Chapter 20 #2
Balfour pointed a finger. “I am walking out that door, and we will never talk about this again.”
Darcy pulled the pistol from his pocket and levelled it at Balfour. “No. I am sending for Mr Birch.”
His eyes turned to saucers at the sight of the pistol. “How could you present evidence against me?”
“Because you murdered a woman.”
Balfour shifted his weight and looked at the pistol. “If I could explain, would you look the other way?”
He could not threaten him, or promise him any favour if Balfour confessed; it would only harm the case in court. Darcy wanted desperately to know why Carew died, but not at the expense of her justice. “Say nothing.”
“No, no, you must hear. You think it was done on purpose.” He exhaled loudly. “Yes, I can see how that would affect your judgment if you thought I had planned to kill her.”
Balfour fidgeted nervously before bringing his hands back to the table behind him as he leant against it.
“I took the taperstick from your father’s desk on Saturday after Miss Darcy and Miss Bennet left me there.
They said the room was not used, so I took one candlestick and intended to go back for the other if no one noticed it missing.
” Darcy heard Balfour tapping his fingers against the table behind him.
“Everyone was at liberty that morning, you were gone from the house, the weather was poor, and I decided to sell it, along with my own gold watch.
“I was riding the path towards Lambton to go on to Matlock, riding along the stream, and she was coming from the village.
I had the sack with the candlestick, my old watch, and a few small items I took from Lambton, if you must know.
I could hear the stick clanging against the watch, so I dismounted to put the watch back into my pocket and wrap the other items in a handkerchief, and there was the candlestick sticking up out of the sack plain as day as she came near.
“‘Is that from the house?’ cries she as she runs closer. I said it was not, that she had best not concern herself. ‘No, ’tis of a pair, from old Mr Darcy’s desk.
Reynolds said it was taken.’ I told her again she was mistaken, and she said in this stern little voice, ‘I shall check for myself, and then tell the master.’”
Balfour now looked as though he had explained it all satisfactorily. The pistol felt heavy in Darcy’s hand, and it took him a moment to find his voice. “You insist on my knowing, so you may as well finish.”
Balfour’s shoulders fell. “She was going to tell you!” He blew out a breath and said more calmly, “I realise now I ought to have let her. You would have understood, and I would have returned the items. But she just primly walked away, and I dinna want the truth to come out.” Balfour held out his hand, looked at it, and closed his palm.
“She was walking away, I grabbed the candlestick, came up behind her and—” Balfour swung his closed fist across his body at about shoulder height.
“She fell right over, and rolled down the bank, and then I tossed the candlestick away.”
“Why not take it?” he asked softly. “After you hit her, why did you throw it into the grass?”
“It had blood on it, and there was no way to then clean it without blood getting on me. I decided it too riskful to fence it that day. And I could not be seen with the candlestick before she was found. I planned to go back for it,” he said plainly.
“I could not recover it from the stream, but if I tossed the candlestick into the tall grass, I could still sell it later after the maid was found, and after I cleaned it.”
Darcy acutely felt the effects of this shocking narrative.
He felt physically sick, his heart was racing, and he was thoroughly exhausted.
“And instead of running for help when you realised what you had done, after assuring yourself you had murdered her, you plundered her jewellery.” He waited for Balfour to speak, but he only shrugged.
Darcy’s disgust twisted his stomach. “How convenient for you to find something extra to pawn for your trouble.”
“Yes, I took the ring because it was there, but her death was an accident! I did not plan to kill her.”
Balfour seemed to think that a miscellaneous killing or manslaughter was more forgivable than wilful murder. That Darcy would now put down the pistol and invite him to his private study for a friendly drink.
“You will be tried at the assizes in Derby. Utterson and I will ensure you have—”
“No! I might be transported, or imprisoned, or executed,” Balfour pleaded.
This was the man who kindly included his shy sister, who sought to put everyone at ease, who insisted on everyone participating in an evening’s entertainment.
His friend of six years, who had been with him after his father died, who teased him until he smiled.
Darcy felt near to breaking down. “And I will be there to see it happen.”
“Damn you, Darcy.” Balfour turned from him, facing the table with his head bent.
He had to send for the magistrate. He edged around Balfour, to back towards the door to call for someone whilst still keeping the pistol aimed on him.
Darcy had taken three steps when Balfour turned suddenly—holding the sack with the crowbar—and swung it.
It struck the barrel, and the pistol was dashed from his hand.
Darcy cried out in surprise and was knocked off his balance.
Rather than run for the door, Balfour dropped the sack with the crowbar and surged past him to gain the pistol.
Darcy grabbed him by the shoulder, but Balfour threw back his elbow with a sharp blow that split open his lip.
The impact sent him staggering, but not before he gained a grip on Balfour’s sleeve to slow his progress towards the pistol.
Darcy drew back and struck him in the eye with a closed fist. This sent Balfour to the floor, and they scrambled for the pistol, but Balfour, already being on the floor, reached it first.
The sound of Balfour fully cocking the hammer was loud over their laboured breathing. Balfour jumped to his feet, pointing it at him. Darcy rose more slowly, wiping the blood from his lip.
“What shall you do now?” he asked, spitting out the blood in his mouth. “The first death might have been manslaughter, but shooting me will be murder.”
He heard quick footsteps approach the door, and when it flung open Elizabeth charged into the gunroom. Balfour started and swung the pistol straight at her. She gave a gasp of astonishment and stepped backward in alarm until she tripped against the door’s edge, shutting it behind her.
Darcy cursed quietly. A cold sweat broke out across him. Every muscle in his body felt tense, and he had to decide if he could convince Balfour to let Elizabeth go, or if he must rush forward to stand between them.
“Balfour,” he said quietly, and, thankfully, as Balfour’s attention turned back to him, he aimed the pistol at him as well, “we had best tell Miss Bennet there is nothing to be concerned about, and let her get to bed.”
“I dinna think she should leave. She will raise an alarm!”
“No, no of course she won’t,” he said as gently as he could.
“She heard a noise and came to check, but there is nothing the matter. Miss Bennet will say good night and leave us to finish our conversation, won’t you?
” he added, looking directly at her and imploring her with his eyes to run from here as fast as she could.
Elizabeth shook her head slightly, but she brought her hands behind her back to reach for the door. He heard what must have been the latch click and felt a surge of relief. But Balfour aimed the pistol at Elizabeth again, his fingers shaking. She started and dropped her hands at her sides.
“She is only opening the door!” Darcy cried. “She can leave. Miss Bennet knows nothing about any of this.”
Balfour’s left eye was rapidly swelling shut, and he seemed on the verge of angry tears. “She may not, but you cannot say she will be quiet about what she has seen here.”
“Listen to me!” he cried, and the pistol moved back to him. “You can leave. I shall say nothing about this or the other matter. Let Miss Bennet go, and she will go straight to bed. Then you can take a horse and leave. The stable yard is right there.”
Balfour might shoot him before he fled, but it would keep Elizabeth safe.
Balfour would only have time to fire one shot before the whole house came running.
And I cannot allow that single shot to be fired at Elizabeth.
Besides, the ring might still be found, and Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam knew the truth.
If Balfour murdered him, Carew would still have her justice.
“If I leave, you won’t stay silent about that maid, will you?” Balfour asked, his voice raising. “You would see me hang! Me, your friend!”
Elizabeth appeared to be wringing her hands or nervously adjusting her sleeves. He hoped she had the presence of mind to run as soon as she had the opportunity. Balfour was growing frantic. The more certain he was that he was not going to escape justice, the more desperate he would likely become.
And the more likely it will be that someone gets shot.
“What matters to me now is that Miss Bennet remains unharmed,” he said softly, not looking at her in case Balfour followed his attention with the pistol.
“She will say that I shot you. I shall have to kill both of you and flee!”
“You have one shot. Shoot me if you must, but Miss Bennet is leaving now,” he said, taking a step closer.
He heard Elizabeth give a little whimper, and Balfour’s pistol moved towards the sound.
“Balfour! Look at me!” he cried, hating the desperation that surged into his voice. The pistol jerked back to him, and that was what mattered. “She is walking away, and then you may leave as well. Elizabeth,” he said without looking from Balfour, “go upstairs.”
“But you will still go to the magistrate if I leave the parish.” Balfour gestured angrily at him with the pistol, but with only eight feet between them, he was certain to hit him.
“You will get a warrant from the King’s Bench, and put a notice in the Hue and Cry to make them pursue me across Great Britain! ”
“No, I won’t.”
“Damn your soul, Darcy,” Balfour said, with a sad smile and levelling the gun, “you truly cannot lie to save your life.”
The sudden crack of gunfire filled the small room, and he heard the dull thud of an impact against the wall.
Balfour flinched, and he lowered his pistol arm.
Darcy rushed forward and grabbed the barrel with his left hand, forcing it down, whilst drawing back with his right to punch Balfour a second time.
When he fell, Darcy pried the pistol from his hand; it was still loaded and fully cocked.
Balfour stayed on the ground, his face filled with abject despair, and only then did Darcy look at Elizabeth.
Somehow, she had got a hold of the pistol he had left behind, and distracted Balfour by firing it.
She took a few steps into the room, alternating her shocked gaze between Balfour and the hole on the opposite wall above their heads.
The horrified look on her face made it hard for him to determine if she was about to faint or scream.
“Are you well?” he asked, keeping the pistol aimed at Balfour.
Elizabeth dropped her pistol onto the table and nodded.
“Would you go into the hall and call for—”
Before he could finish, Mrs Reynolds ran into the room wearing her dressing gown, followed by a footman out of his livery.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, who looked like he had just arrived, hurried in behind them.
He watched his cousin’s eyes take in the scene—Darcy’s bloodied lip, the pistol in his hand, and Balfour on the floor—and began to shout orders.
In the noise and activity that followed, the arrival of the constable and the magistrate, the raised voices, the confusion of many questions, the tying of Balfour to a chair, Elizabeth took his hand for a moment before slipping from the room.
It was a simple gesture, but it made all the difference to him.