Death Comes to Pemberley

  The colonel paused for a few seconds before speaking. ‘I am not competent, sir, to look into another man’s mind, but I agree with the opinion given by Mr Darcy. For me it was a question of instinct rather than of immediate and detailed consideration of the evidence. I do not despise instinct; it has saved my life on several occasions, and instinct is, of course, based on an appreciation of all the salient facts, which is not necessarily wrong because it is subconscious.’

  ‘And the decision not to leave Captain Denny’s body and immediately search for his murderer, was that ever considered? I take it that had it been, you, as a distinguished commander, would have taken the lead.’

  ‘It was not considered by me, sir. I do not advance into hostile and unknown territory with an inadequate force, leaving my rear unprotected.’

  There were no further questions and it was apparent that the evidence for the prosecution was now complete. Alveston whispered, ‘Mickledore has been brilliant. The colonel has validated your evidence and doubt has been cast on the reliability of Pratt’s. I am beginning to feel hopeful, but we still have Wickham’s speech in his own defence and the judge’s charge to the jury.’

  8

  It was evident from occasional snores that the heat of the courtroom had induced sleep, but now there was nudging and whispering and a stir of interest as Wickham at last stood up in the dock to speak. His voice was clear and steady but without emotion, almost, Darcy thought, as if he were reading, not speaking, the words which could save his life.

  ‘I am here charged with the murder of Captain Martin Denny and to that charge I have pleaded not guilty. I am indeed totally innocent of his murder and here I stand having put myself on my country. I served with Captain Denny in the militia over six years ago when he became a close friend as well as a comrade-in-arms. That friendship continued and his life was as dear to me as my own. I would defend to the death any attack on him and would have done so had I been present when the cowardly attack which caused his death was carried out. It has been said in evidence that there was a quarrel between us when we were at the inn before setting out on that fatal journey. It was no more than a disagreement between friends, but it was my fault. Captain Denny, who was a man of honour and had deep human sympathies, thought that I had been wrong to resign my commission without having a sound profession and a settled home for my wife. In addition he thought that my plan to leave Mrs Wickham at Pemberley to spend the night there and to attend the ball the next day was both inconsiderate and would be inconvenient for Mrs Darcy. I believe that it was his increasing impatience with my conduct that made my company intolerable to him, and that it was this reason that led him to stop the chaise and run into the woodland. I went after him to urge him to return. It was a stormy night and the woodland is in places impenetrable and could be dangerous. I do not deny that I spoke the words attributed to me, but I meant that my friend’s death was my responsibility since it was our disagreement that had driven him into the woodland. I had been drinking heavily but, among much that I cannot recall, I remember clearly the abhorrence when I found him and saw his blood-smeared face. His eyes confirmed what I already knew, that he was dead. The shock, horror and pity of this unmanned me, but not so much that I neglected to take what action I could to apprehend his murderer. I took his pistol and fired several shots at what I thought was a fleeing figure and I pursued him deeper into the woodland. By then the drink I had imbibed had taken effect and I remember nothing more until I was kneeling by my friend and cradling his head. It was then that the rescue party arrived.

  ‘Gentlemen of the jury, the case made out against me will not stand. If I struck my friend on the forehead and, more viciously, on the back of the neck, where are the weapons? After a most thorough search, neither weapon has been produced in court. If it is alleged that I followed my friend with murderous intent, how could I hope to prevail over a man taller and stronger than myself and armed with a weapon? And why should I do so? No motive has been alleged. The fact that there was no trace of a stranger lurking in the woodland cannot be taken to mean that no such man existed; he would hardly have waited at the scene of his crime. I can only swear, remembering that I am on oath, that I had no part in the murder of Captain Martin Denny and I put myself upon my country with confidence.’

  There was a silence, then Alveston whispered to Darcy, ‘It was not good.’

  In a low voice Darcy said, ‘How not good? I thought he had done enough. The main arguments were clearly made, no evidence produced of a serious quarrel, the absence of weapons, the irrationality of pursuing his friend with murderous intent, the lack of a motive. What was wrong?’

  ‘It is difficult to explain but I have listened to so many speeches by the defendant and I fear this one may not succeed. For all the care in its construction it lacked that vital spark that comes from the assurance of innocence. The delivery, the lack of passion, the carefulness of it; he may have pleaded not guilty but he does not feel innocent. That is something that juries detect, don’t ask me how. He may not be guilty to this murder but he is burdened by guilt.’

  ‘So are we all sometimes; is not to feel guilt part of being human? Surely the jury must have been left with a reasonable doubt. That speech would have been enough for me.’

  Alveston said, ‘I pray it will be enough for the jury but I am not sanguine.’

  ‘But if he was drunk?’

  ‘He certainly claimed to be drunk at the time of the murder, but he was not too drunk to get into the chaise unaided at the inn. This question has not been pursued during the evidence, but in my view it is open to question how drunk he was at the time.’

  During the speech Darcy had tried to focus on Wickham but now he couldn’t resist glancing at Mrs Younge. There was no risk that their eyes would meet. Hers were fixed on Wickham, and sometimes he saw her lips moving as if she were listening to a recital of something she herself had written, or perhaps was silently praying. When he looked again at the dock Wickham was staring ahead; he turned towards the judge as Mr Justice Moberley began his charge to the jury.

  9

  Mr Justice Moberley had made no notes and now he leaned a little towards the jury as if the matter could have no concern to the rest of the court, and the beautiful voice which at first attracted Darcy was clear enough to be heard by everyone present. He went through the evidence succinctly but carefully, as if time had no importance. The speech ended with words that Darcy felt gave credence to the defence, and his spirits rose.

  ‘Gentlemen of the jury, you have listened with patience and obviously close attention to the evidence given in this long trial, and it is now for you to consider the evidence and give your verdict. The accused was previously a professional soldier and has a record of conspicuous gallantry for which he has been awarded a medal, but this should not affect your decision, which should be based on the evidence which has been presented to you. Your responsibility is a heavy one but I know you will discharge your duty without fear or favour and in accordance with the law.

  ‘The central mystery, if I can call it that, surrounding this case is why Captain Denny ran into the woodland when he could have safely and comfortably remained in the chaise; it is inconceivable that an attack would have been made on him in the presence of Mrs Wickham. The accused has given his explanation of why Captain Denny so unexpectedly stopped the chaise, and you will wonder whether you find this explanation satisfactory. Captain Denny is not alive to explain his action, and no evidence other than Mr Wickham’s is available to elucidate the matter. Like much of this case, it has been supposition, and it is on sworn evidence, not on unsubstantiated opinions, that your verdict can safely be given: the circumstances under which members of the rescue party found Captain Denny’s body and heard the words attributed to the accused. You have heard his explanation of their meaning and it is for you to decide whether or not you believe him. If you are certain beyond reasonable doubt that George Wickham is guilty of killing Captain Denny then your verdict will be one of gu
ilty; if you have not that certainty the accused is entitled to be acquitted. I now leave you to your deliberations. If it is your wish to retire to consider your verdict, a room has been made available.’

  10

  By the end of the trial Darcy felt as drained as if he himself had stood in the dock. He longed to ask Alveston for reassurance but pride and the knowledge that to badger him would be as irritating as it was futile kept him silent. There was nothing anyone could do now but hope and wait. The jury had chosen to retire to consider their verdict and in their absence the courtroom had again become as noisy as an immense parrots’ cage as the audience discussed the evidence and made bets on the verdict. They had not long to wait After less than ten minutes the jury returned. He heard the loud authoritative voice of the clerk asking the jury, ‘Who is your foreman?’

  ‘I am, sir.’ The tall dark man who had gazed at him so frequently during the trial and who was their obvious leader stood up.

  ‘Have you arrived at a verdict?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?’

  The answer came without hesitation. ‘Guilty.’

  ‘And is that the verdict of you all?’

  ‘It is.’

  Darcy knew that he must have gasped. He felt Alveston’s hand on his arm, steadying him. And now the court was full of voices – a mixture of groans, cries and protests which grew until, as if by some group compulsion, the noise died and all eyes were turned on Wickham. Darcy, caught up in the outcry, closed his eyes, then forced himself to open them and fixed them on the dock. Wickham’s face had the stiffness and sickly pallor of a mask of death. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. He was clutching the edge of the dock and seemed for a moment to stagger, and Darcy felt his own muscles tightening as he watched while Wickham recovered himself and with obvious effort found the strength to stand stiffly upright. Staring at the judge he found a voice, at first cracked, but then loud and clear. ‘I am innocent of this charge, my lord. I swear before God I am not guilty.’ Wide-eyed, he gazed desperately round the courtroom as if seeking some friendly face, some voice which would affirm his innocence. Then he said again with more force, ‘I am not guilty, my lord, not guilty.’

  Darcy turned his eyes to where Mrs Younge had been sitting, soberly dressed and silent among the silks and muslins and the fluttering fans. She had gone. She must have moved as soon as the verdict was delivered. He knew that he had to find her, needed to know what part she had played in the tragedy of Denny’s death, to find out why she had been there, her eyes locked on Wickham’s as if some power, some courage were passing between them.

  He broke free of Alveston and pushed his way to the door. It was being firmly held fast against a crowd outside who, from the increasing clamour, were apparently determined on admission. And now the bawling in the courtroom was rising again, becoming less pitiable and more angry. He thought he heard the judge threatening to call the police or army to expel the troublemakers, and someone close to him was saying, ‘Where is the black cap? Why in God’s name cannot they lay their hand on the damn thing and put it on his head?’ There was a shout as if in triumph and, glancing round, he saw a black square being flourished above the crowd by a young man hoisted on his comrade’s shoulders and knew with a shudder that this was the black cap.

  He fought his way to keep his place at the door and, as the crowd outside edged it open, managed to struggle through and elbowed his way to the road. Here too there was a commotion, the same cacophony of groans, cries and a chorus of shouting voices, more, he thought, in pity than in anger. A heavy coach had been drawn up, the crowd attempting to pull the driver down from his seat. He was shouting, ‘It weren’t my fault. You saw the lady. She flung herself right under the wheels!’

  And there she lay, squashed under the heavy wheels as if she were a stray animal, her blood flowing in a red stream to pool under the horses’ feet. Smelling it, they neighed and reared and the coachman had difficulty in controlling them. Darcy took one look and, turning away, vomited violently into the gutter. The sour stink seemed to poison the air. He heard a voice cry, ‘Where’s the death van? Why don’t they take her away? It’s not decent leaving her there.’

  The passenger in the coach made to get out but, seeing the sight of the crowd, shrank back inside and pulled down the blind, obviously waiting for the constables to arrive and restore order. The crowd seemed to grow, among them children gazing incomprehensibly and women with babes in arms who, frightened by the noise, began wailing. There was nothing he could do. He needed now to return to the courtroom and find the colonel and Alveston in the hope that they might offer reassurance; in his heart he knew that there could be none.

  And then he saw the hat trimmed with purple and green ribbons. It must have fallen from her head and bowled along the pavement and had now stopped at his feet. He gazed at it as if in a trance. Nearby a staggering woman, yelling baby under one arm, gin bottle in her hand, pushed forward, stooped and clasped it crookedly on her head. Grinning at Darcy, she said, ‘No use to her any more, is it?’ and was gone.

  11

  The competing attraction of a dead body had diverted some of the men by the door and he was able to fight his way to the front and was borne in with the last six to gain admission. Someone called in a stentorian voice, ‘A confession! They have brought a confession!’ and immediately the court was in an uproar. It seemed for a moment that Wickham would be dragged from the dock, but he was immediately surrounded by officers of the court and, after standing upright for a few dazed moments, sat down with his hands over his face. The noise increased. And it was then that he saw Dr McFee and the Reverend Percival Oliphant surrounded by police constables. Amazed by their presence, he watched while two heavy chairs were being dragged forward and they both slumped into them as if exhausted. He tried to push his way through to them but the dense crowd was a heaving impenetrable mass.

  People had left their seats and were now approaching the judge. He raised his gavel and used it vigorously, and at last was able to make his voice heard and the clamour died. ‘Officer, lock the doors. If there is any more disturbance I shall order the court to be cleared. The document which I have perused purports to be a signed confession witnessed by you two gentlemen, Dr Andrew McFee and the Reverend Percival Oliphant. Gentlemen, are these your signatures?’

  Dr McFee and Mr Oliphant spoke together. ‘They are, my lord.’

  ‘And is this document you have handed in the handwriting of the person who has signed it above your signatures?’

  Dr McFee answered. ‘Part of it is, my lord. William Bidwell was at the end of his life and wrote his confession propped up in bed but I trust the writing, although shaky, is sufficiently clear to read. The last paragraph, as indicated by the change of handwriting, was written by me to dictation by William Bidwell. He was then able to speak but not to write, except to sign his name.’

  ‘Then I shall ask counsel for the defence to read it. Afterwards I shall consider how best to proceed. If anyone interrupts he will be made to leave.’

  Jeremiah Mickledore took the document and, adjusting his spectacles, scanned it and then began to read in a loud and clear voice. The whole courtroom was silent.

  I, William John Bidwell, make this confession of my free will as a true account of what occurred in Pemberley woodland on the night of 14th October last. I do so in the sure knowledge that I am close to death. I was in bed upstairs in the front room but the cottage was otherwise empty except for my nephew, George, in his crib. My father was working at Pemberley. There had been a loud squawking from the chicken pen and my mother and my sister, Louisa, fearing that a fox was about, went to investigate. My mother did not like me to get out of bed since I had so little strength, but I was desirous to look out of the window. I was able to support myself on the bed until I got to the window. The wind was blowing strongly and there was moonlight, and as I looked out I saw an officer in uniform come out of the woodlan
d and stand looking at the cottage. I drew back behind the curtains so that I could observe without being seen.

  My sister Louisa had told me that an officer of the militia, stationed at Lambton the previous year, had attempted an assault on her virtue, and I knew instinctively that this was the man and that he had returned to take her away. Why else would he be at the cottage on such a night? My father was not there to protect her and it had always grieved me that I was a hopeless invalid, unable to work while he worked so hard, and too weak to protect my family. I put on my slippers and managed to make my way downstairs. Taking the poker from the hearth, I went out of the door.

  The officer began to come towards me and held out his hand as if he came in peace, but I knew otherwise. I staggered towards him and waited until he approached me, then with all my strength I swung the poker so that the knob hit his forehead. It was not a strong blow but it broke the skin and the wound began to bleed. He tried to wipe his eyes but I knew he could not see. He stumbled back into the trees and I felt a great surge of triumph which gave me strength. He was out of sight when I heard a great noise like the crash of a falling tree. I went into the woodland supporting myself by clutching at the trunks of the trees and saw by the moonlight that he had tripped on the curb of the dog’s grave and fallen backwards, striking his head on the headstone. He was a heavy man and the sound of his falling had been great, but I did not know that the fall had been fatal. I felt nothing but pride that I had saved my darling sister, and as I watched he rolled from the stone on to his knees and began crawling away. I knew that he was trying to escape from me, although I had not the strength to attempt to follow him. I rejoiced that he would not return.

  I have no memory of getting back to the cottage, only of wiping the knob of the poker on my handkerchief which I flung into the fire. My next memory is of my mother helping me up the stairs and into bed, and upbraiding me for my folly in leaving it. I said nothing of my encounter with the officer. I was told next morning that Colonel Fitzwilliam had called later at the cottage to tell her of the two missing gentlemen, but I knew nothing of that.