Page 33 of Chasing Shadows
His gaze shifted to Darcy. “Even you, cousin, urged me to strike him from suspicion when first we spoke of the matter.”
All eyes fixed upon Reeds. His bloodied lips twisted into a bitter smile, and a low laugh escaped him, harsh and jagged. “Yes. And had you but delayed another hour or two, Darcy would have drunk his draught, and his precious sister too.A sister for a sister. A life for lives. You took mine, and I would have yours.”
Caroline shrieked and hurled the vial from her hand. It shattered upon the hearth, and at once a bitter odour rose as the fire hissed and consumed it, the smoke stinging the nostrils. Mrs. Hurst coughed, waving her hand before her face, her eyes watering.
The officers seized Reeds, wrenching him upright. He offered no resistance, only fixed Darcy with burning eyes. “You should have died,” he hissed through bloodied teeth. “You and all your kind. You deserve to die.”
Darcy’s breath came fast, fury and horror mingling. Georgiana had clung to him again, her small hand trembling upon his sleeve. His gaze dropped to the vial bearing his own name, glinting innocently upon the table. But for Fitzwilliam’s timely arrival, he would have drunk it that very night, driven by restless sleeplessness. A wave of cold swept through him at the thought.
“Take him,” Fitzwilliam commanded, his tone like iron. “His lodgings are already searched. His bags were packed. He most likely planned to deliver the poison and flee. Providence alone prevented him. The magistrate will see the rest.”
Reeds gave no reply, only baring his teeth in a bloodied grin as he was dragged from the room.
A heavy silence followed in his wake, unnatural and suffocating. The shattered glass hissed upon the hearth. Georgiana’s breath came uneven, and Darcy laid his hand firmly over hers, steadying her, though in his breast he felt the dreadful weight of what had so nearly been.
Chapter Nineteen
The news of Samuel Reeds’ arrest spread through Meryton with astonishing swiftness. Before the day was out, every street hummed with whispers. Servants from Netherfield repeated it to each neighbour they encountered, until the tale had grown into five different versions by evening. Ladies who had taken physic from his hand now wrung theirs in terror, declaring they must be examined at once lest they had been poisoned unawares. Gentlemen, with a solemn shake of the head, assured one another that they had always mistrusted him and were not at all surprised. Families where he had once called turned pale, wondering if the cordial or draught he had left upon their tables might already be working its poison in their blood. The uproar was complete; Meryton was as fevered by gossip as it had been by fear of murder.
The gentleman from Netherfield—Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived at Longbourn the following morning, not long after breakfast on Christmas Day. The air was sharp and bright, the hedgerows rimed with snow, the lanes still edged in white where the sun had not yet touched them. At the sound of the knocker, the whole Bennet household hastened into the hall, curiosity and anticipation writ upon every face.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy! Colonel Fitzwilliam!” Mrs. Bennet cried, sweeping forward with such eagerness that poor Hill nearly dropped the tray she carried. “What a delight, what a true delight to see you all on such a morning. Pray come in—Hill, the best parlour, at once! Oh,how fine it is to have gentlemen of your standing visit us on Christmas Day. Jane, Lizzy, make haste! Lydia, Kitty, compose yourselves this instant.”
“Merry Christmas to you, madam,” Bingley returned with his customary warmth. His eyes, however, went at once to Jane. His smile spoke volumes, and she, blushing, required no words to reply.
Darcy bowed politely. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Bennet. Miss Bennet.” His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer upon Elizabeth. She returned his greeting with a quiet inclination, her own spirits lifted in some unaccountable way by the calm steadiness of his manner.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s tone was heartier. “A very good Christmas to you all. We intrude upon your merriment, but I trust you will forgive us when you hear what news we bring.”
In a moment, they were assembled in the parlour. The fire blazed, casting a cheerful glow upon the frosted windows. Elizabeth sat beside Jane, her eyes straying now and then to Mr. Darcy, though her thoughts were divided between the comfort of his presence and the dreadfulness of all that had so lately passed.
It was Mr. Bennet who spoke first, once all were seated. “Well, gentlemen, you must know the neighbourhood is in an uproar. Meryton has not spoken of anything else since yesterday. Pray, enlighten us—what have you discovered of this Reeds, or Younge, or whatever name he may claim? The tale grows larger with every telling.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam inclined his head gravely. “Permit me, then, to set the matter straight. Miss Elizabeth was right in suspecting thatRamsgatemight be connected. And thank Providence that Miss Lydia caught the word when the tradesman let it fall.”
Lydia blushed at this notice, but her father’s glance brought her to composure.
“When we searched his baggage,” Fitzwilliam continued, “we discovered letters, many letters, written by his sister, Mrs. Younge. His given name is John. John Younge. They were not merely brother and sister, but partners in deception, long accustomed to schemes and trickery, living upon whatever they might contrive.”
Elizabeth leaned forward. “Mr. Reeds? —”
“A falsehood,” Fitzwilliam confirmed, “and perhaps worse. He killed with such ease, such indifference, that I believe him capable of far more than we have yet uncovered. I suspect it is the very reason she kept him hidden from all quarters. One letter in particular reveals much. Mrs. Younge wrote to her brother after the failed elopement with Georgiana. It would seem even he was party to it. Wickham was drawn in only by his greed. Yet he himself was deceived. He fancied himself the mastermind, certain of her confidence, when in truth she was the planner all along. She drained him of money she never meant to repay and, I believe, intended to strip him of whatever might be secured from Georgiana’s dowry as well.
“When the attempt failed, her reputation was ruined. With Darcy refusing all further inquiry on her behalf, and declaring her a woman of infamous character to any who sought him, she could contrive no further scheme. Every avenue was closed against her. Burdened with creditors, she borrowed so heavily that she could not flee Ramsgate. Her letters speak of nothing but debts, failed ventures, and her dependence upon Wickham’s success. When Darcy thwarted it, she considered herself undone. She blamed Wickham, she blamed Darcy, she even blamed Georgiana for not being more pliant. Threatened with debtor’s prison, with nowhere to run, she wrote one final letter, declaring her intent to end her life in despair. The resentment was sown then.”
Mrs. Bennet gasped. “And all this time, we were nearly poisoned in our very parlour! To think this man brought draughts for my dear Jane under Mr. Bingley’s roof!”
Darcy spoke quietly, his voice steady. “No, madam. You need not distress yourself. Yes, the uproar is great among those he attended, but Mr. Jones has assured us no harm will come to any. He is tending several who fell ill from nothing more than fright. Every vial Reeds brought to Netherfield was tested. All save two proved harmless. The poison was prepared for me and for my sister. The rest were ordinary physic.”
Elizabeth flinched at Georgiana’s name, and a chill passed over her.
“The substance was laudanum mixed with foxglove,” Fitzwilliam explained. “A potent draught. It would not strike at once, but within a day it would sap the breath and weaken the heart. A decline so neat, so plausible, that few would suspect poison. He contrived it carefully.”
Mr. Bennet raised his brows. “So here we have a murderer with scruples. He would not destroy the many, only the few. A sort of conscience in crime.”
Darcy shook his head. “No conscience, sir. Not conscience, but delusion. He lived entirely in his sister’s disgrace. His mind was fixed upon revenge, and nothing else. His reason was so unbalanced that he believed himself justified in every act. He was not an ordinary criminal, but a man half-deranged, whose whole being was bent on vengeance.”
Elizabeth studied him as he spoke, struck by the quiet force of his words. Again, she thought of her own foolish trust in appearances—first in Wickham’s agreeable manners, then in Reeds’ civility. How easily she had been deceived. Was she so poor a judge of character? The thought burned her cheeks. Yet Darcy’s eyes met hers, steady and unflinching, and the faintest shake of his head seemed to read her doubt and dispel it.
