‘No one.’
Elizabeth and the rest of the company crowded to the window and there in the distance saw a chaise, lurching and swaying down the woodland road towards the house, its two sidelights blazing like small flames. Imagination provided what was too distant to be seen – the manes of the horses tossed by the wind, their wild eyes and straining shoulders, the postilion heaving at the reins. It was too distant for the wheels to be heard and it seemed to Elizabeth that she was seeing a spectral coach of legend flying soundlessly through the moonlit night, the dreaded harbinger of death.
Darcy said, ‘Bingley, stay here with the ladies and I’ll see what this is about.’
But his words were lost in a renewed howling of the wind in the chimney and the company followed him out of the music room, down the main staircase and into the hall. Stoughton and Mrs Reynolds were already there. At a gesture from Darcy, Stoughton opened the door. The wind rushed in immediately, a cold, irresistible force seeming to take possession of the whole house, extinguishing in one blow all the candles except those in the high chandelier.
The coach was still coming at speed, rocking round the corner at the end of the woodland road to approach the house. Elizabeth thought that it would surely rattle past the door. But now she could hear the shouts of the coachman and see him struggling with the reins. The horses were pulled to a halt and stood there, restless and neighing. Immediately, and before he could dismount, the coach door was opened and in the shaft of light from Pemberley they saw a woman almost falling out and shrieking into the wind. With her hat hanging by its ribbons round her neck and her loose hair blowing about her face, she seemed like some wild creature of the night, or a mad woman escaped from captivity. For a moment Elizabeth stood rooted, incapable of action or thought. And then she recognised that this wild shrieking apparition was Lydia and ran forward to help. But Lydia pushed her aside and, still screaming, thrust herself into Jane’s arms, nearly toppling her. Bingley stepped forward to assist his wife and together they half-carried Lydia to the door. She was still howling and struggling as if unaware of who was supporting her, but once inside, protected from the wind, they could hear her harsh broken words.
‘Wickham’s dead! Denny has shot him! Why don’t you find him? They’re up there in the woodland. Why don’t you do something? Oh God, I know he’s dead!’
And then the sobs became moans and she slumped in Jane’s and Bingley’s arms as together they urged her gently towards the nearest chair.
Book Two
The Body in the Woodland
1
Instinctively Elizabeth had moved forward to help but Lydia thrust her aside with surprising strength, crying, ‘Not you, not you.’ Jane took over, kneeling beside the chair and holding both Lydia’s hands in hers, gently murmuring reassurance and sympathy, while Bingley, distressed, stood impotently by. And now Lydia’s tears changed to an unnatural whooping as if she were fighting for breath, a disturbing sound which seemed hardly human.
Stoughton had left the front door slightly ajar. The postilion, standing by the horses, seemed too shocked to move and Alveston and Stoughton dragged Lydia’s trunk from the chaise and carried it into the hall. Stoughton turned to Darcy. ‘What about the two other pieces of luggage, sir?’
‘Leave them in the chaise. Mr Wickham and Captain Denny will presumably be travelling on when we find them so there is no point in leaving their baggage here. Get Wilkinson, will you Stoughton. Rouse him if he’s in bed. Tell him to fetch Dr McFee. He had better take the chaise; I don’t want the doctor riding through this wind. Tell him to give Dr McFee my compliments and explain that Mrs Wickham is here at Pemberley and requires his attention.’
Leaving the women to cope with Lydia, Darcy moved quickly to where the coachman was standing by the horses’ heads. He had been gazing anxiously at the door but, at the approach of Darcy, drew himself up and stood stiffly to attention. His relief on seeing the master of the house was almost palpable. He had done his best in an emergency and now normal life had returned and he was doing his job: standing by his horses and awaiting instructions.
Darcy said, ‘Who are you? Do I know you?’
‘I’m George Pratt, sir, from the Green Man.’
‘Of course. You are Mr Piggott’s coachman. Tell me what happened in the woodland. Make it clear and concise, but I want to know the whole story, and quickly.’
Pratt was obviously anxious to tell it and immediately broke into rapid speech. ‘Mr Wickham and his lady and Captain Denny came to the inn this afternoon but I wasn’t there when they arrived. Come eight o’clock or thereabouts this evening Mr Piggott told me I was to drive Mr and Mrs Wickham and the captain to Pemberley when the lady was ready, using the back road through the woodland. I was to leave Mrs Wickham at the house to go to the ball, or so she was saying earlier to Mrs Piggott. After that my orders was to take the two gentlemen to the King’s Arms at Lambton and then return with the chaise to the inn. I heard Mrs Wickham saying to Mrs Piggott that the gentlemen would be travelling on to London the next day and that Mr Wickham was hopeful of getting employment.’
‘Where are Mr Wickham and Captain Denny?’
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. When we was about halfway into the woodland Captain Denny knocked to stop the chaise and got out. He shouted something like, “I’m finished with it and with you. I’ll have no part in it,” and ran off into the woodland. Then Mr Wickham went after him, shouting to him to come back and not be a fool, and Mrs Wickham started screaming for him not to leave her and made to follow, but after she got down from the coach, she thought better of it and got back in. She was hollering something dreadful and making the horses nervous so that I could hardly hold them, and then we heard the shots.’
‘How many?’
‘I couldn’t rightly say, sir, things being all awry with the captain making off and Mr Wickham running after him and the lady yelling, but I heard one shot for certain, sir, and maybe one or two more.’
‘How long after the gentlemen left did you hear the shots?’
‘Could be fifteen minutes, sir, maybe longer. I know we was standing there an awful long time expecting the gentlemen to come back. But I heard shots all right. It was then Mrs Wickham started screaming that we’d all be murdered and ordered me to drive at speed to Pemberley. It seemed the best thing to do, sir, seeing as how the gentlemen were not there to give orders. I thought they was lost in the woodland but I couldn’t go looking for them, sir, not with Mrs Wickham screaming murder and the horses in a right state.’
‘No, of course not. Were the shots close?’
‘Close enough, sir. I reckon someone was shooting maybe within a hundred yards.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll need you to take a party of us back to where the gentlemen went into the woodland and we’ll go in search.’
It was apparent that this plan was so deeply unwelcome to Pratt that he ventured an objection. ‘I was to go on to the King’s Arms in Lambton, sir, and then back to the Green Man. Those was my clear orders, sir. And the horses will be sore afeared of going back into the woodland.’
‘Obviously there is no point in going on to Lambton without Mr Wickham and Captain Denny. From now on you take your orders from me. They will be clear enough. It is your job to control the horses. Wait here, and keep them quiet. I will settle matters later with Mr Piggott. You will not be in any trouble if you do what I say.’
Inside Pemberley, Elizabeth turned to Mrs Reynolds and spoke quietly. ‘We need to get Mrs Wickham to bed. Is there one made up in the south guest room on the second floor?’
‘Yes madam, and a fire has already been lit. This room and two others are always prepared for Lady Anne’s ball in case we get another October night like the one in ’97 when the snow was four inches deep and some guests who had made a long journey could not get home. Shall we take Mrs Wickham there?’
Elizabeth said, ‘Yes that would be best, but in her present state she cannot be left alone. Someone will have to sleep in
the same room.’
Mrs Reynolds said, ‘There is a comfortable sofa as well as a single bed in the dressing room next door, madam. I can get the sofa moved in with blankets and pillows. And I expect Belton is still up and waiting for you. She must be aware that something is wrong and she is utterly discreet. I suggest that at present she and I take turns at sleeping on the sofa in Mrs Wickham’s room.’
Elizabeth said, ‘You and Belton should get your sleep tonight. Mrs Bingley and I should be able to manage.’
Returning to the hall, Darcy saw Lydia being half-carried up the stairs by Bingley and Jane, led by Mrs Reynolds. The whooping had sunk into quieter sobbing, but she wrenched herself free from Jane’s supporting arms and, turning, fixed a furious gaze on Darcy. ‘Why are you still here? Why don’t you go and find him? I heard the shots, I tell you. Oh my God – he could be injured or dead! Wickham could be dying and you just stand there. For God’s sake go!’
Darcy said calmly, ‘We are getting ready now. I shall bring you news when we have any. There is no need to expect the worst. Mr Wickham and Captain Denny may be already heading this way on foot. Now try to rest.’
Murmuring reassurance to Lydia, Jane and Bingley had at last gained the top step and, following Mrs Reynolds, moved out of sight down the corridor. Elizabeth said, ‘I am afraid Lydia will make herself ill. We need Dr McFee; he could give her something to calm her.’
‘I have already ordered the chaise to collect him, and now we must go into the woodland to look for Wickham and Denny. Has Lydia been able to tell you what happened?’
‘She managed to control her weeping long enough to blurt out the main facts and to demand that her trunk be brought in and unlocked. I could almost believe that she is still expecting to go to the ball.’
It seemed to Darcy that the great entrance hall of Pemberley, with its elegant furniture, the beautiful staircase curving up to the gallery, and the family portraits, had suddenly become as alien as if he were entering it for the first time. The natural order which from boyhood had sustained him had been overturned and for a moment he felt as powerless as if he were no longer master in his house, an absurdity which found relief in an irritation over details. It was not Stoughton’s job, nor was it Alveston’s, to carry luggage, and Wilkinson, by long tradition, was the only member of the household who, apart from Stoughton, took his orders directly from his master. But at least something was being done. Lydia’s luggage had been carried in and the Pemberley chaise would go now to fetch Dr McFee. Instinctively he moved to his wife and gently took her hand. It was as cold as death but he felt her reassuring, answering pressure and was comforted.
Bingley had now come down the stairs and was joined by Alveston and Stoughton. Darcy briefly recounted what he had learned from Pratt, but it was apparent that Lydia, despite her distress, had indeed managed to gasp out the essentials of her story.
Darcy said, ‘We need Pratt to point out where Denny and Wickham left the carriage, so we shall be taking Piggott’s chaise. You had better stay here, Charles, with the ladies, and Stoughton can guard the door. If you will be part of this, Alveston, we should be able to manage between us.’
Alveston said, ‘Please use me, sir, in any way in which I can be of help.’
Darcy turned to Stoughton. ‘We may need a stretcher. Is there not one in the room next to the gunroom?’
‘Yes sir, the one we used when Lord Instone broke his leg in the hunt.’
‘Then fetch it, will you. And we shall need blankets, some brandy and water and lanterns.’
Alveston said, ‘I can help with those,’ and immediately the two of them were gone.
It seemed to Darcy that they had spent too long talking and making arrangements, but looking at his watch he saw that only fifteen minutes had passed since Lydia’s dramatic arrival. It was then that he heard the sound of hoofs and, turning, saw a horseman galloping on the greensward at the edge of the river. Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned. Before he had time to dismount, Stoughton came round the corner of the house carrying a stretcher over his shoulder followed by Alveston and a manservant, their arms laden with two folded blankets, the bottles of brandy and water and three lanterns. Darcy went up to the colonel and rapidly gave him a concise account of the night’s events and what they had in mind.
Fitzwilliam listened in silence, then said, ‘You are mounting quite an impressive expedition to satisfy one hysterical woman. I daresay the fools have lost themselves in the woodland, or one of them has tripped over a tree root and sprained an ankle. They are probably even now limping to Pemberley or the King’s Arms, but if the coachman also heard shots we had better go armed. I’ll get my pistol and join you in the chaise. If the stretcher is needed you could do with an extra man and a horse would be an encumbrance if we have to go into the depths of the woodland, which seems likely. I will bring my pocket compass. Two grown men getting themselves lost like children is stupid enough, five would be ludicrous.’
He mounted his horse and quickly trotted towards the stables. The colonel had offered no explanation of his absence and Darcy, in the trauma of the evening’s events, had given no thought to him. He reflected that wherever Fitzwilliam had been, his return was inopportune if he were to hold up the enterprise or demand information and explanations which no one could yet supply, but it was true that they could do with an extra man. Bingley would stay to look after the women, and he could, as always, rely on Stoughton and Mrs Reynolds to ensure that all doors and windows were secure and to cope with any inquisitive servants. But there was no undue delay. His cousin was back within a few minutes and he and Alveston lashed the stretcher to the chaise, the three men got in and Pratt mounted the leading horse.
It was then that Elizabeth appeared and ran up to the chaise. ‘We’re forgetting Bidwell. If there’s any trouble in the woodland, he should be with his family. Perhaps he is already. Has he left to go home yet do you know, Stoughton?’
‘No madam. He is still polishing the silver. He was not expecting to go home until Sunday. Some of the indoor staff are still working, madam.’
Before Elizabeth could reply, the colonel got quickly out of the chaise saying, ‘I’ll fetch him. I know where he will be – in the butler’s pantry,’ and he was gone.
Glancing at her husband’s face, Elizabeth saw his frown and knew that he was sharing her surprise. Now that the colonel had arrived it was apparent that he was determined to take control of the enterprise in all its aspects, but she told herself that this was not perhaps surprising; he was, after all, accustomed to assuming command in moments of crisis.
He returned quickly, but without Bidwell, saying, ‘He was so distressed at leaving his work half-finished that I did not press the matter. As usual on the night before the ball Stoughton has already arranged for him to stay overnight. He will be working all day tomorrow, and his wife will not expect to see him until Sunday. I told him that we would check that all is well at the cottage. I hope I have not exceeded my authority.’
Since the colonel had no authority over the Pemberley servants to be exceeded, there was nothing Elizabeth could say.
At last they moved off, watched from the door by a small group consisting of Elizabeth, Jane, Bingley and the two servants. No one spoke and when, minutes later, Darcy looked back, the great door of Pemberley had been closed and the house stood as if deserted, serene and beautiful in the moonlight.
2
No part of the Pemberley estate was neglected but, unlike the arboretum, the woodland to the north-west neither received nor required much attention. Occasionally a tree would be felled to provide winter fuel or timber for structural repairs to the cottages, and bushes inconveniently close to the path would be cut back or a dead tree chopped down and the trunk hauled away. A narrow lane rutted by the carts delivering provisions to the servants’ entrance led from the gatehouse to the wide courtyard at the rear of Pemberley, beyond which were the stables. From the courtyard, a door to the back of the house led to a passage and the gunro
om and steward’s office.
The chaise, burdened with the three passengers, the stretcher and two bags belonging to Wickham and Captain Denny, was slow-moving and all three passengers sat in silence which, in Darcy, was close to an unaccountable lethargy. Suddenly the chaise shook to a stop. Rousing himself, Darcy looked out and felt the first sharp rain stinging his face. It seemed to him that a great fissured cliff face hung over them, bleak and impenetrable which, even as he looked, trembled as if about to fall. Then his mind took hold of reality, the fissures in the rock widened to become a gap between closely planted trees, and he heard Pratt urging the unwilling horses onto the woodland path.
Slowly they moved into loam-smelling darkness. They had been travelling under the eerie light of the full moon which seemed to be sailing before them like some ghostly companion, at one moment lost and then reappearing. After some yards, Fitzwilliam said to Darcy, ‘We would be better on foot from now on. Pratt may not be precise in memory and we need to keep a close watch for the place where Wickham and Denny entered the woodland and where they may have come out. We can see and hear better outside the chaise.’
They got out of the chaise carrying their lanterns and, as Darcy had expected, the colonel took his place at the front. The ground was softened with fallen leaves so that their footfalls were muted and Darcy could hear little but the creak of the chaise, the harsh breathing of the horses and the rattle of the reins. In places the boughs overhead met to form a dense arched tunnel from which only occasionally he could glimpse the moon, and in this cloistered darkness all he could hear of the wind was a faint rustling of the thin upper twigs, as if they were still the habitation of the chirping birds of spring.
As always when he walked in the woodland, Darcy’s thought turned to his great-grandfather. The charm of the woodland for that long-dead George Darcy must have lain partly in the wood’s diversity, its secret footpaths and unexpected vistas. Here in his remote tree-guarded refuge where the birds and small animals could come unimpeded to his home, he could believe that he and nature were one, breathing the same air, guided by the same spirit. As a boy playing in the woodland, Darcy had always sympathised with his great-grandfather and he had early realised that this seldom-mentioned Darcy, who had abdicated his responsibility to the estate and the house, was an embarrassment to his family. Before shooting his dog, Soldier, and himself, he had left a brief note asking to be buried with the animal, but this impious request had been ignored by the family and George Darcy lay with his forebears in the enclosed family section of the village churchyard, while Soldier had his own woodland grave with a granite headstone carved simply with his name and the date of his death. From childhood Darcy had been aware that his father had feared that there might be some inherited weakness in the family and had early indoctrinated in him the great obligations which would lie on his shoulders once he inherited, responsibilities for both the estate and those who served and depended on it, which no elder son could ever reject.