Page 25 of Chasing Shadows
He sat in a shadowed corner of the public house, half-concealed by the smoke and clamour about him. A pewter tankard rested at his elbow, its contents scarcely disturbed save for the faint mark of his lips upon the rim. He had no taste for liquor that afternoon; it was habit alone that had carried him thither—the need to sit among men whilst remaining apart.
His gaze lingered upon the dark swirl of ale as his mind drifted. It had been no accident. For months—nay, for a year—he had marked their steps, watching, listening, learning what he might. Wickham’s haunts were ever taverns and gaming dens; Darcy’s movements, more guarded, required a keener ear. Yet servants talk, and gossip travels swiftly when coin loosens tongues. That was how he learnt of Darcy’s sojourn into Hertfordshire.
The knowledge roused him at once. Here, in this quiet corner of England, lay the very stage he had long desired. Wickham could be summoned easily—his weakness for drink, for women, for the promise of sudden fortune, made him pliant. A handful of paid drunks murmuring of Meryton, of ladies withpurses and prospects, had been bait enough. The fool had taken it eagerly.
Thus, the threads were drawn together. Darcy and Wickham, side by side in the same village. The thought had thrilled him. It was not enough to strike one and then the other, apart and unknowing. No—the truest satisfaction lay in weaving their fates together, so that each ruin might reflect the other.
The first three deaths had been artfully contrived, each designed to strike at Darcy’s reputation, leaving the proud gentleman entangled in whispers and suspicion. He had enjoyed listening with secret exultation as villagers muttered that Darcy must be the culprit. A fitting justice. A taste of the shame Darcy himself had once inflicted.
But then—Hatch. Tobias Hatch, the parish constable. The fellow had pressed too near. That cursed handkerchief—the single mistake. Dropped in haste when flight became necessary; better to leave it than to be seized outright. For a week, he had waited, certain Hatch would carry it to the magistrate. When none came, he discerned the man’s intent: to pursue the trail quietly. Cleverer than most. Too clever.
He tapped the rim of his tankard with a fingernail, a thin smile curving his lips. He had accounted for such a contingency—that was the very reason the ether had been procured in Richard Doughty’s name. A stroke of foresight, and well-judged. Let suspicion fall once more where it had already settled, should any grow too inquisitive before his work was complete. The notebook in Hatch’s chamber ought to have sufficed. Yet the magistrate, the colonel, even Darcy himself, had accepted a paltry alibi and allowed Doughty his liberty. He hissed softly between his teeth.Fools.They couldn’t catch a fish already trapped in the net.
And now Darcy scarcely quitted Netherfield, watched on every side by vigilant eyes. The sport had grown stale—toolong protracted, too cautious, too fatiguing. The hour was fast approaching when all must be brought to its close. It was for this very purpose he lingered there, pondering in the shadowed corner how best to complete the remainder of his design.
“Pardon, sir—”
He stiffened. A diminutive man stood by his table, hat in hand, his air apologetic. “Forgive me, but have we met? I could almost swear your face is known to me.”
The killer’s gaze lifted, cold yet composed. He lived here. He had made a place for himself in this town, woven his presence into the fabric of the marketplace and the streets. He expected recognition, for that was the point of his disguise: to be seen, yet not seen; to be known as one thing so that no one thought to look for another. But this man’s words betrayed a gap. He had not recognised him as the neighbour, the tradesman, the fellow townsman he was meant to be. Instead, he had glimpsed something else.
The realisation chilled him. If his careful fiction did not hold in every mind, then his safety was not so certain as he had believed.
His voice, when he spoke, was low and deliberate. “You are mistaken, sir. However, good day to you.”
The fellow coloured, bowing awkwardly. “I meant no offence. Only, when I looked at you—”
The scrape of the chair forestalled him. Rising with studied composure, he adjusted his coat, left the almost full tankard precisely where it was, and moved past without haste. His step was steady, unhurried—such as might belong to any gentleman grown weary of unwelcome intrusion.
“Sir! Pray forgive me!” the little man called, hurrying after him. “I was certain I had seen you before—at Portsmouth perhaps? Or… yes, was it not near Rams—”
But he was already gone. His dark coat vanished round the corner, his tread measured upon the cobbles. Behind him the fool’s voice still carried—“Ramsgate!”—a word tossed into the air like a careless spark. He felt the danger of it, sharp and perilous. Sparks, left untended, have a way of kindling fire—and he had no intention of leaving this one to burn unchecked.
***
Mrs. Bennet could not prevent her younger daughters from leaving the house, particularly when they reminded her—rather saucily—that she had allowed Elizabeth and Jane to pass three entire days at Netherfield without her chaperonage, and that Christmastide shopping was in full swing. Thus compelled, she permitted Mary, Kitty, and Lydia to walk into Meryton to call upon their Aunt Philips. Jane, unwell with her courses, remained at home, and Elizabeth elected to stay behind and keep her sister company.
The three younger Bennet ladies set out merrily enough, and as they passed the marketplace, Lydia spied Mr. Denny standing near the public house at the town’s edge. With her usual vivacity, she hailed him at once, and he came forward with a bow.
“My dear Miss Lydia, Miss Kitty, Miss Mary—how do you all do?”
“Well enough,” Lydia returned with a grin. “And you, sir? It is long since we met in the High Street.”
Kitty, ever eager to be included, leaned forward. “How are you bearing it all, Mr. Denny—after Mr. Wickham’s death, I mean?”
Denny’s expression sobered. “It is a great loss, I assure you. The regiment feels it sorely. Colonel Forster has all hands employed in discovering this killer. We will not rest until justice is served.”
Lydia tossed her head, her tone half-petulant, half-mournful. “I shall always admire Mr. Wickham, whatever others may say. He was the handsomest officer in the corps.”
Before Denny could reply, a snatch of conversation drifted from behind them—low voices carrying from the corner of the public house. One word reached Lydia’s ear with peculiar force:Ramsgate.The tone in which it was spoken possessed a certain distinction that made her turn instinctively. She saw only a man standing outside the pub alone, his coat dark and worn, his manner outwardly unremarkable. His eyes met hers for the briefest moment, then he stepped forward with a smile.
“Pardon, young ladies,” he said, doffing his hat politely. “Might I tempt you with a toy? Fine work, I assure you.”
Kitty laughed. “We are too old for toys, sir.”
“Too old?” he echoed with good humour. “Nay, the child within us never dies. A simple trifle may cheer the heart of any age.”
Mary drew herself up with quiet propriety. “We thank you, sir, but we have business with our aunt and must not be delayed.”
