Page 2 of Chasing Shadows

The morning after Wickham’s death dawned grey and unsettled, as though even the heavens were reluctant to shine upon Meryton.

Following the events that had occurred the previous night, the Bennet household had scarcely slept at all.

Restless whispers had travelled the corridors of Longbourn through the night, particularly after the horseman had come with his note for Mr. Darcy.

He had ridden off that night after breaking the news to Mr. Bennet.

When at last the sun lifted itself over the hedgerows that morning, it found the family pale, worn, and on edge.

“My nerves! My poor nerves!” cried Mrs. Bennet, pressing a damp handkerchief to her eyes as she settled into her chair in the breakfast parlour.

“To think we have had not one but two murders in Meryton, and now Mr. Wickham stabbed in his very own lodgings! It is enough to drive a woman into her grave! Oh, what is to become of us?”

Kitty and Lydia exchanged wide-eyed glances, half frightened and half thrilled. Lydia leaned forward eagerly. “They say he was covered in blood from head to toe. Mary King told me so, and she heard it directly from her uncle, who passed by the apothecary this morning!”

Kitty shuddered, though her curiosity was not diminished. “And did they catch him—the man who did it?”

“No one has caught anyone,” Mary said reprovingly, though her hands trembled as she smoothed her napkin. “All I’ve heard is that Mr. Wickham was taken to the Apothecary gravely wounded, and that the gentlemen who brought him were unable to save him. Anything beyond that is gossip.”

Mrs. Bennet let out another wail. “Gravely wounded! Dead, more like! And it might have been any one of us! Why, Lizzy—” she clutched at her second daughter’s arm, her eyes wild—“do you not see how nearly it might have been you? What if the killer had chosen to strike at you instead of that scoundrel Wickham? To think of it makes me ill!”

Though none of the Bennet girls had ventured beyond the gates since the dreadful news of Mr. Wickham’s death, their friends who had been present at the Lucas Lodge ball lost no time in calling, each eager to impart their own version of the tale now running rife through the town.

The sisters exchanged these varied accounts amongst themselves, even as their mother continued her lamentations.

Elizabeth drew a steadying breath, though her mother’s words struck closer than she liked.

She had indeed been near the danger. After Mr. Darcy’s slight at the Meryton Assembly, she, like so many in the town, had foolishly concluded him to be the villain behind the murders when they started.

Determined to prove it, she had contrived to challenge him openly in the crowd, hoping, in her rashness, that he would come after her as he had, she believed, gone after others who had crossed him.

She had planned to stay awake in her sisters’ chamber and raise the alarm when he came.

In hindsight, the thought was folly. Worse still was the memory of how readily she had trusted Wickham’s every word, never questioning his tale of Darcy’s supposed cruelty.

She had allowed herself to be deceived and aided his opinion and that of many others in reinforcing the suspicion upon an innocent man.

Her reckless interference had undone Mr. Darcy’s careful design.

He and his cousin had meant to watch Wickham, whom they suspected of the murders.

Yet she had made herself a possible target through her quarrel with Darcy, and he had been forced to abandon the plan.

Out of fear for her, he had come directly to Longbourn.

There he laid everything bare—disproving Wickham’s lies and clearing his own name.

He had confessed his suspicions of Wickham’s complicity in the crimes to her father, setting aside his pride for the sake of her safety.

And now Wickham was dead.

Neither Darcy nor Wickham was the killer.

Elizabeth set down her spoon and said quietly, “Mama, you distress yourself needlessly. I am here, safe, and you must not give way to such fancies before my sisters.

But her words did little to stem the tide. Lydia began to chatter of pistols and highwaymen, Kitty whispered fears of ghosts, and Mrs. Bennet continued to bewail her fate until Mr. Bennet himself entered the room.

“Well,” he said dryly, surveying the chaos, “I see the gossip has already made its way to Longbourn. Meryton cannot contain a whisper for more than half an hour, much less a murder.”

“Do not jest, Mr. Bennet!” his wife cried. “Our lives are at stake! Murder stalks the very lanes, and you treat it as though it were a jest at whist!”

Mr. Bennet took his seat, poured his tea, and regarded his wife with that mixture of patience and irony his family knew well.

“I do not jest, my dear. I merely observe. Murder is indeed a serious business, and I should be glad to hear the particulars from those who know them, rather than from every housemaid between here and the Green.” His eyes flicked toward Elizabeth, thoughtful and keen.

Elizabeth lowered her eyes. She could not forget the manner in which Mr. Darcy had spoken the night before, urgent and protective, as he revealed the plan he and the colonel had contrived.

He and Mr. Bennet had remained awake to keep watch, determined to guard her should she become the murderer’s next prey.

Their vigil had been cut short only by Wickham’s calamity, yet its weight still pressed heavily upon her.

For all his falsehoods, Wickham’s death struck her with a strange heaviness, a mingling of pity, shame, and sober fear.

The morning meal dragged on, the family restless, when at last Hill entered to announce that two gentlemen had arrived.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy, sir.”

The parlour erupted at once.

“Mr. Darcy again!” Mrs. Bennet shrieked, fanning herself. “He brings soldiers to our very door! I shall faint! I shall be ruined!”

Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken, though her countenance remained composed.

Mr. Bennet cast a glance about the room, noting the eagerness written plainly on the faces of his wife and daughters.

He shook his head. Better not to indulge their curiosity, lest they carry fresh gossip to every corner of Meryton.

“Show them in,” he said at last.

The two gentlemen entered and, after the usual civilities were exchanged, Mr. Bennet motioned them toward his study. The men rose, but before her father could lead them from the room, Elizabeth cleared her throat. The sound compelled all three men to look back.

“Papa,” she said with quiet firmness, “I believe I ought to be present. Last night, I might have been the victim as easily as Mr. Wickham. Mr. Darcy knows it, as well as I.”

Mr. Bennet regarded her closely, then gave a grave nod. “Come, Lizzy. The rest of you remain here.”

Mrs. Bennet uttered a cry of protest, but the study door closed upon father and daughter before she could frame another word.

Within the office, the fire burned low, casting long shadows across the shelves and chairs. Mr. Bennet remained standing as the gentlemen entered.

Darcy bowed, grave and formal. “Mr. Bennet, may I present my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, once again. As I said yesterday, he came to Meryton at my request, to aid in clearing my name from suspicion. It was he who followed Wickham yesterday.”

The colonel inclined his head. “It is an honour to be received, sir, though I regret the occasion of our meeting.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes turned to his daughter. “Now, Lizzy, you ought not to be here. Yet I cannot deny your claim. You are right. The killer might as easily have chosen you as a victim.”

Elizabeth swallowed, her composure strained by the weight of Darcy’s gaze, which seemed fixed upon her.

“Whatever you hear within these walls is given in confidence,” Mr. Bennet went on. “You must be cautious in what you repeat to your sisters and mother. One whispered tale too many, and Longbourn will be the source of new gossip across the town.”

Elizabeth inclined her head solemnly.

“Very well,” said her father. “Pray, be seated.”

The gentlemen took their chairs, while Elizabeth stood near the window, her hand resting on the back of her father’s seat.

The colonel drew a breath, his clasped hands betraying the tension of his tale. “Sir, last night I was present when George Wickham was attacked. As you may have heard, he was struck down in his lodgings—stabbed through the chest. I entered moments after, but too late to prevent the blow.”

Elizabeth felt her throat tighten, her breath caught between grief and dread.

“I saw a man fleeing,” the colonel continued, his voice weighted with regret. “A fleeting glimpse only. Enough to know he was no common thief, but not enough to see his face. I confess I hesitated. Wickham still breathed, and I chose to aid him rather than give chase.”

Darcy spoke then, his tone calm yet firm. “It was the only honourable choice. No man could be faulted for it.”

The colonel inclined his head, though guilt still shadowed his eyes.

“We were joined by Mr. Tobias Hatch, the parish constable, who had been trailing Wickham. Together we bore him to Mr. Jones, the apothecary. A horse was dispatched to summon a surgeon from St. Albans, but Wickham’s wounds were mortal. He died soon after our arrival.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on the leather of her father’s chair.

Her mind turned to Wickham’s easy smile, his persuasive tones, the lies she had once believed so readily.

Shame burned within her at her credulity, yet the news of his death weighed heavily upon her heart.

Deceitful though he had been, to hear him brought to such an end was a sobering fate.

Mr. Bennet broke the silence. “So then, we have a murderer still at large, one who chooses his victims with care and strikes without warning.”