Chapter 4
“’Tis a bad business,” Sir William Lucas said mournfully, looking down on the silent, still, and shattered corpse of George Wickham. “A bad business indeed.”
Mr. Bennet exhaled and averted his eyes from the body.
He had, he admitted to himself, been a fool to believe Wickham might still be alive.
No man could survive being thoroughly trampled by a massive horse.
“It is. I will have my servants carry the body to one of our outbuildings, and we will need to inform Colonel Forster.”
Sir William grimaced and asked, “Mr. Darcy is involved, I believe? Do you know any of the circumstances behind this dreadful affair?”
“Mr. Darcy, who is currently resting in our parlor with a stab wound in his left arm, informed me that he met Mr. Wickham here this morning by chance, and an argument sprang up between them. Mr. Wickham attacked Mr. Darcy and his horse with a knife and the horse, maddened by his injury, trampled the lieutenant.”
Sir William’s cherubic countenance twisted in confusion. “Mr. Wickham harmed Mr. Darcy and his horse? Why would he do such a thing? I know ... I knew the man. He seemed a proper gentleman.”
Bennet shrugged. “I have heard my daughters speak of bad blood between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham, and you know as well as I that whiskey can inflame the hearts of men.”
“Mr. Darcy was drinking?”
“No, it was Mr. Wickham. Mr. Darcy said he could smell the fumes emanating off his adversary, and I see a flask next to the corpse.”
Sir William eyed the offending receptacle for a moment before tiptoeing over to pick it up in one gloved hand.
He opened it, smelled it, and bobbed his head.
“It does smell of whiskey, and it is nearly empty. I wonder what Wickham was doing on foot at this hour. I presume he did not visit Longbourn before his encounter with Mr. Darcy?”
“He did not; we were all abed until late after the ball.”
“Yes, of course,” his companion mused, rubbed a gloved hand over his forehead and then said, “It is a difficult situation. I do not care to insult Mr. Darcy, of course, but surely this matter must be investigated. A man is dead, and I am the local magistrate.”
“As you wish,” Bennet returned indifferently. It was hardly his concern, after all, except that the confrontation had occurred on the northern border of his estate.
***
“Well, Mr. Darcy, I think you will heal well enough,” Mr. Jones said as he finished applying basilicum powder to his patient’s wound before beginning to wrap clean cloths around it in a bandage.
“If it had been any deeper, I would have needed to sew it closed. You are most fortunate that the knife did not penetrate further.”
Darcy, who had been clenching his teeth through the cleaning of his lacerated arm, relaxed and said, “I am thankful, Mr. Jones, and I appreciate your expert care.”
“It is my pleasure, Mr. Darcy. Now, I will put your arm in a sling, and I encourage you to not use that limb. I will check it again tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir, but I had plans to leave for London this afternoon. I can consult with my doctor in Town.”
Mr. Jones, who was rooting around in his bag, lifted his head and stared in astonishment at the gentleman. “You intend to leave for London in the next hours?”
Darcy sat up and, displeased with the older man’s tone, glared at the apothecary. “Yes, I have business there.”
Jones shook his head. “Mr. Darcy, I cannot keep you from taking such a course, but I strongly advise you to change your mind. Firstly, while I do believe your wound to be a relatively minor one, you should be in bed resting instead of being jolted in a carriage. Secondly, a man is dead and you are the only witness to his demise. Surely you must see that to leave the area now would be inappropriate.”
Darcy blinked at this in astonishment. He was not the aggressor; Wickham had attacked Miss Elizabeth, and Darcy had pulled the miscreant off of the lady. Then Wickham had insulted Georgiana and stabbed Darcy and his horse with a knife, which had resulted in the lieutenant’s death.
Of course, he could not appeal to Miss Elizabeth for her version of the events, or the young lady would be ruined.
If he departed in haste for London, would the girl feel obligated to defend him if the locals accused him of murdering Wickham?
Knowing Miss Elizabeth’s passionate and determined nature, that was all too likely.
He blew out a slow breath and said, “My apologies, Mr. Jones. You are entirely correct. My mind is strangely sluggish at the moment; I did not think through the ramifications of today’s tragic events.”
The apothecary relaxed and smiled sympathetically at him. “I understand completely, Mr. Darcy. You have had a most difficult experience today.”
For a brief moment, the image of George Wickham’s shattered face flashed in Darcy’s mind. He felt vaguely sick.
“I will return to Netherfield and rest in my chambers,” he assured Jones. “Perhaps Mr. Bennet can lend me a horse, as Phoenix is injured. And speaking of my horse, I must speak to the veterinarian. I hope he is not too badly injured...”
“I will take you back to Netherfield in my own carriage,” the apothecary insisted.
“You ought not to travel on horseback with that injury. I do urge you not to worry about your stallion; the Longbourn coachman is reputed as being extremely faithful and experienced in caring for equines, and the veterinarian, Mr. Simon, is also well regarded.”
***
“Lieutenant Wickham is dead?” Colonel Forster demanded, jumping to his feet and promptly experiencing a wave of dizziness.
He had risen late after the ball at Netherfield the previous night; the last thing he wanted was a major problem given that his head was throbbing from too much wine the previous night.
“I fear so, Colonel,” Sir William said gravely.
Forster clinched his eyes shut and waited a few seconds before opening them again. Sadly, Sir William was still there. This was not some sort of alcohol induced nightmare.
“Please, do sit down,” the colonel of the regiment croaked, collapsing into his chair. He opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a bottle of brandy and two glasses, poured spirits into both, handed one glass to Sir William, and took a long drink from his own cup.
“May I ask what happened to the lieutenant?” he inquired, feeling himself calm as the heat of the liquor burned down his throat.
“The details are yet a trifle uncertain,” his guest replied, picking his words with care.
“According to Mr. Darcy, who is the only living witness to the event, he met Mr. Wickham on the trail along the northern border of Longbourn. Sadly, a quarrel sprang up, and Mr. Wickham stabbed Mr. Darcy in the arm. In the ensuing struggle, Wickham cut Mr. Darcy’s horse, whereupon the beast trampled him. I fear that Wickham’s face is quite…”
“Mr. Darcy killed Wickham?” Forster demanded incredulously, setting his tumbler down onto his desk with a bang.
“His horse did, Colonel. It is … well, there are hoof prints…”
Sir William gulped down brandy and lifted his hand to loosen his neckcloth. “It was quite an unpleasant sight, Colonel Forster,” he said with a definite quaver.
Forster stared ruminatively at the bottle and then lifted his eyes to glare into Sir William’s. “There was bad blood between Lieutenant Wickham and Mr. Darcy, you know. Are you quite certain that Mr. Darcy did not murder Mr. Wickham and blame it on his horse?”
Sir William paled at these words. “Surely, surely, a gentleman like Mr. Darcy would not … it seems quite impossible that he could do such a thing!”
“I insist on seeing Wickham’s body and will consider what the next appropriate steps should be,” Forster declared.
The other man ran a weary hand over his forehead and nodded. “As you wish.”
***
“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, bustling toward the gentleman as he entered the front door of Netherfield. “I fear that Louisa and I will not be quite ready to leave for London until tomorrow morning...”
She trailed away as her eyes registered Mr. Darcy’s arm in a sling, and the apothecary at his heels. “Oh … oh, what has happened? Are you injured, Mr. Darcy?”
“He is injured,” Mr. Jones said firmly. “Indeed, he must retire to rest immediately. Perhaps one of your men can assist Mr. Darcy to his bedchamber?”
“Of course, Mr. Jones,” the butler replied promptly and gestured toward one of Bingley’s servants.
Darcy opened his mouth to protest that he was quite able to climb the stairs on his own, and then closed it. He was not remotely interested in discussing the situation with Miss Bingley at the moment.
“Thank you,” he said to the liveried man who rushed forward to assist him. He was feeling more fatigued by the moment; perhaps it would be best to ensure that he mounted the stairs safely.
“I will give instructions to your valet about what you should eat and drink, sir,” Jones stated, “and I will call on you tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones.”
“But we must leave for London tomorrow!” Miss Bingley protested.
***
“Dear God in Heaven,” Colonel Forster said, turning away hastily from Wickham’s broken remains. He had joined the militia because he thought, correctly, that he would enjoy military life; he had avoided the Regulars because he did not want to deal with blood and bodies.
“It is quite unpleasant,” Sir William agreed sympathetically, his eyes lifted toward the ceiling. Wickham’s corpse lay on a plain wooden table in one of the outbuildings of Longbourn; during the summer, the structure was used for sheep shearing, but it was unused in autumn and winter.
“It is dreadful,” Forster said, wiping his face with his handkerchief.
Mr. Jones, who had returned to Longbourn after depositing Mr. Darcy at Netherfield, sighed in exasperation.
He had other patients to attend to and was annoyed that Sir William required his presence to discuss the dead man’s fatal injuries.
The apothecary pointed at Wickham’s skull.
“You can see here that the bones in the lieutenant’s head are crushed. ”
Forster’s eyes were fixed firmly on a random wall. “Mr. Jones, do you believe his injuries are consistent with the trampling of a horse?”
“Absolutely. In fact, I can see the signs of dirt and brush in the semi-circular wounds which match horseshoes...”
He trailed off as Forster, now parchment pale, staggered out of the door into the grass, and the three remaining men exchanged glances at the sound of retching.
“I believe that is enough for now,” Bennet murmured to one of his stable boys, who reverently covered Wickham’s corpse with a simple cotton sheet.
The master of Longbourn, Sir William, and Mr. Jones tarried within for another minute and then strolled outside calmly. Colonel Forster was waiting and while still pale, looked better.
“My apologies,” the military officer said in embarrassment. “I admit that was rather too much for me, especially on an empty stomach.”
“That is entirely all right,” Jones said genuinely but hastily. “Now may I go, sir? I have other patients who need me.”
“By all means, Mr. Jones, though you will be required to attend the inquest.”
Bennet turned as his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “The inquest? Colonel Forster, surely that is not necessary!”
The militia officer lifted his chin and glared at the master of Longbourn.
“Necessary? Necessary? Of course it is! Mr. Wickham lies dead, and the only survivor of their encounter is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, who cruelly used Lieutenant Wickham in the past. I cannot reconcile it with my conscience to allow this matter to lapse without a thorough investigation.”
Sir William shuffled his feet on the chilled ground and said, “I quite understand your point, Colonel. Do you not agree, Mr. Bennet?”
Bennet grimaced and said reluctantly, “Yes, I understand.”
“Very good,” Forster responded. “Now, who is the local coroner?”
Bennet and Sir William exchanged glances.
“Mr. Phillips, my brother by marriage, who is a solicitor in Meryton,” Mr. Bennet said wearily. Since Wickham had died on Longbourn land, he would be required to testify at the inquest. How very tedious.