Chapter 6
Six
Mr Darcy shuddered as the chill crept into his chest, though whether from the cold or the grim news, he could not tell. The morning had brought with it an air of disquiet to Netherfield, as the household was thrown into turmoil by the discovery of Thomas Granger’s lifeless body.
The housekeeper, alarmed by his absence at the morning count and the stables, had gone to rouse him, only to find him still in his bed, unmoving and cold. Her cries had shattered the morning calm, rousing the house with an urgency that had drawn even Mr Bingley from his habitual good humor.
It was Bingley who had urged Darcy to remain composed.
“The apothecary is on his way,” he had assured him, though his own face betrayed a pallor that spoke of his unease.
Yet, for Darcy, the reassurance did little to quell the storm in his mind.
There was a pattern emerging—one that he dared not voice but could not dismiss.
First, Edwin Harper, with whom he had quarrelled at the assembly, found dead the following morning.
Now, Thomas Granger, whom he had scolded only the previous night, lay dead in his bed.
Darcy rose from his chair and paced the length of his chamber, his thoughts swirling like a tempest. He had taken a particular interest in young Granger.
The lad’s natural aptitude with horses had been apparent from the first, and Darcy had even suggested to Bingley that the boy be promoted to junior coachman, though he had only recently been hired as a stable hand.
Yet, for all his promise, Tom had exhibited a troubling tendency towards distraction—small lapses in duty that Darcy had ascribed to youthful inexperience.
Only two days prior, Darcy had spoken to him privately, advising him to cultivate a greater sense of focus and responsibility.
“You will only go far in life if you direct your energies with purpose,” he had said, words intended as encouragement rather than censure.
But last night, when Tom had approached him about the missing horse, Darcy’s patience had worn thin.
He had assumed the boy’s carelessness to be the root of the issue and had not spared him a firm rebuke.
And now, Tom was dead.
Darcy clenched his fists, the weight of the coincidence pressing upon him like a tangible force.
If he were a superstitious man, he might have thought the fates conspiring against him.
Twice now, death had followed closely on the heels of his anger, and though reason told him there could be no connection, the whispers of doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his reverie. It was one of the footmen, bowing deeply before speaking. “The apothecary has arrived, sir. Mr Bingley thought you might wish to be informed.”
Darcy nodded curtly. “Thank you. Inform Mr Bingley that I shall join him shortly.”
As the servant departed, Darcy turned back to the window, staring out at the frost-laden fields beyond.
The apothecary’s arrival would, he hoped, bring answers—or at the very least, dispel the dark imaginings that had taken root in his mind.
But even as he steeled himself for the hours to come, a single thought lingered, stubborn and unyielding: What if there was more to these deaths than mere coincidence?
Darcy resolved to set aside his musings for the moment.
He left the room and descended the staircase with deliberate steps, his thoughts heavy with the morning’s grim tidings.
Upon entering the drawing room, he was met with a scene of subdued disquiet.
The room’s usual warmth seemed dampened, the subdued light casting a pall over the household.
Mr Bingley stood near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, his normally cheerful countenance furrowed with concern.
On the settee sat Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, their postures rigid and their expressions betraying unease rather than genuine sorrow.
Mr Hurst, reclined in his habitual manner, appeared more alert than usual, though his gaze shifted with a restlessness that suggested he would rather be elsewhere.
As Darcy reached the foot of the staircase and stepped into the drawing room, the door opened to admit Mr Jones, the apothecary.
His entrance was unhurried, his grave countenance and precise manner lending him an air of quiet authority.
His years of diligent practice were evident in his composed demeanour as he inclined his head toward Mr Bingley and Darcy.
Following closely behind was his assistant, Mr Samuel Reeds, a younger man whose steady gaze and measured movements suggested a man accustomed to careful observation.
Reeds carried a small satchel, the contents of which hinted at the tools of his trade, and his demeanour exuded a quiet competence that seemed to settle the unease in the room, if only slightly.
Mr Jones inclined his head respectfully.
“Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy,” he began, his tone subdued.
“Permit me to express my condolences. The loss of young Mr Granger is most unfortunate. I…” He faltered slightly, the hesitation breaking his composure.
Clearing his throat, he continued more firmly, “We have conducted an examination of the body. While I must confess my expertise lies chiefly in the preparation and dispensing of medicines, my assistant, Mr Reeds, has had the benefit of experience alongside traveling physicians and is better versed in such matters.”
Darcy’s sharp gaze shifted to Mr Reeds briefly, whose modest bow was accompanied by a reserved composure that seemed to inspire confidence. “What have you discovered, Mr Jones?” Darcy inquired, his voice even but laced with a quiet intensity.
Mr Jones hesitated briefly before answering.
“Upon examining the young man, we observed signs consistent with asphyxiation. His eyes were reddened, and his chest bore signs of swelling, suggesting that his lungs were unable to expel air. These are, unfortunately, characteristic of such a condition.”
A weighty silence fell over the room, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. Mr Bingley, his expression clouded, turned abruptly. “Asphyxiation? How could this have happened?”
Darcy, his brow furrowed in thought, added, “Indeed, how does a man of his age and apparent good health, alone in his quarters, come to such an end?”
Mr Reeds stepped forward, his voice measured yet carrying an undercurrent of unease. “It is not beyond the realm of possibility, sir, that his death was not natural. Should he have had an enemy—one who bore him malice—this could explain his sudden demise.”
A collective murmur rippled through the room.
Mrs. Hurst gasped audibly, clutching the arm of the settee.
“An enemy? At Netherfield?” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with alarm.
Miss Bingley’s hand rose to her throat as she whispered, “How dreadful!” Even Mr Hurst stirred, his customary indifference giving way to a muttered, “Surely not.”
Mr Bingley’s voice, though tinged with disbelief, carried an edge of resolve. “You mean to say he was murdered?”
Mr Reeds raised a hand in a calming gesture.
“I suggest only a possibility, sir. It is equally plausible that the young man suffered a sudden medical affliction—an unexpected constriction of the throat, perhaps, or the failure of his lungs. Without further examination, it is impossible to say with certainty.”
“But he appeared perfectly well last night,” Miss Bingley interjected. “I saw him as we left the event, and he seemed in fine health.”
“It is not uncommon,” Mr Reeds replied, “for individuals to seem in good health mere moments before a fatal event. I have, in my experience, encountered such cases before. It is why I cannot yet rule out any cause—be it a medical condition or something more unnatural.”
“And it could not have been self-inflicted?” Mr Hurst suggested, his tone marked by nonchalance.
Mr Jones shook his head firmly. “Asphyxiation, sir, does not occur by one’s own hand unless through hanging, in which case we would have found him suspended. To voluntarily hold one’s breath to the point of death is not within the bounds of human ability.”
“If foul play is involved,” Mrs. Hurst ventured, her voice taut, “it must be one of the servants. Who else resides in the quarters?”
Bingley, his tone firm, interjected. “Let us not leap to conclusions. What we need is the opinion of a skilled doctor. I shall write to St. Albans immediately to secure one.”
“An excellent decision,” Mr Jones agreed. “And if any evidence of foul play should emerge, the magistrate must be informed without delay.”
“I shall see to it,” Bingley replied with a nod. “Though Tom was an orphan, it would be right to contact any extended family that might be traced.”
“Very proper, sir,” Mr Reeds affirmed. “And should no evidence of foul play arise, I trust the arrangements for his burial will be carried out with all due dignity.”
“Certainly,” Bingley said softly, his usual warmth tempered by sorrow. “It is the least we can do.”
Mr Jones inclined his head. “If there is no further need of my services, I shall take my leave.”
“One moment,” Darcy interjected, his voice measured but quieter than intended, betraying a fatigue he could no longer ignore. “I find myself unwell this morning. Perhaps it is merely a chill.”
Mr Jones turned his discerning gaze upon him, noting the slight rigidity in Darcy’s posture.
Stepping closer, he reached out with a practiced hand to touch Darcy’s forehead, his fingers cool against the warmth of his skin.
He studied Darcy’s eyes intently, as though their clarity might reveal the nature of his ailment.
“The weather has indeed been most unkind, sir,” he said at last. “I believe it to be no more than a common chill, perhaps accompanied by a slight fever. A simple draught should suffice to remedy it. Mr Reeds will see to it directly.”