Bingley said, “We should not give up hope that all is well. The shots could have been a poacher after rabbits, or perhaps Denny fired his gun as a warning to someone lurking in the woods. We must not allow our imagination to conjure up images which reason must surely tell us are imaginary. There can be nothing in the woodland to tempt anyone with evil intent towards either Wickham or Denny.”

Elizabeth did not reply. Now even the familiar and well-loved landscape looked alien, the river winding like molten silver under the moon until a sudden gust of wind set it trembling into life. The road stretched in what seemed an eternal emptiness in a phantom landscape, mysterious and eerie, where nothing human could ever live or move. And it was just as Jane returned that, at last, the chaise came into sight, at first no more than a moving shape defined by the faint flicker of the distant lights. Resisting the temptation to dash to the door, they stood intently waiting.

Elizabeth could not keep the despair from her voice. She said, “They are moving slowly. If all were well they would come at speed.”

At that thought she could wait at the window no longer but ran downstairs, Jane and Bingley at her side. Stoughton must have seen the chaise from the ground floor window for the front door was already ajar. He said, “Would it not be wise, madam, to return to the music room? Mr Darcy will bring you the news as soon as they arrive. It is too cold to wait outside and there is nothing any of us can do until the chaise arrives.”

Elizabeth said, “Mrs Bingley and I would prefer to wait at the door, Stoughton.”

“As you wish, madam.”

Together with Bingley they went out into the night and stood waiting. No one spoke until the chaise was a few yards from the door and they saw what they had feared, the shrouded shape on the stretcher. There was a sudden gust of wind, tossing Elizabeth’s hair around her face. She felt herself falling but managed to clutch at Bingley who put a supporting arm round her shoulders. At that moment the wind lifted the corner of the blanket and they saw the scarlet of an officer’s jacket.

Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke directly to Bingley. “You can tell Mrs Wickham that her husband is alive. Alive but unfit to be seen. Captain Denny is dead.”

Bingley said, “Shot?”

It was Darcy who replied. “No, not shot.” He turned to Stoughton, “Fetch the outdoor and indoor keys to the gunroom. Colonel Fitzwilliam and I will carry the body across the north courtyard and lay it on the gunroom table.” He turned again to Bingley. “Please take Elizabeth and Mrs Bingley inside. There is nothing they can do here and we need to bring Wickham in from the chaise. It would be distressing for them to see him in his present condition. We need to get him to a bed.”

Elizabeth wondered why her husband and the colonel seemed unwilling to lower the stretcher to the ground, but they stood as if rooted until Stoughton came back within minutes and handed over the keys. Then almost ceremoniously, with Stoughton preceding them like an undertaker’s mute, they made their way through the courtyard and round to the rear of the house and the gunroom.

The chaise was now rocking violently and between the gusts of wind Elizabeth could hear Wickham’s wild, incoherent shouting, railing against his rescuers and the cowardice of Darcy and the colonel. Why hadn’t they caught the murderer? They had a gun. They knew how to use it. By God, he’d tried a shot or two, and he would be there now had they not lugged him away. Then came a stream of oaths, the worst of them borne away by the wind, followed by an outburst of weeping.

Elizabeth and Jane went inside. Wickham had now fallen and Bingley and Alveston together managed to pull him to his feet and began half-dragging him into the hall. Elizabeth had one glimpse at the wild-eyed, blood-besmirched face and then retreated out of sight while Wickham tried to fight himself free of Alveston’s grasp.

Bingley said, “We need a room with a strong door and a key. What do you suggest?”

Mrs Reynolds, who had now returned, looked at Elizabeth. She said, “The blue room, madam, at the end of the north corridor would be the most secure. There are only two small windows and it’s the furthest from the nursery.”

Bingley was still helping to control Wickham. He called to Mrs Reynolds, “Dr McFee is in the library. Tell him he is needed now. We cannot manage Mr Wickham in his present state. Tell him that we shall be in the blue bedroom.”

Bingley and Alveston grasped Wickham’s arms and began half-pulling him up the stairs. He was quieter now but still sobbing; as they reached the last step, he wrestled himself free and, glaring down at Darcy, hurled his final imprecations.

Jane turned to Elizabeth. She said, “I had better return to Lydia. Belton has been there for a long time and may need some relief. I hope Lydia will be sound asleep now, but we must reassure her that her husband is alive as soon as she is conscious. At least we have something to be grateful for. Dear Lizzy, if only I could have spared you this.”

The two sisters clung together for a moment and then Jane was gone. And now the hall was quiet. Elizabeth was shivering and, feeling suddenly faint, sat down on the nearest chair. She felt bereft, longing for Darcy to appear, and soon he was with her, coming from the gunroom through the back of the house. He came to her immediately and, raising her up, drew her gently to him.

“My dear, let us get away from here and I will explain what happened. You have seen Wickham?”

“Yes, I saw him carried in. He was a dreadful sight. Thank God Lydia did not see.”

“How is she?”

“Asleep, I hope. Dr McFee gave her something to calm her. And now he has gone with Mrs Reynolds to help with Wickham. Mr Alveston and Charles are taking Wickham to the blue bedroom in the north corridor. It seemed the best place for him.”

“And Jane?”

“She is with Lydia and Belton. She will spend the night in Lydia’s room with Mr Bingley in the dressing room next door. Lydia would not tolerate my company. It has to be Jane.”

“Then let us go to the music room. I must have some moments with you alone. Today we have scarcely seen each other. I will tell you as much as I know, but it isn’t good. Then I must go tonight to notify Sir Selwyn Hardcastle of Captain Denny’s death. He is the nearest magistrate. I cannot have any part in this; it will be for Hardcastle to take over from now on.”

“But can it not wait, Fitzwilliam? You must be exhausted. And it will be after midnight if Sir Selwyn comes back tonight with the police. He cannot hope to do anything until morning.”

“It is right that Sir Selwyn should be told without delay. He will expect it, and he is right to expect it. He will want to remove Denny’s body and probably see Wickham, if he is sober enough to be questioned. In any case, my love, Captain Denny’s body should be moved as soon as possible. I do not want to seem callous or irreverent but it will be convenient to have it out of the house before the servants wake. They will have to be told what has happened but it will be easier for all of us, particularly for the servants, if the body is no longer here.”

“But you could at least stay and have something to eat and drink before you go. It is hours since dinner.”

“I will stay for five minutes to take some coffee and to make sure Bingley is fully in the picture, but then I must be off.”

“And Captain Denny, tell me what happened? Anything is better that this suspense. Charles is talking about an accident. Was this an accident?”

Darcy said gently, “My love, we must wait until the doctors have examined the body and can tell us how Captain Denny died. Until then it is all conjecture.”

“So it could have been an accident?”

“It is comforting to hope so, but I believe what I believed when I first saw his body – that Captain Denny was murdered.” 

4

Five minutes later Elizabeth waited with Darcy at the front door for his horse to be brought round, and did not re-enter the house until she saw him break into a gallop and melt into the moonlit darkness. It would be an uncomfortable journey. The wind, which had spent its worst fury, had been succeeded by a heavy slanting rain, but she knew that the ride was necessary. Darcy was one of the three magistrates serving Pemberley and Lambton but he could have no part in this investigation and it was right that one of his colleagues should be informed of Denny’s death without delay. She hoped, too, that the body would be removed from Pemberley before morning when the waking household would have to be told by Darcy and herself something of what had happened. The presence of Mrs Wickham would have to be explained and Lydia herself was unlikely to be discreet. Darcy was a fine horseman and even in poor weather a night ride away from the house would hold no terror for him, but straining her eyes to see the last flashing shadow of the galloping horse, she had to fight down an irrational fear that something terrible would happen before he reached Hardcastle and that she was destined never to see him again.

For Darcy the gallop into the night was a release into temporary freedom. Although his shoulders still ached from the weight of the stretcher and he knew he was exhausted in mind and body, the smack of the wind and the cold rain stinging his face were a liberation. Sir Selwyn Hardcastle was the only magistrate known to be always at home and living within eight miles of Pemberley who would be able to take the case and would indeed be glad to do so, but he was not the colleague Darcy would have chosen. Unfortunately Josiah Clitheroe, the third member of the local magistrates, was incapacitated by gout, an affliction as painful as it was undeserved since the doctor, although known to be partial to a good dinner, never touched port wine, which was commonly believed to be the chief cause of this disabling complaint. Dr Clitheroe was a distinguished lawyer respected beyond the borders of his native Derbyshire, and accordingly regarded as an asset to the bench despite his garrulity which arose from a belief that the validity of a judgment was in proportion to the length of time spent in arriving at it. Every nuance of a case with which he was concerned was scrutinised in meticulous detail, previous cases researched and discussed and the relevant law propounded. And if the dictates of an ancient philosopher – particularly Plato or Socrates – could be seen as adding weight to the argument, they were produced. But despite the circuity of the journey, his eventual decision was invariably reasonable and there were few defendants who would not have felt unfairly discriminated against if Dr Clitheroe had not paid them the compliment of at least one hour’s incomprehensible dissertation when they appeared before him.