Page 1 of Chasing Shadows

Tobias Hatch, parish constable of Meryton, did not join the company at Lucas Lodge. He deemed it wiser to keep away, lest his chief suspect, Mr. Darcy, observe him watching too closely and thereby mask his true nature with a show of propriety.

When Sir Barnaby Fairchild, the magistrate, informed him of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s arrival and the gentleman’s request to view the sites of the murders, Hatch was far from satisfied.

That the cousin of the accused, a man of influence and command within the militia, should presume to meddle in an investigation of such delicacy struck him as nothing short of improper.

How could justice be served if the main suspect’s own kin were permitted to direct inquiries?

Worse still, with Colonel Fitzwilliam’s superior rank, Hatch suspected his own authority over the cases might soon be curtailed.

Yet the notion of being displaced did not dissuade him.

Hatch’s ambition had long outgrown the humble office of parish constable.

He dreamed of greater things—perhaps to be summoned to London as one of the Bow Street Runners, or at the very least to serve under a magistrate of note.

If he could bring this case to a successful conclusion—if he alone unravelled the truth—it might secure him the respect and advancement he had long craved.

Thus, while others danced and made merry within Lucas Lodge, where Sir.

William had thrown a ball in honour of his daughter’s engagement, Hatch stationed himself upon the footpath leading from the estate.

He had already secured the assistance of a servant in the household, bidding him keep a close watch upon Mr. Darcy and report should the gentleman betray himself in quarrel or in any act that might hint at a guilty conscience.

Barely an hour had passed when the servant returned, cheeks flushed from haste and excitement.

He leaned close, whispering the sort of tidings Hatch had been hoping for.

Mr. Darcy, it seemed, had indeed made himself conspicuous.

A quarrel had arisen with Mr. Wickham of the militia, witnessed by more than half the assembly.

And—better still—the Bennet girl, Miss Elizabeth, had interposed herself with sharp words on Wickham’s behalf.

“And Darcy’s answer?” Hatch asked in a low tone.

“None, sir,” came the reply. “He only stood still, looking at her as though rooted to the floor.”

When the servant withdrew, Hatch was left to weigh his course.

Prudence dictated the choice. Should he fix his watch upon Darcy, or trail the man most likely to provoke his vengeance?

The latter promised more. Miss Elizabeth Bennet could be set aside; every victim thus far had been a man, and her intervention, sharp though it might have been, had been offered only in defence of another.

It was Wickham who had met Darcy face to face, and Wickham who might well pay the price before the night was over.

Convenience, too, urged the same path. Darcy never attended a ball without a company about him—Mr. Bingley, his sisters, and at least a servant or two.

To follow so many without discovery was nearly impossible.

Wickham, on the other hand, was of a solitary bent.

He had come to the lodge alone, and Hatch had no doubt he would depart in like manner.

Such a man could be shadowed with ease, and Hatch would hazard no misstep that might betray his purpose.

So Hatch kept to the shadows at the edge of the grounds, crouched behind the broad trunk of an ancient oak.

From there, he marked the stream of guests departing—some on foot, some on horseback, others tucked away in creaking carriages.

Laughter and snatches of music drifted faintly from the lodge, but the night air outside was damp and still.

Nearly half an hour had slipped by before Wickham appeared at last. He strode into the lane with careless step, his hat set rakishly, as though he bore no mark of the altercation within. Hatch let him pass, then slipped from tree to tree, keeping the officer’s figure just within sight.

It was then he saw it—another shape moving with deliberate stealth.

Wickham walked on, unknowing, while the second man kept pace some yards behind, pausing when he paused, turning when he turned.

The hair rose on Hatch’s neck. This was no chance traveller upon the road.

Whoever it was had Wickham in his sights, and Hatch, heart pounding, quickened his steps to keep them both in view.

The moon gave little aid. Its thin light blurred the man’s features, yet Hatch knew at once it was not Darcy.

The figure was shorter, his gait more precise, as though accustomed to the art of stealth.

Hatch pressed against the rough bark of a tree, waiting until the clouds shifted and the light struck the man’s face. His breath caught. Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Shock jolted through him. What business had the colonel trailing Wickham at such an hour?

Was Wickham now under suspicion? Or was Fitzwilliam himself the murderer, bold enough to weave himself into the very investigation he sought to pervert?

Perhaps he acted as Darcy’s accomplice. Or perhaps, more innocently, he played the sentinel, hoping to catch the killer in the act.

Several such questions surged in Hatch’s mind, crowding and clashing until no answer could be discerned.

One thing only was certain: whatever unfolded that night, Hatch was determined to see it with his own eyes.

The two men walked on, neither aware that Hatch shadowed them still.

He kept their figures in sight, his tread noiseless on the damp earth, as he let his thoughts wander back to the grim business that had brought them to this point.

There had been two murders in Meryton already. The first was that of a local merchant, Mr. Edwin Harper. He had been observed disputing with Mr. Darcy at the Meryton assembly, and not long thereafter was discovered lifeless in his own home, the cause put down to alcohol poisoning.

The second was Thomas “Tom” Granger, a horse-hand at Netherfield. Darcy had scolded him at the Netherfield ball. By morning, the young man was dead—his life ended by asphyxiation.

One connection tied both cases together. Each man had crossed Darcy. And each had died soon after. More importantly, before Darcy arrives in Meryton, no such string of deaths had darkened the town.

Darcy had his answers ready, of course. When Hatch pressed him concerning Harper, he declared that the man had been in his cups at the assembly and had spoken with unbecoming freedom regarding Miss Bingley, for which he had received a stern rebuke.

His alibi on the night of the death was well confirmed.

In the matter of Tom Granger, others at the ball confirmed that Darcy had reprimanded him for his mishandled horse, and Darcy himself insisted he had retired to his chamber immediately thereafter. All neat. All orderly.

But Hatch was not satisfied. Men of wealth had means at their disposal.

Ten thousand a year could silence tongues, either by hiring a hand to do the deed or paying witnesses to hold theirs.

Hatch even entertained the thought that Darcy might have sought to bribe Granger into silence, should the horse-hand have seen or suspected him in Harper’s death.

If the man refused, it would explain his murder.

For what other reason could Darcy have to destroy a common groom?

Do not get ahead of yourself, Hatch mused. He had read enough in the Newgate Calendar to know that speculation was no substitute for fact. Evidence must be observed, recorded, and tested, not woven from suspicion alone.

His attention snapped back as they neared Wickham’s house. The colonel slowed, drawing into the shadows, though Hatch could still see his outline. Wickham cast one swift look behind before opening the door and vanishing within.

What now? Hatch’s body tightened, every sense alert. If the colonel so much as twitched toward violence, Hatch would act.

Then it came—a faint noise within. Fitzwilliam froze. Hatch strained his ears. Another sound followed, louder, yet not enough to rouse the neighbours.

From his hiding place, Hatch saw the colonel spring toward Wickham’s door. Could it be…? The thought would not form. Someone was inside, or something was amiss, and the alarm in the colonel’s countenance suggested he had no hand in it.

Fitzwilliam was already at the window, peering in, before Hatch dared move from his post. He slipped along the shadow of the nearest wall, keeping himself cloaked in darkness.

In the next instant, the colonel drove his boot hard against the door.

The wood burst apart with a crash, splinters flying in every direction.

This was no longer a matter of watching from the dark. This was a matter of catching a killer or saving a man. Instinct overruled caution. Hatch broke cover and rushed forward. He reached the doorway just as the colonel shouted, “Stop!” at someone.

The sight within struck him like a blow.

Wickham lay sprawled on the floor, his face ghostly pale, blood soaking his waistcoat and pooling beneath him.

From his chest jutted the hilt of a knife.

But it was not the injured officer who drew Hatch’s eye—it was the second figure.

A man, already fleeing for the back door, his movements sharp with desperation.

Hatch glimpsed him only a moment before the colonel gave chase, but the intruder was too swift. He vanished through the rear exit, swallowed by night.

“Help me,” Wickham gasped, his hand stretching weakly toward the colonel.

Hatch watched the Colonel hesitate, torn between the dying man and the escaping killer. At last, the colonel began to turn, clearly having chosen Wickham. Hatch clenched his jaw.

The colonel will see to Wickham. The killer must not escape.

He knew the streets of Meryton as he knew the lines of his palm.

The back lane led only toward the mill road.

Without a word or the colonel noticing him, he spun on his heel and raced back the way he had come.

Hatch cut sharply between two cottages, the narrow gap scraping his shoulders, and emerged ahead of where the lane emptied.

His chest heaved, his pulse roared, but his timing was true.

He burst out right behind the assailant.

The killer was in front, a dark shape running at full tilt.

Hatch hurled himself forward, fingers grasping at the man’s coat.

For the briefest instant, he thought he had him—but a sharp elbow drove mercilessly into his ribs.

Pain lanced through him, and he crashed to the ground.

Dust filled his mouth, his palms tore against the stones.

He rolled, cursing, and forced himself to his feet.

Ahead, the figure stumbled once, only once, then gathered speed with renewed desperation.

Hatch gave chase, but the distance widened.

The man was quick, far quicker than Hatch would have believed.

Before he could close the gap, the shadow darted into the fringe of the wood and was gone, swallowed by the night.

Hatch staggered to a halt, his chest heaving, breath tearing harshly from his throat.

His side burned where the elbow had struck, each gasp a stab of pain.

He bent forward, hands braced upon his knees, and spat dust from his mouth.

A hoarse curse broke from him, raw and unrestrained, and the sound rang out into the night, bouncing back from stone walls and hedgerows as though mocking his failure.

He straightened at last, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, ready to turn and retrace his steps in bitter defeat. Then his gaze snagged on something pale lying against the dark earth.

He stopped short. A square of white cloth lay in the dirt, its corner stirred by the faintest breeze. Hatch bent, his fingers closing over it, and lifted it to the moonlight. A handkerchief.

He lifted the square of linen to his face.

At once, a sweetness rose to meet him, cloying and unwholesome, so sharp it seemed to seep into his throat.

It was no fragrance of garden bloom, nor the fresh comfort of laundered linen.

This scent clung like oil, stubborn and heavy, as though it meant to brand itself upon his very flesh.

Almost at once, his head swam. A dull haze pressed at the edges of his thoughts, and the strength in his limbs wavered. He blinked hard, willing his senses to clear, and snatched the cloth from his nose. The night air rushed in sharp and cold, a blessed relief after that treacherous sweetness.

His stomach gave a twist. He had breathed it before.

Hatch closed his eyes, and in an instant the memory returned—Tom Granger’s chamber, the stale air of death, and beneath it all, the same faint sweetness.

He had thought it some trace of fruit, or perhaps the wash used on the floorboards.

Yet the cloth in his hand left no doubt. It was the same scent.

His fingers tightened until the fabric bunched within his grasp.

The thing seemed almost alive, trembling with significance, though he could not yet name what was on it.

There was, however, one person in Meryton whom he was certain might.

Mr. Jones, the apothecary, possessed both the nose and the knowledge for such matters.

Yet Hatch resolved in that moment that no one else would learn of it.

Not yet. The handkerchief was his discovery, his evidence.

To reveal it too soon would serve only to warn the murderer, who would grow cautious, careful, and slip further from reach.

No. This clue must be guarded until he could be certain.

One thing, however, Hatch knew beyond doubt: the knife that struck Wickham had not been in Fitzwilliam’s hand, nor Darcy’s. To that, he could swear. Yet whose hand had wielded it—who the man was whom he had just pursued—remained a question, dark and unanswered

He tucked the handkerchief securely away and turned back toward Wickham’s house.

Perhaps the officer still lived. Perhaps he had seen the face of his assailant before the blade struck.

If the colonel bore him now to the apothecary’s care, then fortune might grant Hatch a double prize: Wickham’s testimony, and Mr. Jones’s wisdom concerning the handkerchief’s strange perfume.

Either way, Hatch would not waste what the night had given him. The chase was not ended. It had only begun.