Page 71 of Ashes and Understanding
Word of the murder must have already spread through the servants’ news network,Darcy thought.I wonder if any of them have a clue as to who could have done this.
Bingley looked up at the manor house and grimaced. “Caroline will be curious about our tardiness. We will only barely have time to change for dinner.”
Darcy gave a tired sigh. “Indeed.”
Upon entering the grand foyer, the familiar scent of polished wood and faint traces of honeysuckle greeted them. Descending the sweeping staircase was Miss Bingley, her gown a cascade of the finest silk, every movement calculated for grace.
“Mr. Darcy,” she purred, her eyes alight with a mixture of relief and something more possessive. “You have been out for quite some time. Such… stamina you must have! But you really must be cautious not to overtax yourself in helping my poor brother understand matters of estate. Do not let him drag you all over the property.”
“We were not touring the property the entire time, Caroline,” Bingley said. “We went as far as Longbourn.”
Her expression soured, lips pinching in annoyance. “Longbourn? You called there and are only just now returning? At this hour? Charles, really.”
“It is not as if we intended to make a social call,” Bingley protested defensively. “But that is neither here nor there. Caroline, might we sit down a moment?”
She blinked. “Sit down? What on earth for?”
“There has been an incident,” Bingley said carefully.
Darcy watched as Caroline’s face paled ever so slightly. “You are alarming me. What sort of incident? Louisa? Hurst?”
“No, no,” Bingley said quickly. “No one in this house is harmed.”
“Then why do you look so grave?” she demanded. “Have we had word from London? Mr. Darcy, is dear Georgiana alright?”
“No. It is not about Miss Darcy, Caroline. It happened near Longbourn. A man was stabbed—murdered.”
Miss Bingley looked between the two men, her face draining of color. “Murdered?”
Bingley nodded, guiding her toward a nearby chair in the hall. “Caroline, sit. Please. And—” He glanced toward a footman. “Bring Miss Bingley a small glass of wine.”
She allowed herself to be seated, albeit stiffly. “What happened? Who is dead?”
“A Mr. Smithson—you might remember him from when he came to speak with Miss Elizabeth here at Netherfield.”
“The rude man who came without an invitation?” She sniffed in disdain, then paled further. “Did… did someone from Longbourn kill him?”
“What? Good Lord, no!” Bingley startled. “Miss Elizabeth found him while on a walk. No one knows who actually committed the crime.”
“No one knows? You mean, there is a murderer on the loose here in Meryton? That’s it, I am finished with this savage place! We must leave for London at once!”
She stood and began to head up the stairs, calling for her maid. Bingley frowned and spoke in a firm tone, halting her progress. “We cannot leave, Caroline. Travel is often restricted following such events. Sir William will likely request that all potential witnesses and suspects remain until the investigation concludes.”
“Suspects?” she shrieked. “That is completely ludicrous! None of us would dare involve ourselves in something so heinous! And we are not witnesses, are we? You said Miss Elizabeth was the one to find them, and certainlyshehas nothing to do withus.”
Darcy's voice, calm yet authoritative, cut through the tension. “It would be prudent for everyone to stay until the magistrate provides further instructions.”
Miss Bingley pressed her thin lips together so tightly, they practically disappeared from her face, leaving her looking like a ghostly snake. She seemed poised to argue but apparently thought better of it, offering a terse nod instead.
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “If you will excuse me, I have pressing correspondence to attend to.”
As he ascended the stairs, he could hear her shrieking, demanding Bingley cut all contact with Longbourn so their reputations would not be tainted by association. He shook his head as Bingley’s calm tones quickly turned arguing.
Upon closing the door to his room, the sounds were sufficiently muffled for him to think. The memory of Smithson’s dying words fluttered through his mind, ominous and persistent. He reached for his pen and a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write.
Fitzwilliam,
I know you have not yet responded to my last letter, but this is urgent.
