Page 9 of Love Among the Shadows
As Darcy reached the foot of the staircase and stepped into the drawing room, the door opened to admit Mr Jones, the apothecary. His entrance was unhurried, his grave countenance and precise manner lending him an air of quiet authority. His years of diligent practice were evident in his composed demeanour as he inclined his head toward Mr Bingley and Darcy.
Following closely behind was his assistant, Mr Samuel Reeds, a younger man whose steady gaze and measured movements suggested a man accustomed to careful observation. Reeds carried a small satchel, the contents of which hinted at the tools of his trade, and his demeanour exuded a quiet competence that seemed to settle the unease in the room, if only slightly.
Mr Jones inclined his head respectfully. “Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy,” he began, his tone subdued. “Permit me to express my condolences. The loss of young Mr Granger is most unfortunate. I…” He faltered slightly, the hesitation breaking his composure. Clearing his throat, he continued more firmly, “We have conducted an examination of the body. While I must confess my expertise lies chiefly in the preparation and dispensing of medicines, my assistant, Mr Reeds, has had thebenefit of experience alongside traveling physicians and is better versed in such matters.”
Darcy’s sharp gaze shifted to Mr Reeds briefly, whose modest bow was accompanied by a reserved composure that seemed to inspire confidence. “What have you discovered, Mr Jones?” Darcy inquired, his voice even but laced with a quiet intensity.
Mr Jones hesitated briefly before answering. “Upon examining the young man, we observed signs consistent with asphyxiation. His eyes were reddened, and his chest bore signs of swelling, suggesting that his lungs were unable to expel air. These are, unfortunately, characteristic of such a condition.”
A weighty silence fell over the room, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. Mr Bingley, his expression clouded, turned abruptly. “Asphyxiation? How could this have happened?”
Darcy, his brow furrowed in thought, added, “Indeed, how does a man of his age and apparent good health, alone in his quarters, come to such an end?”
Mr Reeds stepped forward, his voice measured yet carrying an undercurrent of unease. “It is not beyond the realm of possibility, sir, that his death was not natural. Should he have had an enemy—one who bore him malice—this could explain his sudden demise.”
A collective murmur rippled through the room. Mrs. Hurst gasped audibly, clutching the arm of the settee. “An enemy? At Netherfield?” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with alarm. Miss Bingley’s hand rose to her throat as she whispered, “How dreadful!” Even Mr Hurst stirred, his customary indifference giving way to a muttered, “Surely not.”
Mr Bingley’s voice, though tinged with disbelief, carried an edge of resolve. “You mean to say he was murdered?”
Mr Reeds raised a hand in a calming gesture. “I suggest only a possibility, sir. It is equally plausible that the young man suffered a sudden medical affliction—an unexpected constriction of the throat, perhaps, or the failure of his lungs. Without further examination, it is impossible to say with certainty.”
“But he appeared perfectly well last night,” Miss Bingley interjected. “I saw him as we left the event, and he seemed in fine health.”
“It is not uncommon,” Mr Reeds replied, “for individuals to seem in good health mere moments before a fatal event. I have, in my experience, encountered such cases before. It is why I cannot yet rule out any cause—be it a medical condition or something more unnatural.”
“And it could not have been self-inflicted?” Mr Hurst suggested, his tone marked by nonchalance.
Mr Jones shook his head firmly. “Asphyxiation, sir, does not occur by one’s own hand unless through hanging, in which case we would have found him suspended. To voluntarily hold one’s breath to the point of death is not within the bounds of human ability.”
“If foul play is involved,” Mrs. Hurst ventured, her voice taut, “it must be one of the servants. Who else resides in the quarters?”
Bingley, his tone firm, interjected. “Let us not leap to conclusions. What we need is the opinion of a skilled doctor. I shall write to St. Albans immediately to secure one.”
“An excellent decision,” Mr Jones agreed. “And if any evidence of foul play should emerge, the magistrate must be informed without delay.”
“I shall see to it,” Bingley replied with a nod. “Though Tom was an orphan, it would be right to contact any extended family that might be traced.”
“Very proper, sir,” Mr Reeds affirmed. “And should no evidence of foul play arise, I trust the arrangements for his burial will be carried out with all due dignity.”
“Certainly,” Bingley said softly, his usual warmth tempered by sorrow. “It is the least we can do.”
Mr Jones inclined his head. “If there is no further need of my services, I shall take my leave.”
“One moment,” Darcy interjected, his voice measured but quieter than intended, betraying a fatigue he could no longer ignore. “I find myself unwell this morning. Perhaps it is merely a chill.”
Mr Jones turned his discerning gaze upon him, noting the slight rigidity in Darcy’s posture. Stepping closer, he reached out with a practiced hand to touch Darcy’s forehead, his fingers cool against the warmth of his skin. He studied Darcy’s eyes intently, as though their clarity might reveal the nature of his ailment. “The weather has indeed been most unkind, sir,” he said at last. “I believe it to be no more than a common chill, perhaps accompanied by a slight fever. A simple draught should suffice to remedy it. Mr Reeds will see to it directly.”
Mr Reeds bowed with precision. “I shall prepare it without delay, sir.”
Darcy inclined his head in acknowledgment, though the slight tremor in his fingers, which he quickly concealed by curling them into a fist, did not escape his notice. “Thank you.”
As the apothecary and his assistant took their leave, the room fell into an oppressive silence. The faint murmur of voices drifting from the hall barely registered in the minds of the remaining occupants, each one preoccupied with their own unease. Darcy moved to the hearth, his eyes fixed on the flames, which danced and flickered with an almost hypnotic rhythm.
He extended his hand toward the warmth, feigning interest in the fire’s glow, but as he did, he noted with disquietthat his fingers trembled ever so slightly. Clenching his fist once more, he pressed it against his side, willing his body into stillness. The chill seemed to settle deeper into his bones, defying the proximity of the fire.
Bingley, his expression determined but weary, broke the silence. “I shall retire to my study to draft the necessary letters. A doctor must be sent for without delay, and I should inform the magistrate at once.” His words carried a firmness that brooked no argument, though his tone softened as he added, “Excuse me.”
With that, he departed, leaving the remaining party to their whispered speculations. Mrs. Hurst leaned toward her sister, her voice barely audible, while Mr Hurst, indifferent to subtlety, muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Darcy, however, remained still, his gaze unmoving from the flames, his thoughts swirling like the embers, his discomfort not only physical but weighted by an inexplicable sense of foreboding.
