if necessary.” He turned to Darcy. “You said you have the key to the gunroom and that you have already provided an adequate number of candles?”

“There are fourteen already there, Sir Selwyn. I took them in myself with Stoughton. Apart from that visit no one has entered the gunroom since Captain Denny’s body was placed there.”

“So let us get started. The sooner the body is examined the better.”

Darcy was relieved that Hardcastle had accepted his right to be one of the party. Denny had been brought to Pemberley and it was fitting that the master of the house should be there when his body was viewed although he could think of no way in which he could be of particular use. He led the candlelit procession towards the rear of the house and, taking two keys on a ring from his pocket, used the larger to unlock the door to the gunroom. It was surprisingly large with pictures of old shooting parties and their spoils and a shelf with the bright leather spines of records going back at least a century, a mahogany desk and chair and a locked cupboard containing the guns and ammunition. The narrow table had obviously been moved out from the wall and was now in the middle of the room with the body covered by a clean sheet.

Before setting off to inform Sir Selwyn of Denny’s death, Darcy had instructed Stoughton to provide candlesticks of equal size and the best tall wax candles, an extravagance which he guessed would be the cause of some muttering between Stoughton and Mrs Reynolds. These were candles normally reserved for the dining room. Together he and Stoughton had set them up in two rows on the desktop, taper to hand. Now he lit them and as the taper found each candle-tip the room brightened, suffusing the watching faces with a warm glow and softening even Hardcastle’s strong bony features into gentleness, while each trail of smoke rose like incense, its transitory sweetness lost in the smell of beeswax. It seemed to Darcy that the desktop with its glittering rows of light had become an over-decorated altar, the sparsely furnished and functional gunroom a chapel, and that the five of them were secretly engaged in the obsequies of some alien but exacting religion.

As they stood like inappropriately clad acolytes round the body, Hardcastle folded back the sheet. The right eye was blackened with blood which had been smeared over a large part of the face, but the left eye was wide open, the pupil turned upward so that Darcy, standing behind Denny’s head, felt that it was fixed on him, not with the blankness of death, but holding in its sticky gaze a lifetime of reproach.

Dr Belcher placed his hands on Denny’s face, arms and legs, then said, “Rigor mortis is already present in the face. As a preliminary estimate I would say he has been dead about five hours.”

Hardcastle did a brief calculation, then said, “That confirms what we have already surmised, that he died shortly after he left the chaise and approximately at the time the shots were heard. He was killed at about nine o’clock last evening. What about the wound?”

Dr Belcher and Dr McFee moved closer, handing their candles to Brownrigg who, placing his own candle on the desktop, raised them high as the two doctors peered closely at the dark patch of blood.

Dr Belcher said, “We need to wash this away before we can ascertain the depth of the blow but, before doing so, we should note the fragment of a dead leaf and the small smear of dirt both above the effusion of blood. At some point after the infliction of the wound he must have fallen on his face. Where is the water?” He looked round as if expecting it to materialise out of the air.

Darcy put his head outside the door and instructed Mrs Reynolds to bring a bowl of water and some small towels. They were so quick in coming that Darcy thought that she must have anticipated the request and been waiting at the tap in the adjoining cloakroom. She handed the bowl and towels to Darcy without entering the room and Dr Belcher went over to his case of instruments, took out some small balls of white wool and firmly wiped the skin clean, then tossed the reddened wool into the water. He and Dr McFee in turn looked closely at the wound and again touched the skin around it.

It was Dr Belcher who finally spoke. “He was hit with something hard, possibly round in shape, but as the skin has been broken I can’t be specific about the shape and size of the weapon. What I am sure of is that the blow didn’t kill him. It produced a considerable effusion of blood, as head wounds often do, but the blow could not have been fatal. I don’t know whether my colleague agrees.”

Dr McFee took his time prodding the skin round the wound, and after about a minute said, “I agree. The wound is superficial.”

Hardcastle’s hard voice broke the silence. “Then turn him over.”

Denny was a heavy man, but Brownrigg, with the help of Dr McFee, turned him in one movement. Hardcastle said, “More light, please,” and Darcy and Brownrigg moved over to the desk and each took one of the cluster of candles and, holding a candle in each hand, approached the body. There was silence as if no one present wished to state the obvious. Then Hardcastle said, “There, gentlemen, you have the cause of death.”

They saw a gash some four inches long across the base of the skull, but its full extent obscured by the matting of hair, some of which had been forced into the wound. Dr Belcher went over to his bag and, returning with what looked like a small silver knife, carefully lifted the hair away from the skull, revealing a gash about a quarter of an inch wide. The hair beneath it was stiff and matted, but it was difficult to see whether this was with blood or some exudation from the wound. Darcy made himself look closely but a mixture of horror and pity made the sickness rise in his throat. There was a sound like a low involuntary groan and he wondered whether it was he who had made it.

Both doctors bent closely over the body. Dr Belcher again took his time, then said, “He has been bludgeoned but there is no ragged laceration, which suggests that the weapon was heavy but smooth-edged. The wound is characteristic of severe head wounds with strands of hair, tissue and blood vessels impacted into the bone, but even if the skull has remained intact, the haemorrhaging of the blood vessels beneath the bone will have resulted in internal bleeding between the skull and the membrane covering the brain. The blow was struck with extraordinary force, either by an assailant taller than the victim or one equal in size. I would say that the attacker was right-handed and that the weapon was something like the back of an axe, that is, it was heavy but blunt. If it had been the blade of an axe or sword, the wound would have been deeper, the body almost decapitated.”

Hardcastle said, “So the murderer first attacked from the front, disabling his victim, then when he staggered away, blinded by blood which he instinctively tried to wipe from his eyes, the killer attacked again, this time from the rear. Could the weapon have been a large sharp-edged stone?”

Belcher said, “Not sharp-edged, the wound is not jagged. Certainly it could be a stone, heavy but smooth-edged, and no doubt there were some lying about in the woodland. Do not the stones and wood for repairs to the estate come down that path? Some stones could have fallen from a cart and later been kicked into the undergrowth, possibly to lie there half-concealed for years. But if it was a stone, it would need an exceptionally strong man to deliver such a blow. Much more likely the victim had fallen on his face and the stone was brought down with force while he was lying prone and helpless.”

Hardcastle asked, “How long could he have lived with this wound?”

“That is difficult to say. Death may have occurred within a matter of seconds but certainly could not have been long delayed.”

He turned to Dr McFee, who said, “I have known cases where a fall on the head has produced few symptoms other than a headache, and the patient has continued with the business of his life only to die some hours later. That could not have been the case here. The wound is too serious to be survived for more than a very short time, if at all.”

Dr Belcher lowered his head still nearer the wound. He said, “I shall be able to report on the damage to the brain when I have made my examination post-mortem.”

Darcy knew that Hardcastle very much disliked post-mortem examinations and although Dr Belcher invariably won when they had a dispute on the matter, he now said, “Will that really be necessary, Belcher? Is the cause of death not apparent to us all? What appears to have happened is an assailant made the original blow to the forehead while facing his victim. Captain Denny, blinded by blood, then tried to escape only to be dealt from the back the fatal blow. We know from the debris on his forehead that he fell face-downwards. I believe you said when you reported the crime, Darcy, that you found him on his back.”

“We did, Sir Selwyn, and that is how he was lifted onto the stretcher. This is the first time I have seen this wound.”

Again there was silence, then Hardcastle addressed Belcher. “Thank you, doctor. You will, of course, undertake any further examination of the body that you feel to be necessary, I have no wish to curb the progress of scientific knowledge. We have done as much as we can here. We shall now remove the body.” He turned to Darcy, “You may expect me at nine o’clock tomorrow morning when I hope to speak to George Wickham and to members of the family and household, so that alibis for the estimated time of death can be established. I am sure you will accept the necessity for this. As I have ordered, Headborough Brownrigg and Constable Mason will remain on duty and will be responsible for guarding Wickham. The room will be kept locked from the inside and only opened in case of necessity. At all times there will be two watchers. I would like your assurance that these instructions will be complied with.”

Darcy said, “Naturally they will. Is there any refreshment I can offer you or Dr Belcher before you leave?”

“None, thank you.” He added, as if aware that something more should be said, “I’m sorry that this tragedy should have occurred on your land. Inevitably it will be a cause of distress, particularly to the ladies of the family. The fact that you and Wickham were not on good terms will not make it easier to bear. As a fellow magistrate you will understand my responsibility in this matter. I shall send a message to the coroner and I hope that the inquest will be held at Lambton within the next few days. There will be a local jury. You will, of course, be required to attend with the other witnesses to the finding of the body.”

“I shall be there, Sir Selwyn.”

Hardcastle said, “I shall need help with the stretcher to convey the victim to the mortuary van.” He turned to Brownrigg. “Can you take over the duty of watching Wickham and send Stoughton down? And, Dr McFee, since you are here and would no doubt wish to be helpful, perhaps you could assist in conveying the body.”

Within five minutes Denny’s corpse, with some panting on Dr McFee’s part, was carried from the gunroom and placed in the mortuary van. The driver was woken from sleep, Sir Selwyn and Dr Belcher got back into the coach and Darcy and Stoughton waited at the open door until the vehicles clattered out of sight.

As Stoughton turned to go back into the house, Darcy said, “Hand me the keys, Stoughton. I’ll see to the locks. I want some fresh air.”

The wind had dropped now but heavy dollops of rain were falling into the pitted surface of the river under the full moon. How many times had he stood here in solitude, escaping for a few minutes from the music and chatter of the ballroom? Now, behind him, the house was silent and dark, and the beauty which had been a solace all his life could not touch his spirit. Elizabeth must be in bed, but he doubted that she was asleep. He needed the comfort of being with her but he knew that she must be exhausted, and even in his longing for her voice, her reassurance, her love, he would not wake her. But when he had entered and turned the key, then stretched to thrust back the heavy bolts, he was aware of a faint light behind him and, turning, he saw Elizabeth, candle in hand, coming down the stairs and moving into his arms.

After some minutes of blessed silence she gently freed herself and said, “My love, you have not eaten since dinner and you look exhausted. You must take some nourishment before what remains of the night. Mrs Reynolds has provided hot soup in the small dining room. The colonel and Charles are already there.”

But the comfort of a shared bed and Elizabeth’s loving arms were denied him. In the small dining room he found that Bingley and the colonel had already eaten and that the colonel was determined once again to take command.

He said, “I propose, Darcy, to spend the night in the library, which is close enough to the front door to provide some assurance that the house will be secure. I have taken the liberty of instructing Mrs Reynolds to provide pillows and some blankets. It is not necessary for you to join me if you need the greater comfort of your bed.”

Darcy thought the precaution of being near the locked and bolted front door was unnecessary, but he could not allow a guest to sleep in some discomfort while himself in bed. Feeling he had no choice, he said, “I cannot suppose that whoever killed Denny will be so audacious as to attack Pemberley, but I shall, of course, join you.”

Elizabeth said, “Mrs Bingley is sleeping on a couch in Mrs Wickham’s room, and Belton will be on call, as shall I. I will check that all is well there before retiring. I can only wish you gentlemen an uninterrupted night and I hope some hours of sleep. As Sir Selwyn Hardcastle will be here by nine, I shall order an early breakfast. For now I wish you goodnight.

2

Entering the library, Darcy saw that Stoughton and Mrs Reynolds had done their best to ensure that the colonel and he were made as comfortable as possible. The fire had been replenished, lumps of coal wrapped in paper for quietness and added logs lay ready in the grate, and there was a sufficiency of pillows and blankets. A covered dish of savoury tarts, carafes of wine and water and plates, glasses and napkins were on a round table some distance from the fire.

Privately Darcy thought a watch unnecessary. The main door to Pemberley was well secured with double locks and bolts and even if Denny had been murdered by a stranger, perhaps an army deserter who had been challenged and responded with deadly violence, the man would hardly present a physical threat to Pemberley House itself or anyone in it. He was both tired and restless, an uneasy state in which to sink into a deep sleep which, even were it possible, would seem like an abdication of responsibility. He was troubled by a premonition that some danger threatened Pemberley without being able to form any logical idea of what that danger could be. Dozing in one of the armchairs in the library with the colonel for company would probably give him as good a rest as he could expect for the remaining hours of the night.

As they settled themselves in the two high buttoned and well-padded chairs, the colonel taking the one by the fire and he a little distant, the thought occurred to him that his cousin might have suggested this vigil because he had something to confide. No one had questioned him about his ride just before nine and he knew that, like him, Elizabeth, Bingley and Jane must be expecting him to provide an explanation. Since it had not yet been forthcoming a certain delicacy prohibited any questions, but no such delicacy would inhibit Hardcastle when he returned; Fitzwilliam must know that he was the only member of the family and guests who had not yet put forward an alibi. Darcy had never for a moment considered that the colonel was in any way involved in Denny’s death, but his cousin’s silence was worrying and, what was more surprising in a man of such formal manners, it smacked of discourtesy.

To his surprise he felt himself falling into sleep much more quickly than he had expected, and it was an effort even to answer a few commonplace remarks which came to him as at a remote distance. There were brief moments of half-consciousness as he shifted in his chair and his mind took hold of where he was. He glanced briefly at the colonel stretched out in the chair, his handsome face ruddied by the fire, his breathing deep and regular, and watched for a moment the dying flames licking at a blackened log. He urged his stiffened limbs out of his chair and, with infinite care, added a few more logs and some lumps of coal and waited until they were alight. Then he returned to his chair, pulled a blanket over him and slept.

His next awakening was curious. It was a sudden and complete return to consciousness in which all his senses were so acutely alert that it was as if he had been expecting this moment. He was huddled on his side and it was through eyelids almost entirely closed that he saw the colonel moving in front of the fire, momentarily blocking out its glow which provided the only light in the room. Darcy wondered whether it was this change which had awakened him. He had no difficulty in feigning sleep, looking through almost closed eyes. The colonel’s jacket was hanging on the back of his chair, and now he fumbled for a pocket and pulled out an envelope. Still standing, he took out a document and spent some time in perusing it. Then all that Darcy could see was the colonel’s back, a sudden movement of his arm and a spurt of flame; the paper was being burnt. Darcy gave a little grunt and turned his face further from the fire. Normally he would have made it apparent to his cousin that he was awake and would have enquired if the colonel had managed to get some sleep, and the small deceit seemed ignoble. But the shock and horror of the moment when he had first seen Denny’s body, the disorientating moonlight, had struck him like a mental earthquake in which he no longer stood on firm ground and in which all the comfortable conventions and assumptions which since boyhood had ruled his life lay in rubble round him. Compared with that disruptive moment the colonel’s strange behaviour, his still unexplained ride into the night, and now the apparently surreptitious burning of some document, were small aftershocks but they were still disconcerting.

He had known his cousin since boyhood and the colonel had always seemed the most uncomplicated of men, the one least given to subterfuge or deceit. But there had been a change since he had become an elder son and the heir to an earl. What had become of that gallant, light-hearted young colonel, that easy and confident sociability so different from Darcy’s own sometimes paralysing shyness? He had seemed the most affable and popular of men. But even then he had been conscious of his family responsibilities, of what was expected of a younger son. He would never have married an Elizabeth Bennet, and Darcy occasionally felt that he had lost some respect in his cousin’s eyes because he had placed his desire for a woman above the responsibilities of family and class. Certainly Elizabeth seemed to have sensed some change, although she had never discussed the colonel with Darcy except to warn him that his cousin was about to seek a meeting to request Georgiana’s hand. Elizabeth had felt it right to prepare him for the meeting but it had not, of course, taken place, and now it never would; he had known from the moment when the drunken Wickham was almost carried through the door of Pemberley that the Viscount Hartlep would be looking elsewhere for his future countess. What surprised him now was not that the offer would never be made, but that he who had harboured such high ambitions for his sister was content that this offer at least was one she would never be tempted to accept.

It was not surprising that his cousin should feel oppressed by the weight of his coming responsibilities. Darcy thought of the great ancestral castle, the miles of pitheads above the black gold of his coalfields, the manor house in Warwickshire with its square miles of fertile earth, the possibility that the colonel, when he succeeded, might feel that he had to relinquish the career he loved and take his seat in the House of Lords. It was as if he were making a disciplined attempt to change the very core of his personality and Darcy wondered whether this was either possible or wise. Was he perhaps facing some private obligation or problem, different in kind from the responsibilities of inheritance? He thought again how strange it was that his cousin should have been so anxious to spend the night in the library. If he wanted to destroy a letter there were sufficient fires already lit in the house for him to seize a private moment, and why destroy it now and in such secrecy? Had something happened that made the destruction of the document imperative? Trying to make himself comfortable enough for sleep, Darcy told himself that there were enough mysteries without adding to them, and eventually he slid again into unconsciousness.

He was awoken by the colonel noisily drawing the curtains then, after a glance, he pulled them back again, saying, “Hardly light yet. You slept well, I think.”

“Not well, but adequately.” Darcy reached for his watch.

“What is the time?”

“Just on seven.”

“I think I ought to go and see if Wickham is awake. If so, he’ll need something to eat and drink and the watchers may need some food. We can’t relieve them, Hardcastle’s instructions were adamant, but I think someone should look into that room. If Wickham is awake and in the same state that Dr McFee described when he was first brought here, Brownrigg and Mason may have difficulty in restraining him.”

Darcy got up. “I’ll go. You ring for breakfast. It won’t be served in the dining room until eight.”

But the colonel was already at the door. He turned and said, “Better leave it to me. The less you have to do with Wickham the better. Hardcastle is on the alert for any interference on your part. He is in charge. You can’t afford to antagonise him.”

Privately Darcy admitted that the colonel was right. He was still determined to regard Wickham as a guest in his house, but it would have been foolish to ignore the reality. Wickham was the prime suspect in a murder inquiry and Hardcastle had the right to expect that Darcy would keep away from him, at least until Wickham had been interrogated.

The colonel had hardly left before Stoughton arrived with coffee, followed by a housemaid to attend to the fire accompanied by Mrs Reynolds to enquire whether they would like breakfast to be served. A log smouldering in the acrid ash crackled into life as fresh fuel was added, the leaping flames illuminating the corners of the library but emphasising the darkness of the autumnal morning. The day, which for Darcy presaged nothing but disaster, had begun.

The colonel returned within ten minutes as Mrs Reynolds was leaving, and went straight to the table to pour himself coffee. Settling again into the chair, he said, “Wickham is restless and muttering but still asleep and likely to remain so for some time. I’ll visit him again before nine and prepare him for Hardcastle’s arrival. Brownrigg and Mason have been well supplied with food and drink during the night. Brownrigg was dozing in his chair and Mason complained that his legs were stiff and he needed to exercise them. What he probably needed was to visit the water closet, that new-fangled apparatus you have had installed here which, I understand, has caused much ribald interest in the neighbourhood, so I gave him directions and waited on guard until he returned. As far as I can judge, Wickham will be sufficiently awake to be questioned by Hardcastle by nine. Do you intend to be present?”

“Wickham is in my house and Denny was murdered on my property. It is obviously right that I should take no part in the investigation, which will of course be under the direction of the High Constable when Hardcastle reports to him; he is unlikely to take an active part. I’m afraid this is going to be an inconvenient business for you; Hardcastle will want an inquest as soon as possible. Luckily the coroner is at Lambton, so there shouldn’t be a delay in selecting the twenty-three members from which to provide the jury. They will be local men but I’m not sure that will be an advantage. It is well known that Wickham is not received at Pemberley and I have no doubt the gossips have been busy speculating why. Obviously both of us will be needed to give evidence, which I suppose will have to take precedence over your recall to duty.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Nothing can take precedence over that, but if the inquest is held soon, there should be no problem. Young Alveston is more fortuitously placed; he seems to have no difficulty in leaving what is said to be a very busy London career to enjoy the hospitality of Highmarten and Pemberley.”

Darcy didn’t reply. After a short silence, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “What is your programme for today? I suppose the staff will need to be told what is happening and prepared for Hardcastle’s interrogation.”

“I shall go now and see if Elizabeth is awake, as I think she will be, and together we will speak to all the staff. If Wickham is conscious, Lydia will be demanding to see him, and indeed that is her right; then, of course, we must all prepare ourselves to be questioned. It is opportune that we have alibis, so Hardcastle need not waste much time on anyone who was at Pemberley yesterday evening. He will no doubt enquire of you when you started on your ride and when you returned.”

The colonel said briefly, “I hope I shall be able to satisfy him.”

Darcy said, “When Mrs Reynolds comes back will you please inform her that I am with Mrs Darcy and shall take breakfast as usual in the small dining room.” With that he was gone. It had been an uncomfortable night in more ways than one and he was glad that it was over.

3

Jane, who had never since her marriage spent a night away from her husband’s side, spent restless hours on the couch by Lydia’s bed, her brief periods of slumber broken by the need to check that Lydia was sleeping. Dr McFee’s sedative had been effective and Lydia slept soundly, but at half-past five stirred into life and demanded that she be taken at once to her husband. For Jane this was a natural and reasonable request, but she felt it wise to warn Lydia gently that Wickham was unlikely to be yet awake. Lydia was not prepared to wait, so Jane helped her to dress – a lengthy process since Lydia insisted on looking her best, and considerable time was taken in rummaging through her trunk and in holding up different gowns to demand Jane’s opinion, discarding others in a heap on the floor and fussing over her hair. Jane wondered whether she would be justified in waking Bingley but, going out to listen, she could hear no sound from the next room and was reluctant to disturb his sleep. Surely being with Lydia when she first saw her husband after his ordeal was women’s work, and she should not presume on Bingley’s unfailing good nature for her own comfort. Eventually Lydia was satisfied with her appearance and, taking their lighted candles, they made their way along dark passages to the room where Wickham was being held.

It was Brownrigg who let them in, and at their entrance Mason, who was asleep in his chair, woke with a start. After that there was chaos. Lydia rushed to the bed where Wickham was still asleep, flung herself over him as if he were dead and began weeping in apparent anguish. It was minutes before Jane could gently draw her from the bed and murmur that it would be better if she came back later when her husband would be awake and able to speak to her. Lydia, after a final burst of crying, allowed herself to be led back to her room where Jane was at last able to calm her and ring for an early breakfast for them both. It was promptly brought in by Mrs Reynolds, not by the usual servant, and Lydia, viewing the carefully chosen delicacies with evident satisfaction, discovered that grief had made her hungry and ate avidly.

Breakfast over, Lydia’s mood fluctuated with outbursts of weeping, self-pity, terror of the future for herself and her dearest Wickham, and resentment against Elizabeth. If she and her husband had been invited to the ball, as they should have been, they would have arrived the next morning by the proper approach. They had only come through the woodland because her arrival had to be a surprise, otherwise Elizabeth would probably never have let her in. It was Elizabeth’s fault that they had to hire a hackney chaise and stay at the Green Man, which was not at all the kind of inn she and dear Wickham liked. If Elizabeth had been more generous in helping them they could have afforded to stay on Friday night at the King’s Arms at Lambton, one of the Pemberley carriages would have been sent the next day to take them to the ball, Denny wouldn’t have travelled with them and none of this trouble would have happened. Jane had to hear it all, and with pain; as was usual, she tried to soothe away resentment, counsel patience and encourage hope, but Lydia was in too full enjoyment of her grievance to listen to reason or to welcome advice.

None of this was surprising. Lydia had disliked Elizabeth from childhood and there could never have been sympathy or close sisterly affection between such disparate characters. Lydia, boisterous and wild, vulgar in speech and behaviour, unresponsive to any attempts to control her, had been a continual embarrassment to the two elder Miss Bennets. She was her mother’s favourite child and they were, in fact, much alike, but there were other reasons for the antagonism between Elizabeth and the younger sister. Lydia suspected, and with reason, that Elizabeth had attempted to persuade her father to forbid her to visit Brighton. Kitty had reported that she had seen Elizabeth knocking at the library door and being admitted to the sanctum, a rare privilege since Mr Bennet was adamant that the library was the one room in which he could hope for solitude and peace. To attempt to deny Lydia any pleasure on which she had set her heart ranked high in the catalogue of sisterly offences and it was a matter of principle for Lydia that it should never be forgiven or forgotten.

And there was another cause for a dislike close to enmity: Lydia knew that her elder sister had been singled out by Wickham as his acknowledged favourite. On one of Lydia’s visits to Highmarten, Jane had heard her talking to the housekeeper. It was the same Lydia, self-serving and indiscreet. “Of course, Mr Wickham and I will never be invited to Pemberley. Mrs Darcy is jealous of me and everyone at Meryton knows why. She was wild for Wickham when he was stationed at Meryton and would have had him if she could. But he chose elsewhere – lucky me! And anyway, Elizabeth would never have taken him, not without money, but if there had been money she would be Mrs Wickham by choice. She only married Darcy – a horrid, conceited, bad-tempered man – because of Pemberley and all his money. Everyone at Meryton knows that too.”

This involvement of her housekeeper in the family’s private concerns, and the mixture of untruths and vulgarity with which Lydia passed on her heedless gossip caused Jane to reconsider the wisdom of accepting so readily her sister’s usually unannounced visits, and she resolved to discourage them in future for Bingley’s and her children’s sakes as well as for her own. But one further visit must be endured. She had promised to convey Lydia to Highmarten when, as arranged, she and Bingley left Pemberley on Sunday afternoon, and she knew how greatly Elizabeth’s difficulties would be eased without Lydia’s constant demands for sympathy and attention and her erratic outbursts of noisy grief and querulous complaining. Jane had felt helpless in the face of the tragedy overshadowing Pemberley but this small service was the least she could do for her beloved Elizabeth.

4

Elizabeth slept fitfully with brief periods of blessed unconsciousness broken by nightmares which jolted her into wakefulness and to an awareness of the real horror which lay like a pall over Pemberley. Instinctively she reached out for her husband, only to recall that he was spending the night with Colonel Fitzwilliam in the library. The impulse to get out of bed and pace about the room was almost uncontrollable, but she tried again to settle into sleep. The linen sheets, usually so cool and comforting, had been twisted into a confining rope and the pillows, filled with the softest down feathers, seemed hard and hot, requiring constant shaking and turning to make them comfortable.

Her thoughts turned to Darcy and the colonel. It was absurd that they were sleeping, or attempting to sleep, in what must be some discomfort, especially after such an appalling day. And what had Colonel Fitzwilliam had in mind to propose such a scheme? She knew that it had been his idea. Did he have something important to communicate to Darcy and needed a few uninterrupted hours with him? Could he be providing some explanation of that mysterious ride into the night, or had the confidence something to do with Georgiana? Then it occurred to her that his motive might have been to prevent her and Darcy having some time in private together; since the return of the search party with Denny’s body, she and her husband had hardly had a chance for more than a few minutes’ confidential talk. She thrust the idea aside as ridiculous and tried again to settle herself for sleep.

Although she knew that her body was exhausted, her mind had never been more active. She thought of how much had to be done before the arrival of Sir Selwyn Hardcastle. Fifty households would have to be notified of the cancellation of the ball and it would have been pointless to deliver letters last night when most of the recipients would undoubtedly have been in bed; perhaps she should have stayed up even later and at least made a start on the task. But there was a more immediate responsibility which she knew must be the earliest to be faced. Georgiana had gone early to bed and would know nothing of the night’s tragedy. Since his attempted seduction of her eleven years earlier, Wickham had never been received at Pemberley or his name mentioned. The whole incident was treated as if it had never taken place. She knew that Denny’s death would increase the pain of the present while rekindling the unhappiness of the past. Did Georgiana retain any affection for Wickham? How, especially now with two suitors in the house, would she cope with seeing him again and in such circumstances of suspicion and horror? Elizabeth and Darcy planned to see all members of the household together as soon as the servants’ breakfast was over to break the news of the tragedy, but it would be impossible to keep the arrival of Lydia and Wickham secret from the maids who, from five o’clock onwards, would be busy cleaning and tidying the rooms and lighting fires. She knew that Georgiana woke early and that her maid would draw back the curtains and bring in her morning tea promptly at seven. It was she, Elizabeth, who must speak to Georgiana before someone else inadvertently blurted out the news.

She looked at the small gilt clock on her bedside table and saw that the time was fifteen minutes past six. Now, when it was important not to fall asleep, she felt that sleep could at last come, but she needed to be fully awake before seven and, ten minutes before the hour, she lit her candle and made her way quietly along the passageway to Georgiana’s room. Elizabeth had always woken early to the familiar sounds of the house coming alive, greeting each day with the sanguine expectation of happiness, the hours filled with the duties and pleasures of a community at peace with itself. Now she could hear soft distant noises like the scratching of mice, which meant that the housemaids were already busy. She was unlikely to encounter them on this floor, but if she did, they would smile and flatten themselves against the wall as she passed.

She knocked quietly on Georgiana’s door and, entering, found that she was already in her dressing gown, standing at the window and looking out into the dark emptiness. Almost immediately her maid arrived; Elizabeth took the tray from her and placed it on the bedroom table. Georgiana seemed to sense that something was wrong. As soon as the maid had left she came quickly across to Elizabeth and said with concern, “You look tired, my dear Elizabeth. Are you unwell?”

“Not unwell but worried. Let us sit down together, Georgiana, there is something I have to tell you.”

“Not Mr Alveston?”

“No, not Mr Alveston.”

And then Elizabeth gave a brief account of what had happened the previous night. She described how, when Captain Denny was found, Wickham was kneeling by the body, deeply distressed, but she did not report what Darcy had told her had been his words. Georgiana sat quietly while she spoke, her hands in her lap. Looking at her, Elizabeth saw that two tears were glistening in her eyes and rolled unchecked down her cheeks. She put out her hand and grasped Georgiana’s.

After a moment’s pause, Georgiana dried her eyes and said calmly, “It must seem strange to you, my dear Elizabeth, that I should be weeping for a young man I have never even met, but I cannot help remembering how happy we were together in the music room and even as I was playing and singing with Mr Alveston Captain Denny was being brutally done to death less than two miles from us. How will his parents bear this terrible news? What loss, what grief for his friends.” Then, perhaps seeing surprise on Elizabeth’s face, she said, “My dear sister, did you think I was weeping for Mr Wickham? But he is alive and Lydia and he will soon be reunited. I am happy for them both. I don’t wonder that Mr Wickham was so distraught at his friend’s death and being unable to save him but, dearest Elizabeth, please don’t think that I am distressed that he has come back into our lives. The time when I thought I was in love with him has long passed and I know now that it was only the memory of his kindness to me as a child and gratitude for his affection, and perhaps loneliness, but it was never love. And I know too that I would never have gone away with him. Even at the time it seemed more like a childish adventure than reality.”

“Georgiana, he did intend to marry you. He has never denied it.”

“Oh yes, he was perfectly serious about that.” She blushed and added, “But he promised that we would live only as brother and sister until the marriage took place.”

“And you believed him?”

There was a note of sadness in Georgiana’s voice. “Oh yes, I believed him. You see, he was never in love, it was the money he wanted, it was always the money. I have no bitterness except for the pain and trouble he caused my brother, but I would prefer not to see him.”

Elizabeth said, “It will be much the best, and there is no need.” She did not add that unless George Wickham were extremely fortunate he would very likely be leaving Pemberley later that morning under police escort.

They drank the tea together almost in silence. Then as Elizabeth rose to leave, Georgiana said, “Fitzwilliam will never mention Mr Wickham or what happened all those years ago. It would be easier if he would. Surely it is important that people who love each other should be able to speak openly and truly about matters which touch them.”

Elizabeth said, “I think that it is, but sometimes it can be difficult. It depends on finding the right moment.”

“We shall never find the right moment. The only bitterness I feel is shame that I disappointed a dearly loved brother, and the certainty that he will never again trust my judgement. But Elizabeth, Mr Wickham is not an evil man.”

Elizabeth said, “Only perhaps a dangerous and a very foolish one.”

“I have spoken about what happened to Mr Alveston and he believes that Mr Wickham could have been in love, although he was always motivated by his need for money. I can talk freely to Mr Alveston so why not to my brother?”

Elizabeth said, “So the secret is known to Mr Alveston.”

“Of course, we are dear friends. But Mr Alveston will understand, as do I, that we cannot be more while this terrible mystery hangs over Pemberley. He has not declared his wishes and there is no secret engagement. I would never keep such a secret from you, dear Elizabeth, or from my brother, but we both know what is in our hearts and we shall be content to wait.”

So there was yet another secret in the family. Elizabeth thought she knew why Henry Alveston would not yet propose to Georgiana or to make his intentions clear. It would seem as if he were taking advantage of any help he might be able to give Darcy, and both Alveston and Georgiana were sensitive enough to know that the great happiness of successful love cannot be celebrated under the shadow of the gallows. She could only kiss Georgiana and murmur how much she liked Mr Alveston and express her good wishes for them both.

Elizabeth felt it was time now to get dressed and start the day. She was oppressed by the thought of how much had to be done before the arrival of Sir Selwyn Hardcastle at nine o’clock. The most important was to send the letters to the invited guests explaining, but not in detail, why the ball had to be cancelled. Georgiana said that she had ordered breakfast in her room but would join the rest of the party in the breakfast room for coffee and would very much like to help. Breakfast for Lydia had been served in her room with Jane to keep her company, and once both ladies were dressed and the room put to rights, Bingley, anxious as always to be with his wife, would join them.

As soon as Elizabeth had dressed and Belton had left her to see if any help was needed by Jane, Elizabeth sought Darcy and together they went to the nursery. Usually this daily visit took place after breakfast, but both were gripped by an almost superstitious fear that the evil which overshadowed Pemberley might even infect the nursery, and they needed to reassure themselves that all was well. But nothing had changed in that secure, self-contained little world. The boys were delighted to see their parents so unexpectedly early and, after their hugs, Mrs Donovan drew Elizabeth to one side and said quietly, “Mrs Reynolds was good enough to see me at first light to give me the news of Captain Denny’s death. It is a great shock to us all but be assured that it will be kept from Master Fitzwilliam until Mr Darcy feels it right to talk to him and tell him as much as a child needs to know. Have no fear, madam; there will be no housemaids carrying gossip into the nursery.”

As they left, Darcy expressed his relief and gratitude that Elizabeth had broken the news to Georgiana and that his sister had received it with no more distress than was natural, but Elizabeth sensed that his old doubts and worries had resurfaced, and that he would have been happier if Georgiana could have been spared any news which would recall her to the past.

A little before eight Elizabeth and Darcy entered the breakfast room to find that the only guest at the largely untasted meal was Henry Alveston, and although a great deal of coffee was drunk, little of the usual breakfast of eggs, home cured bacon, sausages and kidneys left on the sideboard beneath their silver domes was touched.

It was an awkward meal and the air of constraint, so unusual when they were all together, was not helped by the arrival of the colonel and, minutes later, of Georgiana. She took her seat between Alveston and the colonel, and as Alveston was helping her to coffee, said, “Perhaps after breakfast, Elizabeth, we could get started on the letters. If you would decide on the wording I can begin the copies. All the guests can have the same letter and surely it need only be brief.”

There was a silence which all felt to be uncomfortable, and then the colonel spoke to Darcy. “Surely Miss Darcy should leave Pemberley, and soon. It is inappropriate that she should have any part in this affair, or in any way be submitted to Sir Selwyn’s or the constables’ presumptive questioning.”

Georgiana was very pale but her voice was firm. “I would like to help.” She turned to Elizabeth. “You will be needed later in the morning in so many ways but if you will give me the wording I can write for you and you would only need to sign the letters.”

Alveston broke in. “An excellent plan. Only the briefest note will be necessary.” He turned to Darcy. “Permit me to be of service, sir. If I could have a fast horse and a spare I could help deliver the letters. As a stranger to most of the guests I should better be able to avoid explanations which would delay a member of the family. If Miss Darcy and I could together consider a local map, we could work out the quickest and most rational route. Some houses with close neighbours who have also been invited might take responsibility for spreading the news.”

Elizabeth reflected that a number of them would undoubtedly take pleasure in the task. If anything could compensate for the loss of the ball it would be the drama that was unfolding at Pemberley. Some of their friends would certainly grieve at the anxiety everyone at Pemberley must be feeling and would hasten to write letters of condolence and assurances of support, and she told herself firmly that many of these would arise from a genuine affection and concern. She must not allow cynicism to disparage the impulses of compassion and love.

But Darcy was speaking, his voice cold. “My sister will have no part in this. She is not concerned in any of it and it is totally inappropriate that she should be.”

Georgiana’s voice was gentle but equally firm. “But Fitzwilliam, I am concerned. All of us are.”

Before he could reply, the colonel broke in. He said, “It is important, Miss Georgiana, that you should not remain at Pemberley until this matter has been fully investigated. I shall be writing by express to Lady Catherine this evening and I have no doubt she will speedily invite you to Rosings. I know that you do not particularly like the house and that the invitation will to some extent be unwelcome, but it is your brother’s wish that you go where you will be safe and where neither Mr nor Mrs Darcy need have any anxiety about your safety and welfare. I am sure that with your good sense you will see the wisdom – indeed the propriety – of what is proposed.”

Ignoring him, Georgiana turned to Darcy. “You need have no anxiety. Please do not ask me to leave. I only wish to be of use to Elizabeth and I hope I can be. I cannot see that there is any impropriety in that.”

It was then that Alveston intervened. “Forgive me, sir, but I feel I must speak. You discuss what Miss Darcy should do as if she were a child. We have entered the nineteenth century; we do not need to be a disciple of Mrs Wollstonecraft to feel that women should not be denied a voice in matters that concern them. It is some centuries since we accepted that a woman has a soul. Is it not time that we accepted that she also has a mind?”

The colonel took a moment to control himself. He said, “I suggest, sir, that you save your diatribe for the Old Bailey.”

Darcy turned to Georgiana. “I was thinking only of your welfare and happiness. Of course, if you wish, you must stay; Elizabeth will, I know, be glad of your help.”

Elizabeth had been sitting quietly wondering whether she could speak without making matters worse. Now she said, “Very glad indeed. I must be available for Sir Selwyn Hardcastle when he arrives and I do not see how the necessary letters can be delivered in time unless I have help. So shall we make a start?”

Thrusting back his chair with some force, the colonel made a stiff bow to Elizabeth and Georgiana, then left the room.

Alveston stood up and spoke to Darcy. “I must apologise, sir, for intervening in a family matter which is not my concern. I spoke inadvisably and with more force than was either courteous or wise.”

Darcy said, “The apology is due to the colonel rather than to me. Your comments may have been inappropriate and presumptuous but that does not mean that they were not true.” He turned to Elizabeth. “If you could settle the question of the letters now, my love, I think it is time for us to speak to the staff, both the indoor servants and those who may be working in the house. Mrs Reynolds and Stoughton will have told them only that there has been an accident and the ball has been cancelled, and there will be considerable alarm and anxiety. I will ring for Mrs Reynolds now and say that we will come down to speak to them in the servants’ hall as soon as you have drafted the letter for Georgiana to copy.”

5

Thirty minutes later Darcy and Elizabeth entered the servants’ hall to the sound of sixteen chairs being scraped back and a muttered “Good morning sir” in reply to Darcy’s greeting, spoken in a concerted murmur so low that it could hardly be heard. Elizabeth was struck by the expanse of newly starched and very white afternoon aprons and goffered caps before remembering that, under Mrs Reynolds’s directions, all the staff were impeccably dressed on the morning of Lady Anne’s ball. The air smelled of baking and a pervading savoury aroma; in the absence of orders to the contrary, some of the tarts and savouries must already be in the ovens. Passing an open door leading to the conservatory, Elizabeth had been almost overwhelmed by the sickly scent of the cut flowers; unwanted now, how many, she wondered, would be alive by Monday. She found herself thinking of what could best be done with the many birds plucked for roasting, the huge meat joints, the fruits from the greenhouses, the white soup and the syllabubs. Most would not yet be prepared but with no counter-instructions there would inevitably be a surplus which somehow must not be allowed to go to waste. It seemed an unreasonable anxiety at such a time, but it crowded in with a multitude of other concerns. Why did Colonel Fitzwilliam not mention his ride into the night and where he had been? He could hardly have taken merely a windblown ride by the river. And if Wickham were arrested and taken away, a possibility which no one had mentioned but each must know was almost certain, what would happen to Lydia? She was unlikely to want to stay at Pemberley, but it was necessary that she should be offered hospitality somewhere close to her husband. Perhaps the best plan and certainly the most convenient would be for her to be taken by Jane and Bingley to Highmarten, but would that be fair to Jane?

With these preoccupations crowding her mind, she was barely aware of her husband’s words which were heard in absolute silence, and only the last few sentences fully penetrated her mind. Sir Selwyn Hardcastle had been summoned during the night and Mr Denny’s body moved to Lambton. Sir Selwyn would be returning at nine o’clock that morning and would need to interview everyone who was at Pemberley last night. He and Mrs Darcy would be present when this happened. No one among the staff was in any way suspected but it was important that they answer Sir Selwyn’s questions honestly. In the meantime they should continue with their duties without discussing the tragedy or gossiping together. The woods would be out of bounds for everyone except for Mr and Mrs Bidwell and their family.

The statement was met by a silence which Elizabeth felt she was expected to break. As she rose she was aware of sixteen pairs of eyes fixed on her, of worried and troubled people waiting to be told that all in the end would be well, that they personally had nothing to fear and that Pemberley would remain as it had always been, their security and their home. She said, “Obviously the ball cannot now take place and letters are being sent to the invited guests, briefly explaining what has happened. Great tragedy has come to Pemberley but I know that you will carry on with your duties, remain calm and co-operate with Sir Selwyn Hardcastle and his investigation, as we must all do. If you have anything which particularly worries you, or any information to give, you should speak first to Mr Stoughton or Mrs Reynolds. I should like to thank you all for the many hours which, as ever, you have spent in preparing for Lady Anne’s ball. It is the great regret of Mr Darcy and myself that, for so tragic a reason, it should be in vain. We rely, as always in good times and bad, on that mutual loyalty and devotion which is at the heart of our life at Pemberley. Have no fear for your safety and for the future, Pemberley has weathered many storms in its long history, and this too will pass.”

Her words were followed by brief applause, quickly suppressed by Stoughton, and he and Mrs Reynolds then said a few words expressing sympathy and co-operation with Mr Darcy’s instructions before their audience was ordered to continue with the duties of the day; they would be called to reassemble when Sir Selwyn Hardcastle arrived. As Darcy and Elizabeth entered their part of the house, he said, “I may have said much too little and you, my love, a little too much, but together, as usual, I think we got it right. And now we must brace ourselves for the majesty of the law in the person of Sir Selwyn Hardcastle.”

6

The visit of Sir Selwyn proved to be both less stressful and shorter than the Darcys had feared. The High Constable, Sir Miles Culpepper, had written to his butler the previous Thursday to say that he would be returning to Derbyshire in time for dinner on Monday and the butler had thought it prudent to pass on this information to Sir Selwyn. No explanation of this change of plan was vouchsafed but Sir Selwyn had little difficulty in divining the truth. The visit of Sir Miles and Lady Culpepper to London with its splendid shops and enticing variety of entertainments had exacerbated a disagreement common to marriages wherein an older husband believes that money should be used to make more of it, and a young and pretty wife is firmly of the view that it exists to be spent; how otherwise, as she frequently pointed out, would anyone know that you had it? After receiving the first bills for his wife’s extravagant expenditure in the capital, the High Constable had discovered in himself a renewed commitment to the responsibilities of public life and had informed his wife that a return home was imperative. Although Hardcastle thought it unlikely that his express letter with the news of the murder had yet reached Sir Miles, he was well aware that as soon as the High Constable was informed of the tragedy he would demand a full report of the progress of the investigation. It was ridiculous to consider that either Colonel the Viscount Hartlep or any member of the Pemberley household could have had any part in Denny’s death, and accordingly Sir Selwyn had no intention of spending more time at Pemberley than was necessary. Headborough Brownrigg had already checked, on his arrival, that no horse or carriage had left the Pemberley stables after Colonel Fitzwilliam departed for his ride. The suspect he was anxious to interrogate and urgently was Wickham, and he had arrived with the prison van and two officers with the intention of removing him to more appropriate accommodation in Lambton prison where he would obtain all the information necessary to produce for the High Constable a full and impressive account of his and the petty constables’ activities.

The Darcys received an unusually affable Sir Selwyn who condescended to take refreshment before questioning the family, who, with Henry Alveston and the colonel, were interviewed together in the library. Only the colonel’s account of his activities aroused any interest. He began by apologising to the Darcys for his previous silence. He had been to the King’s Arms at Lambton by agreement with a lady who required his advice and help with regard to a delicate matter concerning her brother, formerly an officer under his command. She had been visiting a relative in the town and he had suggested that a meeting at the inn would be more private than at his London office. He had not disclosed this meeting earlier because he was anxious that the lady concerned should be able to leave Lambton before her stay at the inn became general knowledge and she was liable to become an object of curiosity to the locals. He could provide her name and London address if verification were required; he was confident, however, that the evidence of the innkeeper and customers who were drinking at the inn at the time of his arrival and departure would confirm his alibi.

Hardcastle said with a degree of self-satisfaction, “That will hardly be necessary, Lord Hartlep. It was convenient for me to call at the King’s Arms on the way here this morning to check whether there had been any strangers staying there on Friday, and I was told about the lady. Your friend made quite an impression at the inn; a very pretty coach, so they told me, and her own maid and a manservant. I imagine that she spent lavishly and the innkeeper was sorry to see her go.”

It was then time for Hardcastle to interview the staff, assembled as before in the servants’ hall, the only one absent being Mrs Donovan who had no intention of leaving the nursery unprotected. Since guilt is more commonly felt by the innocent than by the culpable, the atmosphere was less of expectation than of anxiety. Hardcastle had resolved to make his discourse as reassuring and as brief as possible, an intention which was partly vitiated by his customary stern warnings of the terrible consequences for people who refused to co-operate with the police or who withheld information. In a gentler voice he continued, “I have no doubt that all of you on the night before Lady Anne’s ball had better things to do than make your way through the stormy night with the purpose of murdering a complete stranger in the wild woodland. I will now ask any of you who have information to give, or if you left Pemberley at any time last night between the hours of seven o’clock and seven o’clock this morning, to hold up your hands.”

Only one hand was held up. Mrs Reynolds whispered, “Betsy Collard, sir, one of the housemaids.”

Hardcastle demanded that she stand up, which Betsy immediately did, and without apparent reluctance. She was a stout, confident girl and spoke clearly, “I was with Joan Miller, sir, in the woodland last Wednesday and we saw the ghost of old Mrs Reilly plain as I see you. She were there hiding among the trees, wearing a black cloak and hood but her face were right plain in the moonlight. Joan and I were afraid and ran out of the wood quick as we could, and she never came after us. But we did see her, sir, and what I speak is God’s truth.”

Joan Miller was commanded to stand up and, obviously terrified, muttered her timid agreement with Betsy’s account. Hardcastle clearly felt that he was encroaching on feminine and uncertain ground. He looked to Mrs Reynolds, who took over. “You know very well, Betsy and Joan, that you are not permitted to leave Pemberley unescorted after dark, and it is unchristian and stupid to believe that the dead walk the earth. I am ashamed that you allowed such ridiculous imaginings to enter your minds. I will see both of you in my sitting room as soon as Sir Selwyn Hardcastle has finished his questions.”

It was apparent to Sir Selwyn that this was a more intimidating prospect than he could produce. Both girls muttered, “Yes, Mrs Reynolds,” and promptly sat down.

Hardcastle, impressed by the immediate effect of the housekeeper’s words, decided that it would be appropriate for him to establish his status by a final admonition. He said, “I am surprised that any girl who has the privilege of working at Pemberley can give way to such ignorant superstition. Have you not learned your catechism?” A murmured “Yes sir” was the only response.

Hardcastle returned to the main part of the house and joined Darcy and Elizabeth, apparently relieved that all that remained was the easier task of removing Wickham. The prisoner, now in gyves, was spared the humiliation of having a group watching him taken away, and only Darcy felt it his duty to be there to wish him well and to see him put into the prison van by Headborough Brownrigg and Constable Mason. Hardcastle then prepared to enter his carriage but before the coachman had cracked the reins he thrust his head out of the window and called to Darcy, “The catechism. It does contain an injunction, does it not, against entertaining idolatrous and superstitious beliefs?”

Darcy could recall being taught the catechism by his mother but only one law had remained in his mind, that he should keep his hands from picking and stealing, an injunction which had returned to memory with embarrassing frequency when, as a boy, he and George Wickham had ridden their ponies into Lambton and the ripe apples on the then Sir Selwyn’s laden boughs were drooping invitingly over the garden wall. He said gravely, “I think, Sir Selwyn, that we can take it that the catechism contains nothing contrary to the formularies and practices of the Church of England.”

“Quite so, quite so. Just as I thought. Stupid girls.”

Then Sir Selwyn, satisfied with the success of his visit, gave a command and the coach, followed by the prison van, rumbled down the wide drive, watched by Darcy until it was out of sight. It occurred to Darcy that seeing visitors come and go was becoming something of a habit, but the departure of the prison van with Wickham would lift a pall of recollected horror and distress from Pemberley and he hoped too that it would not now be necessary for him to see Sir Selwyn Hardcastle again before the inquest.