show the delicate line of the throat, he looked like a young wounded knight exhausted after battle. Gazing down on him, Elizabeth was visited by a tumble of emotions. Her mind unwillingly jerked back to memories so painful that she could recall them only with self-disgust. She had been so close to falling in love with him. Would she have married him if he had been rich instead of penniless? Surely not, she knew now that what she had then felt had never been love. He, the darling of Meryton, the handsome newcomer with whom every girl was besotted, had sought her out as his favourite. It had all been vanity, a dangerous game played by them both. She had accepted and – worse – had passed on to Jane his allegations about the perfidy of Mr Darcy, the spoiling of all his chances in life, Darcy’s betrayal of their friendship and the callous neglect of the responsibilities towards Wickham laid on him by his father. Only much later had she realised how inappropriate those revelations, made to a comparative stranger, had been.
Looking down on him now, she felt a resurgence of shame and humiliation at having been so lacking in sense and judgement and the discernment of the character of others on which she had always prided herself. But something remained, an emotion close to pity which made it appalling to contemplate what his end might be, and even now, when she knew the worst of which he was capable, she couldn’t believe that he was a murderer. But whatever the outcome, with his marriage to Lydia he had become part of her family, part of her life, as her marriage had made him part of Darcy’s. And now every thought of him was besmirched by terrifying images: the howling crowd suddenly silenced as the handcuffed figure emerged from prison, the high gallows and the noose. She had wanted him out of their lives, but not that way – dear God, not that way.
Book Three
Police at Pemberley
1
When Sir Selwyn’s carriage and the mortuary van drew up at the main entrance to Pemberley the door was immediately opened by Stoughton. There was a little delay until one of the grooms arrived to take Darcy’s horse, and he and Stoughton, after a brief discussion, agreed that Sir Selwyn’s carriage and the van would be less visible by any watcher from the window if they were taken from the front of the house and through to the stables and the back courtyard, from which Denny’s body could eventually be swiftly and, it was hoped, discreetly removed. Elizabeth had thought it right formally to receive this late and hardly welcome guest, but Sir Selwyn quickly made it obvious that he was anxious to set to work immediately and paused only for the customary bow on his part and curtsey on Elizabeth’s and his brief apology for the lateness and inconvenience of his visit, before he announced that he would begin by seeing Wickham and would be accompanied by Dr Belcher and the two policemen, Headborough Thomas Brownrigg and Petty Constable Mason.
Wickham was being guarded by Bingley and Alveston, who opened the door to Darcy’s knock. The room could have been designed as a guardroom. It was simply and sparsely furnished with a single bed under one of the high windows, a washbasin, a small wardrobe and two upright wooden chairs. Two additional and more comfortable chairs had been brought in and placed one each side of the door to provide some ease for whoever would be keeping watch during the night. Dr McFee, who was sitting to the right of the bed, stood up at Hardcastle’s arrival. Sir Selwyn had met Alveston at one of the Highmarten dinner parties and was, of course, familiar with Dr McFee. He gave both men a brief bow and nod of acknowledgement, and then approached the bed. Alveston and Bingley, after a glance at each other, recognised that they were expected to leave the room and quietly did so, while Darcy remained standing a little apart. Brownrigg and Mason took up positions one on each side of the door, and stared ahead as if to demonstrate that, although it was not at present appropriate for them to take a more active part in the investigation, the room and the guarding of its occupant would now be their responsibility.
Dr Obadiah Belcher was the medical adviser called in by the High Constable or magistrate to help with inquiries and, not surprisingly for a man accustomed to dissecting the dead rather than treating the living, had acquired a sinister reputation not helped by his unfortunate appearance. His hair, almost as fine as a child’s, was so fair as to be almost white, drawn back from a sallow skin, and he looked at the world through small suspicious eyes under the thin line of the brow. His fingers were long and carefully manicured and the public reaction to him was fairly summed up by the cook at Highmarten. “I’ll never let that Dr Belcher put his hands on me. Who’s to know where they’ve been last?”
His reputation as a sinister eccentric was also not helped by his having a small upstairs room equipped as a laboratory where it was rumoured that he conducted experiments on the time taken for blood to clot under different circumstances and on the speed with which changes took place in the body after death. Although nominally he was in general practice, he had only two patients, the High Constable and Sir Selwyn Hardcastle, and as neither had ever been known to be ill, their status did nothing to enhance his medical reputation. He was highly thought of by Sir Selwyn and other gentlemen concerned with administering the law, since in court he gave his opinion as a medical man with authority. He was known to be in communication with the Royal Society and exchanged letters with other gentlemen who were engaged in scientific experiments, and in general the most knowledgeable of his neighbours were more proud of his public reputation than afraid of the occasional minor explosion which shook his laboratory. He seldom spoke except after deep thought, and now he drew close to the bed and stood looking down at the sleeping man in silence.
Wickham’s breathing was so gentle that it could hardly be heard, his lips slightly parted. He was lying on his back, his left arm flung out, his right curved on the pillow.
Hardcastle turned to Darcy. “He is obviously not in the state in which you gave me to understand he was brought here. Someone has washed his face.”
There were seconds of silence, then Darcy looked Hardcastle in the eyes and said, “I take responsibility for everything that has happened since Mr Wickham was brought into my house.”
Hardcastle’s response was surprising. His long mouth twitched momentarily into what could, in any other man, be thought of as an indulgent smile. He said, “Very chivalrous of you, Darcy, but I think we can look to the ladies for this. Isn’t that what they see as their function, to clean up the mess we make of our rooms and sometimes of our lives? No matter, there will be evidence enough from your servants of Wickham’s state when he was brought into this house. There appear to be no obvious signs of injury on his body except small scratches on his forehead and hands. Most of the blood on his face and hands will have been Captain Denny’s.”
He turned to Belcher. “I take it, Belcher, that your clever scientific colleagues have not yet found a way of distinguishing one man’s blood from another’s? We would welcome such assistance although, of course, it would deprive me of my function and Brownrigg and Mason of their jobs.”
“I regret not, Sir Selwyn. We do not set out to be gods.”
“Do you not? I am glad to hear it. I rather thought that you did.” As if aware that the conversation had become inappropriately light, Hardcastle turned to Dr McFee, magisterial and sharp-voiced. “What have you given him? He looks unconscious, not asleep. Did you not know that this man could be the principal suspect in a murder inquiry and that I would want to question him?”
McFee said quietly, “To me, sir, he is my patient. When I first saw him he was obviously drunk, violent and becoming out of control. Later, before the draught I gave him had time to take full effect, he became incoherent with fear, calling out in terror but none of it making sense. Apparently he had a vision of bodies hanging on gibbets, their necks stretched. He was a man inhabiting a nightmare even before he slept.”
Hardcastle said, “Gibbets? Hardly surprising given his situation. What was the medication? I assume it was some kind of sedative.”
“One I mix myself and have used in a number of cases. I persuaded him to take it to lessen his distress. You could have had no hope of getting sense out of him in that state.”
“Nor in his present state. How long before you expect him to be awake and sober enough to be questioned?”
“That is difficult to say. Sometimes after a shock the mind takes refuge in unconsciousness and sleep is deep
