Page 35 of Love Among the Shadows
They danced in silence for a turn.
“I am sorry you arrived at so unfortunate a season,” Elizabeth said at last. “Meryton is, in truth, a peaceful place. I am certain, once these matters are resolved, you will see it so.”
“I hope it is soon,” Mr Reeds replied gravely. “I heard talk that the parish constable pursued the killer, but there was a narrow escape. I daresay none of us feels entirely secure.”
“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “We do not. Yet I believe we soon shall. Everyone, including Mr Darcy and the militia, is doing all that can be done to bring this evil to an end.”
Mr Reeds’ gaze followed hers toward Darcy before returning, softer now. “I hope the neighbourhood may come to see that he too is something of a victim in this business.” His expression gentled still further. “Please forgive me for bringingup the affair. I did not mean to add to your burdens. I only hope this evening affords you a measure of comfort.”
“It does,” Elizabeth said quietly. Her lips curved in the faintest smile. “Thank you, sir.”
The dance soon ended. The celebration, modest as it was, continued with the usual cheer of a village wedding. Toasts were made, and the bride and groom were congratulated. Yet through it all, Elizabeth could not wholly turn her mind from the tall figure who remained on the edge of the crowd—watching, silent, restrained. Neither could she forget that there was still a killer on the loose.
And so the day concluded. Charlotte Lucas was now Mrs. Collins, and the guests departed one by one, the hum of gossip already shifting from bride to gentleman. For all the vows spoken beneath the roof of Lucas Lodge, it was the presence of Fitzwilliam Darcy that lingered longest in the minds of many as they returned to their homes.
***
Darcy remained at the edge of the assembly, where the shadows of the room seemed a fitting refuge. He had not wished to attend, yet Mr Collins had pressed upon him with great solemnity the necessity of his presence, invoking Lady Catherine’s name as though her august interest were bound up in the day. To have refused, after such pompous insistence, would only have provided further matter for gossip. And so he endured it, though every moment among that company felt like a test of his composure.
The air was thick with unease. He felt the weight of every glance, the murmur of every whisper that shifted the instant he arrived. Some eyes regarded him with open suspicion, others with guarded civility, but all seemed to mark his movements as though he bore contagion. Better, then,to hold himself apart. He engaged in no more than the plainest courtesies, sought no conversation, and touched no refreshment. If his conduct was called proud or cold, he would bear it. What he would not do was give the killer on the loose an excuse to strike again through his unwary speech or misplaced step.
Yet his resolve faltered when his gaze fell upon her. Elizabeth, all lightness and grace, moved through the figures of the dance. Her partner, Mr Reeds, watched her with a look of earnest admiration that set Darcy’s jaw tight. She smiled at some remark, a fleeting expression that was more restrained than joyous, yet it pierced him nonetheless. If times were different, if suspicion did not hang upon him like a millstone, surely he would have gone to her, claimed her hand, and at last set aside the foolish anger and pride that had kept him from the request before.
How strange, he thought, that some quarrel or fresh calamity had marred every ball in Meryton since his arrival and prevented him from approaching her. And now, when every fibre of his being urged him to cross the room, he stood rooted, chained by circumstance.
Her eyes, those fine, dark eyes that had first unsettled his judgement at the Meryton assembly, were fixed on her partner, attentive, kind, and wholly beyond his reach. The sight stirred a pang he would not allow to show.
Yet stronger than jealousy was the pall that hung over them all. The killer still walked free, waiting unseen, and every moment of inaction felt like an invitation to tragedy. His cousin urged patience, insisting they must bide their time until the killer made a mistake. But to Darcy, patience meant another victim, another innocent life lost to serve as bait, and he could not reconcile himself to such cold necessity. If blood must bespilt again, let it be his own. Better the fiend come for him than make sport of others.
The dance ended, the company turned to their toasts, and Charlotte Lucas was announced as Mrs. Collins. Darcy watched the parson preen, inflated with consequence, while his bride bore her new station with quiet composure.
Darcy’s mind drifted back to Bingley’s casual confidence that Collins’s suit had first been directed toward Elizabeth. His gaze found her again across the room, and the thought arose: what if she had accepted? The notion jarred him. To see her bound to that pompous little man, condemned to a life of obsequious duty beneath Lady Catherine’s hand, seemed almost unthinkable.
A surprising flicker of relief stirred in him, quickly followed by perplexity. Why should it matter to him whom she refused? He knew so little of her, had shared only a handful of conversations. Yet even in those brief exchanges, he had discerned a lively intelligence that marked her unsuited to such a match. That, at least, was explanation enough. And yet…
Darcy pressed his lips together, unwilling to pursue the thought further. Better to school his mind to silence, as he schooled his countenance, and endure the evening with such composure as remained to him.
Twenty
The note came to Tobias Hatch folded twice and sealed with a smear of red wax. The errand boy said only that Mr Jones had received a reply from London. Tobias broke the seal at once.
The letter was brief. The supplier had checked his ledger. A small quantity of ether had been sent into the county last month. One name had been recorded: Mr Richard Doughty.
Tobias read the name again. Doughty. He knew the name. The man had attended both the Meryton assembly and the Netherfield ball. Four years earlier, he had been whispered about in the murder of a widower who was said to owe him. Nothing had been proved. The talk had died when the magistrate could not make it stand.
He set the paper on the table and placed a finger upon the name. He felt no triumph. Only a hard, steadying caution. It did not fit. He had already questioned Mr Doughty over Tom Granger’s death. The alibi had been plain and supported. A public house near the turnpike. The landlord swore the man had taken more ale than was wise and fallen asleep before the hearth. Two waggoners, strangers to both, had lifted him clear of the settle and left him snoring on the sanded floor. He had not stirred till morning. It was not a tale men told to oblige a gentleman. It was rough, ordinary truth.
He folded the note and put it in his breast pocket. Then he took up his little book and wrote a line: “Mr Doughty — three o’clock.” He added two brief questions beneath, no more. He never wrote everything in one place. That habit had served him.
He took his hat. He checked the latch of his small desk and pressed the lid down till it caught. In the drawer lay the handkerchief that had troubled him for days. He would not carry it now.
He had laid the matter before Mr Jones on the morning following Wickham’s death. On the night itself, he could not in conscience press any question, for every hand had been bent on saving the officer’s life. When at last he approached the apothecary, it was with studied composure, as though the article were but a trifle of idle curiosity, bearing no connection to the crime. Yet he suspected Jones discerned more than was spoken. The man bent over it, drew in the faint trace, and in confidence pronounced the scent to be ether. Rare. Costly. Highly flammable. Employed chiefly in medical practice as an anaesthetic, and of little value to common households save where it might be misused as a soporific. Such a substance could not be procured in Meryton; it was dispatched from London and furnished only upon request. Aside from his own practice, Jones confessed he knew of no other who made use of it within the county. However, he promised to write to his supplier to inquire. Now the reply had come, and with it a name: Mr Doughty.
Tobias left his lodging and took the lane toward the Green. He did not dawdle. He did not hurry. His stride was the same one he used for all business, firm and unremarkable. He nodded to a woman with a basket. He returned a boy’s grin with a warning look that sent the lad off at a trot. Nothing about him asked to be noticed.
He kept to the quieter side streets until the houses thinned. In his pocket his fingers found the little coil of twine he carried out of habit. He turned it once and let it lie. A small thing could be of use. It often had been.
He ordered his thoughts. Ether. Mr Jones had said it belonged to medical men. To surgeons. To apothecaries. Tothose who eased pain or stilled a struggling patient. If such men kept it, others might steal it. A bottle could go missing from St. Albans. A vial might be lifted from a bag in a sickroom. A careless assistant might share what should not be shared. A thief might carry off a case under his arm in the dark. There were a dozen paths for such a substance to change hands. Doughty’s name on a supplier’s list proved only this: that Doughty had bought it. Or that someone claiming to be him had. It did not prove he had put it to wicked use. However, he couldn’t conclude until he questioned the man again.
