Murder at Netherfield Read online

  Mrs. Hurst screamed her sister’s name again and fell to the floor, holding Miss Bingley’s head and crying her anguish. Mr. Bingley was calling for his sister, pleading for her to respond. But Elizabeth knew she never would again. The cousins shared a look, their meaning clear for all to see. Miss Bingley was dead.

  Mr. Bingley, shocked and numb, was incapacitated. Mrs. Hurst was in no better state. It fell to Mr. Darcy to take control of the situation. He stepped to the door and spoke quickly to someone outside. Elizabeth heard a loud gasp before Mr. Darcy spoke a harsh word and closed the door.

  “She was healthy,” said Mr. Bingley in a lost voice. “How could this have happened? Is this place cursed?”

  “It is no curse,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I am sorry to inform you of this, Bingley, but your sister was poisoned.”

  For an instant, all sound ceased. Even Mrs. Hurst, who was keening over the body of her sister, stopped and stared at the colonel. Then the voices were raised in a great discordance of a dozen voices all attempting to be heard. At its center was Colonel Fitzwilliam. When he had had enough of it, he put his fingers to his lips and a shrieking whistle shocked them all to silence.

  “Look at her!” snapped he, gesturing to the fallen woman. “She had pain in her midsection, vomiting, frothing at the mouth, and then she collapsed into convulsions. Furthermore, look at this.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam bent over and picked up one limp hand, holding it where they all could see. Under Miss Bingley’s nails, white lines had formed.

  “This is classic evidence of arsenic poisoning. Given the speed at which she expired, I suspect she was given a massive dose of it.”

  “But who would have wanted to murder my sister?” asked Mr. Bingley. He looked at Colonel Fitzwilliam with pleading eyes. “She was difficult at times, I will own. But enough for someone to want to kill her?”

  “Oh, come, Mr. Bingley,” scoffed Lydia. “With her attitude, I would not be surprised if everyone in this house wished to kill her at one time or another.”

  A cry of rage issued from Mrs. Hurst’s mouth, and she struggled to her feet. With fingers extended into claws, she reached out to Lydia, only to be held in check by her husband. Screaming, Mrs. Hurst struggled like a madwoman for several moments until her strength was seemingly spent. She collapsed in her husband’s arms, weeping. Elizabeth did not miss the sardonic grin that Mr. Hurst directed at Lydia.

  “Be silent, Lydia!” hissed Elizabeth, stepping to the stupid girl and catching her arm up in one hand. “Do not say such disgusting things about one who is just deceased.”

  “Miss Lydia’s outburst is uncalled for,” said Mr. Bingley, standing and bestowing a sad look on her. “But while her words are true from a certain perspective, and I will own Caroline was difficult, is it enough that anyone would wish to kill her?”

  Once again, the voices of many rose up in a discordant rumble of sound, but one voice dominated over the others. “It was Mr. Darcy!” When the others gazed at her in astonishment, Mrs. Bennet colored but would not recant. “I have seen it all! Miss Bingley was determined to become the mistress of Mr. Darcy’s estate, and he hated her for it. I have seen the violence of which he is capable! Ask Mr. Wickham! Ask him what form Mr. Darcy’s rage takes!”

  “You would do well to listen to nothing Wickham says, madam,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, offended for his cousin.

  For his part, Mr. Darcy spoke to attempt to diffuse the situation. “You are angry and frightened, Mrs. Bennet—I understand this. But though I will not say you are incorrect about Miss Bingley’s wishes, I have fended them off for four years now. Why would I choose to act now?”

  It was clear Mrs. Bennet had no answer for Mr. Darcy’s reasonable assertion. Then another spoke up.

  “I was not fond of my sister,” said Mr. Hurst, eliciting a gasp from his wife. Mr. Hurst silenced her with a frown. “It is the truth, Louisa. Your sister was a grasping, artful shrew, who made both of our lives miserable whenever she had the chance.”

  Mr. Hurst turned back to Mrs. Bennet. “But my dislike for my sister-in-law makes me no more a killer than Mr. Darcy. I suggest, Madam, that you take care not to fling about baseless accusations for which you have no proof.”

  The reproof visibly chastened Mrs. Bennet. At that moment, several footmen entered the room, followed by the butler. The sight of the body on the floor, the ravages of Miss Bingley’s passing visible on and around her, caused a pallor to come over the man’s features. With the assistance of the footmen, they produced a large blanket, and the body of Miss Bingley was wrapped about and borne away. Mrs. Hurst again let out a keening wail and buried her head in her husband’s shoulder. It was odd, given Elizabeth had never seen anything but amusement or languor in Mr. Hurst’s manner, but he seemed almost tender with his grieving wife.

  “The question, to me at least,” said Mr. Bennet, “is who would have had a reason to murder Miss Bingley. While a crime of passion may be the explanation, and someone like Mr. Darcy may, indeed, be under suspicion, I know of nothing recently which may have incensed him to the point where he would be willing to take a life.”

  Mr. Darcy shook his head. “I have seen little of Miss Bingley in recent days.”

  “Then was there anyone else with whom Miss Bingley might have argued?”

  “Miss Bingley argued with Lady Catherine,” said Lydia helpfully.”

  “Thank you for reminding us of that, Lydia,” said Mr. Bennet. “Unfortunately, Lady Catherine is also passed. Unless she set all this in motion before her passing, I highly doubt she returned from the grave to wreak her vengeance.”

  A flush settled over Lydia’s countenance, and she ducked her head. At the same time, Mrs. Hurst sniffled and pulled away from her husband.

  “What about Miss Anne de Bourgh? Has she no reason to hate my sister, given the way she argued with Lady Catherine?”

  “Unless you have not noticed,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Anne’s mourning of her mother has been discreet at best. Lady Catherine was not the easiest mother, and Anne is feeling a heady dose of freedom because of Lady Catherine’s demise.”

  “Then is that not a reason for suspicion?” asked Mrs. Hurst, her jaw hardening. “She might have murdered her mother and then my sister.”

  “I do not think they were connected, my dear,” said Mr. Hurst. “While she might have murdered her mother to escape her, I doubt she would have cared if Lady Catherine argued with Caroline.”

  It was clear Mrs. Hurst was desperate to blame someone—anyone—for her sister’s death. The grim set to her countenance suggested mutiny, and as much to silence her as anything else, Elizabeth spoke up.

  “I agree with Mr. Hurst. There is no reason to suppose Miss de Bourgh has murdered anyone. But why do you speak of the murder of Lady Catherine, Mrs. Hurst? Does the company not believe she died in her sleep?”

  There were several gasps, but it was Mrs. Bennet who turned her thoughts into words. “Perhaps Lady Catherine did not die of an apoplexy! Perhaps she was also murdered! And what of the poor butler? Might his death not have been an accident?”

  “My patroness was murdered?” demanded Mr. Collins, the light of zeal alive in his eyes. “If any of you have murdered Lady Catherine, I will pray to ensure the hand of judgment finds you all with the curse of withering death. For the death of such a paragon of virtue, such a woman of insight, goodness, and nobility, must be punished by the highest authority, that of God himself!”

  “Murderers are under the condemnation of God,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, glaring at Mr. Collins. “Do not suppose that Lady Catherine being a victim makes the punishment any more severe.”

  “The rest of us are almost happy she is gone,” sniffed Lydia. Fortunately, she spoke in a low voice, such that only those closest to her could hear. Elizabeth directed a fierce glare at her sister, who subsided, though not with any grace.

  “If there is a murderer in our midst, when will he strike again?�
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  It was a question none of them could answer, least of all Mrs. Bennet, who had posed it. Indeed, Elizabeth was witness to more than a few suspicious glares from those she accounted to be the sillier of the group. The others—Mr. Bennet, Mr. Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam chief among them—appeared worried.

  “I think,” said Mr. Bingley, “perhaps it is best we retire for the night. I am sure none of us have the desire to sit at dinner considering . . .” Mr. Bingley stopped, and a lump seemed to form in his throat.

  Jane, the compassionate creature she was, laid a hand on his arm, for which Mr. Bingley appeared profoundly grateful. With the support of her approval, Mr. Bingley once again spoke.

  “I beg you all to retire to your rooms. I will ask for trays to be provided. If we do have a murderer in this house . . . Well, perhaps it is best if no one is alone.”

  On the surface of it, Elizabeth agreed with his comments. Unless, of course, one ended up so unfortunate as to be in the sole company of the murderer. Then again, the one who had managed three deaths so far would not be stupid enough to kill the person he was with.

  One thing Elizabeth did know: given how Miss Bingley had died, she doubted very much of the cook’s excellent dinner would be consumed that night.

  Chapter XVII

  “FITZWILLIAM!” HISSED DARCY AS the rest of the company began to depart from the room.

  His cousin turned and regarded him, nodding slightly in understanding. Darcy was grateful for his cousin’s support. They were so well acquainted with each other that they possessed the ability to communicate with a glance or a gesture.

  A glance at the rest of the party revealed several looks in their direction. But that was not all—it seemed everyone was watching everyone else carefully, understandable since it had now become clear there was a murderer in the at Netherfield. They were fractured, largely along family lines, the Bennet sisters congregated together closely. Hurst escorted his wife from the room, standing closely—protectively, even—while Bingley vacillated between the two groups. Only Wickham remained aloof, watching the party with what could only be termed as contempt. A glare from Darcy sent the man from the room, though he walked slowly, seemingly unconcerned.

  Just before the Bennet sisters left, Darcy caught a glimpse of Miss Elizabeth looking back at him. He knew she wished she could stay with him. Their activities those past two days had informed him she was determined to discover the meaning of the mystery which had beset them all. But she could not disobey her father now, not when the danger of the situation had increased so much.

  “You wish to search Miss Bingley’s room?” said Fitzwilliam when they were alone.

  “I doubt the killer has left any evidence we can use,” replied Darcy. “But it must be done, and Bingley is too shocked to do it himself.”

  “Very well, Cousin. You have my support.”

  They waited for a few moments for the rest of the group to make their way to their rooms. As they waited, Darcy paced the floor, working the matter over in his mind, attempting to divine the nature of what they faced. But nothing came to mind. The three victims had very little in common, had come from entirely different backgrounds, their only connection being their residence in the house at the same time.

  “Sit down, Darcy,” said Fitzwilliam after a moment of his pacing. “You are making me dizzy.”

  “We must discover the culprit, Cousin.”

  “So we must. But wearing a furrow into the floor will not bring us any closer to the answer.”

  “No. But it helps me think.”

  “I would appreciate it if you would think more quietly, and preferably in one location.”

  “Let us go above stairs,” said Darcy, too tense to consider sitting at that moment. “The others must be in their rooms by now.”

  Fitzwilliam acquiesced, but from his introspection, Darcy could see that he too was considering the situation. His frown was such that it was evident he had little more success than Darcy had achieved himself.

  There was something not right about this situation. It was as if the killer was murdering random members of the party, though why someone would kill in such a way was beyond his ability to understand. Furthermore, the murders had been accomplished in different ways, meaning there was nothing to connect them or indicate who was responsible.

  “None of this makes any sense,” muttered Darcy as they walked. “And it all seems to lead back to Wickham.”

  “What is that?” demanded Fitzwilliam. “Why do you suspect Wickham?”

  “I cannot say,” confessed Darcy. “But I do. He is the only member of the company with a suspect background who might be depraved enough to kill several people.”

  “But why those people in particular? What links them together?”

  Darcy threw his hands up and stalked on. “I do not know. He might have killed Lady Catherine for blocking his path to Anne, or Miss Bingley for refusing him. He boasted to me that he would attempt to charm Miss Bingley for her dowry.”

  “And what of the butler? He was murdered before Wickham ever arrived.”

  Darcy could only acknowledge he had no explanation for the butler’s death. What he had told Miss Elizabeth about it now seemed nonsensical. And even if Wickham had loitered about somewhere in the house without being discovered, why would he have killed the butler? Unless the man had discovered him, which was not out of the realm of possibility.

  “Do not close your mind and focus on Wickham,” said Fitzwilliam as Darcy was thinking. “Your judgment—my judgment, for that matter—is clouded when it pertains to Wickham. Though I have little inclination to give him any credit, in this instance, it seems unlikely that he is the murderer. He has never given us any indication he is that depraved.”

  Contenting himself with a grunt, Darcy hurried his steps forward, and soon they had arrived in front of the door to Miss Bingley’s bedchamber. Not expecting anyone to be within, Darcy opened the door and was surprised to see light in the room. A maid was moving about the room, straightening Miss Bingley’s belongings. An expression of worry and sorrow covered her face.

  “Mr. Darcy,” said the maid with a squeak, dropping into a hasty curtsey. “May I help you?”

  “I apologize,” replied Darcy. “I assume you have heard what happened tonight?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the maid, her eyes downcast. “I . . . I was shocked. Miss Bingley was good to me, and I will miss her. It is only . . .”

  “You fear for your livelihood?” asked Darcy, understanding the source of her concerns.

  The maid’s eyes widened, and she attempted to stammer an apology. But Darcy interrupted her before she could.

  “It is not unnatural in such a situation . . . I am sorry, but I do not know your name?”

  “Marie,” whispered the young woman.

  “You do not need to fear me, Marie,” replied Darcy, favoring her with a kindly look. “It is natural to be upset at the loss of your mistress while being concerned for the uncertainty you now face. Speak with the housekeeper tomorrow, and she will relay your concerns to my friend. At the very least, I am certain he will retain you or give you a reference.”

  The woman hesitated a moment. “I am grateful, to be certain. I should prefer a reference, for if I am to work in another position, it would be a pay cut, and I assist my mother back home in York.”

  “Understandable,” replied Darcy. “Speak with my friend. I am certain you will not be disappointed. Now, we need to look about the room to see if we can uncover what happened. Please stay nearby so we can ask questions if needed.”

  While the maid curtseyed, she was clearly uncomfortable, as if thinking she might be made to answer questions which did not put her in a good light. Still, she gamely cleared her throat and said: “Perhaps you should start with the glass on the table. Miss Bingley took a drink just before she left for the dining room this evening.”

  Darcy’s eyes followed the maid’s pointing hand, and
he was shocked to see a bottle of brandy set on the tray with several glasses situated nearby. The bottle appeared to have been newly opened, as there was only a little of the amber liquid missing. A closer inspection revealed that one of the glasses had a trace of brandy still in the bottom.

  “Is this what Miss Bingley was drinking?” asked Darcy, unable to prevent a hint of incredulous shock from entering his voice.

  “It was,” replied the maid. “She had a glass just before she left for dinner.”

  “That is rich, Darcy,” said Fitzwilliam, out of the side of his mouth. “Most ladies of quality prefer sherry or some other ladylike drink. Considering what the maid told us, it appears Miss Bingley was raiding her brother’s stock of brandy for some time.”

  “It does explain a few things,” said Darcy. Then he turned back to the maid.

  “When was this bottle delivered?”

  “Late this afternoon,” replied the maid. “In fact, Miss Bingley was . . .”

  She trailed off, looking uncomfortable. Darcy immediately understood her dilemma.

  “You need not fear,” said he, regarding her kindly. “We need you to inform us of whatever you know, Marie, for it is vital to solving this mystery. Do not be concerned we will be offended by what you tell us.”

  “We are more likely to fall to the floor laughing,” said Fitzwilliam, flashing that irrepressible grin. Darcy glared at him—at least he had spoken quietly, and the maid had not heard him. But it would do no good to antagonize the help, especially when they required the information she possessed.

  It was fortunate the maid seemed to be a little more at ease. “Miss Bingley ordered the bottle yesterday afternoon and was quite put out that it was slow in coming.”

  “Did she drink brandy often, or did she have some particular reason for ordering this?”

  “She almost always had a glass in the evening,” said Marie. “Since we have come to Netherfield, however, she often drank more, and the presence of guests had increased the amount she drank.” The maid paused and then said in a hurried voice: “But she never became drunk! She was always careful to ensure she did not drink much.”