Page 17 of Chasing Shadows

In the third week of December, just about nine days before Christmas, Mr. Thomas Dobson arrived in Meryton, having travelled from Bolton.

He was a man of no remarkable height—perhaps five feet four—with legs somewhat bowed, hair sprinkled liberally with grey, and a countenance so unremarkable that he might pass twice in a crowd without notice.

Trade had been ill that year; indeed, he had nearly abandoned his circuit altogether when a chance acquaintance advised him that Hertfordshire and its surrounding villages might prove a profitable venture.

The prospect cheered him. A travelling tradesman by necessity rather than choice, Mr. Dobson sold children’s toys.

It was not, of late, the most lucrative of employments, for the great workshops of London produced them faster and cheaper than a solitary man might contrive.

Yet with Christmastide approaching, country families were often more inclined to delight their young ones with trifles than those in town, whose gaieties turned rather upon fairs and splendid assemblies.

Thus persuaded, Mr. Dobson entered Meryton the previous evening, took a modest room at the inn, and in the morning made his way into the marketplace.

There he displayed his wares to any who would pause long enough to look.

Fortune seemed to smile; he sold a few articles readily and, his spirits improved.

Just before noon, he resolved to refresh himself with a draught of ale.

He stepped into a public house and had scarcely approached the counter to make his request when his attention was arrested.

A gentleman sat but a few paces off. Dobson started, his eyes narrowing as he looked more closely.

The face was familiar—strangely so. He could not, for the life of him, recollect where he had seen it before; yet the conviction persisted that he had.

A familiar face, here, in Hertfordshire? It was the first such he had met since his arrival. After a moment’s hesitation, he resolved to draw nearer and discover whether his memory deceived him.

***

He sat in a shadowed corner of the public house, half-concealed by the smoke and clamour about him.

A pewter tankard rested at his elbow, its contents scarcely disturbed save for the faint mark of his lips upon the rim.

He had no taste for liquor that afternoon; it was habit alone that had carried him thither—the need to sit among men whilst remaining apart.

His gaze lingered upon the dark swirl of ale as his mind drifted.

It had been no accident. For months—nay, for a year—he had marked their steps, watching, listening, learning what he might.

Wickham’s haunts were ever taverns and gaming dens; Darcy’s movements, more guarded, required a keener ear.

Yet servants talk, and gossip travels swiftly when coin loosens tongues.

That was how he learnt of Darcy’s sojourn into Hertfordshire.

The knowledge roused him at once. Here, in this quiet corner of England, lay the very stage he had long desired.

Wickham could be summoned easily—his weakness for drink, for women, for the promise of sudden fortune, made him pliant.

A handful of paid drunks murmuring of Meryton, of ladies with purses and prospects, had been bait enough. The fool had taken it eagerly.

Thus, the threads were drawn together. Darcy and Wickham, side by side in the same village.

The thought had thrilled him. It was not enough to strike one and then the other, apart and unknowing.

No—the truest satisfaction lay in weaving their fates together, so that each ruin might reflect the other.

The first three deaths had been artfully contrived, each designed to strike at Darcy’s reputation, leaving the proud gentleman entangled in whispers and suspicion.

He had enjoyed listening with secret exultation as villagers muttered that Darcy must be the culprit.

A fitting justice. A taste of the shame Darcy himself had once inflicted.

But then—Hatch. Tobias Hatch, the parish constable.

The fellow had pressed too near. That cursed handkerchief—the single mistake.

Dropped in haste when flight became necessary; better to leave it than to be seized outright.

For a week, he had waited, certain Hatch would carry it to the magistrate.

When none came, he discerned the man’s intent: to pursue the trail quietly. Cleverer than most. Too clever.

He tapped the rim of his tankard with a fingernail, a thin smile curving his lips.

He had accounted for such a contingency—that was the very reason the ether had been procured in Richard Doughty’s name.

A stroke of foresight, and well-judged. Let suspicion fall once more where it had already settled, should any grow too inquisitive before his work was complete.

The notebook in Hatch’s chamber ought to have sufficed.

Yet the magistrate, the colonel, even Darcy himself, had accepted a paltry alibi and allowed Doughty his liberty.

He hissed softly between his teeth. Fools.

They couldn’t catch a fish already trapped in the net.

And now Darcy scarcely quitted Netherfield, watched on every side by vigilant eyes.

The sport had grown stale—too long protracted, too cautious, too fatiguing.

The hour was fast approaching when all must be brought to its close.

It was for this very purpose he lingered there, pondering in the shadowed corner how best to complete the remainder of his design.

“Pardon, sir—”

He stiffened. A diminutive man stood by his table, hat in hand, his air apologetic. “Forgive me, but have we met? I could almost swear your face is known to me.”

The killer’s gaze lifted, cold yet composed.

He lived here. He had made a place for himself in this town, woven his presence into the fabric of the marketplace and the streets.

He expected recognition, for that was the point of his disguise: to be seen, yet not seen; to be known as one thing so that no one thought to look for another.

But this man’s words betrayed a gap. He had not recognised him as the neighbour, the tradesman, the fellow townsman he was meant to be.

Instead, he had glimpsed something else.

The realisation chilled him. If his careful fiction did not hold in every mind, then his safety was not so certain as he had believed.

His voice, when he spoke, was low and deliberate. “You are mistaken, sir. However, good day to you.”

The fellow coloured, bowing awkwardly. “I meant no offence. Only, when I looked at you—”

The scrape of the chair forestalled him. Rising with studied composure, he adjusted his coat, left the almost full tankard precisely where it was, and moved past without haste. His step was steady, unhurried—such as might belong to any gentleman grown weary of unwelcome intrusion.

“Sir! Pray forgive me!” the little man called, hurrying after him. “I was certain I had seen you before—at Portsmouth perhaps? Or… yes, was it not near Rams—”

But he was already gone. His dark coat vanished round the corner, his tread measured upon the cobbles.

Behind him the fool’s voice still carried—“ Ramsgate !”—a word tossed into the air like a careless spark.

He felt the danger of it, sharp and perilous.

Sparks, left untended, have a way of kindling fire—and he had no intention of leaving this one to burn unchecked.

***

Mrs. Bennet could not prevent her younger daughters from leaving the house, particularly when they reminded her—rather saucily—that she had allowed Elizabeth and Jane to pass three entire days at Netherfield without her chaperonage, and that Christmastide shopping was in full swing.

Thus compelled, she permitted Mary, Kitty, and Lydia to walk into Meryton to call upon their Aunt Philips.

Jane, unwell with her courses, remained at home, and Elizabeth elected to stay behind and keep her sister company.

The three younger Bennet ladies set out merrily enough, and as they passed the marketplace, Lydia spied Mr. Denny standing near the public house at the town’s edge. With her usual vivacity, she hailed him at once, and he came forward with a bow.

“My dear Miss Lydia, Miss Kitty, Miss Mary—how do you all do?”

“Well enough,” Lydia returned with a grin. “And you, sir? It is long since we met in the High Street.”

Kitty, ever eager to be included, leaned forward. “How are you bearing it all, Mr. Denny—after Mr. Wickham’s death, I mean?”

Denny’s expression sobered. “It is a great loss, I assure you. The regiment feels it sorely. Colonel Forster has all hands employed in discovering this killer. We will not rest until justice is served.”

Lydia tossed her head, her tone half-petulant, half-mournful. “I shall always admire Mr. Wickham, whatever others may say. He was the handsomest officer in the corps.”

Before Denny could reply, a snatch of conversation drifted from behind them—low voices carrying from the corner of the public house.

One word reached Lydia’s ear with peculiar force: Ramsgate.

The tone in which it was spoken possessed a certain distinction that made her turn instinctively.

She saw only a man standing outside the pub alone, his coat dark and worn, his manner outwardly unremarkable.

His eyes met hers for the briefest moment, then he stepped forward with a smile.

“Pardon, young ladies,” he said, doffing his hat politely. “Might I tempt you with a toy? Fine work, I assure you.”

Kitty laughed. “We are too old for toys, sir.”

“Too old?” he echoed with good humour. “Nay, the child within us never dies. A simple trifle may cheer the heart of any age.”

Mary drew herself up with quiet propriety. “We thank you, sir, but we have business with our aunt and must not be delayed.”

“Then perhaps,” he replied easily, “you might purchase something for a younger friend—or as a neighbourly gift. Christmas comes apace, after all.”

Lydia chuckled, amused by the suggestion, but Mary urged her sisters on. Mr. Denny, with a gallant air, offered his arm.

“Permit me to see you safely to Mrs. Philips’s door,” said he. “I know well that is your destination, and three ladies alone are too pretty a sight to go unattended.”

Accepting his escort with goodwill, the Bennet girls continued toward their aunt’s, leaving the toy-seller behind them. None of them spared a second glance for the shadowed corner of the public house.

***

From the instant Thomas Dobson blurted the word - Ramsgate!

– outside the tavern, his life had been forfeit.

The man knew he might not even have recognised him, not truly; yet the danger lay not in what he knew but in what he might provoke.

A careless word repeated, a memory stirred in the wrong quarter, and all might be undone.

Such risks could not be tolerated. Not now.

Not when he had finally figured the final piece that afternoon, and it was so near its conclusion.

Thus, he had shadowed Dobson from that moment. All through the afternoon, he kept watch, while the man hawked his toys to curious children in the marketplace and when he later retired for drinks in the evening. He did not lose him from sight but stayed out of his.

Dobson lingered long in the pub by the marketplace, drinking more than was prudent and boasting of his sales to any who would listen. He laughed too loudly, slapped backs too readily, and when at last he staggered out into the night air, it was with the careless gait of a man half-foxed.

He followed. At a careful distance, his tread noiseless upon the frost, he shadowed the tradesman’s uneven progress down the darkened street.

No one marked him; no one ever did. He knew the fellow must lodge at the inn on the town’s edge, where all passing tradesmen often found their bed, and so he waited, patient as a hunter, until Dobson took the road leading out.

The lamps grew fewer, the houses sparser. The night deepened, empty of all but their two figures. When at last they reached the stretch where no window overlooked and no cart passed by, he closed the distance in a breath.

In a swift movement, his arm locked tight around Dobson’s throat from behind.

The little man gave a startled gasp, tried to claw at the arm that held him, but his struggles weakened quickly.

A twist, a brutal tightening, and the sound died in his throat.

Within moments, the body sagged in his grip, lifeless.

He lowered him silently to the ground. He searched him quicker than he had killed him.

The purse was there, heavy with coin. He considered it a welcome replenishment for the money he had spent on months of preparation.

He shouldered the bag of toys, already weighing how best to sink them in the river before dawn.

A few stones, and they would vanish into the mud forever.

That, in his opinion, was how best to stage a robbery anyone would believe.

Taking the money only could be questioned, but when the wares were gone as well, surely all would conclude it had been robbery.

That would draw less attention from anyone.

For a moment he stood over the crumpled form, as though to be certain the last faint wisp of breath had vanished into the cold night air.

This death had not been intended. Dobson was nothing.

He could not even say whether he had ever truly seen the man before, or if perchance he had and simply kept no memory of his face.

Yet Dobson’s almost-recognition was risk enough, and risks could not be tolerated.

Not now. Not when everything was prepared.

Drawing his cloak close, he resumed his measured pace upon the empty road, as though merely another traveller bound for home.

Should anyone later see him, he was certain no question would be raised.

Yet, cautious still, he turned aside into another route, one he knew would prove as deserted as the path by which he had followed Dobson.

If memory served him, it was also a faster route to the river.

A smile touched his lips as he murmured into the darkness, scarcely above the whisper of the wind. “One more week,” he said. “One more week, and it will all be over.”