The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet Page 26

  Darkness fell. Ned Skinner continued to watch. Yes, he was right! They were quitting the place! A wagon arrived and was loaded with the best of the furniture and carpets, drove off with two of the five men travelling on its box. At midnight Mirry emerged with a birdcage in one hand and a frilly parasol in the other, just as the carriage came from the stables. She stepped into it, followed by her maid, and two more of her henchmen sat on its box. The equipage rolled away, leaving Lydia and one man behind. No, Lydia was to be left alone. The fifth man soon appeared in the trap, geeing his fat pony to an awkward trot. He probably had the silverware, thought Ned cynically.

  What could Lydia be doing, not to have raised the alarm? There were lights in the drawing room and lights in an upstairs bedroom; she was there, then, but drunk or sober? Drunk, he decided. Sober, she would have screamed the place down.

  The thing was, what to do? He had to come to a decision right at this moment, well before a new dawn arrived and Lydia embarked upon a walk to—Bingley Hall? Yes, Bingley Hall. Of course she would encounter someone on the road, someone who would either convey her to her destination or to the constabulary in Leek. Ah, but there was no constable in Leek! Like his fellows, he was searching for Mary. No matter. Once she was seen, Lydia would be entirely removed from his control.

  The overriding drive in Ned’s life was his love for Fitz. No one else could command his devotion. And what did it matter if half of what he did for Fitz was unknown to Fitz? Love carried no sort of conditions in Ned’s mind; it was something so pure, so powerful that it needed no acknowledgement. Lydia Wickham was out to ruin Fitz’s public career—a great man brought down by a silly, brainless bit of a thing not fit to lick his boots.

  Tonight. If it were to be done at all, it must be done tonight, while she was alone in the house, deserted by servants and companion. Did she have any jewellery? Any money? He doubted the latter, but jewels were a possibility. Two of her sisters were very wealthy, so they could have gifted her with some pretty pieces. Not that it really mattered, only that it would seem more logical. Furniture missing, carpets missing, silverware missing, jewellery missing…

  He brought out his watch and saw that the time was a little after one. Almost an hour before he had to decide.

  “What do you say, Jupiter old man?” he asked the horse.

  Hearing its name, it lifted its head to look at him, nodded, and went back to its grazing. Jupiter says yes, he thought. Good old Jupiter says yes.

  The idiots hadn’t even locked the house behind them! Ned pushed the front door open and entered softly. A slight glow from the drawing room enabled him to locate a candelabrum; he lit a fresh candle from a burning wick and went to the stairs, which did not creak. Hemmings was a good house.

  The sound of snores guided him to Lydia’s bedroom; even if of late she had been sober, tonight she was certainly drunk. Sure enough, there she was, sprawled on the covers of her bed, in a pink muslin day dress. A pretty wench, he thought, gazing at her without a flicker of desire. Such a profusion of near-colourless hair spilling around her—a nuisance, considering what he had to do.

  There were plenty of pillows. He chose the stiffest of them, over-stuffed with down, climbed onto the bed and straddled her, the better to come at her head. It was not an ideal way to kill anyone, for the deep mattress yielded more than the pillow did. Only a very strong man could do it, but Ned Skinner was superlatively strong. He put the pillow over Lydia’s face and held it there, sitting his rump on her to immobilise her despite her feeble little struggles. For a full quarter of an hour by the mantel clock he did not relax, then judged her dead. Suffocation was slow, he was aware of that.

  Removing the pillow revealed that her eyes had bulged a trifle, their whites webbed with red veins, and her mouth was open on sadly discoloured teeth. He sat heavily on her chest now, to make sure that she could not draw a breath. She did not, for Lydia Wickham was dead. Fitz was safe from this latest Bennet peril.

  In the morning a butcher or a grocer would arrive, wonder why there was no answer to his knock, then his calls, and finally his hollers. After that, discovery was inevitable. Two branches of candles burned in the room; by their light he searched for money and jewellery. Her empty purse lay on the dressing table, together with an empty grey tin box that had probably held her jewels. How splendid! They had stolen everything.

  Half past two by his watch; dawn would come in about two hours. Jupiter made ready for the road, Ned Skinner mounted and cantered off. He was going straight home, but not by the customary route. He skirted around Pemberley, and finally came down on it from the north. Only someone actually following him would have known where he had come from; and no one had followed. As always in the aftermath of such sickening deeds, he kept his mind absolutely fixed upon the memory of Fitz’s beardless cheek pressed against his own infant pate. The first lovely thing in an awful life.

  Curiously, it was Ned himself who brought the news of Lydia’s demise to Pemberley, and that lay at Elizabeth’s door.

  The southern Peak District had become the focus of the search for Mary, for that was where the caves were located, and everyone had decided that Mary was imprisoned in a cave. Only the most visually spectacular of them were known; visitors thronged to go through them, each holding a candle-lamp, every group blackening their beauty a little more from the smoke. But many caves never saw a candle, and no one dreamed of their existence or extent.

  When Ned rode in on Jupiter, he saw Mrs. Darcy in the stable yard, and tipped his hat to her courteously. To his surprise, she beckoned him over when he had dismounted.

  “Mr. Skinner, could you spare the time from your search to call in at Hemmings and see how Mrs. Wickham is doing?”

  The hair rose on the back of his neck; had his eyes been a lighter colour she might have noticed their pupils dilate, but their blackness saved him. The request had taken him completely aback. For a moment he simply stared at her, amazed, then he turned his reaction to good purpose by looking at her in puzzlement.

  “Do you have a feeling, Mrs. Darcy?” he asked.

  “A feeling? Of what sort?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, exactly. A presentiment or some such?” He looked apologetic. “I suppose it was the look on your face, ma’am. With all the to-do about Miss Mary, I confess I had clean forgotten Mrs. Wickham.”

  She thought more kindly of him, and put a hand on his arm. “Dear Mr. Skinner, perhaps I do have a presentiment. How acute of you to see it! I hate to ask you to make the ride, but Angus and Charlie are staying somewhere, and it is a week since Mrs. Bingley and I visited her. Miss Maplethorpe promised to write, but has not. I worry that something is amiss.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Darcy. Jupiter and I will start at once. He’s a good lad, my horse. The only one can carry me.”

  Thinking of the horse, she had a qualm. “Are you sure? Ought not Jupiter to rest?”

  “No, ma’am. He and I are up to the ride.”

  And he managed to make his escape before the sweat on his brow became noticeable. Oh, the wretched, wretched woman! A thorn in Fitz’s side for twenty-one years now, and a thorn in Ned Skinner’s side too. Still, he reflected, making sure Jupiter had a drink of cool water, Lydia had to be discovered anytime now, and this was probably the best way. Despite which thought, he rode the miles to Hemmings with a hideous weight in his belly and a grey veil before his eyes. Let her have been found already, please!

  Luck was with him. The afternoon was drawing on when he rode into the Hemmings driveway and saw several vehicles choking it. A group of respectable-looking men were gathered just outside the front door; he dismounted and joined them.

  “What’s amiss?” he asked.

  “Who are you to make it your business?” asked a man officiously.

  “Mr. Darcy of Pemberley’s personal aide, by name of Edward Skinner. What’s amiss?”

  Fitz’s name worked wonders, of course. The officious man shed his arrogance at once. “Constable Thomas Barnes of
Leek,” he said, fawning. “A tragedy, Mr. Skinner! Robbery, murder and mayhem!” A phrase he had been waiting half a lifetime to utter.

  “Mrs. Wickham?” Ned asked, concerned. “Very fair, youngish.”

  “Is that the lady’s name? Dead, sir. Done to death.”

  “Oh, dear Jesus! She’s Mr. Darcy’s sister-in-law!”

  Huge consternation reigned. It was some time before Ned could get a lucid story out of them, interspersed as it had to be with his own explanation as to why Mr. Darcy’s sister-in-law was living so far from Pemberley. Most were present only to poke and pry, and took absolutely no notice of Constable Barnes. They soon took heed of Ned Skinner, who told them to leave very softly, but with such a look in his eyes! Brrr! That reduced the group to Dr. Lanham, Constable Barnes, and two shire odd-job-men who held their tongues.

  Their reconstruction of events was considerably plumped out by Ned’s account of who should have been at Hemmings, and were not. A few skillful remarks from Ned soon led them to the conclusion that Miss Maplethorpe and her staff had set upon poor Mrs. Wickham, done her to death, and absconded with everything of value the house held. Also, as Ned pointed out after a walk to the stables, a barouche carriage, two matched thoroughbred horses, a pony and a trap. What was worse than anything else, these villains had been Mr. Darcy’s employees!

  “I must return to Pemberley as soon as possible,” said Ned at the end of half an hour. “Dr. Lanham, may I leave it to you to convey Mrs. Wickham’s body to Pemberley tomorrow?” A few guineas changed hands. “Constable Barnes, may I ask you to write a full report for Mr. Darcy?” A few more guineas changed hands. “Thank you, gentlemen, particularly for your tact and discretion.”

  And all that went better than I could have hoped, thought Ned, riding away. The story of ruthless employees will spread far and wide. Serves you right, Mirry! Your cowardice has convicted you, for all that the lawyers prate of being innocent until found guilty.

  He was happy, very happy. Fitz was freed from all threat, and no one would dream of associating him with Lydia’s death.

  He reached down to pat Jupiter’s steaming neck. “You were right, old man. That was the time to kill her, while someone was on hand to take the blame. Steady on, now! Just to Leek for you, my dear good boy. I’ll hire a chaise-and-four at the post house and travel like a lord the rest of the way. You’ve done enough.”

  When he finally reached Pemberley a little before midnight, he was surprised to find Parmenter up and waiting for him with a message from Mr. Darcy.

  “The master wishes to see you this moment,” the old man said, oozing curiosity. “I am to bring you dinner in the small breakfast room when you’ve seen Mr. Darcy. Is Miss Mary found?”

  “Not to my knowledge. And thank you for the dinner. I could eat any horse save Jupiter.”

  Fitz was in his parliamentary library, and alone—a relief. That probably meant that Mary had not been found, but what could Fitz have to say to him? A Fitz who looked white and worn, plucked at the strings of Ned’s heart—who was lumping fresh cares on him? Was it that wretched wife?

  “Ned, I have disturbing news,” Fitz said.

  Ned went to the port decanter and filled a red wine glass full to its brim—it had been a very long and anxious day, and Jupiter was in a strange inn’s stables, though the grooms had been threatened with murder if they so much as looked the wrong way at Jupiter.

  “Tell me your news first, Fitz. I have ill news too.”

  “Matthew Spottiswoode has had a letter from Miss Scrimpton—the tabby who runs a ladies’ employment agency in York. It seems Miss Scrimpton encountered the Marquess of Ripon somewhere in York, and ventured to tell him that Miss Mirabelle Maplethorpe was proving as good a companion to her client as she had to his deceased relative. But Ripon denied all knowledge of insane relatives, dead or alive, and of Miss Maplethorpe. Whereupon Miss Scrimpton discovered that there are no female inmates in the Bedlam on Broadmoor, which is for the most violent of males only.”

  Fitz got to his feet, held out his hands. “What can it mean, Ned? Is someone trying to get at me through Lydia? But it all happened so quickly—none of it makes sense!”

  “It makes some sense to me,” Ned said grimly. “I have to tell you that Miss Maplethorpe is an imposter—or, at least, that her being an imposter fits well with her activities at Hemmings.” He stopped, drained his glass, poured another. “No, I’m not reduced to guzzling your best port, Fitz, but my news is the worst. Mrs. Wickham has been murdered.”

  “Jesus!” Fitz sank into his chair as if his legs had lost all power, the lock of stark white hair that had recently appeared in his jet-black mop falling over his brow. His eyes were wide, but only shock gave him pause; his intelligence was superior and still functioning. “You imply, murdered by Miss Maplethorpe?”

  “Yes, assisted by the five men she had with her as helpers. I thought it odd that she was the only female apart from her maid, but she has a certain authority about her, so I didn’t question it beyond wondering. After all, she came recommended as a lady with experience of—er—wild patients. They were all in the plot, apparently.”

  “Plot? How do you know of any plot?”

  “Mrs. Darcy seems to have had a feeling that all was not well at Hemmings, Fitz. This morning she asked me to go there and see that all was well. By the time I got there, the local doctor and constable had arrived. I was able to fill in the gaps in their knowledge of events. What happened we will never quite know, but we think that the original plan was for a simple robbery. The best of the furniture is gone, the carpets, the silverware, the barouche and its horses, the pony and trap, and, we think, some jewellery. As to how—the local doctor says she was suffocated with a pillow by one man, while another sat on her chest.”

  Fitz had slumped; he made a retching sound. Ned poured a big glass of port, and handed it to him. Finally, his own glass filled again, he sat down. “Drink it, Fitz, please, else it will have to be cognac.” Watching Fitz drink, he saw a little colour return to his face, and sat back, relieved. Fitz would do now. “Did Mrs. Wickham own any jewels?” he asked.

  “It seems so, yes. A sapphire and diamond set Elizabeth never wore, and gave to her when she moved to Hemmings. Poor woman! Oh, poor, poor woman! Apparently Jane gave her a rope of pearls. As Lydia has had no opportunity to pawn them, Miss Maplethorpe must have taken them if they aren’t there.” He got up and began to pace restlessly. “What an awful year this has been! Two of my wife’s sisters gone. One is certainly dead. The other? I must presume her dead too.”

  “Not yet, Fitz. One gathers they were very unalike. Mrs. Wickham imprisoned in a bottle, Miss Mary game for anything.” He grinned. “I never knew Miss Mary conscious, but she fought even when unconscious.” He stretched, winced.

  “I am a selfish brute, Ned! Eat, and then go home to sleep.”

  “Mrs. Wickham returns to Pemberley tomorrow with the Leek doctor. It will be late, but the doctor will see it done.”

  “Thank you. You must be sore out of pocket.”

  “That does not signify.”

  “It does to me. Render an account, please, Ned.”

  As soon as Ned had gone, Fitzwilliam Darcy got to his feet and walked to Elizabeth’s rooms. When he scratched softly on her door, she opened it herself and stood back for him to enter, giving him a keen glance.

  “I knew it was you. Ned brought bad news, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” He went tiredly to one of a pair of armchairs and sat down, patting the seat of the other. “Sit down, Elizabeth.”

  “Is it very bad?”

  “The worst. Lydia is dead.”

  How peculiar! It had struck him like a thunderbolt, whereas she looked almost unaffected save for her eyes, which widened. “Oh! I must have had some idea of it, because it comes the way an old friend does, an old friend one hasn’t seen for years. I’ve been waiting, but knowing too. I just—felt that all was not right. Ned noticed it this morning.”

  “You
don’t usually suffer from premonitions.”

  “I agree, I don’t. Every time Charlie was ill, I was wrong!” She produced a smile and glued it to her mouth, which felt as if set in stone. “I used to bury him regularly. But he always got better. I used to fancy that he didn’t care for life over-much, but knew that if he died I would die as well, and it was knowing that made him recover.”

  “A rather muddled explanation, my dear.”

  “I daresay it is. Despair and Charlie were tied together in those days, yet look at him now. He has shed his childhood like an old skin. I am so happy for him—and for you, Fitz.”

  Only a few candles burned, making a halo of fiery light around her head and throwing her face into shadow. He screwed up his eyes in an effort to see her clearly, and thought, My sight is going. “I have been unkind to Charlie,” he said, voice not as steady as he wished. “Unkind to you as well, Elizabeth.”

  “You are unkindest to yourself, Fitz. Tell me everything that happened—and please, I beg you, don’t spare me. Once George Wickham was dead, it was only a question of time before Lydia died. How she loved him! Of all five of us, she loved best and most. Without him, she had no reason for being.”

  “It wasn’t suicide, even in the remotest way. She fell victim to a nest of thieves, though I smell several rats. Suffice it to say that Miss Maplethorpe was an imposter, her manservants her minions, and that they planned to rob Hemmings—furniture, silver, carriage, horses, and jewellery. The things you and Jane gave her when she went to Hemmings. Lydia must have surprised them in the act, and they murdered her. Apparently she was drunk at the time. The doctor said she reeked of wine and spirits. They suffocated her with a pillow, so they may have wanted to make her death seem a natural one. Certainly that is out of the question.”

  “Jane took against Miss Maplethorpe,” said Elizabeth. “Jane, who never takes against anyone! The day we saw her, Lydia wasn’t drunk, though pretending to be in front of Miss Maplethorpe. She was full of some tale about bars over the windows, but there were none, nor had there been. I looked closely. The hold on sobriety is frail, I am told, so perhaps, not succeeding in persuading Jane or me about the bars, she went back to her old ways. I don’t know, except that, like you, I smell rats.”