Page 21 of Chasing Shadows

Mrs. Pritchard received him in a modest parlour at the front of the house, its windows looking onto the narrow street below.

The lodging itself was a tall, narrow building of grey stone, its facade plain but respectable.

It stood at the head of a row of smaller houses, each let to widows or single ladies of slender means.

A boy of perhaps seven had been playing with a wooden hoop in the street when Fitzwilliam asked for direction; the child pointed him toward the house, just as the last glimmer of daylight faded into the sea.

After repeating the same tale he had given the first landlord, Fitzwilliam waited while the woman, a spare figure with shrewd eyes and a pointed chin, regarded him steadily, as though weighing every syllable for truth.

“The landlord of her former lodging told me she may have taken her own life,” he said gravely.

“Yet he directed me here, saying this was the last place she resided. I had hoped you might speak of her final days. Perhaps there is some family yet to be traced—someone to whom I might deliver what remembrance is left to her.”

Mrs. Pritchard gave a small sniff. “I thought such things were the work of solicitors.”

“I was named executor of my uncle’s estate,” Fitzwilliam returned smoothly. “It seemed best to handle the matter myself.”

The woman’s expression tightened, and for a moment she seemed disinclined to speak.

At last, she gave a sigh. “Well, sir, I must confess your uncle must have known a very different version of Mrs. Younge. She was a troubling tenant, always with one scheme or another. She sought employment more than once, but no one would take her. Still, she contrived to keep her room, though she owed me two months’ rent.

” Her voice lowered, heavy with distaste.

“More than once, I suspected she would quit Ramsgate altogether, yet her creditors kept her fast. Some four months after she first lodged here, I observed that she had not been seen for three days. None of the neighbours had heard from her either. I supposed she had at last slipped away to escape her creditors. I was therefore obliged to open her door. There she lay in her bed, poisoned by her own hand. By then, the body was already swelling, and the stench so dreadful that the parish officers were summoned without delay. The coroner held his inquest, and the verdict was suicide. She was buried at the crossroads, as is the custom for such unfortunate souls.”

Fitzwilliam shook his head slowly. “A grave affair indeed. What a pity.”

A silence fell, broken only by the creak of the fire in the grate.

Fitzwilliam shifted in his chair, his fingers drumming once against his knee before he stilled them.

Was this how the trail ended, in a cold room with nothing but a sordid tale of debts and despair?

At last, he cleared his throat. “Did anyone ever come seeking her here? Any family, perhaps?”

“Family?” Mrs. Pritchard gave a short laugh.

“The only people who came for her were creditors, or such characters as might have suited her company. I always believed her debts were what drove her to it. There was one fellow, though—Mr. Wickham. He called a few times until they had a great quarrel. He never returned after that.”

Fitzwilliam was not surprised. Darcy had once admitted that Wickham and Mrs. Younge had been upon terms of far greater intimacy than he had first supposed.

Had he known it sooner, he would never have permitted Wickham to recommend her.

Yet Fitzwilliam could not help but wonder at the quarrel the woman had described.

It might have arisen from the failed elopement, each charging the other with cowardice or betrayal, or as easily from money, or some fresh deceit attempted here in Ramsgate.

With such characters, the cause mattered little.

Their alliance was ever destined to end in discord.

Still, the irony was sharp. That both should now be dead, each by a most grievous end, seemed a severe but just visitation for their offences against the Darcys, and perhaps others.

And then there was another man who came after her death. He said he was her brother.” Mrs. Pritchard said.

Fitzwilliam’s head came up sharply. “Her brother?”

“Mr. Younge, he called himself. But I had never clapped eyes on him before, nor had she ever spoken of any kin. He looked a shifty fellow to me, and I liked him little. He did not linger, only muttered that he had heard of her death and wished to see the place where she died. I thought it most irregular.”

A brother? Darcy had spoken of Mrs. Younge’s duplicity in detail, yet never of a brother.

Did he even know of such a man? If true, why had the fellow come only after her death?

And if false, then what was his purpose in calling himself kin?

The questions crowded Fitzwilliam’s mind, thick and uneasy.

“Do you know how I might reach him, madam?”

“Mrs. Pritchard shook her head with decision. ‘No, sir. I doubt he was what he claimed. More likely a lover, or a lover turned creditor, who came to see what might be seized of her effects. I do not judge what single women may do for company, but I know a schemer when I see one. He looked about, asked a question or two, and went his way. That was all.’”

Fitzwilliam leaned back, his jaw set. A brother, a lover, or a liar in disguise.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing in Mrs. Younge’s end appeared to touch upon the murders in Meryton.

Could Ramsgate’s mention have been a mere coincidence after all?

Or was there something in this woman’s wretched life that Mrs. Pritchard didn’t know that pointed to something yet unseen?

Mrs. Pritchard rose, smoothing her gown with brisk hands.

“I have kept what was left of her effects. It seemed only proper. If the so-called brother returned, he might reclaim them with proof, though he never has. Perhaps he was no brother at all. Still, I looked them over to make a record, and there was one piece I could not forget—a miniature. I may be mistaken, but I believe the likeness favoured the man who came. It made me wonder whether he was truly kin, or only a lover. For I know no reason why one should hide a brother, but many why a woman in her situation would hide a lover. If I place it in your hands, perhaps you may trace him further.”

Fitzwilliam inclined his head. “I should be grateful for it.”

She disappeared into the hall and later returned with a small, worn case.

“If you do confirm that he is indeed her brother,” she said, opening a small case and drawing forth a miniature painted on ivory, its colours already dulled with age, “pray let him know that what remains of her luggage is still here to be collected. She owed me two months’ rent, which no one has yet discharged.

Now that there is talk of an inheritance, I should like that debt settled; otherwise her trunks shall not be released.

” With this, she extended the miniature toward him.

Fitzwilliam received it with care. A young man’s face gazed back at him—keen eyes, a narrow jaw, and a faint curl of hair upon the brow.

For an instant, his memory faltered, groping for the likeness.

Then recognition struck him like a musket ball.

He had seen this countenance before, though older by a decade.

Mr. Samuel Reeds. The apothecary’s assistant.

The room seemed to close about him as the truth crashed in. The one who had passed beneath their notice, who had ready access to poisons, who had reason to move unseen through Meryton, now stared at him from the palm of his hand.

Fitzwilliam schooled his features into composure, though his pulse thundered in his ears.

Darcy had argued with conviction that Reeds could not be the culprit, for the man had served him the draught he requested after the second murder.

Had Reeds been the villain, Darcy insisted, he would have seized the opportunity to poison him then and there.

At the time, Fitzwilliam had cautioned him against such a defence, though he spoke without conviction, playing the devil’s advocate rather than out of any true suspicion.

Yet now he saw the flaw in that reasoning.

The man’s object was not a swift kill. It was to contrive suspicion against Darcy.

To destroy him by degrees. To kill him, perhaps, but not yet.

And now the truth stared back at him. The man who called himself Samuel Reeds was none other than Mr. Younge.

Why else would he change his name? How could an apothecary’s assistant so easily don a false identity?

Was he even trained in his profession at all?

And how had he deceived Mr. Jones so neatly?

The thought was too precise, too sinister, to be mere chance.

It made perfect sense that he had killed Wickham then.

Though not yet certain, Fitzwilliam had an idea why he was killing to frame Darcy.

It was all about Darcy himself, Georgiana, Wickham, and the failed elopement.

Did Samuel Reeds—Mr. Younge—lay the blame for his sister’s death upon the three of them?

It seemed likely. Yet if he had never visited his sister, and she had taken care to keep him from her record, how did he learn the details?

Darcy had kept it all secret. Had she confided in him herself?

A flood of questions beat against Fitzwilliam’s mind as he forced his hand to steadiness, willing the tremor from his fingers.

If Reeds was the killer, as he felt certain he must be, hiding beneath a false name and slipping in and out of sight, then the danger was far nearer than any of them had imagined.

Darcy was unguarded. Georgiana was unguarded.

All of Meryton was unguarded, believing the villain to be another.

He closed the miniature’s case and rose. “You have been most obliging, madam. I shall see that her remembrance is properly directed, and if he or any of her family should be found, I will send them here concerning her effects.”

Mrs. Pritchard gave a brisk nod, satisfied, and showed him to the door.

The night air struck him cold, but his mind burned with the image of the face he had just seen.

Samuel Reeds. The apothecary’s assistant, moving freely through Meryton with access to poisons enough to fell a regiment.

The truth of it rang like a warning bell: unless he reached Meryton in time, the next blow might already be falling.

He drew his coat close and quickened his step.

There could be no more delays, no more measured enquiries.

If Reeds was indeed at the heart of this web, every hour mattered.

He would rouse his post-driver and be on the road before midnight, snow or no snow.

There would be no rest for man or beast until he was back in Hertfordshire.