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Chapter Thirteen

T he woods of Meryton held no charm for Darcy as he guided Colonel Forster and a dozen militiamen down the narrow, winding path. Darcy kept his face composed, though his stomach churned with each step that brought them closer to the spot where George Wickham lay dead, his once handsome features now frozen in death’s rigid embrace.

“It is just beyond that stand of oak trees, Colonel,” Darcy said, his voice steadier than he felt. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather had settled into his bones.

Colonel Forster nodded grimly. “Lead on, Mr. Darcy. My men will secure the area.”

The morning sunlight which dappled across the scene seemed obscenely cheerful given the circumstances. Wickham lay in the ditch, one arm flung outward as if reaching for salvation that had never arrived.

“Secure the perimeter,” Forster ordered his men, who moved with practiced efficiency to form a wide circle around the body. “No one is to disturb anything until the magistrate and doctor arrive. Look about and see if you can find a weapon, or signs of a scuffle.”

Darcy stepped back, positioning himself out of the way of the soldiers against the rough bark of a nearby oak. The solidity of the tree trunk against his back provided some small comfort as he fought to maintain his composure. He had never held any affection for Wickham, but seeing his childhood companion sprawled lifeless in the muddy ditch stirred complex emotions he had not anticipated.

“Dreadful business,” Colonel Forster said quietly, coming to stand beside Darcy. “Was Miss Elizabeth quite distraught?”

“Yes,” Darcy replied. “I sent her straight home and came to alert you. She was far too upset to be out in public, and I could not see that subjecting her to returning to the scene would be of any use. If you must question her, and I suppose that you will, please be gentle, Colonel.”

“I shall,” Forster agreed. “This scene is upsetting enough to you or I; I cannot imagine how a gently bred young woman should feel… and one engaged to be married to the victim, no less!” The officer fell silent then as the sound of approaching horses announced new arrivals.

Dr. Jones, a stout man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, dismounted with surprising agility for his build. The magistrate Mr. Burnley, a tall, thin gentleman whom Darcy knew only by reputation, arrived moments later, his expression suggesting he had been pulled from important business and was quite displeased to have his morning interrupted.

“Colonel Forster,” the magistrate acknowledged with a curt nod. “I understand there has been a death.”

“Yes, sir,” Forster replied. “One of my officers, Lieutenant Wickham.”

The magistrate’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I see. And you have already taken charge of the scene?”

“As is appropriate for a military matter, yes,” Forster said, a note of defensiveness entering his voice.

“With respect, Colonel, a death outside of military action falls under civil jurisdiction,” the magistrate countered, his thin lips pressed into a line of disapproval.

Dr. Jones, seemingly uninterested in the jurisdictional dispute, knelt beside the body. “Gentlemen, if you please, I should like to examine the deceased.”

Both men fell silent as the doctor began his work. Darcy watched as Dr. Jones methodically examined what he could see of Wickham’s body without disturbing its position.

“I shall need to turn him over,” the doctor announced after several minutes. He gestured to two of the militiamen. “Assist me, if you would.”

Darcy looked away as the men carefully rolled Wickham onto his back. The collective gasp that followed drew his attention back to the scene.

“Good God,” Colonel Forster exclaimed.

Beneath where Wickham had lain was a knife, its blade darkened with dried blood. The handle was ornate, with an engraved silver handle that caught the sunlight.

“No one touch it,” the magistrate commanded, stepping forward. “Doctor, what can you tell us?”

Dr. Jones had opened Wickham’s coat and shirt, leaning in closer now to examine Wickham’s body. “A single wound to the upper belly, consistent with this weapon. From the amount of blood, I suspect the knife may have struck a vein or artery. Death would have been relatively quick.”

Darcy felt bile rise in his throat. The doctor’s clinical description painted an all too vivid picture of Wickham’s final moments. He pressed his back more firmly against the tree, focusing on its rough texture to anchor himself against the wave of nausea.

“Colonel, I must insist that my constable take charge of collecting evidence,” the magistrate was saying, his voice rising in volume.

“And I must remind you that Lieutenant Wickham was under my command,” Forster countered. “The investigation will be conducted according to military protocol.”

“This is clearly a civil matter of murder, not a military infraction! Unless you have a suspect among your men?”

Their voices faded to a dull buzz in Darcy’s ears as he concentrated on his breathing. In and out. Steady and measured. He had seen death before, but never murder, never someone he had known since childhood. The complexity of his feelings toward Wickham only added to his discomfort. Hatred? Of late, since Ramsgate, it had come to that, perhaps. Contempt, certainly. Anger, without question. But he had never wished the man dead.

A new figure striding purposefully up the path caught Darcy’s attention. Mr. Bennet, typically the picture of indolent retreat, moved with unexpected energy and determination. His usually mild countenance was transformed by barely contained fury, his eyes scanning the scene until they locked on Darcy.

The older gentleman marched directly toward him, ignoring the ongoing dispute between the colonel and magistrate. There was something in Mr. Bennet’s expression that sent a chill through Darcy’s core. This was not the disinterested gentleman of Longbourn he had come to know last autumn; this was a man of purpose and passion.

“Mr. Darcy,” Bennet said in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. “I would have a word, if you please.”

Darcy straightened, forcing himself away from the supporting tree. “Of course, sir.” They took a few steps away from the gathered men.

Bennet’s eyes bored into him with unexpected intensity. “Did you have anything to do with this?” The question was delivered with quiet precision, each word carefully measured.

The accusation struck Darcy like a physical blow. “What? No!” he responded, shock making his voice sharper than intended. “I never... I would never...” He paused, gathering himself. “Mr. Bennet, I admit I held no love for Wickham, and I certainly did not wish him to form an attachment with Miss Elizabeth, but murder? Never!”

“Indeed?” Bennet reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded letter. Darcy recognised it immediately, and felt the blood drain from his face. “This letter seems to indicate you have more than enough motive.”

Darcy stared at the letter he had written to Elizabeth, detailing Wickham’s past transgressions, including the attempted seduction of Georgiana. He had poured his heart and his rage into those pages, never imagining they would be read by anyone but Elizabeth, much less be used to implicate him in murder.

“How did you come to possess that?” Darcy finally managed to ask, his throat dry.

“My daughter showed it to me, while trying to explain why she was out here with you this morning,” Bennet said simply. “I was quite disturbed by its contents.”

Darcy stood frozen, his mind racing yet unable to form a coherent defence. The letter did indeed reveal his deep antipathy toward Wickham. Any reasonable person might conclude he had sufficient motive for violence.

“I...” Darcy began, but words failed him. The weight of suspicion pressed upon him like a physical force, constricting his chest and muddling his thoughts.

Bennet watched him closely, his shrewd eyes assessing Darcy’s reaction. After what seemed an eternity, the older man gave a slight shrug.

“I dare say I might be considered to have motive as well,” Bennet said, his voice returning to something closer to its usual dry tone. “I made little secret of the fact that I did not like the wastrel. He attempted to charm my daughters with pretty words and false promises, and then he compromised Elizabeth… and I believed her when she told me he did it to force her silence regarding his past sins. In some quarters, that might be considered sufficient provocation.”

Darcy blinked, uncertain how to interpret this apparent shift. Was Bennet offering him an ally in suspicion, or merely laying groundwork for his own defence?

The sound of more approaching footsteps drew Darcy’s attention away from Mr. Bennet’s unsettling words. He turned to see Colonel Fitzwilliam making his way through the trees. His cousin’s familiar presence amid this nightmare brought Darcy a momentary sense of relief, though it was quickly tempered by the grim reality of their surroundings. Fitzwilliam’s expression changed subtly as he took in the scene: the uniformed men, the body on the ground, and Darcy standing with Mr. Bennet beneath the oak tree.

“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam called, nodding to the militiamen who stepped aside to let him pass, hastily saluting when they saw the marks of rank on his uniform. “I became concerned when you did not return to the inn. Your coachman mentioned something about a body being found?”

Darcy straightened, grateful for his cousin’s steady presence. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, may I present Mr. Bennet of Longbourn. Mr. Bennet, my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Fitzwilliam bowed slightly. “Mr. Bennet. I regret that we meet under such unfortunate circumstances.”

“Indeed, Colonel,” Bennet replied, his shrewd eyes assessing the newcomer with interest. “How fortuitous that you should arrive just as we are discussing motives for murder. Another suspect to add to the list, perhaps?”

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow but maintained his composure. “I gather the deceased is someone known to us?”

“George Wickham,” Darcy confirmed quietly.

Shock flashed across Fitzwilliam’s face, followed by a carefully controlled neutrality that Darcy recognised as his cousin’s professional demeanour. As an experienced military officer, Fitzwilliam had learned to mask his reactions when necessary.

“I see,” was all he said, though the slight tightening of his jaw spoke volumes to Darcy. Rather than dwelling on personal sentiments, however, Fitzwilliam turned his attention to the practicalities of the situation. “When was he killed? Has that been established?”

The question, direct and pertinent, seemed to refocus everyone present. Dr. Jones, who had been examining the body more thoroughly, looked up from his work.

“Rigor mortis appears to have passed,” the doctor said, pushing his spectacles further up his nose with the back of his wrist. “Which would suggest death occurred at least thirty-six hours ago, possibly longer.”

“Today is Monday,” Fitzwilliam stated, as if calculating. “So Saturday, then?”

“That would be my assessment,” Dr. Jones confirmed. “The body shows signs consistent with death occurring approximately two days ago, allowing for the weather conditions we’ve had.”

One of the militiamen, a young officer with a lieutenant’s insignia, stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Sir, I had luncheon with Wickham on Saturday at the officers’ mess.”

Colonel Forster turned to the man. “Lieutenant Denny, at what time was this?”

“We sat down at noon, sir, and parted company just after one o’clock,” Denny replied. “Wickham mentioned he had letters to write before attending dinner at the Longs’ residence that evening.”

“And did he seem troubled? Anxious in any way?” Forster pressed.

Lieutenant Denny shook his head. “Not particularly, sir. He was in good spirits, as usual. Made several jokes about the quality of the ale, said he planned to suggest better provisions for the officers’ mess.”

“Typical Wickham,” Darcy muttered under his breath, the familiar irritation providing a momentary distraction from the horror of the situation.

Another officer spoke up. “Colonel, Mr. Long sent a note to the barracks yesterday morning inquiring after Lieutenant Wickham. Apparently, he never arrived for dinner on Saturday. They expected him at five o’clock.”

Forster nodded thoughtfully. “So we have Wickham alive at one o’clock Saturday afternoon, expected but not arriving for dinner at five.”

“Which narrows our window considerably,” Fitzwilliam observed. “The murder likely occurred between one and five on Saturday afternoon.”

“That matches with my analysis of the body’s condition,” Dr. Jones affirmed. “Given that it rained on Saturday night, but not since, I would concur with that timeframe.”

The magistrate, who had been taking notes in a small book during this exchange, looked up sharply. “We must determine the whereabouts of anyone who had reason to wish Mr. Wickham harm during those critical hours.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as several glances were directed toward Darcy. He felt a cold weight settling in his stomach as he realised how this must appear. They all knew that he and Wickham were far from friendly.

Colonel Forster cleared his throat, his expression apologetic but resolved. “Mr. Darcy, I must ask... it is well known that there was some history of acrimony between yourself and Lieutenant Wickham. Could you explain your whereabouts during the afternoon of Saturday last?”

The question, though expected, still felt like an accusation. Darcy drew himself up to his full height, determined to maintain his dignity despite the humiliation of being questioned like a common criminal.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam and I arrived at the Rose and Crown in Little Whittling from London at approximately two o’clock on Saturday afternoon,” he stated, his voice carefully controlled. “After refreshing ourselves, I went directly to Lucas Lodge to pay a call on Sir William and his family and stayed for dinner. I remained there until just after six in the evening.”

“Can anyone confirm this?” the magistrate interjected.

“Sir William Lucas, Lady Lucas, and their daughter Maria were present throughout my visit,” Darcy replied. “I dare say that the landlord of the Rose and Crown can confirm the time of my departure, and you are welcome to speak to my coachman Thompson, who will tell you that he took me directly from one place to the other. When you confirm the time I left the Rose and Crown and the time I arrived at Lucas Lodge, I am sure you will conclude there was quite simply no time for me to meet Mr. Wickham here, or anywhere else. My carriage was doubtless seen on the road by any number of people, too.”

The magistrate nodded, making a note in the small book he had produced from his pocket. Though their manners remained professional, Darcy could see the relief on both the magistrate and the colonel’s faces. They had clearly been uncomfortable questioning a gentleman of Darcy’s standing, but duty had required it.

The tightness in Darcy’s chest eased slightly. He had a clear alibi for the time of Wickham’s death, one that could be easily verified by multiple witnesses. Yet the fact that such an alibi was necessary at all left him feeling sullied. Never before had his honour been so publicly called into question.

He glanced at Mr. Bennet, wondering if the older gentleman found his account satisfactory. Bennet’s expression revealed little, but he seemed to be studying Darcy with less suspicion than before.

Colonel Forster turned his attention to Fitzwilliam, his expression remaining neutral but professional. “And you, Colonel Fitzwilliam? Might I ask your whereabouts during the same period on Saturday afternoon?” The question hung in the clearing, birds continuing their cheerful songs overhead in stark contrast to the grim business below. Darcy found himself holding his breath, a sudden, unwelcome doubt creeping into his mind about his cousin’s activities while he had been at Lucas Lodge.

Fitzwilliam stood at ease, his posture relaxed yet dignified. “I remained at the Rose and Crown Inn, Colonel. After Mr. Darcy departed for Lucas Lodge, I took a seat in the taproom and passed the afternoon there.”

“The entire afternoon?” Forster asked.

“Yes,” Fitzwilliam confirmed. “I had correspondence to review and several matters to consider regarding a letter I had received from my father, the Earl of Matlock. I found the taproom at the Rose and Crown quite comfortable for such purposes, and the ale is excellent.”

Darcy noted the subtlety with which his cousin had mentioned his father. Though Fitzwilliam never used his family connections improperly, he was not above gently reminding others of his position when circumstances warranted it.

“Were there witnesses to your presence there throughout the afternoon?” the magistrate inquired, his tone suggesting he found such questioning distasteful but necessary.

“Several,” Fitzwilliam replied without hesitation. “The landlord himself served me repeatedly. There were two local farmers at the table nearest mine for much of the time, discussing the price of grain at considerable volume. Later, the local apothecary joined me briefly and we discussed the medicinal properties of certain plants found in this region. I believe his name was Mr. Clark.”

Burnley made notes in his book. “And you remained there until when?”

“Until around six o’clock, at which point I made my way to the private dining parlour. The taproom was growing crowded, and I was hungry. The maid brought me a meal, which I consumed, and I was still in the parlour when Mr. Darcy returned, about seven o’clock from my recollection.” Fitzwilliam glanced at Darcy. “My cousin can confirm my presence once he returned, of course.”

“That is correct,” Darcy affirmed. “Colonel Fitzwilliam was in the private parlour when I returned from Lucas Lodge. We talked for some time and shared some wine before retiring for the night.”

A wave of relief washed over Darcy. The irrational fear that had momentarily gripped him now seemed absurd. While he knew his cousin held no more love for Wickham than he did, the idea that Fitzwilliam might have sought out and confronted the man was preposterous. Fitzwilliam was a man of honour, a distinguished officer who had commanded men in battle. He would never stoop to murder, regardless of provocation; he might have killed Wickham in a duel, if he could have convinced Wickham to accept his challenge, but stabbing him on a remote woodland path was quite out of the realms of possibility.

Yet the relief Darcy felt was genuine, and he acknowledged to himself that in some dark corner of his mind, the doubt had existed. Not because he truly believed Fitzwilliam capable of such an act, but because he knew how protective his cousin was of Georgiana. After learning what Wickham had attempted with her, Fitzwilliam had been incandescent with rage. It had taken considerable persuasion from Darcy to prevent him from seeking Wickham out then and there.

Mr. Burnley seemed satisfied, nodding and closing his notebook. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I will of course have my constable check what you have told us.”

“I would expect no less, sir; thank you for your thoroughness,” Darcy said genuinely. “Mr. Wickham and I were not friends, but nobody should suffer such a death as this, and anything I can do to help you find the villain responsible, I hope you will ask.”

Darcy watched as the various pieces of evidence were gathered. The knife had been carefully wrapped in a cloth by the magistrate’s constable, and two militiamen had been dispatched to fetch a cart for Wickham’s body. The initial shock of the discovery was giving way to the methodical process of investigation.

“Gentlemen,” Colonel Forster addressed Darcy and Fitzwilliam, “I must ask that you remain available in Meryton for the next several days. While your accounts appear to be in order, there may be additional questions as our investigation proceeds.”

“Of course,” Darcy replied. “We had intended to remain at the inn for at least a week on business matters.” While this was not precisely the truth, he certainly had no plans to depart now. Not while Elizabeth needed him.

“I am at your disposal, Colonel,” Fitzwilliam added. “I understand the importance of a thorough investigation.”

Forster nodded his appreciation. “Thank you for your cooperation. This is a most irregular situation, and not one I ever expected to encounter in peaceful Hertfordshire.”

The magistrate frowned as he observed their conversation, obviously still displeased about Colonel Forster usurping his authority. “Colonel Forster, if I might have a private word?”

Forster nodded and stepped aside with Burnley. Darcy watched, hoping the two men would be able to set aside their different opinions over who had jurisdiction and work together to find the killer.

As the officials continued their discussion, Mr. Bennet moved closer to Darcy and Fitzwilliam. The older gentleman had been observing the proceedings with keen attention, his earlier anger now replaced by a thoughtful expression that Darcy found difficult to interpret.

“Gentlemen,” Bennet said quietly, “I wonder if you might accompany me back to Longbourn. I have several questions that might be better addressed in private.”

Darcy exchanged a glance with Fitzwilliam. The invitation was unexpected, particularly given Bennet’s earlier suspicion.

“Questions regarding what, precisely?” Fitzwilliam asked, his tone polite but cautious.

“Regarding George Wickham,” Bennet replied. “His character, his history, and his interactions with my family. I find myself with a need to understand the man more completely, now that he has met such an end.”

“I would be happy to provide what information I can,” Darcy said after a moment’s consideration. “Though I must warn you, much of it is not pleasant.”

“Few truths about the dead are, I find,” Bennet replied dryly. “Particularly when the deceased has met with violence.”

Fitzwilliam nodded his agreement. “We shall accompany you, sir. Perhaps after we have concluded our business here?”

“Of course,” Bennet conceded. “I shall return to Longbourn and expect you gentlemen after luncheon, if that is convenient.”

“We will be there,” Darcy confirmed.

As Bennet took his leave, Darcy found himself watching the older gentleman with renewed interest. Elizabeth’s father had always seemed to Darcy a man of indolent habits and sardonic humour, content to retreat to his study rather than engage with the world. Today had revealed a different Mr. Bennet: sharp, observant, and possessed of an intensity that Darcy had not previously witnessed.

“Your thoughts, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam asked quietly when Bennet was out of earshot.

“I am not certain,” Darcy admitted. “But I believe Mr. Bennet’s concern extends beyond mere curiosity about Wickham’s character.”

“You think he fears for his family in some way?”

Darcy considered this. “Perhaps.” He lowered his voice further. “He said that Elizabeth told him the details of Wickham’s forcing compromise on her, and he believed her. He had no high opinion of Wickham… and now he has read my letter.”

“Your letter!” Fitzwilliam’s brows shot up.

“Elizabeth gave it to him, in part to explain why she was here with me this morning. And since Mr. Bennet has read the letter, he now knows what Wickham is capable of.”

“ Was capable of,“ Fitzwilliam corrected grimly, glancing toward the body now being carefully lifted into the waiting cart.

“Yes,” Darcy murmured. “Was.”

As they prepared to follow the procession back toward Meryton, Darcy could not shake the feeling that this was merely the beginning of a darker mystery. Wickham was dead, but the shadow he cast seemed to stretch ever longer across the peaceful countryside of Hertfordshire.