Elizabeth thanked him warmly and said that, indeed, that was what she would wish. And when the doctor accompanied by Jane had left the room, she and Bingley went again to the window.
Bingley said, ‘We should not give up hope that all is well. The shots could have been a poacher after rabbits, or perhaps Denny fired his gun as a warning to someone lurking in the woods. We must not allow our imagination to conjure up images which reason must surely tell us are imaginary. There can be nothing in the woodland to tempt anyone with evil intent towards either Wickham or Denny.’
Elizabeth did not reply. Now even the familiar and well-loved landscape looked alien, the river winding like molten silver under the moon until a sudden gust of wind set it trembling into life. The road stretched in what seemed an eternal emptiness in a phantom landscape, mysterious and eerie, where nothing human could ever live or move. And it was just as Jane returned that, at last, the chaise came into sight, at first no more than a moving shape defined by the faint flicker of the distant lights. Resisting the temptation to dash to the door, they stood intently waiting.
Elizabeth could not keep the despair from her voice. She said, ‘They are moving slowly. If all were well they would come at speed.’
At that thought she could wait at the window no longer but ran downstairs, Jane and Bingley at her side. Stoughton must have seen the chaise from the ground floor window for the front door was already ajar. He said, ‘Would it not be wise, madam, to return to the music room? Mr Darcy will bring you the news as soon as they arrive. It is too cold to wait outside and there is nothing any of us can do until the chaise arrives.’
Elizabeth said, ‘Mrs Bingley and I would prefer to wait at the door, Stoughton.’
‘As you wish, madam.’
Together with Bingley they went out into the night and stood waiting. No one spoke until the chaise was a few yards from the door and they saw what they had feared, the shrouded shape on the stretcher. There was a sudden gust of wind, tossing Elizabeth’s hair around her face. She felt herself falling but managed to clutch at Bingley who put a supporting arm round her shoulders. At that moment the wind lifted the corner of the blanket and they saw the scarlet of an officer’s jacket.
Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke directly to Bingley. ‘You can tell Mrs Wickham that her husband is alive. Alive but unfit to be seen. Captain Denny is dead.’
Bingley said, ‘Shot?’
It was Darcy who replied. ‘No, not shot.’ He turned to Stoughton, ‘Fetch the outdoor and indoor keys to the gunroom. Colonel Fitzwilliam and I will carry the body across the north courtyard and lay it on the gunroom table.’ He turned again to Bingley. ‘Please take Elizabeth and Mrs Bingley inside. There is nothing they can do here and we need to bring Wickham in from the chaise. It would be distressing for them to see him in his present condition. We need to get him to a bed.’
Elizabeth wondered why her husband and the colonel seemed unwilling to lower the stretcher to the ground, but they stood as if rooted until Stoughton came back within minutes and handed over the keys. Then almost ceremoniously, with Stoughton preceding them like an undertaker’s mute, they made their way through the courtyard and round to the rear of the house and the gunroom.
The chaise was now rocking violently and between the gusts of wind Elizabeth could hear Wickham’s wild, incoherent shouting, railing against his rescuers and the cowardice of Darcy and the colonel. Why hadn’t they caught the murderer? They had a gun. They knew how to use it. By God, he’d tried a shot or two, and he would be there now had they not lugged him away. Then came a stream of oaths, the worst of them borne away by the wind, followed by an outburst of weeping.
Elizabeth and Jane went inside. Wickham had now fallen and Bingley and Alveston together managed to pull him to his feet and began half-dragging him into the hall. Elizabeth had one glimpse at the wild-eyed, blood-besmirched face and then retreated out of sight while Wickham tried to fight himself free of Alveston’s grasp.
Bingley said, ‘We need a room with a strong door and a key. What do you suggest?’
Mrs Reynolds, who had now returned, looked at Elizabeth. She said, ‘The blue room, madam, at the end of the north corridor would be the most secure. There are only two small windows and it’s the furthest from the nursery.’
Bingley was still helping to control Wickham. He called to Mrs Reynolds, ‘Dr McFee is in the library. Tell him he is needed now. We cannot manage Mr Wickham in his present state. Tell him that we shall be in the blue bedroom.’
Bingley and Alveston grasped Wickham’s arms and began half-pulling him up the stairs. He was quieter now but still sobbing; as they reached the last step, he wrestled himself free and, glaring down at Darcy, hurled his final imprecations.
Jane turned to Elizabeth. She said, ‘I had better return to Lydia. Belton has been there for a long time and may need some relief. I hope Lydia will be sound asleep now, but we must reassure her that her husband is alive as soon as she is conscious. At least we have something to be grateful for. Dear Lizzy, if only I could have spared you this.’
The two sisters clung together for a moment and then Jane was gone. And now the hall was quiet. Elizabeth was shivering and, feeling suddenly faint, sat down on the nearest chair. She felt bereft, longing for Darcy to appear, and soon he was with her, coming from the gunroom through the back of the house. He came to her immediately and, raising her up, drew her gently to him.
‘My dear, let us get away from here and I will explain what happened. You have seen Wickham?’
‘Yes, I saw him carried in. He was a dreadful sight. Thank God Lydia did not see.’
‘How is she?’
‘Asleep, I hope. Dr McFee gave her something to calm her. And now he has gone with Mrs Reynolds to help with Wickham. Mr Alveston and Charles are taking Wickham to the blue bedroom in the north corridor. It seemed the best place for him.’
‘And Jane?’
‘She is with Lydia and Belton. She will spend the night in Lydia’s room with Mr Bingley in the dressing room next door. Lydia would not tolerate my company. It has to be Jane.’
‘Then let us go to the music room. I must have some moments with you alone. Today we have scarcely seen each other. I will tell you as much as I know, but it isn’t good. Then I must go tonight to notify Sir Selwyn Hardcastle of Captain Denny’s death. He is the nearest magistrate. I cannot have any part in this; it will be for Hardcastle to take over from now on.’
‘But can it not wait, Fitzwilliam? You must be exhausted. And it will be after midnight if Sir Selwyn comes back tonight with the police. He cannot hope to do anything until morning.’
‘It is right that Sir Selwyn should be told without delay. He will expect it, and he is right to expect it. He will want to remove Denny’s body and probably see Wickham, if he is sober enough to be questioned. In any case, my love, Captain Denny’s body should be moved as soon as possible. I do not want to seem callous or irreverent but it will be convenient to have it out of the house before the servants wake. They will have to be told what has happened but it will be easier for all of us, particularly for the servants, if the body is no longer here.’
‘But you could at least stay and have something to eat and drink before you go. It is hours since dinner.’
‘I will stay for five minutes to take some coffee and to make sure Bingley is fully in the picture, but then I must be off.’
‘And Captain Denny, tell me what happened? Anything is better that this suspense. Charles is talking about an accident. Was this an accident?’
Darcy said gently, ‘My love, we must wait until the doctors have examined the body and can tell us how Captain Denny died. Until then it is all conjecture.’
‘So it could have been an accident?’
‘It is comforting to hope so, but I believe what I believed when I first saw his body – that Captain Denny was murdered.’
4
Five minutes later Elizabeth waited with Darcy at the front door for his horse to be brough
t round, and did not re-enter the house until she saw him break into a gallop and melt into the moonlit darkness. It would be an uncomfortable journey. The wind, which had spent its worst fury, had been succeeded by a heavy slanting rain, but she knew that the ride was necessary. Darcy was one of the three magistrates serving Pemberley and Lambton but he could have no part in this investigation and it was right that one of his colleagues should be informed of Denny’s death without delay. She hoped, too, that the body would be removed from Pemberley before morning when the waking household would have to be told by Darcy and herself something of what had happened. The presence of Mrs Wickham would have to be explained and Lydia herself was unlikely to be discreet. Darcy was a fine horseman and even in poor weather a night ride away from the house would hold no terror for him, but straining her eyes to see the last flashing shadow of the galloping horse, she had to fight down an irrational fear that something terrible would happen before he reached Hardcastle and that she was destined never to see him again.
For Darcy the gallop into the night was a release into temporary freedom. Although his shoulders still ached from the weight of the stretcher and he knew he was exhausted in mind and body, the smack of the wind and the cold rain stinging his face were a liberation. Sir Selwyn Hardcastle was the only magistrate known to be always at home and living within eight miles of Pemberley who would be able to take the case and would indeed be glad to do so, but he was not the colleague Darcy would have chosen. Unfortunately Josiah Clitheroe, the third member of the local magistrates, was incapacitated by gout, an affliction as painful as it was undeserved since the doctor, although known to be partial to a good dinner, never touched port wine, which was commonly believed to be the chief cause of this disabling complaint. Dr Clitheroe was a distinguished lawyer respected beyond the borders of his native Derbyshire, and accordingly regarded as an asset to the bench despite his garrulity which arose from a belief that the validity of a judgment was in proportion to the length of time spent in arriving at it. Every nuance of a case with which he was concerned was scrutinised in meticulous detail, previous cases researched and discussed and the relevant law propounded. And if the dictates of an ancient philosopher – particularly Plato or Socrates – could be seen as adding weight to the argument, they were produced. But despite the circuity of the journey, his eventual decision was invariably reasonable and there were few defendants who would not have felt unfairly discriminated against if Dr Clitheroe had not paid them the compliment of at least one hour’s incomprehensible dissertation when they appeared before him.
For Darcy, Dr Clitheroe’s illness was particularly inconvenient. He and Sir Selwyn Hardcastle, although they respected each other as magistrates, were not comfortable colleagues and until Darcy’s father succeeded to the Pemberley estate the two houses had been at enmity. The disagreement dated back to the time of Darcy’s grandfather, when the young servant from Pemberley, Patrick Reilly, had been found guilty of stealing a deer from the then Sir Selwyn’s deer park and was subsequently hanged.
The hanging had produce outrage among the Pemberley villagers but it was accepted that Mr Darcy had tried to save the boy, and Sir Selwyn and he became set in their publicly prescribed roles of the compassionate magistrate and the harsh upholder of the law, the distinction helped by Hardcastle’s seemingly appropriate name. The servants followed the example of their masters and resentment and animosity between the two houses were bequeathed from father to son. Only with the succession of Darcy’s father to the Pemberley estate was any attempt made to heal the breach, and then not until he was on his deathbed. He asked his son to do what he could to restore accord, pointing out that it was neither in the interests of the law nor of good relations between the two estates for the present hostility to continue. Darcy, inhibited by his reserve and a belief that openly to discuss a quarrel might only confirm its existence, took a more subtle path. Invitations to shooting parties and occasionally to family dinners were given and were accepted by Hardcastle. Perhaps he too had become increasingly aware of the dangers of the long-standing animosity, but the rapprochement had never developed into intimacy. Darcy knew that in the present trouble he would find in Hardcastle a conscientious and honest magistrate, but not a friend.
His horse seemed as glad of the fresh air and exercise as was its rider, and Darcy dismounted at Hardcastle House within half an hour. Sir Selwyn’s ancestor had received his barony in the time of Queen Elizabeth when the family house had been built. It was a large, rambling and complicated edifice, its seven high Tudor chimneys a landmark above the tall elms which surrounded the house like a barricade. Inside, the small windows and low ceilings gave little light. The present baronet’s father, impressed by some of the building by his neighbours, had added an elegant but discordant extension, now rarely used except as servant accommodation, Sir Selwyn preferring the Elizabethan building despite its many inconveniences.
Darcy’s tug on the iron bell-pull produced a clanging loud enough to awaken the whole house, and the door was opened within seconds by Sir Selwyn’s elderly butler, Buckle, who like his master apparently managed without sleep since he was known to be on duty whatever the hour. Sir Selwyn and Buckle were inseparable and the position of butler to the Hardcastle family was generally regarded as being hereditary since Buckle’s father had held it before him, as had his grandfather. The family resemblance between the generations was remarkable, every Buckle being squat, heavily built and long-armed, with the face of a benevolent bulldog. Buckle divested Darcy of his hat and riding jacket and, although the visitor was well known to him, asked him his name and, as was his invariable custom, instructed him to wait while his arrival was announced. The delay seemed interminable but eventually his heavy footsteps were heard approaching and he announced, ‘Sir Selwyn is in his smoking room, sir, if you will follow me.’
They went through the great hall with its high vaulted roof, many-paned window, impressive collection of armour and the mounted head of a stag, somewhat mouldy with age. It also housed the family portraits and down the generations the Hardcastles had gained a reputation among the neighbouring families for the impressive number and size of them, a reputation founded more on quantity than quality. Every baronet had bequeathed at least one strong prejudice or opinion to instruct or inconvenience his successors, among them being the belief, first formed by a seventeenth-century Sir Selwyn, that it was a waste of money to employ an expensive artist to paint the women of the family. All that was necessary to satisfy the pretensions of husbands and the vanity of wives was that the painter make a plain face pretty, a pretty face beautiful, and spend more time and paint on the sitter’s clothes than on the features. Since the Hardcastle men shared a propensity to admire the same type of female beauty, Buckle’s three-branch candelabrum, held high, illumined a line of poorly painted identical disapproving pursed lips and hostile protruding eyes, as satin and lace succeeded velvet, silk replaced satin, and silk gave way to muslin. The male Hardcastles had fared better. The strongly inherited, slightly hooked nose, the bushy eyebrows much darker than the hair, a wide mouth with almost bloodless lips looked down on Darcy with confident assurance. Here, one could believe, was the present Sir Selwyn, immortalised down the centuries by distinguished painters, in his various roles: responsible landowner and master, paterfamilias, benefactor of the poor, captain of the Derbyshire Volunteers, richly uniformed with his sash of office, and last of all the magistrate, stern, judicial but fair. There were few lowly visitors to Sir Selwyn who were not deeply impressed and suitably intimidated by the time they reached the Presence.
Darcy now followed Buckle into a narrow corridor towards the back of the house at the end of which Buckle, without knocking, opened a heavy oak door and announced in a stentorian voice, ‘Mr Darcy of Pemberley to see you, Sir Selwyn.’
Selwyn Hardcastle did not get up. He was sitting in a high-backed chair beside the fire wearing his smoking cap, his wig on a round table beside him which also held a bottle of port and a half-fil
led glass. He was reading from a heavy book which lay open in his lap and which he now closed with obvious regret after placing a bookmark carefully on the open page. The scene was almost a live reproduction for his portrait as magistrate and Darcy could imagine that he had a glimpse of the painter flitting tactfully through the door, the sitting over. The fire had obviously been recently tended and was now burning fiercely; against its small explosions of sound and the crackling of the logs, Darcy apologised for the lateness of his visit.
Sir Selwyn said, ‘It is no matter. I seldom end my reading for the day before one o’clock in the morning. You seem discomposed. I take it that this is an emergency. What trouble now is affecting the parish – poaching, sedition, mass insurrection? Has Boney at last landed, or has Mrs Phillimore’s poultry been raided once again? Please sit. That chair with the carved back is said to be comfortable and should hold your weight.’
Since it was the chair Darcy usually occupied he had every confidence that it would. He seated himself and told his story fully but succinctly, giving the salient facts without comment. Sir Selwyn listened in silence, then said. ‘Let me see if I have understood you correctly. Mr and Mrs George Wickham and Captain Denny were being driven by hired chaise to Pemberley where Mrs Wickham would spend the night before attending Lady Anne’s ball. Captain Denny at some stage left the chaise while it was in the Pemberley woodland, apparently after a disagreement, and Wickham followed him calling him to return. There was anxiety when neither gentleman reappeared. Mrs Wickham and Pratt, the coachman, said that they heard shots some fifteen minutes later and, naturally fearing foul play, Mrs Wickham, becoming overwrought, instructed the chaise to proceed at speed to Pemberley. After she arrived in considerable distress you initiated a search of the woodland by yourself, Colonel the Viscount Hartlep and the Honourable Henry Alveston, and together discovered the body of Captain Denny with Wickham kneeling over him apparently drunk and weeping, his face and hands bloodied.’ He paused after the exertion of this feat of memory and took some sips of his port before speaking. ‘Had Mrs Wickham been invited to the ball?’