Death Comes to Pemberley Page 16

  Mrs Bidwell said, ‘There is not much he can keep down now, madam, but he does like that thin beef soup and I try him with some of the custards and, of course, the wine. It is good of you to call, madam, but I won’t ask you to see him. It will only distress you and he hasn’t the strength to say much.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘Dr McFee sees him regularly, does he not? Is he able to provide some relief?’

  ‘He comes every other day, madam, busy as he is, and never a penny charged. He says Will has not long to go now. Oh madam, you knew my dear boy when you first arrived here as Mrs Darcy. Why should this happen to him, madam? If there was a reason or a purpose maybe I could bear it.’

  Elizabeth put out her hand. She said gently, ‘That is a question we always ask and we get no answer. Does Reverend Oliphant visit you? He said something after church on Sunday about coming to see Will.’

  ‘Oh indeed he does, madam, and he is a comfort, to be sure. But Will has asked me not to send him in recently, so I make excuses, I hope without offence.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘I’m sure there would be no offence, Mrs Bidwell. Mr Oliphant is a sensitive and understanding man. Mr Darcy has great confidence in him.’

  ‘So have we all, madam.’

  For a few minutes they were silent, then Mrs Bidwell said, ‘I have not spoken of the death of that poor young man, madam. It upset Will terribly that such a thing should happen in the woods so close to home and he unable to protect us.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘But you were not in danger I hope, Mrs Bidwell. I was told that you had heard nothing.’

  ‘Nor had we, madam, except the pistol shots, but it brought home to Will how helpless he is and what a burden his father has to bear. But this tragedy is terrible for you and for the master, I know, and I should best not speak about matters of which I know nothing.’

  ‘But you did know Mr Wickham as a child?’

  ‘Indeed, madam. He and the young master used to play together in the woodland. They were boisterous like all young boys, but the young master was the quieter of the two. I know that Mr Wickham grew up very wild and was a grief to the master, but he has never been spoken of since your marriage, and no doubt it’s for the best. But I cannot believe that the boy I knew grew up to be a murderer.’

  For a minute they sat in silence. There was a sensitive proposal which Elizabeth had come to make and was wondering how best to introduce. She and Darcy were concerned that, since the attack, the Bidwells would feel at risk, isolated as they were in Woodland Cottage, particularly with a seriously ill boy in the house and Bidwell himself so often at Pemberley. It would be reasonable that they should feel nervous and Elizabeth and Darcy had agreed that she should suggest to Mrs Bidwell that the whole family move into Pemberley, at least until the mystery had been solved. Whether this was practicable would, of course, depend on whether Will could stand the journey, but he would be carried very carefully by stretcher all the way to avoid the jolting of a carriage, and would receive devoted care once he was settled in a quiet room at Pemberley. But when Elizabeth put forward this proposal, she was startled by Mrs Bidwell’s response. For the first time the woman looked genuinely frightened and it was almost with a look of horror that she responded.

  ‘Oh no, madam! Please don’t ask this of us. Will couldn’t be happy away from the cottage. We have no fear here. Even with Bidwell absent, Louise and I were not afeared. After Colonel Fitzwilliam was good enough to check that we were all right, we did as he instructed. I bolted the door and locked the downstairs windows, and no one came near. It was just a poacher, madam, taken unawares and acting on impulse, he had no quarrel with us. And I’m sure that Dr McFee would say that Will couldn’t stand the journey. Please tell Mr Darcy with our gratitude and compliments that it must not be thought of.’

  Her eyes, her outstretched hands, were a plea. Elizabeth said gently, ‘Nor shall it be, if that is your wish, but we can at least ensure that your husband is here most of the time. We shall miss him greatly, but others can manage his work while Will is so ill and requires your care.’

  ‘He won’t do it, madam. It will grieve him to think that others can take over.’

  Elizabeth was tempted to say that, that being so, he would have to grieve, but she sensed that there was something here more serious than Bidwell’s desire to feel perpetually needed. She would leave the question for the moment; no doubt Mrs Bidwell would discuss it with her husband and perhaps change her mind. And she was, of course, right; if Dr McFee was of the opinion that Will could not stand the journey it would be folly to attempt it.

  They had made their goodbyes and were rising together when two chubby feet appeared above the rim of the cot, and the baby began to wail. With an anxious upward glance towards her son’s room, Mrs Bidwell was at the cot’s side and gathering the child into her arms. At that moment there were footsteps on the stair and Louisa Bidwell came down. For a moment Elizabeth failed to recognise the girl who, since she had been visiting the cottage as chatelaine of Pemberley, had been the picture of health and happy girlhood, pink-cheeked, clear-eyed and fresh as a spring morning in her newly ironed working clothes. Now she looked ten years older, pale and drawn, her uncombed hair pulled back from a face lined with tiredness and worry, her working dress stained with milk. She gave a quick bob to Elizabeth then, without speaking, almost grabbed the child from her mother and said, ‘I’ll take him to the kitchen in case he wakes Will. I’ll put on the milk, Mother, for his feed, and some of that fine gruel. I’ll try him with that.’

  And then she was gone. Elizabeth, to break the silence, said, ‘It must be a joy to have a new grandchild here, but also a responsibility. How long will he be staying? I expect his mother will want him back.’

  ‘She will indeed, madam. It was a great pleasure for Will to see the new baby, but he doesn’t like to hear the child wailing, although it’s no more than natural if a baby is hungry.’

  ‘When will he be going home?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Next week, madam. My elder daughter’s husband, Michael Simpkins – a good man, as you know madam – will meet them off the post-chaise at Birmingham, and take him home. We are waiting to hear which day will be convenient for him. He is a busy man and it isn’t easy for him to leave the shop but he and my daughter are anxious to have Georgie back home.’ It was impossible to miss the tension in her voice.

  Elizabeth realised that it was time to leave. She said her goodbyes, listened again to Mrs Bidwell’s thanks and immediately the door to Woodland Cottage closed behind her. Her spirits were depressed by the obvious unhappiness she had seen, and her mind confused. Why had the suggestion that the Bidwells should move to Pemberley been received with such distress? Had it perhaps been tactless, an unspoken implication that the dying boy would receive better care at Pemberley than a loving mother could give him in his home? Nothing could have been further from her intention. Had Mrs Bidwell genuinely felt the journey would kill her son, but was that really a risk when he would be carried, well wrapped, on a stretcher and attended every inch of the journey by Dr McFee? Nothing else had been envisaged. Mrs Bidwell had seemed more distressed by the thought of a move than she was by the possible presence of a murderer stalking the woods. And Elizabeth felt a suspicion, almost amounting to a certainty, which she could not discuss with her companions, which indeed she doubted whether it would be right to voice to anyone. She thought again how much she wished Jane were still at Pemberley; but it was right that the Bingleys should have left. Jane’s place was with her children and Lydia would be closer to the local gaol where she could at least visit her husband. Elizabeth’s feelings were complicated by the acknowledgement that Pemberley was a less distressing place without Lydia’s violent swings of mood and continual complaints and lamentations.

  For a moment, immersed in this jumble of thoughts and emotions, she had paid little attention to her two companions. Now she saw that they had been walking together on the fringes of the glade and were looking at her as if wondering when she w
ould make a move. She shook off her preoccupations and joined them. Taking out her watch, she said, ‘We have twenty minutes before the landaulet comes back. Now that we have the sunshine, however brief, shall we sit for a while before we go back?’

  The bench faced away from the cottage towards a distant slope down to the river. Elizabeth and Georgiana seated themselves at one end and Alveston at the other, his legs stretched out before him, his hands clasped behind his head. Now that the autumn winds had stripped many of the trees it was just possible to see in the far distance the thin gleaming line which separated the river from the sky. Was it perhaps this glimpse of the water which had caused Georgiana’s great-grandfather to choose this spot? The original bench had long gone, but the new one made by Will was sturdy and not uncomfortable. Beside it, as a half-shield, were a tangle of bushes with red berries and a shrub whose name Elizabeth could not remember, with tough leaves and white blossoms.

  After a few minutes Alveston turned to Georgiana. ‘Did your great-grandfather live here all the time, or was it an occasional retreat from the business of the great house?’

  ‘Oh, all the time. He had the cottage built and then moved in without a servant or anyone to cook. Food would be left from time to time, but he and the dog, Soldier, wanted no one but each other. His life was a great scandal at the time, and even the family were unsympathetic. It seemed an abdication of responsibility for a Darcy to live anywhere other than Pemberley. And then, when Soldier became old and ill, Great-Grandfather shot him and then himself. He left a note saying that they were to be buried together in the same grave in the woodland, and there is a tombstone and a grave, but only for Soldier. The family were horrified by the thought that a Darcy would want to lie in unconsecrated ground and you can imagine what the parish clergyman thought of it. So Great-Grandfather is in the family plot and Soldier is in the woods. I always felt sorry for Great-Grandfather and, when I was a child, I would go with my governess and lay some blossoms or berries on the grave. It was just a childish imagining that Great-Grandfather was there with Soldier. But when my mother found out what was happening the governess was dismissed and I was told the woodland was out of bounds.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘For you, but not for your brother.’

  ‘No, not for Fitzwilliam. But he is ten years older than I and was grown up when I was a child, and I don’t think he felt the same about Great-Grandfather as I did.’

  There was a silence, then Alveston said, ‘Is the grave still there? You could take some flowers now, if you wish, now you are no longer a child.’

  It seemed to Elizabeth that the words had a deeper implication than a visit to a dog’s grave.

  Georgiana said, ‘I should like that. I have not visited the grave since I was aged eleven. I would like to see if anything has changed, but I cannot believe that it could. I know the way and it is not far from the path, so we shall not be late for the landaulet.’

  They set off, Georgiana indicating the way and Alveston, with Pompey, walking a little in front to stamp down the nettles and hold any impeding branches out of their path. Georgiana was carrying a small posy which Alveston had plucked for her. It was surprising how much brightness, how many memories of spring, those few gatherings from a sunlit October day could provide. He had found a spray of white autumn blossom on tough stems, some berries, richly red but not yet ready to fall, and one or two leaves veined with gold. No one spoke. Elizabeth, her mind already preoccupied with a tangle of worries, wondered if this short expedition was wise, without quite knowing in what way it could be thought inadvisable. It was a day in which any event out of the commonplace seemed mired in apprehension and potential danger.

  It was then that she began to notice that the path must have been trodden in the recent past. In places the frailer branches and twigs had broken away, and at one point where the ground sloped slightly and the leaves were mushy she thought there were signs that they had been pressed down by a heavy foot. She wondered whether Alveston had noticed, but he said nothing and, within a few more minutes, they broke free of the undergrowth and found themselves in a small glade surrounded by beech trees. In the middle was a granite gravestone about two feet high with a slightly curved top. There was no raised grave and the stone, now gleaming in the frail sunlight, looked as if it had broken spontaneously through the earth. They read the engraved words in silence. Soldier. Faithful unto death. Died here with his master, 3rd November 1735.

  Still without speaking, Georgiana approached to place her posy at the foot of the gravestone. As they stood for a moment regarding it, she said, ‘Poor Great-Grandfather. I wish I had known him. No one ever talked about him when I was a child, even the people who could remember him. He was the family failure, the Darcy who dishonoured his name because he put private happiness before public responsibilities. But I shall not visit the grave again. After all, his body is not here; it was just a childish fantasy that he might somehow know that I cared about him. I hope he was happy in his solitude. At least he managed to escape.’

  Escape from what? thought Elizabeth. And now she was anxious to return to the landaulet. She said, ‘I think it is time we went home. Mr Darcy may soon be back from the prison and will be concerned if we are still in the woodland.’

  They made their way down the narrow leaf-strewn path to join the lane where the landaulet would be waiting. Although they had been in the woodland for less than an hour, the bright promise of the afternoon had already faded and Elizabeth, who had never enjoyed walking in confined spaces, felt the shrubs and trees pressing on her like a physical weight. The smell of sickness was still in her nostrils, and her heart was oppressed by Mrs Bidwell’s unhappiness and the loss of all hope for Will. When the main path was reached they walked together when the width permitted and, when it narrowed, Alveston took the lead and walked with Pompey a few feet ahead, looking at the ground and then from left to right as if in search of clues. Elizabeth knew that he would prefer to take Georgiana on his arm but would not let either lady walk alone. Georgiana, too, was silent, perhaps oppressed by the same feeling of foreboding and menace.

  Suddenly Alveston stopped and moved quickly to an oak tree. Something had obviously caught his eye. They joined him and saw on its bark the letters F. D—Y carved about four feet from the ground.

  Looking around, Georgiana said, ‘Is there not a similar carving on that holly tree?’

  A quick examination confirmed that there were indeed initials carved on two other trunks. Alveston said, ‘It does not seem like the usual carving of a lover. With lovers the initials are all that is necessary. Whoever carved these was anxious that there should be no doubt that the initials stand for Fitzwilliam Darcy.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘I wonder when it was cut. It looks quite recent to me.’

  Alveston said, ‘It was certainly done within the last month, and by two people. The F and the D are quite shallow and could have been made by a woman, but the dash that follows, and the Y are cut really deeply, almost certainly by a sharper implement.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘I do not believe that any sweetheart carved this memento. I think it was cut by an enemy and the intention was malignant. It was carved in hatred not in love.’

  As soon as she had spoken she wondered whether she had been unwise to worry Georgiana, but Alveston said, ‘I suppose it is possible that the initials stand for Denny. Do we know his Christian name?’

  Elizabeth tried to remember if she had ever heard it at Meryton, and finally said, ‘I think he was Martin, or perhaps Matthew, but I suppose the police will know. They must have been in touch with his relatives, if he had any. But Denny has never been in these woods before Friday as far as I know, and certainly he has never visited Pemberley.’

  Alveston turned to go. He said, ‘We will report it when we get back to the house and the police will have to be told. If the constables made the thorough search they should have made, they may already have seen the carving and reached some conclusion about its meaning. In the meantime I hope
neither of you will worry too much. It could be a piece of mischief intending no particular harm; perhaps a lovesick girl from one of the cottages or a servant engaged in a foolish but harmless piece of foolery.’

  But Elizabeth was not convinced. Without speaking she walked away from the tree and Georgiana and Alveston followed her example. It was in a silence which none of them was disposed to break that Elizabeth and Georgiana followed Alveston down the woodland path to the waiting landaulet. Elizabeth’s sombre mood seemed to have infected her companions and when Alveston had handed the ladies into the carriage he closed the door, mounted his horse and they turned towards home.

  4

  The local prison at Lambton, unlike the county one at Derby, was more intimidating from the outside than it was within, presumably having been built on the belief that public money was better saved by discouraging would-be offenders than by disheartening them once they were incarcerated. The prison was not unknown to Darcy, who had occasionally visited in his capacity of magistrate, notably on one occasion eight years previously when a mentally disturbed inmate had hanged himself in his cell and the chief gaoler had called the only magistrate then available to view the body. It had been such a distressing experience that it had left Darcy with a permanent horror of hanging and he never visited the gaol without a vivid memory of that dangling body and the stretched neck. Today it was a more than usually potent vision. The keeper of the gaol and his assistant were humane men and although none of the cells could be called spacious, there was no active ill treatment, and prisoners who could pay well for food and drink to be brought in could entertain visitors in some comfort and had little of which to complain.