Page 23 of Chasing Shadows
The news of Samuel Reeds’ arrest spread through Meryton with astonishing swiftness.
Before the day was out, every street hummed with whispers.
Servants from Netherfield repeated it to each neighbour they encountered, until the tale had grown into five different versions by evening.
Ladies who had taken physic from his hand now wrung theirs in terror, declaring they must be examined at once lest they had been poisoned unawares.
Gentlemen, with a solemn shake of the head, assured one another that they had always mistrusted him and were not at all surprised.
Families where he had once called turned pale, wondering if the cordial or draught he had left upon their tables might already be working its poison in their blood.
The uproar was complete; Meryton was as fevered by gossip as it had been by fear of murder.
The gentleman from Netherfield—Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived at Longbourn the following morning, not long after breakfast on Christmas Day.
The air was sharp and bright, the hedgerows rimed with snow, the lanes still edged in white where the sun had not yet touched them.
At the sound of the knocker, the whole Bennet household hastened into the hall, curiosity and anticipation writ upon every face.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy! Colonel Fitzwilliam!” Mrs. Bennet cried, sweeping forward with such eagerness that poor Hill nearly dropped the tray she carried.
“What a delight, what a true delight to see you all on such a morning. Pray come in—Hill, the best parlour, at once! Oh, how fine it is to have gentlemen of your standing visit us on Christmas Day. Jane, Lizzy, make haste! Lydia, Kitty, compose yourselves this instant.”
“Merry Christmas to you, madam,” Bingley returned with his customary warmth. His eyes, however, went at once to Jane. His smile spoke volumes, and she, blushing, required no words to reply.
Darcy bowed politely. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Bennet. Miss Bennet.” His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer upon Elizabeth. She returned his greeting with a quiet inclination, her own spirits lifted in some unaccountable way by the calm steadiness of his manner.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s tone was heartier. “A very good Christmas to you all. We intrude upon your merriment, but I trust you will forgive us when you hear what news we bring.”
In a moment, they were assembled in the parlour.
The fire blazed, casting a cheerful glow upon the frosted windows.
Elizabeth sat beside Jane, her eyes straying now and then to Mr. Darcy, though her thoughts were divided between the comfort of his presence and the dreadfulness of all that had so lately passed.
It was Mr. Bennet who spoke first, once all were seated.
“Well, gentlemen, you must know the neighbourhood is in an uproar. Meryton has not spoken of anything else since yesterday. Pray, enlighten us—what have you discovered of this Reeds, or Younge, or whatever name he may claim? The tale grows larger with every telling.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam inclined his head gravely. “Permit me, then, to set the matter straight. Miss Elizabeth was right in suspecting that Ramsgate might be connected. And thank Providence that Miss Lydia caught the word when the tradesman let it fall.”
Lydia blushed at this notice, but her father’s glance brought her to composure.
“When we searched his baggage,” Fitzwilliam continued, “we discovered letters, many letters, written by his sister, Mrs. Younge. His given name is John. John Younge. They were not merely brother and sister, but partners in deception, long accustomed to schemes and trickery, living upon whatever they might contrive.”
Elizabeth leaned forward. “Mr. Reeds? —”
“A falsehood,” Fitzwilliam confirmed, “and perhaps worse. He killed with such ease, such indifference, that I believe him capable of far more than we have yet uncovered. I suspect it is the very reason she kept him hidden from all quarters. One letter in particular reveals much. Mrs. Younge wrote to her brother after the failed elopement with Georgiana. It would seem even he was party to it. Wickham was drawn in only by his greed. Yet he himself was deceived. He fancied himself the mastermind, certain of her confidence, when in truth she was the planner all along. She drained him of money she never meant to repay and, I believe, intended to strip him of whatever might be secured from Georgiana’s dowry as well.
“When the attempt failed, her reputation was ruined. With Darcy refusing all further inquiry on her behalf, and declaring her a woman of infamous character to any who sought him, she could contrive no further scheme. Every avenue was closed against her. Burdened with creditors, she borrowed so heavily that she could not flee Ramsgate. Her letters speak of nothing but debts, failed ventures, and her dependence upon Wickham’s success.
When Darcy thwarted it, she considered herself undone.
She blamed Wickham, she blamed Darcy, she even blamed Georgiana for not being more pliant.
Threatened with debtor’s prison, with nowhere to run, she wrote one final letter, declaring her intent to end her life in despair. The resentment was sown then.”
Mrs. Bennet gasped. “And all this time, we were nearly poisoned in our very parlour! To think this man brought draughts for my dear Jane under Mr. Bingley’s roof!”
Darcy spoke quietly, his voice steady. “No, madam. You need not distress yourself. Yes, the uproar is great among those he attended, but Mr. Jones has assured us no harm will come to any. He is tending several who fell ill from nothing more than fright. Every vial Reeds brought to Netherfield was tested. All save two proved harmless. The poison was prepared for me and for my sister. The rest were ordinary physic.”
Elizabeth flinched at Georgiana’s name, and a chill passed over her.
“The substance was laudanum mixed with foxglove,” Fitzwilliam explained. “A potent draught. It would not strike at once, but within a day it would sap the breath and weaken the heart. A decline so neat, so plausible, that few would suspect poison. He contrived it carefully.”
Mr. Bennet raised his brows. “So here we have a murderer with scruples. He would not destroy the many, only the few. A sort of conscience in crime.”
Darcy shook his head. “No conscience, sir. Not conscience, but delusion. He lived entirely in his sister’s disgrace.
His mind was fixed upon revenge, and nothing else.
His reason was so unbalanced that he believed himself justified in every act.
He was not an ordinary criminal, but a man half-deranged, whose whole being was bent on vengeance. ”
Elizabeth studied him as he spoke, struck by the quiet force of his words.
Again, she thought of her own foolish trust in appearances—first in Wickham’s agreeable manners, then in Reeds’ civility.
How easily she had been deceived. Was she so poor a judge of character?
The thought burned her cheeks. Yet Darcy’s eyes met hers, steady and unflinching, and the faintest shake of his head seemed to read her doubt and dispel it.
Mrs. Bennet, however, was not to be appeased. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, it chills me to think of my Jane and Lizzy in danger, and dear Miss Darcy too! I declare I shall never see a bottle of cordial again without suspecting it of poison.”
“Come, my dear,” Mr. Bennet interposed with wry humour, “you must not alarm yourself into refusing your next glass of port. One poisoned cordial does not condemn them all.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam allowed himself a small smile. “Mr. Jones is sorely distressed, but he has examined every preparation in his shop and assures us there is no cause for alarm. Reeds’ treachery was confined to the few bottles he carried to Netherfield.”
Mrs. Bennet fluttered her handkerchief. “Well, I am glad of it. It is enough that it took five murders to end it, and Lizzy could have been one of them. I am sure I shall never recover from the thought of a murderer in our midst. To think I once suspected Mr. Darcy himself as the murderer!”
Darcy bowed slightly, his expression unreadable, though Elizabeth thought she detected a glimmer of dry amusement in his eyes.
Mr. Bennet leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Tell me, Colonel, how did he fool Mr. Jones so neatly? If he is a charlatan, surely one would see he was no apothecary.”
“Sir,” Fitzwilliam replied, “men such as Reeds…Younge, are sharpers, swindlers, and master impostors. To sell their schemes, they become whatever they must—apothecary, valet, clerk, even gentleman—whatever will support their disguise. He may have had a little training once in apothecary work, or simply learnt enough to maintain the appearance, but what convinced Mr. Jones were the documents he carried. Two letters of reference, both purporting to be from respected apothecaries in Wales and in Ireland. Forged, no doubt, but so carefully contrived that no honest man would suspect them. I believe he chose a profession that would grant him access in and out of houses without raising questions. One can scarcely blame Mr. Jones; anyone shown such papers might have been deceived.”
Mr. Bennet’s lips twitched. “Indeed. With such talents, he might have been anything—a solicitor, a clergyman like Mr. Collins, or even a magistrate. Instead, he aspired to be an apothecary’s boy with a knack for poison.
I daresay even Mr. Collins’s longest sermon would be harder to swallow than one of Mr. Reeds’ draughts. ”
The room broke into laughter. Even Mary, who had remained silent at the edge of the company, permitted herself a smile. Elizabeth only shook her head at her father’s jest, though her eyes betrayed a reluctant amusement.
When the laughter died down, Jane spoke softly, her voice soothing. “Let us be thankful it is ended. The neighbourhood is safe again. We have no more to fear.”
“Yes, Miss Bennet,” Bingley said warmly, “peace at last, and on Christmas Day too.”
Elizabeth sat back as the conversation wound on, the fire crackling in the grate, her family gathered close and safe. The danger was past, the killer taken, Mr. Darcy’s name restored. Her doubts and fears might linger, yet the shadow that had loomed over Meryton had been lifted.
Her eyes drifted to Mr. Darcy’s. There was no mistaking it now, the warmth in his look hinting at what his lips had not yet spoken. The troubles of the past days had held such words in check, yet when his gaze met hers, calm and steady, her breath eased at last.