Longbourn
How does it go now? Let us see. Oh yes—now I remember.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a wooden spoon is by far the most useful of tools…
although, I can see that will not make much sense at this point…
so… never mind… I suppose I must go back to the beginning because I am making no sense at all.
I have what would generally be considered an affliction, or at least any sensible person would see it as such.
You see, I was born with what could best be described as preternatural hearing—but only in my right ear.
I could easily put an owl to shame. Sometimes I think I could hear a mouse squeak from a mile away, but that is probably a slight exaggeration.
The result is that any time I enter company, I must plug my ear with a small earplug I fashioned when I was young.
Sometimes though, when I retire, or I am just curious, I remove the plug and discover what I may.
That is how I discovered Mr Collins muttering to himself one night, and the discussion was very much not to my liking—not in the least.
Ordinarily, I would have ignored such muttering as idle boasting, but something about how he said it chilled me to the bone. The fool spoke of the rod as a man should speak of his lover, and I received the distinct impression he was caressing his weapon as he spoke.
I had to know more, so when he was walking the garden endlessly droning the next day, I searched his room.
Indeed, his trunk had enough tools of abuse to arm a French torture brigade and a journal that nearly made me violently ill.
I suppressed the urge, but it was a narrow escape.
The worst of it—the absolute worst—was clear evidence that he had practised some of what he preached upon helpless animals.
I will not explain in greater detail, save to caution that it is for the best.
I studied him extensively over the next few days, which was easy in some ways and hard in others.
It was trivial to hear his speech since he never shut up from before sunrise to after sundown.
While it was easy enough to hear him, most of what he said made me wish to scream at either his stupidity or his cruelty.
In company, he was altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
He mentioned his noble patroness so often I thought I might burst, and his description of his home made it seem as if he lived in Rosings, instead of half a mile away in the most ordinary parsonage in the world, performing the standard parson’s duties, probably poorly.
In the end, the problem was easy enough to resolve definitively, and I was apparently chosen to perform the disagreeable task. To paraphrase an ancient expression: If not me, who? If not now, when? With my greater knowledge of his character, I was obliged to accept greater responsibility.
I, along with everyone else, had long observed that the fool shovelled food into his mouth with a voraciousness suggesting he was unlikely to ever inherit or even survive beyond middle age. As if that were insufficient, he even took a tray at night, apparently to sustain him until breakfast.
It took no effort at all to enter his room after he was snoring like a grain mill, and you should take me at my word that a sleeping Mr Collins was not something anyone should ever be exposed to without a very strong stomach and a weak sense of smell.
I was not astonished to learn he was sleeping holding the bloodstained birch rod he called his starter kit in his journal—so my course was set.
I drew a substantial piece of sausage from my pocket (identical to the one he had as a midnight repast), thrust it down his throat, and held it there with the handle of a wooden spoon.
It took a few seconds for him to begin gagging and struggling.
I had already plugged my ear, and I may have had to sit upon him for a few minutes and cover his ugly face with a pillow.
Ere long, he ceased thrashing, discharged one last odoriferous contribution to the fetid air of the room, and the deed was done.
There was one less cruel man in the world—though they were still common as rats.
I wiped the spoon on his nightshirt and took his journal, weapons, and souvenirs to discard at my leisure.
There was an abandoned mineshaft on the property that would serve nicely.
There seemed no point in making his demise appear more than it seemed, and certainly no call to excite the local magistrate’s admittedly weak sense of curiosity enough to pose awkward questions.
Back in my bed I fell easily into the dreamless sleep of the just with one last thought:
? Lizzy is safe!