Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam first left Pemberley Saturday morning, they had a dismal ride of it to Lambton, for it drizzled the whole way.
It was a brief and lighter rain than the previous storms, but it was still an annoyance.
Darcy met with tenants in the public house to arrange buying corn to feed their livestock whilst Fitzwilliam oversaw the committee to get rid of all the refuse and broken wood.
They had found a meadow for the fire, and once the wood was dried out, the fire would rage through the night.
Thank goodness Fitzwilliam is here; his efforts are self-sufficient, and reliable, and he does not complain about his boots being covered in mud.
“What were the final casualties?” Fitzwilliam asked as their horses walked back to Pemberley that afternoon.
“One hundred sheep, six cattle, and one horse were drowned,” Darcy recited.
He sighed. “Now that most of the water has receded, it was discovered that in total three men, three women—four, if one counts Carew—and two children connected to Pemberley were drowned. Plus the bodies from Lambton’s graveyard that must be reinterred. ”
The River Derwent bent very near to Lambton’s churchyard, and the second storm, with the heavy volume of water already in the ground, had forced out of the earth and broke open several coffins. They too had been taken to the makeshift deadhouse until they could be identified and buried again.
“’Tis a gruesome task to have their families suffer at seeing their bodies, and to have to bury them again,” Fitzwilliam said grimly. “If they are even recent enough to have any family now living to do it.”
“Each hour reveals some new and horrible story of outrage as a result of these storms and the whole wet season.”
He had already told Fitzwilliam about Carew, the missing candlestick, and his fear that his sister’s maid had not drowned after all.
“I have been thinking about the looting,” his cousin said, “and that your father’s room is known to be not often used. It must have been someone who was familiar with the house.”
“You agree that the person who was searching for plunder in Lambton is likely the same who stole the taperstick off my father’s desk?”
“And if so, then that same person might have hit Carew over the head and stole her ring.”
Darcy knew it was likely, but the pain of that realisation was difficult to face.
“I cannot believe that one of my servants stole from me, let alone murdered Carew, one of their own. I know theft happens,” he cried when Fitzwilliam threw him a look.
“Before you call me easily deceived, there is nothing else missing, no servant has pointed a finger, and Mrs Reynolds has neither heard nor seen anything suspicious. You know how quickly rumours spread through a house.”
Fitzwilliam was silent for a moment. “If you are so certain it is not a servant—”
“I am,” he answered firmly. “I am not na?ve, but not one of my servants is suspicious of another; no one appears to suddenly have more money. Nothing else is missing.” Fitzwilliam gave him an expectant look. “What?”
“There was no looting last night, and it might have been the same person . . .”
Darcy blew out a breath. “Then perhaps I am wrong, and the looting and Carew’s death are not related.”
“Darcy!” Fitzwilliam shook his head, giving him an exasperated look as they rode towards the house. “Do all people tend to believe the world is what they thought it was, even clever men like you? Even when evidence to the contrary is presented to them?”
“What are you implying? I want to find out what happened. I hardly care about who stole from me, but if Molly Carew was murdered, then I want her murderer punished.”
“Then think!” Fitzwilliam spat. “If it is not a servant, not a villager, and there was no looting last night, and it was someone who knew the house, knew the room was not often used, and was someone who Carew would not have fled from, then you know who to suspect.”
The truth was a twisting knife in his heart. “Balfour or Utterson.”
Rather than boast at having seen the matter so clearly himself, or mock him for not admitting it aloud sooner, Fitzwilliam said gently, “A man believes what he must to sleep at night.”
“I no longer care about my peace of mind.” Darcy saw that they were now coming near to the place where Carew’s body was discovered. “She borrowed Miss Bennet’s pelisse, and her hat had a flower in it that belonged to Georgiana, but I think that is unrelated to her death.”
Fitzwilliam agreed. “Whoever killed her was near enough to know that it was Carew.”
“I have known Balfour for six years, Utterson for three, although not as well . . . how do I determine if either one killed her?”
“You cannot be objective.”
“Then help me,” he said, just short of pleading.
Fitzwilliam stopped his horse and turned to look at him. “Where were they on Thursday?”
“Both men were away from Pemberley on the morning Carew died. I did not see any of my guests from Wednesday night until I came back to the house Thursday afternoon and saw Miss Bennet and then Georgiana after finding the body. Miss Bennet, Mrs Lanyon, and Mrs Annesley were with Georgiana that morning. Utterson said he was in Tissington shooting at Lord Poole’s, and Balfour was at Buxton playing cards. ”
“That is not easy for you to verify, since their friends might lie for them, or an employee is bribed.”
“You know both of them; you are above bowing acquaintances at the least. They are well-connected young men, and your circles have crossed many times. What do you think of each of them?”
“Balfour is a lazy, harmless sort of man. Nothing to like or dislike about him. The sort of man you would shoot with in the morning and play cards with in the evening without growing tired of him.”
Darcy agreed. “He is of good family; respectable connexions. He did spend his early years gaming, horse racing.”
“And spending.”
“Yes, high spending, but he was not wild or reckless, then or now.”
“Hester—” Fitzwilliam coughed. “Mrs Lanyon says Balfour enjoys dice and cards, but no more so than any other young, single man waiting to inherit.”
“Utterson is no different in his habits,” Darcy said, overlooking his cousin’s error, “though he shall have to make his own way in the world. His father tries to control his behaviour by controlling his purse.”
“I do not know Utterson as well. He appears gentlemanlike, but he is not as easy and affable as Balfour. He does not want abilities, though.”
“He can be a pleasant companion when he thinks it worth his while,” Darcy agreed.
“Rather like someone I know,” Fitzwilliam muttered with a wink as he cued his horse and they resumed riding.
“Utterson is the younger son of a baronet, a few years younger than Balfour and me. His father is paying his fees and expenses to enter the law, but has reduced his allowance to keep him from spending too much and not studying enough. Utterson complains of his wants and distresses, if not in direct terms, then at least by strong innuendo,” Darcy said slowly.
“He might have a greater want of money than I realised. And he prefers London life, and all of the expenses that go along with that. He has to live on whatever his father allows him until he completes his studies.”
“But Balfour also complains about living on a father’s meagre allowance.”
“He will inherit. Utterson will not, and he is jealous.”
“Utterson is the poorer man, certainly, but does he spend as much as Balfour? I doubt it.”
“Would either of them have sunk to such depths, to steal from me and from those poorer than them, to maintain a London style of living?”
Fitzwilliam shook his head. “It would be a selfish desperation I can hardly comprehend, especially if one of them killed for it.”
The idea of either of them killing Carew burned him. “I would have helped either of them,” Darcy cried angrily. “If either man had a real distress of funds, or wanted advice on how to better manage their expenses, I would have helped him!”
His cousin gave a sad laugh. “You are labouring under the idea that whoever killed Carew shares your sense of gentlemanly honour. If a man feels entitled to an expensive manner of living and is willing to steal, he would never turn to someone for advice and admit he did not have the funds. If Balfour or Utterson did this, and did it in order to appear as though they have more money than they truly do, then he is not the man you thought he was.”
Darcy was about to say something about such a betrayal of friendship, but then he thought of Molly Carew. He had to close his eyes to put aside the memory of her father’s weeping. Her murder outweighed any sense of betrayal or disappointment he felt.
“Fitzwilliam, what shall I do? I have no support from the magistrate. Can I accost them directly? Search their belongings for stolen goods?”
His cousin thought for a long while before answering. They were nearly at the stable when he said, “If you stole things to gain funds to spend and gamble, would you not sell them quickly? You should look, but I doubt the items remain at Pemberley.”
“They have been very much on their own since they arrived, and more so this week since I have been occupied with recovering from the storm, but where could they have quickly and easily sold them?”
Fitzwilliam thought for a moment. “There are pawnbrokers in every town. Bakewell, Buxton, Matlock, all across the Peak are towns large enough to boast a pawnshop. And for someone desperate enough to kill to have more money to throw around in full view of his friends, the idea of turning in a piece of silver for ready cash is tempting.”
“Pawnbrokers will not accept stolen goods, and one must give a name to leave a pledge.”
“Not every pawnbroker is reputable,” he said, scoffing, “and whoever is behind this will not admit to where his items came from or even use his own name.”