Page 29 of Love Among the Shadows
Without sparing another glance at Wickham, Fitzwilliam rushed out into the night, his strides purposeful and his breath coming fast. The killer was gone—but Wickham could live, if he got help fast. And if he could keep him alive, perhaps the truth would soon follow.
***
The household at Longbourn remained vigilant well into the night, every man prepared for the arrival of an unseen threat. Mr Bennet, Mr Darcy, and the few able-bodied men from the estate kept their post, their eyes fixed upon the windows and doors, listening for any sound that might betray an intruder. Yet, as the clock chimed two, weariness overtook them. One by one, they succumbed to exhaustion, some nodding off in chairs, others stretched across benches.
Darcy, though seated, was too restless to sleep. His mind churned with thoughts of Elizabeth, of Wickham, and of his cousin Fitzwilliam, who had remained behind to shadow the very man they suspected might be the killer. Had theirplan succeeded? Had the night passed without incident, or had Richard encountered danger alone?
These thoughts were interrupted by the sudden sound of hooves pounding the gravel outside the house.
A murmur of alarm rippled through the slumbering men. Chairs scraped against the floor as the household stirred, men rising hurriedly, some reaching for weapons they had placed within easy reach.
Darcy was on his feet instantly, his heart pounding. "Who comes at this hour?" he demanded, striding toward the front door.
Mr Bennet, who was awake too, said, "Steady yourself, sir. The intruder comes on a horse. Let us see who it is before we leap to conclusions."
Together, they stepped outside into the cool night air, the household gathered behind them, each face taut with expectation. A lone rider approached, the moonlight casting a pale glow upon his figure. His horse, frothing at the mouth from exertion, slowed as it neared the house.
"That is Mr Jones’s servant." Mr Bennet said, his tone assured. “I recognise him. It is John.
The rider dismounted quickly, pulling a sealed note from within his coat. "I bring a letter for Mr Darcy," he announced breathlessly. "From Colonel Fitzwilliam."
Darcy took the letter with shaking hands, his chest tightening with apprehension.A letter from Richard?It meant he was alive at least, but why was he sending a letter through the Apothecary household staff? What had happened? There was only one way to find out. He broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper, his eyes scanning the words hastily scrawled in Richard’s familiar hand:
“Darcy,
We were wrong. It is not Wickham. He was attacked tonight. Though I tried to get him to Mr Jones, the apothecary, to stabilize him before we could make for the hospital at St. Albans, it was no use. Wickham is dead.
Come. Hurry.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.”
The note trembled in Darcy’s hand as he read and reread the words. A wave of disbelief washed over him, followed by the weight of grim reality.
"Wickham is dead," he whispered.
Mr Bennet, standing beside him, heard the words and stiffened. "Dead? What do you mean?"
Darcy lowered the note slowly. "He was attacked tonight. My cousin tried to save him, but it was too late."
The household stood in stunned silence, the implications settling heavily upon them. Mr Darcy had been wrong in his suspicion. Mr Wickham wasn’t the Killer. The killer was still at large, and he had struck again.
PART II
Seventeen
Tobias Hatch, parish constable of Meryton, did not join the company at Lucas Lodge. He deemed it wiser to keep away, lest his chief suspect, Mr Darcy, observe him watching too closely and thereby mask his true nature with a show of propriety.
When Sir Barnaby Fairchild, the magistrate, informed him of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s arrival and the gentleman’s request to view the sites of the murders, Hatch was far from satisfied. That the cousin of the accused, a man of influence and command within the militia, should presume to meddle in an investigation of such delicacy struck him as nothing short of improper. How could justice be served if the main suspect’s own kin were permitted to direct inquiries? Worse still, with Colonel Fitzwilliam’s superior rank, Hatch suspected his own authority over the cases might soon be curtailed.
Yet the notion of being displaced did not dissuade him. Hatch’s ambition had long outgrown the humble office of parish constable. He dreamed of greater things—perhaps to be summoned to London as one of the Bow Street Runners, or at the very least to serve under a magistrate of note. If he could bring this case to a successful conclusion—if he alone unravelled the truth—it might secure him the respect and advancement he had long craved.
Thus, while others danced and made merry within Lucas Lodge, where Sir. William had thrown a ball in honour of his daughter’s engagement, Hatch stationed himself upon the footpath leading from the estate. He had already secured the assistance of a servant in the household, bidding him keep aclose watch upon Mr Darcy and report should the gentleman betray himself in quarrel or in any act that might hint at a guilty conscience.
Barely an hour had passed when the servant returned, cheeks flushed from haste and excitement. He leaned close, whispering the sort of tidings Hatch had been hoping for. Mr Darcy, it seemed, had indeed made himself conspicuous. A quarrel had arisen with Mr Wickham of the militia, witnessed by more than half the assembly. And—better still—the Bennet girl, Miss Elizabeth, had interposed herself with sharp words on Wickham’s behalf.
“And Darcy’s answer?” Hatch asked in a low tone.
“None, sir,” came the reply. “He only stood still, looking at her as though rooted to the floor.”
