The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (38 page)

“Anything else of significance?”

“I have studied upon it, but I cannot recall any other details,” the curate assured.

“How did you recognize the man?” Darcy asked.

Williamson smiled easily. “That atrocious waistcoat. Purple and green and yellow. I have seen nothing to compare in the country. Perhaps in some of London's ballrooms. I thought it quite comical that Pugh believed it appropriate for wooing his ladylove. There was little of the man's clothing remaining intact, but the waistcoat announced Pugh's identity.”

“Then we speak of the one with the darker hair.” Suspended only by intervals of astonishment, Darcy spoke his thoughts aloud. “Did Pugh ever mention the lady's name?” he asked as an afterthought.

Williamson shook his head in the negative. “As I said earlier, I could not think of any among my congregation who fit the man's description, nor one who would write to a stranger in another land. When I asked of the lady's identity, Pugh said he would prefer to wait until he had spoken to the woman before sharing her name. For all I know, Pugh could have had the directions in error, or he could have overestimated the lady's interest. Some men take words spoken in kindness as being deeper than they are meant.”

“Who else thought of marriage?” Edward asked in a tone of great amazement.

“The slim man with the dark blond hair,” Williamson confided. “A Norwegian with an English mother by the name of Cawley Falstad. He arrived in Wimborne in November of last year with a tale similar to Pugh's but different enough that I took no note at the time.”

Darcy asked, “How so?”

“Falstad claimed his mother had wanted to return to England after her husband's passing, but she feared her son's lack of understanding of English society would prove a detriment to their remaining in the country. In addition, Mrs. Falstad reasoned a man married to an English-born wife would fare better than a foreign-born country gentleman. Falstad was to inherit a small estate from his mother's family.

“Falstad's mother made inquiries and found a woman who had reportedly lost her bloom and was willing to marry a man wealthy enough to provide her a suitable home. They were to marry in his mother's home shire of Lincolnshire. I thought nothing amiss when Falstad did not return to Wimborne. I assumed he was successful. I had thought to hear of how one of the local beauties had chosen to marry, but when I considered my conversation with Falstad, in hindsight, the man had not said the woman was from Wimborne, only that she resided in Dorset.”

“And I am to understand you know something of Mr. Falstad's watch?” Darcy inquired.

Williamson nodded miserably. “The Norwegian checked his watch several times in my presence: I assumed him eager to meet his betrothed. I noted the watch's unusual carving: a lightning bolt. Mr. Falstad placed the watch in an interior pocket in his jacket. He claimed it a family heirloom—one passed to his father from a great-grandfather.”

Darcy was stung into practicality by Williamson's position as Wimborne's advisor, spiritual leader, and confidant. He supposed even complete strangers would readily trust in a man who followed God. “Which of our two previous finds also spoke of marriage?”

“Mr. Bates,” Williamson disclosed. “I returned home one day from sitting with the Widow Leonard to find Bieder Bates on my doorstep. He was ecstatic with the news that he intended to marry; however, when I asked the name of his intended, Bates became quite tight-lipped. Bates said he planned to marry an older woman, and the community would not approve, but his heart was engaged. His business with me included his request that I speak to his family on the merits of marrying for love.”

The colonel's brow pinched in frustration. “The idea of marriage linking our victims is tenuous at best. If all of our wouldbe lovers sought the same woman then perhaps we could pin our hopes of solving this mystery on the lady, but the descriptions you have provided us are of three different women.”

The curate's expression fell. “I realize my suspicions lack depth; yet, I fear if we do not resolve this mystery soon my services will be required again, and I would find that most disconcerting.”

Immediately upon returning to the manor, Darcy sought news of his wife's recovery. According to Hannah, Elizabeth had slept fitfully. “Has Mrs. Darcy found any rest?”

“Not much, Sir. Mrs. Darcy dreams of her ordeal,” Hannah whispered.

Darcy frowned. “You will remain by my wife's side,” he ordered. “Send for me if Mrs. Darcy knows no peace.”

The maid curtsied. “Yes, Sir.”

“And, Hannah,” he added as he made his way to the door. “I do not wish Mrs. Darcy to be left alone. If you must step away, then I want either Sheffield or Mr. Fletcher outside my wife's door. The Woodvine staff is not to have admittance to Mrs. Darcy's room.” He reached for the door latch. He said cautiously, “There is an evil practicing its art under this roof. I find it hard to believe that all these bizarre events are not connected. Remember your first and only duty is to protect Mrs. Darcy.”

“Is the Mistress in danger?” The maid's eyes widened.

Darcy offered an encouraging smile. “I am likely being overprotective, but humor me. Mrs. Darcy will not approve of my measures, but a husband's duty is to his wife.”

Hannah's expression said she understood his obsession. Women of all classes approved of a man's romantic gestures. “Mrs. Darcy shall be well watched, Sir. Have no fear in that matter.”

He and his cousin had separated upon leaving the curate's cottage. With the earlier chaos associated with Elizabeth's rescue, Edward had yet to call upon Mr. Ritter to verify the maid's tale. Of course, his wife's having located the missing map had made a prosecution of the girl null. Therefore, he and Edward had constructed a plan to flesh out the person who had planted the map in Els's quarters.

“I think it advisable that no one other than the three of us have knowledge of the map's recovery,” the colonel had reasoned. “If whoever placed the map in the maid's belongings believes we have yet to discover it, then he or she will likely bring our attention to it by suggesting that we search the girl's quarters.”

Darcy suggested, “We should remove the maid from Mr. Stowbridge's house. If the magistrate has offered Mrs. Ridgeway sanctuary, the maid is not safe under the man's roof.”

“Do you have a place in mind?”

“I despise imposing on Tregonwell's acquaintance again, but the captain is one of the few we can trust in the area,” Darcy insisted.

The colonel took a deep breath and blew it out. “Time to play the part of the Earl of Matlock's son again. To dare any person to deny my orders. I will retrieve the girl and Ritter and then see them to Bournemouth. Probably best not to leave the Hampshire youth at Skeet's farm. He could be in danger and not know it.”

Darcy was quiet for several seconds before he said, “I had not considered the question of Ritter's safety. Can you see the couple to Tregonwell's care before nightfall?”

His cousin shook his head. “Not likely, but I will return to Woodvine this evening. Meanwhile, you should check on the Society members, secure the map, and begin a perusal of Samuel Darcy's journals.”

Darcy's lips twitched. “In other words, you will see to the physical duties, and I the mental ones.”

Edward smiled easily. “They are the roles to which life has assigned us.”

“Yet, they fall short of describing either of us, Cousin,” Darcy declared.

The colonel shrugged. “Perhaps if I had been the Earl's heir rather than the spare...”

Darcy noted his cousin's pained expression. Not for the first time of late, Darcy wondered what troubled his cousin so deeply that he allowed his customary guard to slip. Edward was so much more than his older brother Rowland. The colonel had depth to his character. It was not as if Rowland were a poor Viscount Lindale. Darcy's older cousin honorably saw to his duties; however, Darcy could not help but think if Edward had been the future earl, rather than Rowland, that Matlock could have become a dominant force in England's future. “True. Then you would have developed a more legible scrawl,” Darcy teased.

“And you would have spent more hours in the saddle.” His cousin's countenance resumed its habitual expression of authority, but Darcy noted that the deep sadness in the colonel's eyes remained.

Before Darcy could complete any of his tasks, Mr. Holbrook returned with news of the gypsy camp. “Trailed them into the next shire,” the groom announced without prompting. “They be met by an unwelcoming crowd so I be doubting they stay more than a couple nights. Likely will leave after they bury their dead.”

Darcy had no care for the grief of the gypsy's family. Vandlo Pias had purposely hurt Elizabeth. No forgiveness could be found in Darcy's heart. “Then we are rid of the Roma?” he said solemnly.

Holbrook dug into his pocket. “This were nailed to a tree in the clearing. It has your name on it, Sir.” The groom handed Darcy a single sheet of paper.

Darcy unfolded it. “Thank you, Mr. Holbrook. I release you to your duties.”

The man appeared disappointed that he would not be privy to what the note held. “Aye, Sir.”

“And, Holbrook, please be advised that the colonel will return late. Have someone waiting for my cousin's appearance at the stables.”

“I'll see to it meself, Sir.”

With the groom's withdrawal, Darcy returned to the note. Reluctantly, Darcy admitted whatever Gry wished to tell him was likely something he did not wish to consider. The note was short, but certainly not simple: “Mr. Darcy, your anger is directed at the wrong target. Ask yourself why Vandlo made your wife his victim, and who told my cousin where Mrs. Darcy might be found.”

Darcy reread the note several times, but the gypsy's intent remained unclear. “My anger,” he growled, “knows but one target. Unfortunately, Vandlo Pias died before he could know my wrath.” Yet, the remainder of Gry's message was what concerned him. What was Elizabeth's gypsy attacker doing so far from the Roma camp? Had Pias trailed Elizabeth to the site? And Heaven forbid that someone had employed Pias in such perfidy! “Bloody hell,” Darcy hissed.

However, the truth of Gry's words rang all too clear. The gypsy leader had no reason to offer Darcy a reason for the attack. If the assault had been one of opportunity, the truth would have died along with Pias. But if the attack had been planned, others might know Pias's motivations and who instigated the assault on Elizabeth.

Immediately, Darcy wanted to chase after the gypsy band to discover what Gry meant by his riddle, but he instinctively knew even if he gave pursuit, he had learned all he would from the Roma leader.