The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (4 page)

Elizabeth turned her head slightly to him. Her eyes had widened, and they were full of excitement. “I have heard tales of gypsy bands, but I have never known of one camping near Meryton.” Her gaze returned to the colorful wagons, and the young men taking a horse through its paces. “Shall they truly steal our purses if we are foolish enough to go near their camp?” she asked innocently.

Darcy watched as the men stopped their activity to scrutinize his coach's progress. As a group, they took several menacing steps in the direction of the road. Automatically, Darcy stiffened, and he slid an arm about Elizabeth's waist. Sensing his anxiety, his wife clung tightly to him, and he felt fiercely protective of her. “There are many troops that offer no mischief,” he said with little conviction. “However, my experience with those who annually visit Derby is the Roma live by a different code.” Mr. Stalling must have considered the possible threat, for the horses' speed increased. “I wonder how long this particular group has been in the area.” Darcy turned to see the men standing in the road as the carriage maneuvered its way around a curve at a quickened pace.

Elizabeth caught the strap to steady herself. She said intuitively, “What you are asking, my husband, is whether the gypsies could have played a part in your cousin's death.”

“Mr. Darcy.” A smiling, elderly man entered the room, his hand extended in greeting. “I am very pleased to have your acquaintance, Sir. Over the years and on multiple occasions, your cousin has sung your praises.”

Darcy accepted the man's hand. Directing Stowbridge's attention to Elizabeth, he said, “Permit me to present my wife, Mrs. Darcy.”

Stowbridge executed a correct bow. “Ah, Mrs. Darcy, I cannot begin to speak of Samuel Darcy's elation with the news of your marriage to George Darcy's son. Samuel predicted that you would be quite beautiful—said a Darcy man recognizes a woman worthy of his attentions. I have always been of the persuasion that a man requires a beautiful bauble on his arm.” Darcy felt Elizabeth's body stiffen with the condescending remark, and he cupped her hand with his free one to warn away her expected protest. Unaware of his affront, Stowbridge gestured to nearby chairs before continuing, “Listen to me, speaking so familiarly. It is only from the purest excitement at having your acquaintance. I am only sorry our dear Samuel could not celebrate with us.” The man turned to Darcy. “Were you aware that Samuel had planned to journey to your home in Derbyshire? In June, your cousin had said of late.”

Darcy assisted Elizabeth to her seat. “I have not heard from Cousin Samuel since he sent his congratulations on my joining with Mrs. Darcy.” Darcy sat beside his wife on a narrow settee. He studied Stowbridge as the man rang for tea before joining them. The man had dark skin and eyes and was likely of European heritage, perhaps sixty years of age. Louis Stowbridge's wrinkles did nothing to dampen the animation crossing the man's countenance. Yet, despite Stowbridge's apparent joviality, the squire had yet to meet Darcy's eyes, a fact that caused Darcy instinctively to question the man's honesty. Looking a man in the eyes was a defining characteristic, the importance of which Darcy's father had drummed into his son's head. George Darcy had been quick to point out the necessity of doing so, especially when conducting business. Brushed to a fine gloss, the man's hair was thinning and peppered with gray, but by all appearances Stowbridge was a fit gentleman. Darcy continued, “Mrs. Darcy and I called at Samuel's home to inform the staff of our arrival in Wimborne. Mrs. Ridgeway suggested that we seek your knowledge of the events leading up to and those following Cousin Samuel's death.”

Immediately, the benevolent smile disappeared from the squire's lips. “That old tabby,” Stowbridge grumbled. “The lady does not know her place. She should have stood solidly by her husband rather than seeking her independence. Samuel should have pensioned off the woman years ago.” Darcy thought it odd that the man spoke so bluntly about Samuel's housekeeper. Darcy was not privy to the woman's history, but he understood her to be a widow, which caused him to question what the magistrate meant by the lady standing “solidly beside her husband.” Perhaps the woman and the late Mr. Ridgeway had gone their separate ways long before the man's passing. Such circumstances were commonplace among the aristocracy. Why should such difficulties not be so for the working class?

Elizabeth interrupted Darcy's thoughts and the magistrate's criticisms, “I found Mrs. Ridgeway quite pleasant, Mr. Stowbridge, and the lady appeared distraught over Mr. Darcy's passing.” Darcy adored the way his wife never failed to speak her mind. It was one of the qualities that had attracted him to the former Elizabeth Bennet.

Pondering his pleasure in her straightforward speech, Darcy pleasantly recalled what his wife had asked one evening shortly after they had announced their engagement. “My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my behavior to you was, at least, always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now, be sincere, did you admire me for my impertinence?” And Darcy had reluctantly admitted, not for the first time, that Elizabeth's ‘impertinence' had driven him happily to distraction. She was sadly correct. He had been disgusted with the women who were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for his approbation alone.
His
Elizabeth was so unlike every other woman of his acquaintance, and Darcy counted himself among the blessed because of it.

Evidently, the squire had never encountered a woman of Elizabeth's mettle, for the man blinked in surprise. He smiled benevolently, as if he were a loving grandfather offering a sugary treat to a child, but Stowbridge's tone was not so indulgent. “Of course, Mrs. Ridgeway thought kindly of her employer,” he said placatingly. “However, the woman does not recognize that an upper servant should remain silent.” A particularly false smile dressed the man's lips.

Darcy recognized Elizabeth's quickly rising ire. His wife's eyes narrowed, and her lips flattened into a sharply defined line. When her jaw hardened, he placed a hand over the back of her gloved one as a warning to still her tongue. “Then perhaps,
Mr. Stowbridge, as the shire's magistrate, you might provide me the details of Samuel Darcy's passing. I am also interested in the steps taken to discover my cousin's assailant.”

Stowbridge's shoulders slumped in defeat. “It is a sad tale, Mr. Darcy.” He shot a glance of concern in Elizabeth's direction. “And it is not one fit for a lady's ears.”

Elizabeth's fingers intertwined with Darcy's. “You do justice to the generosity and delicacy of your notions, Sir,” Elizabeth said with feigned munificence—a tone of which Darcy had been the recipient on more than one occasion. “I assure you, Mr. Stowbridge, I am not a woman of weak sensibilities.”

“Very well, Mrs. Darcy,” the squire said brusquely, his irritation evident. “Samuel Darcy was my dearest friend, and his passing grieves me greatly. Not a day passes that I do not wish his return so I might tell him how every former frown or cold address has been forgotten.” The tea arrived, and they waited for the service before the squire continued.

“The night of his death, Samuel joined me, Nicholas Drewe, and Liam Mason for a congenial evening. We played cards and spoke of Drewe's latest work, but Samuel appeared a bit distracted—very unlike himself. On that particular evening, Samuel displayed a true want of all laudable ambition, of a taste for good company, or of an inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable.” An indefinable expression crossing the squire's countenance told Darcy things were not all what the magistrate pretended them to be. Stowbridge was sweetening his rendition of the night's happenings, but Darcy was uncertain as to why the man did not freely speak the whole truth. He hoped the magistrate's motive lay in delicacy for Elizabeth's weaker feminine sensibilities.

Darcy's brows rose slightly as he scrutinized every word the man spoke, as well as the unspoken ones. “Do you know the source of Cousin Samuel's distraction?” he asked.

“It is unlikely that anyone other than I took notice. I have spent a third of my life as Samuel Darcy's friend. Except for his absence during your cousin's many expeditions, Samuel and I have shared our memories. I have many fond recollections of our time together.”

Darcy had no desire on this day to listen to Stowbridge's sentimental remembrances. He would make a point to call upon the squire on a future date to learn more of his cousin's recent years. For now, Darcy required details of Samuel's passing. “I do not wish to reject your memories as insignificant,” Darcy said encouragingly, “but Mrs. Darcy and I have heard the most horrendous tale. Please allay our questions with earnest answers.”

Stowbridge cleared his throat and assumed an air of importance. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. I have avoided mentioning the sordid details, for they are most distressing.” The squire closed his eyes, and his grief was evident upon his countenance. Darcy thought it the first genuine moment they had shared since arriving at Stowe Hall. “Samuel insisted upon walking home that evening. Said it would clear his thinking. Said he had learned something of a distressing nature about a dear friend. Said the evening at cards had reminded him of a ritual from his latest expedition. I do not know which of the two matters most occupied Samuel's mind as he made his way to Woodvine Hall.” Stowbridge opened his eyes slowly. “We did not discover Samuel's body until the following day.”

Darcy asked softly, “Would it have made a difference if someone had come upon Samuel after his attack?”

Stowbridge shook his head in denial. “The surgeon assures me it would not; yet, when I think of how Samuel must have suffered...” his voice broke in sorrow.

Darcy's curiosity was piqued. The drama surrounding this tale had increased. “Then, the blow to his head did not kill Cousin Samuel?”

The squire reached for his handkerchief. He mopped his brow first and then wiped his mouth, as if shoving away a bad taste. “Evidently, Mrs. Ridgeway thought it best to keep her opinions to herself,” Stowbridge grumbled. Again, the bitterness with which the magistrate spoke of Samuel's housekeeper rubbed at Darcy's inquisitiveness. From his last visit in Dorset with Samuel, Darcy recalled a troubling rumor that had plagued his cousin's usually cheery humor. Samuel had spoken of an acquaintance who had been accused of taking advantage of one of his servants. Had it been Stowbridge about whom Samuel had worried? If so, could that be the source of the magistrate's disdain for the Woodvine housekeeper? Had the squire made advances toward Samuel's servant? “The assault did not initially kill Samuel Darcy.” The magistrate paused solemnly. “According to the surgeon, Mr. Glover, Samuel's injury was as unique as the man himself. The blow literally knocked your cousin's head from his shoulders; yet, it did not decapitate him.”

Darcy's hand caught Elizabeth's. He held hers tightly in his grip. Such details would disturb his wife's customarily active imagination. “How is that possible?”

Stowbridge replied, “Glover says he has never seen such a case, but he insists it is possible. He claims the skull simply rests on the spine, or some such nonsense. Samuel's attacker delivered a strike, very much like one used in cricket. The impact lifted Samuel's head from his spine. With no skeletal support, your cousin's head drooped forward. Unable to raise his chin, Samuel could not take a breath. My dearest friend suffocated before anyone could discover him. Yet, even if we had found him in a timelier manner, Samuel's death would have only been a matter of time. Mr. Glover assures me that no surgeon could have repaired such damage. He says all he could have done would have been to give poor Samuel enough laudanum to ease his pain while your cousin waited for death. Likely, if someone had found him and attempted to move him, it would have exacerbated Samuel's suffering.”

As if seeking guidance, Darcy's eyes searched the ceiling. He made a strangled sound deep in his throat. He had considered many scenarios, but he could never have foreseen something this out of the ordinary. He glanced to where Elizabeth sat quietly. His wife had paled, but she reached for his arm. She stared at him steadily. Her face twisted in horror. The fact that Darcy's voice sounded normal when he responded quite surprised him. It was strange because he felt so detached. A man whom he respected and admired had died an unspeakable death. Had died alone on a country path through the woods. “I wish I had been available to comfort him,” Darcy said sadly.

“I am certain Samuel would have wanted that also,” Stowbridge insisted. “Yet, we must remember that God guides us to his door in His time, not in ours.”

Darcy's breath caught in his throat. “And what of my cousin's assailant? How has your investigation progressed?”

“Samuel's attacker was not content with your cousin's death,” Stowbridge continued. “Several days following the discovery of Samuel's body, we found a man we assumed to be the killer. He was draped across Samuel's freshly dug grave. Multiple lacerations crossed the man's body. Part of your cousin's coffin had been shattered.”