Murder at Netherfield Read online

  “How dare you!” spat Mr. Collins in return. “Lady Catherine possessed every right to speak as she did!”

  “You are a fool, Mr. Collins, the same as your father. I wish you had never come to Hertfordshire!”

  Mr. Collins turned an angry glare on Mr. Bennet. “Will you allow your wife to speak to me in such a manner?”

  “I happen to agree with her.”

  Elizabeth had little doubt Mr. Collins understood the double meaning of Mr. Bennet’s words. He raked his angry eyes over Mrs. Bennet once again before doing the same to Mr. Bennet.

  “Your family should not expect charity from me when you are dead, Mr. Bennet.” He turned to look at Elizabeth. “I shall still be generous and marry your second daughter, but the rest of your family will be required to shift for themselves.”

  “You may take your wooing, such as it is, elsewhere,” said Elizabeth. “If you think I would marry a man who would condemn my sisters and mother to poverty, you have sorely mistaken my character.”

  “I know how it shall be,” said Mr. Collins, waving her words away like he was trying to put out a fire. Then he turned and stormed away.

  “Good riddance,” muttered Mr. Bennet. “He is as odious as his father, only his father was rough and stupid, while he is sycophantic and stupid.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes again found his family. “Come, let us get you all settled for the night.”

  It seemed like Mr. Bennet had a different idea of what that would look like for the Bennet sisters. When Lydia and Kitty attempted to go to their own rooms, Mr. Bennet called them back with a sharp word, leading them instead to the rooms he and Mrs. Bennet had occupied. As he led them into the room, he crossed to the bell pull and gave a tug, and then turned to face them.

  “I do not wish any of you girls to be alone any longer,” said he. “You will all sleep in your mother’s room, and your mother will sleep with me.”

  “Sleep in Mama’s room?” asked Lydia, perplexed.

  “Yes. I will have some cots delivered here, and whoever cannot sleep in the bed must sleep on the cots. It seems Lady Catherine was already murdered in her sleep—I will not risk the same thing happening to one of you.”

  The chill which moved down Elizabeth’s spine was mirrored in her sisters, Elizabeth was certain. Soon they had, in groups, gone to their rooms to retrieve their sleep garments, Elizabeth with Kitty and Lydia, while Mary and Jane went together. When they returned, two additional cots had been made up near the end of the bed. Mrs. Bennet, appearing quite astonished, had already moved her things into her husband’s room. Elizabeth thought her mother had a right to be astonished—she did not think her parents had slept in the same bed in the past ten years.

  They quickly decided that Elizabeth would sleep on one of the cots, but the other one was subject to debate. When it was suggested Jane, as the eldest sister, should take the other one, Kitty protested.

  “But I do not wish to sleep with Lydia! She is restless, and kicks when there is anyone else in the bed.”

  “Then Lydia should take the other cot,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Now, Liddy, dear,” soothed she when Lydia—predictably—protested, “you are also the stoutest and tallest, and would take up the most room in the best, which shall already be cramped. The cot is small, but you shall have it to yourself.”

  Though she was not happy, Lydia relented. But her complaints were not at an end. “I am so hungry, Mama!”

  “Then it is fortunate I have thought of that,” said Mr. Bennet.

  At that moment, the door opened, and a pair of maids brought several trays into the room. It was not much—some bread, cheese, cold meats and two flagons of water for them to drink. But it seemed like a veritable feast to Elizabeth, who was also experiencing the pangs of hunger.

  “But what of supper?” whined Lydia. “Surely a meal was prepared for us.”

  “Lydia,” said Jane as the most patient of them all, “a woman was poisoned tonight. No, it was not the dinner we were to eat. But do you wish to take the chance?”

  A pale Lydia shook her head—clearly, she had not thought that far in advance. The family gathered around the table, and they divided the food between them. They ate, though largely in silence, with only a few words spoken between them, along with a few softly spoken words and Kitty and Lydia’s incessant whispering. When they had finished eating, the servants were called to clear the trays, and the family sat for some time together, speaking. There was little to do, so they eventually retired early.

  “I shall leave the adjoining door ajar,” said Mr. Bennet, when they began to prepare. “Should anything at all happen during the night, wake me. As soon as we are able, we shall depart for Longbourn.”

  While Elizabeth thought she was fatigued, when she lay down on her cot, she found she could do little to fall asleep. The cot was, surprisingly, not at all uncomfortable, and she had sufficient blankets to keep her warm. No, her insomnia was brought about by the thoughts flying through her mind, and there was little she could do to quiet them.

  When she heard the clock strike eleven, Elizabeth gave it up for a lost cause and rose from her cot. Though the room was dark, she could see the profiles of her sisters in their beds and noted they all appeared to be asleep. Likewise, though the door to her parents’ room, there was no sound, leading her to believe that her parents were also sleeping. Elizabeth considered the situation for a moment and then, though she knew it might be foolishness, she rose, wrapped her robe around her shoulders, put on her slippers, and slipped from the room.

  The butler still had not snuffed out the lanterns in the house, and Elizabeth had enough light to see. She made her way to the stairs and then down, and when she arrived in the entrance hall, she considered her options and chose the direct route to the kitchens. About her as she moved, the shadows in the halls, caused by the light shining down from the periodic lanterns, seemed to combine with the danger of the situation, lending a slightly sinister and ghoulish cast to the hall. But she persisted, pushing such fanciful thoughts from her mind.

  “Miss Elizabeth!” cried the housekeeper when she stepped into the kitchen. The woman hurried to her and pulled her into the room, scolding her as she did so. “Why are you walking the halls in such a state as this? It is dangerous for you to be up and about by yourself!”

  “I apologize, Mrs. Nichols,” said Elizabeth, “but I could not sleep. This situation is causing such a great perturbance of mind that I cannot rest until I learn all that I can.”

  Mrs. Nichols clucked and shared a glance with the cook. “That young man, Mr. Darcy, was here earlier for the same purpose. He has, however, retired to his bedchamber as you ought.”

  “Please, Mrs. Nichols! I wish to solve this mystery and will lie awake all night if I do not at least speak of it.”

  The housekeeper sighed. “Though we have not been well acquainted, Miss Elizabeth, Mrs. Hill has told me much of you over the years. I can see how she was entirely correct.”

  Elizabeth looked down, embarrassed by Mrs. Nichols’s words. The woman chuckled with amusement. “Do not take that the wrong way, Miss Elizabeth. Mrs. Hill is extremely fond of you—of all you Bennet girls, though she does complain your youngest sisters can be a handful.”

  “She is entirely correct,” replied Elizabeth.

  “Very well. I do not know if it is right to allow you to stay, but I will allow it for the present. But you will need to go above stairs soon, lest your father worry for you.”

  Elizabeth refrained from informing the woman that her father was asleep. Instead, she allowed the women to lead her to a nearby table and accepted a cup of tea and a few biscuits. Then she turned to the matter at hand. “Has Mr. Darcy discovered something?”

  “He has,” said Mrs. Nichols, though looking ill at ease. “Something Miss Bingley drank was tainted.”

  They delved into the matter, Mrs. Nichols informing her of the gentlemen’s visit to Miss Bingley’s rooms, their discovery of the bottle of liquor the
y suspect had been poisoned, and the questioning of the footman. Elizabeth listened intently, asking questions to clarify at times. But the fear was growing within her. It did not seem like they were any further toward solving the mystery now than they had been before Miss Bingley’s death.

  “I have also done a little research into what happened to Miss Bingley myself,” added Mrs. Nichols when she had explained everything.

  “And what have you discovered?” asked Elizabeth eagerly.

  “Relatively little, unfortunately,” replied the housekeeper. “John brought the liquor up from the cellar, but we were distracted by other instructions which had come from Miss Bingley, and it had sat there for some time unattended.”

  “You think the poisoned was added at that time?”

  “That seems to be the only explanation,” said Mrs. Nichols.

  “But surely there were others present,” protested Elizabeth. “How could someone have poisoned it with so many people coming and going?”

  “The tray was placed on the table by the door,” said Mrs. Nichols, pointed to another table across the room. “As you can see, it is small and out of the way, not within sight of the main part of the kitchens.”

  Elizabeth nodded—it was possible that someone might have been able to tamper with it without being discovered if it had sat in such a location.

  “Furthermore,” interjected the cook, “one of the scullery maids reported having seen someone when we questioned them.”

  “Who was it?” asked Elizabeth.

  Mrs. Nichols shook her head. “Unfortunately, the girl does not know. She thought it might have been a man, but she only saw him—if, indeed, it was a man—for an instant. She did not think anything of it and returned to her task at the time. But it seems likely whoever she saw was the likely culprit.”

  There was little useful information in the maid’s account, and Elizabeth shook her head, feeling all the despair of having an answer so close, yet so far out of reach. “Then the mystery remains.”

  “It does, child,” said Mrs. Nichols. “The best thing you can do now is to protect yourself. The staff has been instructed to always be with someone else to avoid giving this person an opportunity or coming upon them alone. I suggest you do the same.”

  The advice was given with a significant look, the voice firm and unyielding. Elizabeth understood the message and nodded, knowing it was good advice.

  “I shall certainly do so. Thank you, Mrs. Nichols, for humoring my curiosity. I shall return to my rooms directly.”

  “Not alone, you shall not,” said the cook. “We will escort you and then return here ourselves.”

  Grateful for the company, Elizabeth acquiesced and made her way back to her room with their company. Soon she had slipped back into the room where her sisters were slumbering and settled into her cot. Though the mystery continued to plague her, Elizabeth’s mind quieted long before she might have thought, and she slept.

  When Elizabeth woke the following morning, the same thoughts crowding her mind, she immediately thought to dress for the day and find Mr. Darcy. While the night passed peacefully, she had awoken on one occasion, her heart pounding at some night phantasm she could not even remember. Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, Elizabeth rose and dressed quickly, and then slipped from the room quickly.

  She accomplished the short walk to the breakfast room quickly and without incident, and when she stepped in, she was unsurprised to see Mr. Darcy there. He rose upon her entrance, his countenance lighting up at spying her. Elizabeth felt her cheeks turn rosy, and she regarded him shyly, her gaze finding the floor in her unexpected abashment.

  “I was not certain anyone would take breakfast here, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy, holding a chair out for her.

  Elizabeth allowed him to seat her and turned a questioning gaze on him. “I suspected the same. But I thought you would come here. Do you think we can trust the food?”

  Mr. Darcy grinned and set about fixing a plate for her. “Mrs. Nichols assured me this morning of the quality and untainted nature of the meal. They have watched everything carefully. Most of the food here, she suspects, will be returned to the kitchens later, as she believes most of the residents will order trays in their rooms.”

  “I suppose that is not surprising,” murmured Elizabeth. Mr. Darcy set the tray before her, and she grasped her fork in one hand, inhaling the scent of the eggs and sausage, realizing at that moment she was very hungry. “Will they not be fearful of the food when it is delivered?”

  Taking his seat again, Mr. Darcy shrugged. “I suppose the possibility of a repeat exists. But I doubt the killer will attempt the same thing again.”

  Raising the fork to her mouth, Elizabeth chewed, savoring the exquisite flavor of the cook’s eggs. “That is the question, sir. Do we even know the killer will strike again?”

  “It is impossible to predict. So far there does not seem to be any reason to what has occurred here. I am at a loss to explain it.”

  Mr. Darcy began an explanation of what he and his cousin discussed the previous evening and what they learned from the kitchens. Elizabeth reciprocated by explaining her own late-night visit to the kitchens and the tidbit she had learned herself. Mr. Darcy admonished her for taking such a risk, but he did not dwell on her foolishness. For that Elizabeth was grateful.

  “You trust your cousin, do you not, Mr. Darcy?” asked Elizabeth, when he had explained his cousin’s final words the previous evening.

  A grimace settled over Mr. Darcy’s countenance, but he nodded. “I do. He is correct that he is the only one who has actually killed. But that was done in battle, in defense of his comrades, himself, and England. Furthermore, Fitzwilliam loves to confound me, though I must question his judgment and his very sanity for being flippant at a time like this.”

  “Then what are we left with?” asked Elizabeth.

  “A set of clues which lead to no obvious conclusions,” replied Mr. Darcy. “It seems, however, that Miss Bingley was not responsible for the first two deaths. Unless, of course, she poisoned herself.”

  Elizabeth snorted, feeling a sort of detached amusement. “I suppose it would serve her right if she did. But you forget one possibility, Mr. Darcy.”

  When Mr. Darcy looked at her askance, Elizabeth said: “It is possible there is more than one murderer.”

  The shudder which ran through Mr. Darcy’s frame was unmistakable. It was also amusing, even given the fact that nothing about this situation should be amusing.

  “Do not even suggest such a thing, Miss Bennet. Not even in jest.”

  “I suppose you are correct,” said Elizabeth. “You have my apologies for attempting such an inappropriate joke.”

  Mr. Darcy shook his head. “You are quite different from most young ladies I have ever met. I find the difference quite intriguing, I assure you.”

  Once again Elizabeth felt the heat of her cheeks rise. She covered her embarrassment—and the thrill she felt at his words—by attending to her breakfast again. Mr. Darcy, for his part, fell silent, pensively considering what they had discussed.

  “But I cannot help it, but my mind continues to turn to the one person here who is capable of depraved behavior.”

  “I assume you mean Mr. Wickham?”

  “I do,” said Mr. Darcy.

  “And have you ever suspected Mr. Wickham of such heinous crimes in the past?”

  “I will own I have not,” replied Mr. Darcy. “But I have also kept him at arms’ distance these past years, and I know not what he has become. I know he was willing to overthrow every memory of my father and attempt to abscond with my sister’s fortune. But is he capable of so much more?” Mr. Darcy paused his gaze heavy with thought. “I do not know. But I fear very much that he is capable of it.”

  “Is there any evidence to support your theory?”

  “Nothing specific. Wickham openly bragged to me of how he would attempt to seduce Miss Bingley for her dowry.”


  “But that is no reason to kill her!” protested Elizabeth. “Quite the opposite, if he wished to have her fortune. Her death puts it forever beyond his reach.”

  “Unless he killed her in a fit of rage,” replied Mr. Darcy. “I am aware of Miss Bingley’s ways, and I am convinced she would give him no hint of attention and would, in fact, respond with derision, should he have attempted to charm her.”

  “A man who kills in a fit of rage does not do so by such subtle means as poison.”

  Mr. Darcy had nothing to say to that, for he nodded and fell silent. After a moment, Elizabeth asked another question.

  “What of Lady Catherine? Why would Wickham murder her?”

  “To remove an obstacle preventing him from approaching Anne? Lady Catherine would have thwarted any hint of his wooing to her. He might have thought her removal necessary.”

  “And yet he has paid little attention to Anne. In fact, why would he attempt to charm Miss Bingley when Anne’s fortune—consisting of an estate—would be so much greater a prize?”

  “Anne has also sequestered herself in her rooms since her mother’s death,” said Mr. Darcy. “He may have decided Miss Bingley was the easier target.”

  “That is possible,” allowed Elizabeth. “But it seems to me we have nothing more than supposition and conjecture. There is not a shred of hard evidence to convict Mr. Wickham. Why, given the knowledge we possess, the murder is equally likely to be my sister Lydia, or even Mr. Collins!”

  Mr. Darcy chuckled. “I suppose you are correct.”

  They sat in silence for some few moments. Elizabeth ate her breakfast, but much of it was mechanical, as she did not note either the taste of what she was eating, or even pay attention to what she was eating. Thoughts of the conundrum under which they were trapped gnawed at her mind. She puzzled at the information they possessed, attempting to sort it in a manner in which it would all settle into place. But it remained elusive, and Elizabeth very much suspected some vital pieces were missing.

  “What do we do from here?” asked she after considering it for perhaps ten minutes.