Chapter 7
Seven
Darcy rose early the next morning, long before the rest of the household had begun to stir.
Sleep had evaded him through much of the night, his mind plagued by uneasy thoughts.
The events of the previous day lingered in his memory with a relentless insistence.
Bingley, eager to address matters promptly, had dispatched a messenger to St. Albans to fetch a physician.
The doctor had arrived in due course and, after a preliminary examination, had taken Tom’s body for further investigation, promising to determine whether there had been any foul play within forty-eight hours.
To complicate matters, the magistrate, Sir Barnaby Fairchild, had also appeared at Netherfield before the body’s removal, accompanied by Mr Tobias Hatch, the parish constable.
They had come at Bingley’s behest, intent on examining the scene and questioning the household.
Though their search yielded no immediate evidence of wrongdoing, they nonetheless resolved to interview the staff to ascertain everyone’s whereabouts during the night.
“Death seems to follow you, Mr Darcy,” Sir Barnaby had remarked during their brief conversation, his tone half-jesting yet laced with a seriousness that Darcy found irksome. “I must insist that you do not leave the town. We may need to speak with you further as the investigation progresses.”
It was not the magistrate’s words themselves that troubled Darcy so deeply, but rather the whisper of rumours they had mirrored.
That evening, the apothecary’s assistant, Mr Samuel Reeds, had arrived with a draught intended to ease Darcy’s growing discomfort.
While the remedy had provided some relief, its true benefit lay in the information Mr Reeds had unwittingly supplied.
At Darcy’s prompting, the young man had divulged the town’s newest gossip about whispers of a “Darcy curse” that had begun to circulate with alarming fervour.
The notion was preposterous, of course, yet it gnawed at him nonetheless.
Throughout the long, sleepless hours of the night, his thoughts churned with questions.
Coincidence was too feeble an explanation to satisfy his logical mind.
He had always prided himself on his education, his firm grounding in science and philosophy, and he dismissed the idea of curses as the foolish invention of superstitious minds.
Yet, for all his rationality, he could not ignore the troubling pattern: men with whom he had quarrelled were dying.
As Darcy walked along the narrow path, the crisp morning air biting against his skin, his thoughts returned, unbidden, to the one name that seemed to hover on the edge of every troubling consideration: George Wickham.
It was the only conclusion that bore any semblance of reason.
Wickham harboured a resentment toward him—a resentment both longstanding and deeply rooted, though not without cause.
The intensity of Wickham’s animosity was no secret to Darcy; it burned with the same fervour as the charm that so easily beguiled others.
And yet, as this theory took shape in his mind, doubt crept in, weaving its insidious way through his reasoning.
What possible motive could Wickham have for orchestrating such heinous acts?
Why target men who held no direct consequence in their shared history?
Darcy’s steps slowed, his boots crunching against the frost-bitten earth, as he wrestled with these questions.
Whatever Wickham’s faults—and they were many—the notion of him concocting such a plot seemed almost too outlandish, even for one of his scheming natures.
Still, Darcy could not wholly dismiss the thought.
The pattern of deaths was too precise, the timing too deliberate for mere coincidence to provide any satisfactory explanation.
He walked on, his mind consumed by this troubling thought for nearly half an hour, his footsteps steady upon the dirt-covered path.
As he turned yet another corner, he resolved to proceed with caution.
The weight of suspicion pressed upon him like an oppressive cloud, but he was keenly aware that to act impulsively would be a folly he could ill afford.
For now, one certainty stood out amongst the confusion: death had cast its long shadow over Meryton, and Darcy found himself undeniably at its centre.
As this grim thought settled over him, a sudden clarity struck like a bolt of lightning.
His eyes widened as an idea took hold, forming with startling precision.
There was one person he could summon to aid him in this matter—someone capable, methodical, and entirely trustworthy.
The local constable, Mr Tobias Hatch, seemed unlikely to yield significant results, and the doctors, if Mr Edwin Harper’s case served as precedent, would likely prove equally inconclusive.
I can call Richard.
The thought filled Darcy with resolve. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, his cousin, possessed not only the training of a seasoned officer but also a natural aptitude for interrogation and the pursuit of justice.
More importantly, his familial ties to Darcy would ensure an unwavering allegiance, allowing them to work together to uncover the truth.
Darcy did not doubt that Wickham—or whoever conspired in this sinister affair—had an endgame.
He would not stand idly by and allow them to see it fulfilled.
His determination was abruptly interrupted by the sound of footsteps ahead. Darcy’s gaze snapped upward, his stride halting as his breath caught in his chest. A figure emerged on the path, and for a moment, time seemed to suspend itself.
It was her.
***
Only Mr Bennet observed Elizabeth leave the house that morning, her bonnet tied neatly beneath her chin and her shawl clasped securely around her shoulders.
Mrs. Bennet had given strict admonitions regarding the perils of venturing out alone, particularly with the death around, yet Elizabeth had resolved to take her walk regardless.
Her father, seated comfortably in his study with a cup of tea and his book, glanced up as she passed the door.
He adjusted his spectacles with a practiced motion, the bridge resting firmly upon his nose. “Off again, Lizzy?” he inquired, his tone a blend of amusement and mild concern.
Elizabeth nodded, offering a warm smile. “The air does one good, Papa.”
“Perhaps, but the town abounds with gossip of death and danger,” he said, his expression briefly darkening. “Take care not to encounter any spectres, human or otherwise.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “I shall be vigilant.”
He waved her on, his focus returning to the book in hand, and Elizabeth stepped out into the morning with brisk determination.
Yet, as she walked, her mind lingered not on her father’s gentle teasing but on the troubling musings that had occupied her through the night. Mr Darcy loomed large in her thoughts.
The brisk air brushed against her cheeks, refreshing her yet failing to dispel the disquiet that weighed upon her. She followed the familiar path winding through the woodlands, her steps firm upon the frost-hardened earth.
Elizabeth’s thoughts lingered on Mr Wickham’s revelations concerning Mr Darcy, weaving themselves into her reflections on the recent, troubling events.
Two deaths in so short a time, each man tied by some grievance to Mr Darcy, presented a pattern that she could not ignore.
Her mind circled back to the same conclusion: there could be no other explanation.
Mr Darcy’s conduct, his demeanour, and his quarrels with the deceased pointed inexorably to his guilt.
Yet, in the quiet hours of the night, reason whispered its caution.
She was no investigator, as Jane had so sensibly reminded her.
To reach a definitive conclusion without evidence would be reckless.
And still, the thought persisted, rising unbidden to the forefront of her mind: what if proof could be found?
If such a thing existed, she resolved she would uncover it.
To expose Mr Darcy for the fraud and fiend she believed him to be—a man who wielded his power and standing to escape justice for heinous crimes—was a duty she could not ignore.
Her steps carried her far, her usual brisk pace slowing as she grew lost in the labyrinth of her thoughts. Time seemed to slip past unnoticed, until the figure before her on the path startled her into the present. She halted abruptly, her breath catching as she recognised him.
Mr Darcy.
He stood as though transfixed, his tall form unnaturally still. His expression was unreadable save for a flicker of something—was it surprise, or something darker? Elizabeth’s heart quickened. For a moment, the woodland seemed unnaturally quiet, the air heavy with the unspoken.
What is he doing here, so far from ober?
A chill swept over her, the unease settling deep into her bones.
She shuddered, her gaze fixed upon him, even as her mind whispered its warnings.
She could be standing face to face with a murderer, a man whose adversaries met untimely ends as though by some design.
His piercing gaze rested upon her, searching, as if contemplating thoughts too dangerous to utter aloud.
Elizabeth’s fingers twitched at her sides.
Should she run? The question thrummed in her mind, her body taut with the urge to flee.
But no—Mr Darcy would not harm her, would he?
She had never insulted him, never wronged him in any way to provoke enmity.
And yet, there was that first meeting, the disdainful look he had cast upon her.
Was that enough for a man so terrible as to kill?