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Darcy hesitated, suspecting that the magistrate was asking questions he already knew the answers to.

Darcy had not been the only one who witnessed Caroline’s acrimonious exchange with her brother at the ball; there had been several witnesses, who might well have approached Mr. Burnley yesterday evening after hearing of Caroline’s death.

“I observed an exchange the night of the ball that suggested considerable tension between them,” he said carefully.

“Miss Bingley spoke critically of Mr. Bingley’s attachment to a particular lady, suggesting he had been made a fool of.

His response, while controlled, indicated significant anger. ”

Mr. Burnley made a note in his book before looking up again. “And this lady in question would be Miss Jane Bennet? Mrs. Darcy’s sister?”

“Yes,” Darcy confirmed, seeing no benefit in prevarication on this point.

The magistrate nodded, making another notation before closing his book with deliberate precision. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. Your observations have been most helpful. I may have additional questions later.”

The interview concluded, Darcy found Elizabeth waiting for him in the corridor, her expression suggesting she wished to speak privately.

“What did Mr. Burnley ask you?” Elizabeth inquired softly as they began to ascend the stairs.

“His questions focused primarily on Bingley’s relationship with his sister,” Darcy replied, keeping his voice equally low. “Particularly regarding any discord between them.”

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. “He asked me similar questions, though he seemed particularly interested in my observations of Bingley’s behaviour immediately after the discovery of Caroline’s body.”

Darcy was considering this information when Elizabeth suddenly paused, her hand tightening on the banister. “Fitzwilliam,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Look there, on the step.”

Following her gaze, Darcy observed what he had previously missed: a series of small, dark spots on the stairs, spaced irregularly but forming a discernible path upward. The spots, brown against the dark polished wood, would be easily overlooked by a casual glance.

“Blood,” Darcy murmured, bending to examine the marks more closely. Together, they followed the trail up the stairs and onto the landing. “It appears Miss Bingley must have struck her head before falling, or perhaps during her descent.”

“But if she fell down the stairs,” Elizabeth reasoned, her quick mind immediately identifying the inconsistency, “how could blood be here on the landing?”

The implication hung between them, too significant to dismiss.

Without speaking further, they continued along the corridor, the spots becoming smaller and more sporadic, yet still discernible to careful observation.

They followed in silence, the tension growing with each step until they reached a point where the trail ended abruptly, mere feet from the door to Bingley’s private chambers.

They stared at each other in wondering horror, the unavoidable conclusion forming between them without need for words. If Caroline had bled here, outside her brother’s rooms, and her body had been found at the bottom of the stairs, then the narrative of a simple fall could not possibly be accurate.

“Let us return to our chambers,” Darcy said quietly. “We must discuss this privately.”

Once behind closed doors, Elizabeth paced near the window while Darcy stood with his back to the fireplace, his mind working rapidly through the implications of their discovery.

“The blood trail suggests Caroline was injured near Bingley’s rooms before being found at the bottom of the stairs,” Elizabeth stated, her analytical clarity a quality Darcy had long admired, though now it served a grim purpose. “She could not have fallen down the stairs and left blood at the top.”

“Indeed not,” Darcy agreed. “Furthermore, the maid noted that Caroline’s bed had not been slept in. She never retired after the ball.”

“And Bingley’s behaviour since her death has been...” Elizabeth hesitated, searching for the precise word.

“Inconsistent,” Darcy supplied. “His grief appears calculated rather than genuine. He moves too quickly to practical matters, financial arrangements, as though eager to establish normalcy before proper mourning would dictate.”

“I overheard an awful argument between them, a few days ago,” Elizabeth admitted. “Caroline was being quite dreadful to him, saying it was entirely his own fault that Jane no longer preferred him.”

Darcy nodded slowly. “They had a similar argument at the ball, in public, witnessed by several people. His composure was notably affected.”

“And you mentioned to me that Doctor Jones observed what appeared to be finger marks on Caroline’s arm,” Elizabeth continued, the pieces fitting together with disturbing coherence. “As though someone had grasped her forcefully.”

Darcy crossed to the window, staring out at Netherfield’s grounds with unseeing eyes.

The implications were becoming impossible to ignore, yet the thought that Bingley, his friend of many years, might have harmed his own sister remained almost impossible to reconcile with the man he believed he knew.

“Even if we accept that an altercation occurred,” he said carefully, “we cannot know with certainty what transpired. Perhaps there was an argument that became physical, but an accidental fall rather than deliberate action.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth conceded, though her tone suggested she found this interpretation optimistic rather than probable. “But we cannot ignore what we have seen. The blood trail leads from Bingley’s rooms to the stairs, not the reverse. Caroline was injured before she fell.”

“And Bingley’s behaviour since has been that of a man with something to conceal,” Darcy concluded reluctantly.

“His insistence that the magistrate’s investigation is unnecessary, his careful performance of grief without its substance, his focus on financial matters when proper mourning would dictate otherwise. ”

The weight of these conclusions settled between them, a burden of knowledge neither had sought yet could not now discard.

Darcy turned from the window to face his wife, finding in her steady gaze the strength he needed to confront the possibility that his friend might be guilty of a crime far darker than mere social impropriety.

“We must speak with someone who can advise us on how to proceed,” he said finally. “Someone whose judgment we can trust, who understands both legal matters and the complexities of human nature.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth suggested immediately.

Darcy nodded. “Yes, my cousin would be the appropriate choice. I shall fetch him immediately, and the three of us will talk together. This matter must remain between those absolutely necessary until we have determined the proper course of action.”

“This is horribly reminiscent of this spring.” Elizabeth wrapped her arms tightly around herself and shivered. “When we had to investigate what happened to Wickham.”

Darcy paused on his way to the door, and turned back to enfold her in a tight embrace. “That all turned out all right,” he said gruffly. “So will this.”

“You cannot promise that,” she murmured, though she did lean against him for a moment, as though trying to absorb his strength. “Go and get Richard. We need to talk.”

“I shall send a servant for him.” Darcy did not want to leave her alone.

Elizabeth’s strength of character was one of the things he most admired about her, but he could see that a second death in the space of less than a year had shaken her to the core, however little she had liked Caroline.

Urging her to sit down in a chair beside the fire, he left her only briefly, sending her maid for tea and his valet to find his cousin.

A firm knock preceded Colonel Fitzwilliam’s entrance shortly after the tea-tray had been delivered, his expression grave as he closed the door carefully behind him.

“Darcy,” he greeted his cousin with a brief clasp of hands before turning to Elizabeth. “Elizabeth. Your valet suggested a matter of some delicacy requiring immediate attention?”

“Indeed,” Darcy confirmed, gesturing toward the chairs before the fireplace. “We appreciate your prompt response. The matter is both delicate and, I fear, potentially quite serious.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam took the offered seat, his posture remaining alert despite the ostensible relaxation of sitting. “I gather this concerns Miss Bingley’s death?”

“Indeed.” Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, then shrugged. “The initial assumption of a tragic accident seemed reasonable.”

“Do you have reason to doubt it?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, his expression darkening.

Darcy exchanged another look with Elizabeth before continuing.

“Several inconsistencies have emerged that suggest the circumstances may be more complex than initially apparent. The magistrate, Mr. Burnley, has returned today to continue his inquiry, suggesting he too harbours reservations that there may be more to the tragedy than mere misfortune.”

Darcy outlined the discoveries they had made: the blood trail leading from Bingley’s chambers to the staircase, the evidence that Caroline had never retired to bed after the ball, the curious marks observed on her arm by the doctor, and perhaps most significantly, the incongruities in Bingley’s behaviour since his sister’s death.

Elizabeth contributed her own observations regarding the argument overheard before and during the ball, describing the uncharacteristic anger Bingley had displayed toward his sister when she criticised his attachment to Jane and his apparent humiliation at her preference for Colonel Fitzwilliam.

The colonel listened without interruption, his expression growing increasingly grave as the narrative unfolded. When they had concluded, he rose and paced briefly before the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back.