One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (56 page)

Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, and he took her hands in his as she hung her head in shame and fear. “Do not fear, Sister. You have had no part in his death.” He took her chin in the crook between his thumb and finger, raising her face to look at his. “I know that speaking with these men at all will be difficult for you, but remember that you are a Darcy, and you will find the courage. You must answer truthfully any question you are asked, but do not offer more. I will be close by at all times.”

“I cannot do it, Brother. Can you not make them go away?” Georgiana's lip trembled.

“It would not be wise to do so. Disguise of every sort is my abhorrence, and in this case, it would imply our guilt where there is none. It will not do to raise their suspicions, dear one. We must face their questions and trust in the truth.”

The officer knocked at the door and opened it immediately. “I will see the young lady now.”

Darcy stood and strode across the room, closing the door behind the officer. “You will interview my sister here in the study, sir.” Darcy spoke respectfully, but was firm. “I am her guardian; I insist that it be so, and in my presence.”

“Very well, so long as you do not interfere, you may remain.”

Georgiana was pale, and her whole body shook with terror. The officer looked at her with some chagrin that he was obliged to speak to her at all.

The officer took the seat vacated by Darcy, and Darcy took a position by the wall where he could observe and see both parties clearly. His face was stern as he stood as a sentinel for his sister.

“What is your name?” The officer began with the easy questions first. His surprise was evident when she responded with difficulty.

“I am...,” Georgiana swallowed and began again. “My ... my ... my ... n-n-n-name is Miss G-G-Georg-Georg-Georgiana D-D-D-Darcy.”

The officer glanced over at Mr. Darcy, who nodded his confirmation as he stood in an intimidating stance, his feet apart, hands locked together behind his back.

This, the officer quickly realized, could take much longer than he had planned. He changed tactics by question number two. “The man who died here tonight—Mr. Wickham—did you know him?”

Georgiana looked at her brother for assurance, her eyes blinking uncontrollably before she answered. “Y-y-yes.” She pressed her lips together and looked to her lap.

“How long have you known him?”

“F-f-forever,” Georgiana gasped.

“If I may, sir,” Darcy interrupted, “Mr. Wickham was the son of my late father's steward. My sister has known him since infancy, as one of the household.”

“I see. Thank you.” The officer turned back to Georgiana. “Did you like Mr. Wickham?”

Georgiana once again looked at her brother, this time with some alarm, but again, he nodded for her to answer. “Y-y-yes sir, I ... I ... I ... did.”

“Do you know anyone who wished him dead?” The officer wanted to be at an end of the interview, his impatience at Georgiana's stammering clearly evidenced in his tone.

“I ... I ... I ...” Georgiana paused, “I d-d-d-do not th-th-think so.”

“Sir,” Darcy broke in again. “My sister has received quite a shock this evening. She is but sixteen years old and knows none of the particulars, as she was upstairs through the whole of it. I beg you to excuse her—I can tell you far more than she.”

This was all the persuasion the officer needed to terminate his inquiry. Of the innocence of the maiden he was certain, and the promise of Darcy's cooperation was sufficient incentive to grant Georgiana's release.

Mrs. Annesley waited for Georgiana outside the study and took her upstairs as soon as the door opened. Darcy watched with concern from the doorway as his sister was escorted away. Georgiana's stammer had not been so pronounced since the period right after Ramsgate, and he feared that the death of Wickham in such a manner would set his sister's recovery back dramatically. This concern he could not dwell on now, however, for the officer awaited him.

The officer annoyed him, and Darcy knew full well that he would be within his rights to eject the policeman and demand a Bow Street investigator immediately. His conversation with his cousin Anne preyed on his mind, however, and he determined to practice better manners by humoring the officer—at least for tonight.

Returning to the study, Darcy offered the officer a glass of port, which was accepted. Darcy moved to the window, looking out upon the small garden area in the rear of the townhouse as if he could see it in the darkness that had already fallen. He waited for the other man to speak.

“Mr. Darcy, you said that you could tell me of Wickham. The time has come for you to reveal what you know.”

“Tell me what you wish to hear, sir, and I will tell it.” Darcy replied, turning to face him.

The officer frowned. “Begin with your connection to Wickham.”

“As I said, he is the son of my late father's steward. We grew up together,” Darcy replied. “After we attended Cambridge, our lives took different paths, and these past several years I have avoided contact with him.”

“The son of a steward received a gentleman's education? Your father must have paid a generous wage.” The officer remarked.

Darcy looked at him blandly. “Yes, sir, he did.”

“I take it from what you say that you have not seen Wickham in recent years. How long has it been?”

“I said that I avoid contact. It does not follow that I have not seen him.” Darcy replied. “In point of fact, I saw him just a few days ago.”

“You did?” The officer became more alert. “Where did this meeting occur?”

“In Hertfordshire,” Darcy answered.

“That is far from Derbyshire, is it not? What were you doing in Hertfordshire?”

“I was a guest in the home of a friend. I was unaware that Wickham had joined himself with the Hertfordshire militia until I encountered him in the village of Meryton, where the militia is quartered for the winter.” No emotion passed across Darcy's face as he spoke.

“I see.” The officer jotted a few notes. “Was your meeting cordial?”

Darcy shifted his weight, “Reasonably so.”

“That is not exactly a yes, Mr. Darcy. I must ask you to elaborate.”

“We were not friendly. I was not pleased to discover him making the acquaintance of a family of young gentlewomen, and I issued a mild warning not to meddle with them.”

“Meddle?” The officer's brow shot up.

“Mr. Wickham has earned a reputation, to put it frankly, as a seducer nearly everywhere he goes. Being new to Meryton, the town did not yet know what he was.”

“Was this warning privately made, or public?” The officer squinted at Darcy, observing him closely.

“Public, although I was not explicit. I later visited him privately to assure that he took my meaning.”

“And did he—take your meaning?”

“He did. He resigned his commission and returned to London shortly thereafter,” Darcy replied, turning again to the darkened glass.

“And you followed him here?” The officer speculated.

“Yes, I did.” Darcy said.

“For what purpose?”

“To speak with him. Nothing more.” Darcy answered firmly.

“That is a long journey for a conversation.” The officer observed. “Of what did you wish to speak?”

“A private matter.” Darcy replied.

“Mr. Darcy, a man has died. I cannot let your answer stand. You must answer the question.”

“It is a family matter, sir, and can have nothing to do with these proceedings.” Darcy shook his head.

“Answer or I shall be forced to arrest you on suspicion of murder.”

Darcy rolled his eyes in irritation and considered again the possibility of ejecting the insufferable officer. “Mr. Wickham claimed to be in possession of a letter. I merely wished to ascertain the contents of the letter.”

“And once you retrieved the letter, you had him killed?”

“I did not kill Mr. Wickham, nor was I party to his death.” Darcy was emphatic.

“Your maid said that he accused you of the deed before he died.” The officer countered.

“He did, sir. In his dying words, he was true to his nature, and maliciously lied.” Darcy nodded, turning his head to look over his shoulder at the officer.

“Are you now in possession of the letter?” The officer clearly expected that he was.

“No. The conversation I had come for did not occur before Wickham's demise. I remain in the dark about the letter.”

“What do you know of it?”

“Wickham claimed it was damaging to my family.” Darcy said in clipped tones.

“Extortion?” The officer probed.

“Yes.”

“Do you have any proof of his planning to blackmail you?” The officer pressed.

“Yes.”

“What proof have you?”

Darcy looked at the man resignedly. “I have a letter from him, detailing his case. I came to London to discern the truth before I determined a course of action. I have already discovered his letter to contain lies.”

“Where is this letter?”

“It is in my possession.”

“You must produce it, as evidence.” The officer said seriously.

“Evidence that Wickham was a scoundrel? I can produce a hundred witnesses who would swear it.” Darcy replied.

“Evidence that you have a motive, sir, to see him dead.” The officer answered coldly.

“It was not I!” Darcy thundered and followed more calmly, “Wickham was a man of excessively happy manners, which enabled him to acquire friends quickly, but his vices—gambling, debt-leaving, fortune hunting and debaucheries—insured that he made many enemies as well. I am not your man.”

“But he did die under your roof.” The officer said pointedly.

“He was brought here injured. I tried to help him, but it was too late.” Darcy replied.

“Why was he brought here?” The officer accused. “That he was delivered to your very doorstep in such condition implies your involvement. It is manslaughter, at least, if not outright murder.”

“I only just arrived in London last night. I sent men into the city today in search of him. They were instructed to discover him, but not approach. They will confirm those directions to the last man.” Darcy defended himself. “I gave no order to harm him. I do not know why he was brought to my house.”

“Do you know anyone who wanted him dead?”

Darcy did not immediately reply.

“Have you heard anyone voice a threat on his life?” The officer sensed that Darcy was holding back. He sat down, leaned back and crossed his leg, as though he would wait patiently for the answer. “I had a cat once, who was a great mouser. She would catch the mice, kill them, and drop their carcasses at my door—as a sort of gift, I think. Did someone leave a gift on your doorstep, Mr. Darcy?”

“I think not.” Darcy shook his head. “The only person I ever heard speak of killing Wickham knew that I did not want it, and he stayed his hand.”

“Who was this person?”

“He could not have done it. He is not in London.” Darcy replied.

“He has a name, I presume.” The officer would not relent. “You must give it to me.”

“Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.” Darcy answered after a moment's pause. “He is my cousin and the second son of the Earl of Matlock. He did not do it. He is a good man, a noble servant of king and country.”

“What was the good colonel's interest in seeing Wickham dead?”

“He saw the letter I received from Wickham.” Darcy replied.

“Ah yes. The letter from Wickham. I must have it.”

“I told you, it has nothing to do with this investigation. I beg you to allow me privacy in this matter, sir.” Darcy's tone belied any idea of begging.

“Produce the letter or surrender yourself to arrest. Those are your options.” The officer gritted his teeth.

Darcy hesitated, his temper rising at the attitude of the man.
 
He could, with very little trouble, ruin the officer’s career over this behavior.
 
He struggled mightily for restraint against that course before he finally took a deep breath, heaved a frustrated sigh, and went to his desk where he unlocked a small drawer and retrieved Wickham’s letter. “I must insist upon your discretion in the matters related in this letter, sir. You will understand in a moment.”