Chapter Twenty-Six #3
“Yes, sir,” Brisby replied, though his tone carried a subtle shift, as though he addressed not merely the Count, but the man he had once served.
Darcy released Wickham into his care. Without further pause, he turned and left.
The night air struck cool against his face as he stepped once more into the street. He drew a breath, girding himself, and returned to his carriage.
As it carried him back toward Ashcombe House, his thoughts moved not with the sharp clarity of purpose that had once defined them, but with a more restrained consideration.
Wickham’s words lingered. So did Elizabeth’s. Between them lay a path he had not chosen.
This marked the first time, however, that he perceived the choice as potentially being authentically his.
Darcy had not finished dressing when Mr. Gibbs was announced.
There was an unusual quality in the butler’s manner that arrested his attention at once. Gibbs was not a man easily discomposed, nor one inclined to interrupt without cause. Now, however, there was a contained urgency about him, a precision sharpened by more than routine necessity.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam has called, sir.”
Darcy stilled. “So early?”
“Yes, sir.”
A pause followed, brief but substantial. Darcy met the man’s gaze and saw there what confirmed his own instinct—that this was no ordinary call.
“Show him in,” Darcy said.
He had scarcely stepped into the drawing room when Richard entered without ceremony. The door closed behind him with a firmness that left no doubt as to the gravity of his errand. He did not wait for greeting, nor did he trouble himself with formality.
“Wickham is dead.”
The words struck with the force of a blow. Darcy did not move. “How?”
“In his bed,” Richard said, his tone clipped and controlled. “Found by his valet this morning.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “I half thought you might have done it, but your reaction says otherwise. The coroner has already attended. Brucine poisoning.”
Darcy drew a breath, slow and deliberate. “Administered how?”
“In his tea,” Richard replied. “Apparently he called for a tray in the early hours of the morning.”
A silence followed. Darcy’s thoughts moved quickly, assembling what little was known into a coherent whole. The timing, the method, and the implications.
“The household?” he asked.
“Detained,” Richard said. “All of them. The servants are being questioned. Brisby—”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened.
“—is to bear the blame,” Richard finished grimly.
“No.” The word came at once, without hesitation.
Richard studied him. “You are certain?”
“I saw him last night,” Darcy said. “He attended Wickham when I brought him home. I left him there. Brisby came to Ashcombe House within ten minutes of my departure and stayed until the early hours of the morning. I assume it was he who found Wickham?”
Richard’s expression shifted. “Yes. Your testimony may not be sufficient to exonerate him, but it is worth a try.”
Darcy crossed the room. “It will be,” he said. “I must send for the coroner.”
Richard nodded once, his expression grim.
Darcy rang for Gibbs. When the man appeared, he issued his instructions with precision. “You will send a message to the coroner at once. Inform him that I have information relevant to his inquiry and request his immediate attendance.”
“Yes, sir.” Gibbs withdrew without question.
Darcy remained where he stood, his hands clasped behind his back, his thoughts moving with increasing clarity.
Brucine. It was not a common poison. Not one easily obtained without purpose. Not one administered by chance. This was planned well in advance.
The coroner arrived within the hour. He was a practical man, neither overly impressed by rank nor dismissive of it, and he listened with careful attention as Darcy laid out his account.
“You saw the valet in question?” he asked.
“I did.”
“And at what hour did this man, Brisby, depart?”
Darcy named it precisely.
The coroner nodded. “And you are prepared to attest that he remained within your house for the rest of the night?”
“I am,” Darcy replied. “Moreover, I may add that I had reason to meet with him that evening.”
The coroner’s brows lifted.
“I had considered engaging him in my service,” Darcy stated smoothly. “We spoke privately, after Mr. Wickham had retired. It was my intention to make him an offer of employment. I have no valet of my own, you see.”
This was not entirely untrue. After revealing all, Brisby’s future employment with ‘the count’ had been discussed at length.
The coroner regarded him through narrowed eyes, then inclined his head. “In that case, it would appear that the man could not have administered the poison at the time suggested.”
“Indeed.”
A pause followed. “Then we must consider another possibility,” the coroner said slowly. “That someone seeks to place the blame upon him.”
Darcy met his gaze. “That is my conclusion.”
The coroner nodded. “Then I shall amend my inquiries accordingly and release the valet into your custody.”
Matlock House did not enter into mourning.
The decision was neither formally declared nor openly discussed, but it was understood all the same.
Wickham had not been a man to inspire affection among those who knew him best, and whatever ties might have bound him to the family through Georgiana did not extend to a display of grief they did not feel.
Elizabeth told him as much when next they met.
They walked again in the gardens, though the air seemed altered now, touched with a tension that had not been present before. The news had spread quickly, as such news always did, and with it came speculation, curiosity, and the stirrings of scandal.
“Jane will not speak of it,” Elizabeth said. “Nor will Lady Matlock. They consider it…unnecessary.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I cannot say I am surprised.”
Elizabeth’s expression was troubled.
“I have been to Darcy House. To see her.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened. “And?”
“She is inconsolable,” Elizabeth said. “I have never seen such grief. It is not merely sorrow. It is confusion. She does not understand what has happened, nor why.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “And Mrs. Younge?”
Elizabeth hesitated.
“She presses her. Papers, documents—she urges her to sign, to settle matters without delay. She grows more insistent each day.”
Darcy’s expression hardened.
“She says it is necessary. That it is for her protection.” Elizabeth shook her head. “There is a quality in her manner that—”
The words died away.
“It is not right.”
“No,” Darcy said. “It is not.”
Elizabeth looked at him. “What will you do?”
He met her gaze steadily. “What I must.”
He did not make the call alone. When Darcy called at the house that had once been his own, he did so with a man whose presence lent authority beyond question.
The magistrate—introduced as an acquaintance formed at a gentleman’s club—accompanied him with composure, his manner unremarkable, his purpose anything but.