Page 20 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
Mr. Harding raised one finger, undeterred.
“We must not hasten, Mr. Darcy. I have no evidence at present that the dinner was the source of the injurious matter. We must first determine the probable time and manner of the poisoning. If we establish those particulars from the guests, then—when we search the house—we shall know precisely where to look, and what for. Otherwise, the servants may tidy away vital evidence before proper questions are asked, and we shall be none the wiser.”
Darcy’s patience began to fray.
“Mr. Harding,” Darcy said, “your thoroughness does you credit, but Mr. Hurst grows no better whilst we debate theory. Would not the parties present at the time of the illness merit our immediate attention?”
Miss Bingley, who had been watching with interest throughout this exchange, barely concealed a smile behind her hand. The magistrate coloured and closed his book with a sigh of reluctance.
“Yes, yes, of course. You are quite right—we must proceed to the practical matter at hand.” He straightened his papers with renewed purpose.
“I shall interview each guest separately, ascertain when and how they might have been exposed to a pestilential matter, and only then, having narrowed the possibilities, examine the house and its offices. Methodical, you understand.”
Bingley released a relieved breath, sinking into a wing chair. As Mr. Harding rearranged his papers importantly, Darcy remained quiet, though tension continued to build within him.
“Mr. Bingley,” Harding began, now all business, “perhaps we might begin with your examination, followed by Mr. Darcy’s account, Mr Hurst, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Naturally, I shall then need to survey the house and question the servants.”
“The Misses Bennet were present recently as well,” Darcy reminded him.
“The Misses Bennet? All of them?” Mr. Harding’s expression grew troubled.
“The eldest two,” Darcy clarified.
The magistrate shook his head with grave concern. “Ah, I see. Well, that does complicate matters. I generally prefer not to expose gentle ladies to the ordeal of formal questioning—such delicate sensibilities, you understand.”
Darcy was conflicted. Surely everyone present at the dinner ought to meet with the magistrate, especially given Miss Bingley’s reckless accusations. Yet it would indeed be a kindness to shield the ladies from such an unpleasant proceeding.
“Mr. Harding,” Miss Bingley interjected sharply, having followed this reasoning, “surely you must recognise the necessity of speaking with the two people who partook of the meal yet suffered no illness whatsoever? It strikes me as rather peculiar that only those two remained entirely unaffected when the rest of our party was so dreadfully ill.”
Mr. Harding shifted uncomfortably and made as if to consult his books again, studiously avoiding Miss Bingley’s pointed gaze.
“Perhaps,” Darcy suggested diplomatically, “you might speak with the young ladies in the presence of their father? That would satisfy both propriety and thoroughness.”
Mr. Harding looked up with palpable relief. “Just so, sir! An excellent solution. I shall make proper arrangements with Mr. Bennet directly. Yes, indeed—the young ladies must have their father present for any such discussion.”
Miss Bingley’s expression grew petulant. “My father is deceased, sir. How then am I to be questioned? Am I not equally deserving of such consideration?”
Mr. Harding flushed, and stuttered, avoiding meeting Miss Bingley’s eyes.
“I am here, Caroline. I will remain with you,” Mr. Bingley said, and Miss Bingley sniffed in response.
“Very well. I will begin with questioning the parties who are now present then conduct an initial physical examination of the various rooms, the kitchen, the wine cellar, and the stores. When the Misses Bennet arrive, I shall begin their formal questioning.” Mr. Harding stood and gestured to the footman.
“Fetch Mr. and Mrs. Hurst,” he said. The footman hesitated.
“As you have been informed,” Darcy interjected, forestalling Bingley.
“Mr. Hurst remains abed, unconscious. Should you wish to observe his condition, we shall have a footman escort you to his chamber.”
“ Just so. I shall proceed thither immediately.” Mr. Harding rose and strode from the room and up the stairs. Mr. Bingley trailed after him. At the top of the stairs, both men paused, Mr. Harding apparently realising he did not know where he was going.
A quarter-hour passed with Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley in the drawing room awaiting the magistrate’s return.
Miss Bingley was subdued, her complexion pale and sallow. Her incessant attempts to engage Mr. Darcy in conversation were notably absent.
On his return, Mr. Harding returned to his seat and arranged his papers with ceremonial gravity, consulting his medical tome one final time before beginning his inquiry.
“Mr. Bingley has requested that I question Mrs. Hurst first as she is indisposed.”
As he spoke, the lady entered—pale, trembling, and requiring the support of her brother’s arm simply to reach the chair placed before the magistrate’s improvised tribunal.
“Now then, Mrs. Hurst,” Mr. Harding said, looking over his spectacles with what was perhaps intended for a penetrating look, “I must ask you to recount the circumstances of the evening’s dissolution.”
“Dissolution?” Mrs. Hurst’s voice rose to a squeak. “Is my husband dead, sir? I feel quite certain that he is not dead. I wished to be myself several times during the first night—”
“No, no, madam,” Harding interrupted, consulting his notes.
“Though the symptoms you experienced were undoubtedly — let me see here ‘injuries to the body by substances applied internally.’” He looked up importantly.
“You must tell me of any unusual substances you have observed and any ungrateful odour and taste you have detected in your victuals.”
Mrs. Hurst stared at him blankly. “I beg your pardon?”
“The disagreeable smell and taste,” Harding explained patiently, reading directly from his text. “Few poisons are without such characteristics, you understand. Perhaps something you touched caused you to experience putrefaction? Any livid spots upon the surface of your skin?”
“Mr. Harding,” Darcy interjected with feigned patience. “Mr. and Mrs. Hurst are very much alive. Perhaps we might focus on when they became ill?”
The magistrate blinked, momentarily confused by this practical suggestion. “Ah. Yes. Quite so.” He turned back to Mrs. Hurst. “Let us consider a miasma. Did you detect any vapours of a blue colour with an odour like that of garlic?”
“Garlic? Never!” Mrs. Hurst swayed in her chair. “Oh dear, I cannot bear to think of food just now. The very mention makes me feel quite- quite—” She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, looking distinctly indisposed.
Miss Bingley stepped forward impatiently. “Really, Mr. Harding, surely you can see that my poor sister is in no condition for such detailed inquiry. Would not it be more profitable to question those who were mysteriously unaffected by the catastrophe?”
“Mysteriously unaffected?” Harding consulted his book again. “Ah yes, here we have it—when examining different subjects, we must consider their ‘age, temperament, habit of body,’ and so forth. Some constitutions are naturally more resistant to noxious substances.”
“Or,” Miss Bingley said pointedly, “some persons possessed foreknowledge of what was to come.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Miss Bingley, you cannot suggest—”
“I suggest nothing, Mr. Darcy,” she replied with false sweetness. “I merely observe that it is most peculiar for only two members of our party to escape entirely unscathed. Most peculiar indeed.”
Mr. Harding nodded sagely, apparently missing the implications entirely.
“Indeed, the effects of poisons vary greatly. According to my authorities, we must examine whether there were ‘spasmodic contractions of the chest, swelling of the belly, coldness of the extremities, cold sweats, convulsions’—did you experience such symptoms, Mrs. Hurst?”
“All of them!” Mrs. Hurst wailed, “Every dreadful one! My poor husband suffered even worse—oh, when I think of how he writhed and moaned—” She dissolved into fresh tears.
“Excellent,” Harding said with apparent gratification, making a note. “These align perfectly with the symptoms of arsenical poisoning. Now, did your husband exhibit any ‘enormous vomitings, hiccups, heat of the stomach, delirium’—”?
“Mr. Harding,” Bingley interrupted desperately, “perhaps we might spare my sister the distress of recounting such details? Certainly, Hurst’s man could tell you those things. The crucial question is how such a substance came to be in our food or drink?”
“Quite right, quite right.” The magistrate consulted his papers again. “We must examine the passages by which the poison was conveyed—principally the stomach, as the same effects will be produced in it as in other parts. Mrs. Hurst, was your stomach inflated or rugated in an extraordinary manner?”
Mrs. Hurst looked at him with complete bewilderment. “I am sure I know not what you mean, sir.”
“Was it perforated with holes? Either one or many?”
“Holes?” Mrs. Hurst’s voice reached a new octave of distress. “In my stomach? Oh heavens, will I die after all?”
“Mr. Harding,” Darcy suggested in exasperation, “Perhaps we might focus on what Mrs. Hurst actually consumed at dinner, rather than the current state of her organs?”
Mr. Harding looked disappointed but nodded reluctantly. “Very well. What did you eat, madam?”
“Everything,” Mrs. Hurst whispered. “I sampled every dish. The soup, the fish, the fowl, the ragout,” She shuddered. “It all tasted perfectly normal.”
“We all ate the same dinner!” Miss Bingley interjected, “Surely, we must question why the Misses Bennet alone were spared such suffering? It strikes me as highly suspicious that they should be the only ones to escape—”