Since Hardcastle had strongly advised that it would be unwise for Darcy to meet Wickham before the inquest had been held, Bingley, with his usual good nature, volunteered for the task and he had visited on Monday morning, when the prisoner’s immediate necessities had been dealt with and enough money passed to ensure that he could purchase the food and other comforts which could help make imprisonment bearable. But, after further thought, Darcy had decided that he had a duty to visit Wickham, at least once before the inquest. Not to do so would be taken throughout Lambton and Pemberley village to be a clear sign that he believed his brother-in-law to be guilty, and it was from the Lambton and Pemberley parishes that the inquest jury would be drawn. He might have no choice about being called as a witness for the prosecution, but at least he could demonstrate quietly that he believed Wickham to be innocent. There was, too, a more private concern: he was deeply concerned that there should be no open conjecture about the reason for the family estrangement which might put the matter of Georgiana’s proposed elopement at risk of discovery. It was both just and expected that he should go to the prison.
Bingley had reported that he had found Wickham sullen, uncooperative and prone to burst out in incivilities against the magistrate and the police, demanding that their efforts be redoubled to discover who had murdered his chief – indeed his only – friend. Why did he languish in gaol while the guilty went unsought? Why did the police keep interrupting his rest to harass him with stupid and unnecessary questions? Why had they asked why he had turned Denny over? To see his face, of course, it was a perfectly natural action. No, he had not noticed the wound on Denny’s head, it was probably covered by his hair and, anyway, he was too distressed to notice details. And what, he was asked, had he been doing in the time between the shots being heard and the finding of Denny’s body by the search party? He was stumbling through the woodland trying to catch a murderer, and that was what they should be doing, not wasting time pestering an innocent man.
Today Darcy found a very different man. Now, in fresh clothes, shaved and his hair combed, Wickham received him as if in his own home, bestowing a favour on a not particularly welcome visitor. Darcy remembered that he had always been a creature of moods and now he recognised the old Wickham, handsome, confident and more inclined to relish his notoriety than to see it as a disgrace. Bingley had brought the articles for which he had asked: tobacco, several shirts and cravats, slippers, savoury pies baked at Highmarten to augment the food purchased for him from the local bakery, and ink and paper with which Wickham proposed to write an account both of his part in the Irish campaign and of the deep injustice of his present imprisonment, a personal record which he was confident would find a ready market. Neither man spoke of the past. Darcy could not rid himself of its power but Wickham lived for the moment, was sanguine about the future and reinvented the past to suit his audience, and Darcy could almost believe that, for the present, he had put the worst of it completely out of his mind.
Wickham said that the Bingleys had brought Lydia from Highmarten to visit him the previous evening but she had been so uncontrolled in her complaints and weeping that he had found the occasion too dispiriting to be tolerated and had instructed that in future she should be admitted only at his request and for fifteen minutes. He was hopeful, however, that no further visit would be necessary; the inquest had been fixed for Wednesday at eleven o’clock and he was confident that he would then be released, after which he envisaged the triumphant return of Lydia and himself to Longbourn and the congratulations of his former friends at Meryton. No mention was made of Pemberley, perhaps because even in his euphoria he hardly expected to be welcomed there, nor wished to be. No doubt, thought Darcy, in the happy event of his release, he would first join Lydia at Highmarten before travelling on to Hertfordshire. It seemed unjust that Jane and Bingley should be burdened with Lydia’s presence even for a further day, but all that could be decided if his release indeed took place. He wished he could share Wickham’s confidence.
He stayed only for half an hour, was provided with a list of requirements to be brought the next day, and left with Wickham’s request that his compliments should be paid to Mrs Darcy and to Miss Darcy. Leaving, he reflected that it was a relief to find Wickham no longer sunk in pessimism and incrimination, but the visit had been uncomfortable for him and singularly depressing.
He knew, and with bitterness, that if the trial went well he would have to support Wickham and Lydia, at least for the foreseeable future. Their spending had always exceeded their income, and he guessed that they had depended on private subventions from Elizabeth and Jane to augment an inadequate income. Jane occasionally still invited Lydia to Highmarten while Wickham, loudly complaining in private, amused himself by staying in a variety of local inns, and it was from Jane that Elizabeth had news of the couple. None of the temporary jobs Wickham had taken since resigning his commission had been a success. His latest attempt to earn a competence had been with Sir Walter Elliot, a baronet who had been forced by extravagance to rent his house to strangers and had moved to Bath with two of his daughters. The younger, Anne, had since made a prosperous and happy marriage with a naval captain, now a distinguished admiral, but the elder, Elizabeth, had still to find a husband. The baronet, disenchanted with Bath, had decided that he was now sufficiently prosperous to return home, gave his tenant notice and had employed Wickham as a secretary to assist with the necessary work occasioned by the move. Wickham had been dismissed within six months. When faced with depressing news of public discord or, worse, of family disagreements it was always Jane’s reconciling task to find no party greatly at fault. But when the facts of Wickham’s latest failure were passed on to her more sceptical sister, Elizabeth suspected that Miss Elliot had been worried by her father’s response to Lydia’s open flirtation, while Wickham’s attempt to ingratiate himself with her had been met, at first with some encouragement born of boredom and vanity, finally with disgust.
Once away from Lambton, it was good to take deep breaths of cool fresh-smelling air, to be free of the unmistakable prison smell of bodies, food and cheap soap and the clank of turning keys, and it was with a surge of relief and a sense that he himself had escaped from durance that Darcy turned his horse’s head towards Pemberley.
5
Pemberley was as quiet as if it were uninhabited, and it was apparent that Elizabeth and Georgiana had not yet returned. He had hardly dismounted when one of the stable boys came round the corner of the house to take his horse, but he must have returned earlier than expected and there was no one waiting at the door. He entered the silent hall and made for the library where he thought it likely that he would find the colonel impatient for news. But to his surprise he discovered Mr Bennet there alone, ensconced in a high-backed chair by the fire, reading the Edinburgh Review. It was clear from the empty cup and soiled plate on a small table at his side that he had been provided with refreshment after his journey. After a second’s pause, occasioned by surprise, Darcy realised that he was exceedingly glad to see this unexpected visitor, and as Mr Bennet rose from his chair, shook hands with him warmly.
‘Please don’t disturb yourself, sir. It is a great pleasure to see you. I hope you have been attended?’
‘As you see. Stoughton has been his usual efficient self and I have met Colonel Fitzwilliam. After greeting me he said he would take advantage of my arrival to exercise his horse; I had the impression that he was finding confinement to the house a little tedious. I have also been welcomed by the estimable Mrs Reynolds who assures me that my usual room is always kept ready.’
‘When did you arrive, sir?’
‘About forty minutes ago. I hired a chaise. That is not the most comfortable way to travel far and I had it in mind to come by coach. Mrs Bennet, however, complained that she needs it to convey the most recent news of Wickham’s unfortunate situation to Mrs Philips, the Lucases and the many other interested parties in Meryton. To use a hack-chaise would be demeaning, not only to her but to the whole
family. Having proposed to abandon her at this distressing time I could not deprive her of a more valued comfort; Mrs Bennet has the coach. I have no wish to cause additional work by this unannounced arrival but I thought you might be glad to have another man in the house when you were concerned with the police or with Wickham’s comfort. Elizabeth told me in her letter that the colonel is likely to be recalled soon to his military duties and young Alveston to London.’
Darcy said, ‘They will depart after the inquest, which I heard on Sunday will be held tomorrow. Your presence here, sir, will be a comfort to the ladies and a reassurance to me. Colonel Fitzwilliam will have acquainted you with the facts of Wickham’s arrest.’
‘Succinctly, but no doubt accurately. He could have been giving me a military report. I almost felt obliged to throw a salute. I think that throwing a salute is the correct expression, I have no experience of military matters. Lydia’s husband seems to have distinguished himself by this latest exploit in managing to combine entertainment for the masses with the maximum embarrassment for his family. The colonel told me you were at Lambton visiting the prisoner. How did you find him?’
‘In good heart. The contrast between his present appearance and that in the day following the attack on Denny is remarkable, but then, of course, he was in liquor and deeply shocked. He has recovered both his courage and his looks. He is remarkably sanguine about the result of the inquest and Alveston thinks he has a right to be. The absence of any weapon certainly weighs in his favour.’
They both seated themselves. Darcy saw that Mr Bennet’s eyes were straying towards the Edinburgh Review but he resisted the temptation to resume reading. He said, ‘I wish Wickham would make up his mind how he wishes to be regarded by the world. At the time of his marriage he was an irresponsible but charming lieutenant in the militia, he made love to us all, simpering and smiling as if he had brought to his marriage three thousand a year and a desirable residence. Later, after taking his commission, he metamorphosed into a man of action and public hero, a change certainly for the better and one highly agreeable to Mrs Bennet. And now we are expected to see him as deep-dyed in villainy and at some risk, although I hope remote, of ending as a public spectacle. He has always sought notoriety, but hardly, I think, the final appearance now threatened. I cannot believe him guilty of murder. His misdemeanours, however inconvenient for his victims, have not, as far as I know, involved violence either to himself or others.’
Darcy said, ‘We cannot look into another’s mind, but I believe him to be innocent and I shall ensure that he has the best legal advice and representation.’
‘That is generous of you, and I suspect – although I have no firm knowledge – that it is not the first act of generosity which my family owes to you.’ Without waiting for a reply, he said quickly, ‘I understand from Colonel Fitzwilliam that Elizabeth and Miss Darcy are engaged in some charitable enterprise, taking a basket of necessities to an afflicted family. When are they expected back?’
Darcy took out his watch. ‘They should be on their way now. If you are inclined for exercise, sir, would you care to join me and we can walk towards the woodland to meet them.’
It was obvious that Mr Bennet, although known to be sedentary, was willing to relinquish the Review and the comfort of the library fire for the pleasure of surprising his daughter. It was then that Stoughton appeared, apologising that he had not been at the door when his master returned and quick to fetch the gentlemen’s hats and greatcoats. Darcy was as eager as his companion to see the landaulet come into sight. He would have prevented the excursion had he thought it in any way dangerous, and he knew Alveston to be both trustworthy and resourceful, but since Denny’s murder he had been consumed with an unfocused and perhaps irrational anxiety whenever his wife was not within his view, and it was with relief that he saw the landaulet slow and then come to a stop within fifty yards of Pemberley. He had not realised how profoundly he was glad to see Mr Bennet until he saw Elizabeth get hurriedly out and run towards her father and heard her delighted ‘Oh Father, how good to see you!’ as he enfolded her in his arms.
6
The inquest was held at the King’s Arms in a large room built at the back of the inn some eight years previously to provide a venue for local functions, including the occasional dance dignified always as a ball. Initial enthusiasm and local pride had ensured its early success but in these difficult times of war and want there was neither money nor inclination for frivolity and the room, now used mostly for official meetings, was seldom filled to anything like capacity and had the slightly depressing and neglected atmosphere of any place once intended for communal activity. The innkeeper, Thomas Simpkins, and his wife Mary had made the usual preparations for an event which they knew would undoubtedly attract a large audience and subsequently profit for the bar. To the right of the door was a platform large enough to accommodate a small orchestra for dancing, and on this had been placed an impressive wooden armchair taken from the private bar, and four smaller chairs, two on each side, for justices of the peace or other local worthies who chose to attend. All other chairs available in the inn had been brought into use and the motley collection suggested that neighbours had also made their contribution. Latecomers were expected to stand.
Darcy was aware that the coroner took an elevated view of his status and responsibilities and would have been happy to see the owner of Pemberley arrive in state in his coach. Darcy would himself have preferred to have ridden, as the colonel and Alveston proposed to do, but compromised by using the chaise. When he entered the room he saw that it was already well filled and there was the usual anticipatory chat which to Darcy sounded more subdued than expectant. It fell silent on his appearance and there was much touching of forelocks and murmurings of greeting. No one, not even among his tenants, came forward to invite his notice as he knew they would normally have done, but he judged that this was less an affront than a feeling on their part that it was his privilege to make the first move.
He looked round to see if there was an empty seat somewhere at the back, preferably with others that he could reserve for the colonel and Alveston, but at that moment there was a commotion at the door and a large wicker bath chair with a small wheel at the front and two much larger at the back, was being manoeuvred with difficulty through the door. In it Dr Josiah Clitheroe sat in some state, his right leg supported by an obtruding plank, the foot turbaned in a bandage of white linen, intricately wound. Those sitting at the front quickly disappeared and Dr Clitheroe was pushed through, not without difficulty since the small wheel, snaking wildly, proved recalcitrant. The chairs each side of him were immediately vacated and on one he placed his tall hat and beckoned to Darcy to occupy the second. The circle of chairs round them was now empty and there was at least some chance of a private conversation.
Dr Clitheroe said, ‘I don’t think this will take all day. Jonah Makepeace will keep everything under control. It is a difficult business for you, Darcy, and of course for Mrs Darcy. I trust she is well.’
‘She is, sir, I am happy to say.’
‘Obviously you can take no part in the investigation of this crime but no doubt Hardcastle has kept you informed of developments.’
Darcy said, ‘He has said as much as he thinks it prudent to reveal. His own position is one of some difficulty.’
‘Well he need not be too cautious. He will in duty bound keep the High Constable informed and will also consult me as necessary, although I am doubtful that I can be of much assistance. He, Headborough Brownrigg and Petty Constable Mason seem to have things under control. I understand they have spoken to everyone at Pemberley and are satisfied that you all have alibis; hardly surprising – on the evening before Lady Anne’s ball there are better things to do than trudge through the Pemberley woodland bent on murder. Lord Hartlep too, I am informed, has an alibi, so at least he and you can be relieved of that anxiety. As he is not yet a peer it would be unnecessary, in the event of his being charged, for him to be tried in the House
of Lords, a colourful but expensive procedure. You will also be relieved to know that Hardcastle has traced Captain Denny’s next of kin through the colonel of his regiment. It appears that he has only one living relative, an elderly aunt residing in Kensington whom he rarely visits but who supplies some regular financial support. She is nearly ninety and too old and frail to take a personal interest in events but has asked that Denny’s body, now released by the coroner, should be sent to Kensington for burial.’
Darcy said, ‘If Denny had died in the woodland by a known hand or by accident, it would be right for Mrs Darcy or myself to send her a letter of condolence, but in the circumstances that might be ill advised and even unwelcome. It is strange how even the most terrible and bizarre events have social implications and it is good of you to pass on this information, which will, I know, be a relief to Mrs Darcy. What about the tenants on the estate? I hardly like to question Hardcastle directly; have they all been cleared?’
‘Yes, I gather so. The majority were at home and those who can never resist venturing forth even on a stormy night to fortify themselves at the local inn have produced a superfluity of witnesses, some of whom were sober when questioned and can be considered reliable. Apparently no one has seen or heard of any stranger in the neighbourhood. You know, of course, that when Hardcastle visited Pemberley two silly young girls employed as housemaids came forward with the story of seeing the ghost of Mrs Reilly wandering in the woodland. Appropriately, she chooses to manifest herself on the night of the full moon.’