and I think I may have some influence with him. I suggest you send an express setting out the facts and I follow this by discussing the case with him when I return to London, as I must after the inquest.”
Darcy said he was grateful and the proposal was agreed. Then Alveston said, “I think, gentlemen, we should remind ourselves of the evidence we shall give when asked what words Wickham spoke when we came upon him kneeling over the body. They will undoubtedly be crucial to the case. Obviously we shall speak the truth but it will be interesting to know whether our memories agree on Wickham’s exact words.”
Without waiting for either of the other two to speak, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Not unnaturally they made a distinct impression on me and I believe I can repeat them exactly. Wickham said, “He’s dead. Oh God, Denny’s dead. He was my friend, my only friend, and I’ve killed him. It’s my fault.” It is, of course, a matter of opinion what he meant by Denny’s death being his fault.”
Alveston said, “My memory is precisely the same as the colonel’s but, like him, I can attempt no interpretation of his words. So far we agree.”
It was Darcy’s turn. He said, “I cannot myself be as precise as to the exact order of his words, but I can with confidence state that Wickham said that he had killed his friend, his only friend, and that it was his fault. I too find those last words ambiguous and shall not attempt to explain them unless pressed, and possibly not then.”
Alveston said, “We are unlikely to be pressed by the coroner. If the question is asked, he may point out that none of us can be sure of what is passing through another’s mind. My own view, and it is speculative, is that he meant that Denny would not have gone into the woods and met his assailant had it not been for their quarrel, and that Wickham took responsibility for whatever it was that aroused Denny’s repugnance. The case will undoubtedly rest on what Wickham meant by those few words.”
It seemed that the conference could now be considered over, but before they rose from their chairs, Darcy said, “So Wickham’s fate, life or death, will depend on twelve men influenced as they must be by their own prejudices and by the power of the accused’s statement and the prosecuting counsel’s eloquence.”
The colonel said, “How else can it be dealt with? He will put himself on his countrymen and there can be no greater assurance of justice than the verdict of twelve honest Englishmen.”
Darcy said, “And with no appeal.”
“How can there be? The decision of the jury has always been sacrosanct. What are you proposing, Darcy, a second jury, sworn in to agree or disagree with the first, and another jury after that? That would be the ultimate idiocy, and if carried on ad infinitum could presumably result in a foreign court trying English cases. And that would be the end of more than our legal system.”
Darcy said, “Could it not be possible to have an appeal court consisting of three, or perhaps five, judges to be convened if there were dissension over a difficult point of law?”
It was then that Alveston intervened. “I can well imagine the reaction of an English jury to the proposal that their decision should be challenged by three judges. It must be for the trial judge to decide on points of law, and if he is unable to do so, then he has no right to be a judge. And there is to some extent a court of appeal. The trial judge can initiate the process for the granting of a pardon when he is unhappy with the outcome and a verdict which seems to the general public to be unjust will always result in a public outcry and sometimes violent protest. I can assure you there is nothing more powerful than the English when seized with righteous indignation. But as you may know, I am a member of a group of lawyers concerned with examining the effectiveness of our legal criminal system and there is one reform which we would like to see: the right of the prosecuting counsel to make a final speech before the verdict should be extended to the defence. I can see no reason against such a change, and we are hopeful that it may come before the end of this century.”
Darcy asked, “What can be the objection to it?”
“Mostly time. The London courts are already overworked and too many cases are rushed through with indecent speed. The English are not so fond of lawyers that they wish to sit through hours of additional speeches. It is thought sufficient that the accused should speak for himself and that the cross-examination of prosecution witnesses by his defence counsel will be enough to ensure justice. I do not find these arguments entirely convincing but they are sincerely held.”
The colonel said, “You sound like a radical, Darcy. I had not realised that you had such an interest in the law or were so dedicated to its reform.”
“Nor had I, but when one is faced, as we are now, by the reality of what awaits George Wickham, and how narrow the gap between life and death, it is perhaps natural to be both interested and concerned.” He paused, then said, “If there is nothing else to be said, perhaps we can prepare to join the ladies for dinner.”
2
Tuesday morning promised to be a pleasant day with even the hope of autumn sunshine. Wilkinson, the coachman, had a well-deserved reputation for forecasting the weather and two days ago had prophesied that the wind and rain would be followed by some sun and occasional showers. It was the day when Darcy was to meet his steward, John Wooller, who would lunch at Pemberley, and in the afternoon he would ride to Lambton to see Wickham, a duty which he could be confident had no expectation of pleasure on either side.
While he was absent Elizabeth planned to visit Woodland Cottage with Georgiana and Mr Alveston, to enquire after Will’s health and to carry wine and delicacies, which she and Mrs Reynolds hoped might tempt his appetite. She also wanted to satisfy herself that his mother and sister had not been made worried about being left alone when Bidwell was working at Pemberley. Georgiana had been eager to accompany her, and Henry Alveston had immediately offered to provide the male escort which Darcy thought essential and which he knew both ladies would find reassuring. Elizabeth was anxious to start as soon as possible after an early luncheon; the autumn sunshine was a benison which could not be expected to last, and Darcy had insisted that the party leave the woodland before the afternoon light began to fade.
But first there were letters to be written and, after an early breakfast, she settled to give some hours to this task. There were still replies outstanding to letters of sympathy and enquiry from friends who had been invited to the ball, and she knew that the family at Longbourn, who had received the news from Darcy by express post, would expect almost daily bulletins. There were also Bingley’s sisters, Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, to be kept informed of progress, but here at least she could leave it to Bingley to write. They visited their brother and Jane twice a year but were so immersed in the delights of London that more than a month’s stay in the country was intolerable. While at Highmarten they condescended to be entertained at Pemberley. To be able to boast about their visits, their relationship with Mr Darcy and the splendours of his house and estate was too valuable an indulgence to be sacrificed to disappointed hopes or resentment, but actually to see Elizabeth in possession as mistress of Pemberley remained an affront which neither sister could tolerate without a painful exercise of self-control and, to Elizabeth’s relief, the visits were infrequent.
She knew that their brother would have tactfully discouraged them from visiting Pemberley during the present crisis and she had no doubt that they would stay away. A murder in the family can provide a frisson of excitement at fashionable dinner parties, but little social credit can be expected from the brutal despatch of an undistinguished captain of the infantry, without money or breeding to render him interesting. Since even the most fastidious among us can rarely escape hearing salacious local gossip, it is as well to enjoy what cannot be avoided, and it was generally known both in London and Derbyshire that Miss Bingley was particularly anxious at this time not to leave the capital. Her pursuit of a widowed peer of great wealth was entering a most hopeful phase. Admittedly without his peerage and his money he would have been regarded as the most boring man in London, but one cannot expect to be called “your grace” without some inconvenience, and the competition for his wealth, title and anything else he cared to bestow was understandably keen. There were a couple of avaricious mamas, long- experienced in the matrimonial stakes, each working assiduously on her daughter’s behalf, and Miss Bingley had no intention of leaving London at such a delicate stage of the competition.
Elizabeth had just finished letters to her family at Longbourn and to her Aunt Gardiner when Darcy arrived with a letter delivered the previous evening by express, which he had only recently opened.
Handing it to her, he said, “Lady Catherine, as expected, has passed on the news to Mr Collins and Charlotte and has enclosed their letters with her own. I cannot suppose that they will give you either pleasure or surprise. I shall be in the business room with John Wooller but hope to see you at luncheon before I set out for Lambton.”
