procured them weather favorable for travel
Darcy did not envy his friend the ordeal of this meeting. What little they had to tell her — that her father’s business dealings and conduct had ultimately made him reprehensible enough that no one had realized his death for hours and the killer could be one of several people — would not be pleasant for her to hear, and would no doubt elicit a response equally unpleasant. Darcy would sooner debate with Elizabeth the likelihood of Randolph’s occult powers.
“My father was murdered under your roof. I want to know by whom.”
“As I wrote in my letter, the local authorities are still investigating the matter.”
“Yes, I have already met with the constable. He believes Professor Randolph was involved. Where is he? I demand to speak with him.”
Bingley sent for the professor. As they awaited him, Miss Kendall repeated her questions, as if asking them enough times would somehow yield an answer where moments before none existed. The constable, it seemed, had spared her the more gruesome details of the crime, and Darcy and Bingley endeavored to keep those facts secret. Other information they truly did not possess.
Miss Kendall grew increasingly irritable. “Did no one see anything?” she asked for the fourth time. “Hear anything? A man died among you, and no one noticed?”
Bingley cleared his throat. “It is a large house. ..” He glanced to Darcy with an expression of entreaty.
“I assure you, Miss Kendall, that we are doing all we can to learn what happened,” Darcy offered.
She ignored him. “Mr. Bingley, this is your house. Until the murderer’s identity is ascertained, I hold you responsible for my father’s death.”
“You have my most sincere condolences—”
“I don’t want condolences. I want answers. And then I want someone’s head on a platter.”
After fifteen excruciating minutes, the servant returned. “Mr. Bingley, sir, I cannot find the professor.”
“Where have you looked?”
“Throughout the house.”
“Check the grounds. Perhaps he has gone for a walk.”
More time passed. Eventually Miss Kendall’s shrill voice lapsed into hostile silence. At last the servant reappeared, but with disappointing news. The search had turned up no Randolph.
“His trunk is still here but his greatcoat and traveling clothes are gone,” the footman reported. “So is one of the horses.”
Randolph had fled during the night. To escape the consequences of his crime? Though Darcy still struggled to pinpoint a motive for the professor to kill Kendall, evidence against Randolph was mounting. He silently berated himself for his stupidity — why had he not taken steps to have the archeologist watched more closely after the murder?
Miss Kendall regarded Bingley accusingly. “You
“I — well, of course. We’ll send a rider out toward…” He looked to Darcy for guidance. “He said at dinner the other night that he would return to London?”
“Yes, but that was before the murder was discovered and he became a suspect. As he left his trunk here and disappeared without taking leave, there is no reason to believe he still intends to go there.” Darcy frowned as he considered the possibilities. A lone rider on horseback, Randolph could be headed anywhere. Perhaps a port city, seeking passage to America? “Let us summon Mr. Parrish. They are friends — or were. Perhaps he can guess where Randolph might go. The professor may have even spoken to him before he left and dropped some hint.”
Parrish came at once. He hurried into the room, his countenance anxious. “Bingley? Your servant said you needed me urgently.” He stopped short upon sight of the lady present and regarded her warily. “Miss Kendall.” He bowed. “I did not know you were at Netherfield.”
“I have only just arrived.”
He took a step toward her. “I am sorry for the loss of your father. He—”
“Save your pretty words, Mr. Parrish. Perhaps your wife wants to hear them. I don’t.”
Bingley cleared his throat. “Mr. Parrish, the professor has left Netherfield. We wonder if perhaps you know where he went.”
Parrish blinked. “Randolph is gone? I had no idea. He said nothing to me about it.” He sank into a chair, his face clouding with chagrin. “He said a couple days ago he would leave, but to depart so abruptly, without telling anyone… Surely you don’t think it was he who—” He cut his words off as he glanced at Miss Kendall. “Yet it must have been. The symbols that were found — it all points to him, yet I didn’t want to believe it. Randolph, the murderer!”
“We do not know with certainty that Randolph is guilty.” Darcy wished fervently that Parrish hadn’t brought up the pentagrams before Miss Kendall. He hadn’t even known that anyone beyond himself, Elizabeth, and the constable knew that the symbols had been found on and around Kendall’s body. He supposed he had the servants to thank for that.
“What symbols?”
“There were some markings on the floor.” Darcy sought to redirect her attention. “Miss Kendall, did your father know Randolph well or have cause to associate with him often? Perhaps he considered financing the professor’s upcoming archeological dig?”
“My father would never have speculated on such a losing enterprise as backing that man’s pursuits,” Juliet said. “Professor Randolph always gave me the shivers. He is an oddity.”
“I thought him a harmless eccentric.” Parrish shook his head in disbelief. He rose and walked to the window, stared at the light snow that had started to fall. “But the unusual nature of his studies must have worked upon his mind in insidious ways. I wonder if he even realizes what he has done.”
“He damn well better.” Miss Kendall’s use of profanity shocked Darcy. The more time he spent with Lawrence Kendall’s daughter, the more he thought Parrish got the better end of the deal when he instead married Caroline Bingley — mad or not.
Parrish turned back toward the room, meeting each of their gazes. “Bingley, Darcy — Miss Kendall, you most of all — I’m sorry. This is my fault. I brought Randolph among you.”
“No man is responsible for the actions of another,” Bingley said. “Especially actions so unpredictable.”
Parrish released a heavy sigh. “Nevertheless, in trying to help my wife I brought harm to others. What kind of madness has gained hold of Randolph’s reason, and how long has it gripped him? What dark gods does he think he serves? The carriage accident, the fire — I now wonder how many of our recent misfortunes can be laid at Randolph’s feet?”
He left to check on his wife, leaving the others in contemplative silence.
Madness. Darcy had ascribed that possible motive to Caroline Parrish, but had not truly considered it where Randolph was concerned. Elizabeth, however, had — she’d suspected the professor of fanaticism. Though she thought he’d used supernatural means to aid his crime, a hypothesis Darcy still could not seriously entertain, a misguided attempt to appease imaginary powers could explain actions that reason could not. Perhaps the connection between Randolph and Kendall amounted to no more than Kendall presenting himself as a convenient victim for some dark rite.
Were that the case, Randolph was a very dangerous man — unpredictable and violent. Though they must initiate pursuit to save others from his demented zeal, Darcy was glad the madman no longer roamed Netherfield’s environs freely.
At least, he hoped the lunatic had indeed fled.
Suddenly, he needed to assure himself of Elizabeth’s whereabouts.
“Mrs. Nicholls, fire me if you want, but I won’t do it! I won’t be in there with her by myself — not with her cutting up her own husband with that ring he give her! Her sister sat with us yesterday while I did her toilette, but I can’t find her today and I’m not walking in there alone! Not with all the goings-on round here and her acting so crazy!”
Elizabeth paused at the head of the stairs, surprised to find the housekeeper and Caroline’s maid openly arguing in a public part of the house. They stood in the corridor that led to the new family quarters. Though they did not shout, their voices carried in the empty hallway.
