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Chapter Sixteen

E lizabeth passed yet another a restless night, her mind unable to settle as the image of Wickham’s lifeless body persistently intruded upon her attempts at sleep. The morning light brought little relief to her troubled thoughts, only casting them in sharper detail as she stared at the ceiling of her bedchamber.

She rose earlier than was her habit, dressed with little attention to her appearance, and descended to break her fast before the rest of the household stirred. The servants moved about with unusual quietness, their subdued manner reflecting the sombre news that had spread through Longbourn like a winter chill. Even Mrs. Hill, normally so composed, gave a slight start when Elizabeth entered the breakfast room.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” the housekeeper said, recovering quickly. “We did not expect anyone down so early.”

“It is I who should apologize for surprising you,” Elizabeth replied. “I found sleep somewhat elusive.”

Mrs. Hill nodded sympathetically, her eyes conveying more understanding than words could express. “A terrible business, miss. Simply terrible. I’ll have the tea brought in directly for you.”

Elizabeth sipped her tea in silence, not trusting herself to speak further on the matter. She had no appetite, but forced herself to take a few bites of toast, knowing the day ahead would require her strength..

After forcing down what little breakfast she could manage, Elizabeth found herself reluctant to follow her usual morning routine. The prospect of a solitary walk, normally her greatest pleasure, now filled her with apprehension. The last time she had ventured out, she had stumbled upon a scene that would likely haunt her for years to come. The grounds of Longbourn, once so familiar and comforting, now seemed laden with unseen dangers and unpleasant possibilities.

The house itself offered little sanctuary. Her mother likely spend the day bewailing Wickham’s demise and berating Elizabeth for not marrying him immediately, for now it was too late, and what would become of Elizabeth now, unwed and yet still tainted by the scandal of her compromise? No, she could not bear another morning of reproaches for things that were not her fault.

Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to her father’s study. Since childhood, it had been a place of refuge, a sanctuary of reason and quiet contemplation. Mr. Bennet would likely be there already, seeking his own solace in the familiar comfort of his books. Though he generally preferred solitude in his private domain, he had always welcomed Elizabeth, recognising in his second daughter a kindred appreciation for literature and thoughtful discourse.

The house was beginning to stir as Elizabeth made her way toward the study. She heard her mother’s voice from above, already raised in some query or complaint to her long-suffering lady’s maid. A maid hurried past with fresh linens, bobbing a curtsy without breaking stride. In the kitchen beyond, the clatter of preparation for the day’s meals created a backdrop of normality that seemed almost offensive in its mundanity.

Elizabeth paused outside the study door, collecting herself before knocking gently. At her father’s familiar “Enter,” she pushed open the door to find him precisely as she had expected: seated in his favourite chair, a book open in his hands.

“Ah, Lizzy,” he said, looking up at her entrance. His expression softened as it always did for his favourite daughter, but she noted the new lines of concern etched around his eyes. “You are about early this morning.”

“I found sleep difficult to come by,” she admitted.

“As did I,” Mr. Bennet replied, closing his book. “A most disturbing occurrence, to be sure. I have been sitting here attempting to lose myself in Gibbon’s account of the fall of Rome, but find even the decline of empires insufficient to distract me from yesterday’s events.”

Elizabeth managed a small smile at her father’s characteristic attempt at levity. “I wondered, Papa, if I might sit with you for a while. I have no particular desire for company, yet find myself equally disinclined to be entirely alone with my thoughts.”

Mr. Bennet studied her face for a moment, perhaps noting the shadows beneath her eyes. “You need not even ask, my dear. My study has always been as much yours as mine, and you know you may read peacefully here for as long as you wish.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said simply, grateful for her father’s understanding. Their relationship had always been built on this mutual respect for each other’s thoughts and feelings, requiring no excessive demonstrations or explanations.

She moved deeper into the room, drawing comfort from the familiar sight of the book-lined walls. The library Mr. Bennet maintained in his study at Longbourn was not large by the standards of great houses, but it was well-stocked and carefully curated according to Mr. Bennet’s eclectic tastes. Elizabeth had spent countless hours here throughout her life, first being read to as a child, then discovering the joys of reading for herself, and later engaging in spirited discussions with her father about everything from poetry to politics.

The room smelled of leather bindings, beeswax polish, and the subtle hint of the pipe her father occasionally indulged in despite her mother’s protests about the effect on the curtains. Morning light filtered through the windows, casting warm rectangles on the worn Turkish carpet and illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like minute constellations.

Elizabeth ran her fingers along the spines of several volumes, not really seeing the titles. Her mind was occupied with far more immediate concerns than literature. Who could have wished Wickham dead? The question circled endlessly in her thoughts. Despite his numerous flaws and indiscretions, she had never considered that his behaviour might inspire such violent retribution.

“I imagine we shall have no shortage of callers once news of Wickham’s death spreads through the neighbourhood,” Mr. Bennet said, making her startle and turn back to look at him. “Your mother will be beside herself with the attention, once she recovers from the shock.”

“I had not thought of that,” Elizabeth admitted. “The prospect is rather daunting.”

“Indeed. Mrs. Long and Lady Lucas will undoubtedly arrive before noon, ostensibly to offer condolences but primarily to gather information for dissemination.” He sighed, removing his spectacles to polish them with his handkerchief. “I dare say you are wise to seek refuge here, my dear. I cannot recommend walking alone at present, given your unfortunate discoveries tend toward the macabre.” He returned his attention to his book, adding, “Choose whatever spot suits you best. I shall not disturb your contemplations.”

Elizabeth plucked a book from the shelves almost at random and crossed to the far corner of the study, where two tall bookcases stood at right angles to each other. Between them was a deep window seat, partially obscured from the main room by the projecting shelves. It had been her favourite reading spot since childhood, a private nook where she could lose herself in a book without being disturbed by the household’s comings and goings. Even someone entering the study would not immediately notice her presence unless they specifically knew where to look for her. Countless times, her father had blandly claimed to have no knowledge of her whereabouts when Mrs. Bennet intruded looking for Elizabeth.

She settled onto the cushioned seat, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. The position was hardly proper for a young lady, but in this private corner, with only her father’s distant presence for company, Elizabeth allowed herself the comfort of childhood habits. The solid warmth of the sun-drenched window against her back provided a reassuring anchor as her mind insisted on returning to the dreadful image of George Wickham’s lifeless form.

How peculiar that a man who had been on the verge of becoming her husband now lay cold in death. Elizabeth had come to despise the man, but to think of him murdered... The violence of it sent a shiver through her despite the warmth of the sunlit nook.

She rested her forehead against her knees and closed her eyes, trying to order her chaotic thoughts. She had been struggling to reconcile herself to having to marry Wickham, to save her family and her sisters’ reputations. And now, instead of a wedding, there would be a funeral. But perhaps, also a wedding, if she were to accept Mr. Darcy’s proposal.

For nearly an hour, she remained in her window seat, alternately thinking and not thinking, occasionally picking up the book she had selected only to place it down again without even opening it. Mr. Bennet, true to his word, let her be, the only sounds in the room the occasional turning of pages and the distant ticking of the longcase clock in the hall.

The peace was eventually interrupted by a brisk knock at the door. Elizabeth started, straightening from her curled position as her father called, “Enter.”

It was Hill, a high pitch to her voice conveying mild agitation. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Bennet, but Dr. Jones and Mr. Burnley have called to see you. They say it’s a matter of some importance.”

Mr. Bennet sighed and closed his book. “I suppose I must receive them. Show them in, Hill.”

As the housekeeper departed, Elizabeth rose from her seat, intending to make her presence known and excuse herself. Before she could emerge from her nook, however, the door reopened, and heavy footsteps announced the arrival of the visitors.

“Bennet,” came a voice Elizabeth recognised as belonging to Mr. Burnley, the local magistrate. “Thank you for receiving us without notice.”

“Burnley, Doctor. Good morning to you both.” Her father’s voice held the courteous tone he reserved for those he respected, if not necessarily enjoyed. “What brings you to Longbourn at this hour?”

“I’m afraid it’s the matter of Lieutenant Wickham’s death,” Dr. Jones said gravely. “There have been... developments.”

The mention of Wickham’s name froze Elizabeth in place. Developments? What could that mean?

“Ah,” her father replied. “I assumed as much. Please, gentlemen, be seated. Hill will bring tea shortly, I expect.”

The scraping of chairs indicated the men were settling themselves near her father’s desk. Elizabeth pressed herself deeper into her nook, suddenly reluctant to announce her presence. This conversation might provide answers to questions that had been haunting her since yesterday’s grim discovery.

“I’ve completed my examination,” Dr. Jones continued after a moment. “It was most thoroughly a murder, I’m afraid.”

A small gasp nearly escaped Elizabeth’s lips, but she pressed her hand against her mouth in time to silence it. Murder . Although she had suspected as much from the moment she found the body, hearing it confirmed sent a chill through her entire being.

“I see,” her father replied calmly. “And your findings?”

“The lieutenant was stabbed with a silver carving knife, a quality one.” The doctor’s clinical tone made the horrific details somehow worse. “The entry point was the upper abdominal region, angled upward. It severed a major artery. Death would have followed within minutes. Two or three minutes at most, in my opinion, given the volume of blood lost.”

Elizabeth’s stomach turned at the gruesome details, but she remained utterly still, hardly daring to breathe.

“My constable found a significant amount of blood soaked into the ground several feet from where the body was discovered,” the magistrate added. “It appears Wickham was attacked on the path. He managed to stagger only a short distance before collapsing into the ditch where he was found.”

“The knife was not in the wound when I examined him, but lying beneath the body,” Dr. Jones said. “Given the blood trail, I believe he may have pulled it out himself as he stumbled forward. A natural reaction, though it would have hastened his demise considerably.”

“A common household implement, a carving knife,” Mr. Bennet noted. “Not a weapon carried for the purpose of violence.”

“Precisely,” the magistrate confirmed. “Which suggests neither an impulsive act nor an opportunistic one. The killer brought the knife to the scene with him.”

The doctor appeared to agree. “The wound pattern supports this theory. There is a single deep thrust, followed by the knife being withdrawn. No hesitation marks, no repeated stabbing that might indicate a frenzy of rage. One decisive act that happened to strike a vital area.”

“Fortune favoured the killer in that respect,” the magistrate remarked grimly. “Or misfortune for poor Wickham, depending on one’s perspective.”

Elizabeth’s mind unwillingly conjured the image: Wickham, mortally wounded, desperately pulling a knife from his own body as he stumbled along the path. The mental picture was so vivid she had to close her eyes against it, fighting the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.

“A most unpleasant business,” her father said, his voice betraying little emotion. “Have you any notion as to the perpetrator?”

There was a pause before Mr. Burnley replied. “That, Bennet, is why we’ve come to you.”

Elizabeth remained frozen in her hidden corner. Murder . Wickham had been murdered. Her heart thundered so loudly in her chest that she feared the men might hear it even across the room. To be trapped here, an unwitting eavesdropper on such a horrible conversation, was intolerable. Yet what could she do? To reveal herself now would be to admit she had been listening to confidential details of a murder investigation.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to breathe quietly. If she had only made her presence known when the gentlemen first entered, or if she had slipped away while they exchanged greetings... but it was too late now. The moment for a graceful exit had passed the instant they mentioned Wickham’s name. Now she was caught, a reluctant audience to a conversation she had no right to hear, yet one she could not bring herself to interrupt. Though her father was well aware of her presence and had not called her out; he must be of the belief that she should hear it. Perhaps he would want to talk it over with her afterwards.

“Why have you come to me specifically, Burnley?” Her father’s voice betrayed only mild curiosity, but Elizabeth detected the slight tension underlying his casual tone. “Surely there are others in the neighbourhood who knew the lieutenant better than I.”

The magistrate cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It’s a delicate matter, Bennet. We must question everyone with... certain connections to the deceased.”

“Connections?” Mr. Bennet’s voice sharpened slightly. “I assume you refer to the unfortunate circumstance of his intended marriage to my daughter.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Burnley replied. “Which leads me to an unpleasant duty, old friend. I must ask you where you were on Saturday afternoon, between the hours of one and five.”

A cold wave washed over Elizabeth. Saturday afternoon. Two days before she had found Wickham’s body in the ditch. And now the magistrate was questioning her father’s whereabouts at the likely time of the murder. The implication was unmistakable and horrifying.

She found herself gripping the windowsill behind her, needing its solid support. Surely they could not suspect her father of murder. The very idea was preposterous. Her logical mind knew this, yet the sick feeling in her stomach persisted. Why else would they be questioning him?

“I see.” Her father’s voice remained remarkably steady. “You believe I might have had reason to dispatch the young man before he could formalise his connection to my family.”

“It’s not a question of what I believe, Bennet,” the magistrate replied quickly. “It’s procedure, nothing more. Your daughter was to marry the man. There might have been... strong feelings involved.”

Elizabeth could almost picture her father’s expression, one eyebrow slightly raised in that familiar look of sardonic amusement.

“Strong feelings about Wickham? Certainly,” Mr. Bennet said dryly. “Though none strong enough to inspire me to violence, I assure you. My feelings about the match were primarily resignation and a certain fatalistic acceptance of the inevitable. Murder would have been far too energetic a response for my temperament.”

The doctor let out a small, uncomfortable cough. “Nevertheless, Mr. Bennet, your whereabouts?”

“Saturday afternoon,” her father mused. “Let me see. Mr. and Mrs. Goulding came to call at around noon and remained through dinner.”

“The Gouldings?” Mr. Burnley sounded surprised. “Both of them?”

“Indeed. Mrs. Goulding and my wife spent the afternoon in the parlour, while Mr. Goulding joined me here in the study. We were discussing his new acquisition of Burke’s ‘ Reflections on the Revolution in France ,’ a subject that kept us occupied until we were called to dinner at five.”

“You remained in this room the entire time?” the magistrate pressed.

“We shared a light nuncheon with my wife and daughters shortly after the Gouldings arrived, and then Mr. Goulding and I retired here and remained, with only the briefest interruptions for tea. Hill can confirm this, as can the Gouldings themselves, should you wish to question them. Mr. Goulding is particularly fond of his port; I doubt he could have been induced to leave before dinner even had the house caught fire. We were served a delicious dinner with a main course of roasted quails, as I recall, though perhaps my wife will have a written menu you could peruse if you wished.”

There was a short silence, during which Elizabeth could hear papers being shuffled. Relief flooded through her so powerfully that she had to lean against the window frame for support. Her father had an unimpeachable alibi. She had not realised until this moment how truly frightened she had been by the implication that he might be suspected.

“Well, that seems clear enough,” Mr. Burnley finally said. “I shall confirm with the Gouldings, of course, but I have no reason to doubt your account.”

“You would be neglecting your duty if you did not confirm it,” Mr. Bennet replied amiably. “Though I confess I am curious as to what prompted you to suspect me in the first place. Was it merely my impending connection to the deceased, or something more specific?”

Elizabeth held her breath, grateful for her father’s question. It was precisely what she wished to know herself.

“It is standard procedure to question family connections,” the doctor interjected before the magistrate could answer. “And the murder weapon being a silver carving knife suggested someone of a certain... social standing.”

Such an implement would be found in any gentleman’s home in the neighbourhood, Elizabeth realised. Including Longbourn. Including Netherfield. She bit her lip, refusing to complete the thought. Surely Mr. Darcy would never... but then, she had misjudged him so severely before. And he was not staying at Netherfield, so far as she knew; had he not said something about staying at an inn? Netherfield was closed up… but did that mean it would have been possible for someone to break in and steal an item of such value? She pressed fingertips to her forehead. Her thoughts were racing so hard, her head was beginning to ache.

“I see,” her father was saying. “Well, I am quite sure that our silver carving set remains complete and accounted for. You are welcome to inspect it if you wish.”

“That won’t be necessary at present, since you have an unimpeachable alibi,” the magistrate replied. “Though we may need to examine the silver of several households before this investigation concludes.”

Dr. Jones cleared his throat. “Based on the body’s condition when discovered and the weather conditions over the previous two days, I estimated the time of death to be at some time on Saturday. Mr. Wickham was last seen at just after one that day, and did not arrive as expected for dinner at the Longs at five.”

“Which aligns with our other evidence,” Burnley added. “A tenant from the Netherfield estate reports hearing what may have been a shout or cry of pain while passing near that section of road at approximately half past three.”

“And this witness did not investigate the sound?” Mr. Bennet sounded mildly censuring.

“He claims he thought little of it at the time, attributing it to a labourer or perhaps children at play,” Burnley explained. “It was only after learning of the murder that he recalled the incident and came forward.”

“I see,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone suggesting he found this explanation less than satisfactory. “Perhaps not the most civic-minded of individuals.”

“Few people wish to involve themselves in matters that do not directly concern them,” the magistrate observed dryly. “Though had he investigated, Mr. Wickham might have been discovered sooner. Not that it would have altered the outcome, given the severity of the wound.”

Elizabeth shuddered involuntarily at this casual discussion of what might have been. Had the tenant investigated, would Wickham have still been alive, however briefly, have been able to reveal who his attacker had been? The thought of him dying alone, bleeding into the dirt while potential help passed by unaware, was unexpectedly poignant despite her longstanding dislike of the man.

“Were the servants of Longbourn all accounted for during this period?” the magistrate continued, his question drawing Elizabeth back to the present conversation.

“To the best of my knowledge,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Though I did not personally observe their movements. Mrs. Hill, our housekeeper, would be better positioned to speak to that matter.”

“I shall interview her before departing,” Burnley said, though he did not sound concerned.

Elizabeth shifted slightly in her hiding place, her legs beginning to cramp from maintaining the same position for so long. She desperately wished she could leave, yet remained trapped by her own indiscretion. To reveal herself now would be embarrassing at best and, at worst, might raise questions about why she had concealed her presence during such an important conversation.

“I imagine this investigation will cause quite a stir in our little community,” her father commented. “Particularly once it becomes known that you are examining silver carving knives. The matrons of Meryton will be positively aflutter.”

“We would prefer to keep the details confidential for now,” Dr. Jones said stiffly. “The more widely known the specifics become, the more difficult our task.”

“Of course,” Mr. Bennet agreed. “You may rely on my discretion. Though I fear my wife may have already heard rumours from the servants. News of this sort travels with remarkable speed.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, feeling a new wave of guilt. Here she was, in possession of precisely the confidential details the doctor wished to protect, and all through her own failure to announce herself. The knowledge settled uncomfortably in her mind. What should she do with this information? To whom could she possibly speak of it without revealing how she had come to know it?

She remained motionless in her corner, trapped physically by the circumstances and morally by her eavesdropping, as the conversation in the study continued. Whatever relief she had felt at her father’s solid alibi was now overshadowed by her growing discomfort at her position. And beneath it all lay the terrible reality: someone had murdered George Wickham with a silver carving knife, and that someone might well be known to her.

The magistrate leaned forward in his chair, the wooden legs creaking slightly against the study floor. “Speaking of which, Bennet, do you have any knowledge of who might have wanted to harm Mr. Wickham? Any quarrels or disagreements that came to your attention?” His tone was conversational, but Elizabeth could detect the shrewd purpose beneath it. Her father, too, seemed to recognise the careful probing, for he took a moment before responding, as though weighing precisely how much to reveal.

“Quarrels?” Mr. Bennet repeated thoughtfully. “None specifically that I witnessed. However, I do understand the lieutenant had a particular talent for accumulating debts wherever he went.”

“Debts?” Mr. Burnley’s voice sharpened with interest. “What sort of debts?”

“The usual sort, I imagine. Tailors, bootmakers, wine merchants.” Her father’s tone was casual, as though discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. “Several of Meryton’s tradesmen have already approached me, you know.”

“Approached you?” The doctor sounded confused. “Why would they come to you about Wickham’s debts?”

Elizabeth could almost hear his dry smile in her father’s voice as he replied, “I was to be his father in law, was I not? I suppose they assumed I would settle his accounts rather than have my daughter’s husband sent to debtors’ prison.”

“Good God,” Mr. Burnley muttered, apparently shocked. “How much did he owe?”

“I haven’t tallied the complete sum, but it exceeds two hundred pounds in Meryton alone. And that is merely what I have been made aware of thus far. I suspect there may be more creditors who have not yet found the courage to approach me.”

Elizabeth pressed her fingers against her temples. Two hundred pounds . It was an enormous sum, especially for a man of Wickham’s modest income; he had told her that his lieutenant's pay was five pounds per month, when taunting her that she would have to live a greatly reduced lifestyle. How could he have accumulated such debt in the short time he had been stationed in Meryton? And how could he possibly have expected to repay it? The questions churned in her mind, adding to her discomfort.

“Were any of these creditors particularly... insistent?” the magistrate asked carefully.

“Mr. Wilson from the wine merchants seemed rather desperate,” her father replied. “He mentioned that his own suppliers were pressing him for payment. But murder seems a rather extreme method of debt collection, even for the most demanding creditor. Was he even carrying any money on him, or anything of value which might have been sold?”

“Not that we have been able to identify,” Mr. Burnley admitted. “Officers were required to sign weapons out of the armoury, which he had not done, and he was not known to be in possession of any items of personal value at all.”

“I dare say he would have sold them to pay his debts,” Mr. Bennet said, and the other two men made grunts of agreement.

There was a brief silence before Mr. Bennet added, almost as an afterthought, “Of course, there are other sorts of debts a young officer might accumulate. Debts of honour, for instance.”

“Gambling debts?” The surprise in the magistrate’s voice was evident.

“It would not be uncommon for officers to engage in games of chance,” her father observed. “And such debts, as you know, are not legally enforceable but considered matters of honour. Failure to pay might result in more... direct consequences than a tradesman’s lawsuit.”

“This is extremely valuable information, Bennet,” Mr. Burnley said, his voice suddenly animated. “I had not considered gambling debts. The regiment has been stationed here for months; plenty of time for significant sums to change hands. And disputes over such matters would certainly provide motive for violence... among men with a propensity, and trained for killing. A militia man would know where to stab a man to kill him with a single stroke, don't you think, Dr. Jones?”

"Certainly," the doctor agreed.

“I offer it merely as a possibility,” Mr. Bennet said. “I have no specific knowledge of Lieutenant Wickham’s gambling habits, only a general understanding of military life.”

“Nevertheless, it warrants immediate investigation,” the magistrate declared. “I shall speak with Colonel Forster today. If Wickham owed money to any of his fellow officers, the colonel might be aware of it.”

Elizabeth found herself nodding unconsciously in agreement. Gambling debts would indeed provide a powerful motive. She had heard enough about military life from officers visiting Longbourn to know that debts of honour were taken with the utmost seriousness. A man who failed to pay might find himself ostracized or worse… and considering that Mr. Wickham had managed to spend thousands of pounds he had received from the Mr. Darcys senior and junior within just a few years without apparently accumulating anything of value to show for it, it seemed more than likely that he was both fond of and bad at gambling.

“There is one other matter I should mention,” Mr. Burnley said, his tone becoming more formal. “Regarding the other potential suspects who had been presented to me as likely possibilities, with motive and perhaps opportunity. Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”