Page 89 of A Matter of Murder

Behind Bingley, Jane appeared. Her hands flew to her mouth when she saw the amount of blood on the ballroom floor, and she turned and ran for help.

All around them, guests were fleeing. A few lingered, watching wide-eyed in shock, but then the whispers started up. Darcy heard more than one person say the wordcurse, and he shuddered. This was the third accident to befall their party since they’d arrived at Netherfield Park.

Either he’d have to start believing in curses, or someone in the house wished them ill.

“She’s breathing,” Lizzie assured a panicked Bingley. “Let’s get her up.”

Darcy and Bingley lifted Caroline and Lizzie held Darcy’s jacket to the wound on her head. They carefully maneuvered around the spilled candles and stray crystals that had broken off from the chandelier, out of the ballroom and into the foyer, where guests were pouring out the door. They headed for the stairs, and Charlotte ran up to join them. “Mr. Thomas has gone on his horse to fetch the doctor,” she said. “And I ran to the kitchens and told Sally to bring up bandages and hot water.”

They got Caroline to her bedroom and into bed, and Jane came up with bandages herself. “The guests?” Bingley asked her.

“Forget the guests,” Jane said. “They’re all running home as fast as they can, convinced that this place is well and truly cursed. How is she?”

“Alive,” Lizzie said, looking up to meet Darcy’s eyes. He could hear the words she didn’t want to say:For now.

While the ladies tended to Caroline’s wound, Bingley paced and Darcy stood next to him, feeling utterly useless. It seemed to take an age for the doctor to arrive, and Caroline neither stirred nor woke as they waited. Her breathing had settled into a shallow rhythm, but it was a rhythm nonetheless. Sally eventually brought in hot water, and her eyes widened at the sight of all the blood. Not long after, the men were shooed out so the ladies could change Caroline’s blood-soaked dress into a fresh nightdress.

“I can’t lose her,” Bingley whispered as they stood out in the hall.

“You won’t,” Darcy said, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Of course, he had no way of knowing that for certain. But what else was he supposed to say?

“This place is a death trap,” Bingley muttered. “Curse or no curse, I think we all ought to leave and not come back until I’ve had every bit of it inspected. I suppose one should never look a gift horse in the mouth, but I am starting to wish Honoria had never left it to us.”

“Gentlemen.” Darcy and Bingley turned to find Mr. Bennet striding toward them. He wore a serious expression, which was not unusual for him, but there was something about this particular look, and his purposeful march, that made the hair on the back of Darcy’s neck stand up. “How is she?”

“Alive for now,” Bingley said. “We’re waiting for the doctor.”

Mr. Bennet nodded gravely. Then he said, “There’s something you ought to come see.”

He led them downstairs. The foyer was empty, the last of the guests having fled into the night, and the double doors leading into the ballroom were thrown open to reveal the chandelier at the center of the room, tilted over on the floor. Caroline’s blood stained the parquet, and small crystals were scattered about. Around the ballroom, empty glasses were abandoned and chairs were tipped over. But Mr. Bennet didn’t point to the wreckage in the room—instead, he led them to the side of the room, where, concealed by a velvet drape, the crank to the chandelier protruded from the wall.

“Look at this,” he said.

Darcy saw instantly what he was referring to: One end of a tattered rope hung limply from the crank. Darcy stepped forward and took a closer look, picking up the broken end. He spent a long, silent moment staring at it.

“This rope was cut,” he said. The end was not frayed or torn, like it would be if the rope had simply given out or the weight of the chandelier had been wearing on the fibers over time. The cut was clean. The type of cut that had been done with a knife.

“I believe so, yes,” Mr. Bennet said tersely.

“But what... how...” Bingley appeared incapable of speech, so great was his shock. “Why would anyone do this?”

“That’s precisely what I would like to know.” Darcy had never heard Mr. Bennet speak in such a foreboding manner, andit caused a shiver of apprehension to run through him. He stared at Darcy, as if he could guess at the secret he was keeping.

“Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said. “I can explain—”

“Father?”

They turned to find Lizzie at the door, looking after them suspiciously. She was still wearing her torn, blood-smeared gown, and it had an absolutely garish effect.

“Lizzie,” Mr. Bennet said, taking the end of the cut rope from Darcy’s hand, “I would like to know why someone cut through the rope that was holding that chandelier in place.”

Lizzie went pale and approached them slowly, looking at the rope in her father’s hand as if it were a live snake.

“This place really is cursed,” Bingley said, looking up at the ceiling where the chandelier had hung not an hour earlier.

“I don’t believe in curses,” Lizzie said.

“Then how do you explain this?” her father asked.