The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (47 page)

With the curate's withdrawal, instead of applying his distracted efforts to his cousin's journals, Darcy turned to Samuel Darcy's household ledgers. He thought it best to have a full accounting of all the expenses he had accepted against the estate. Rardin would expect as much. Darcy recognized Barth Sanderson as an astute estate manager. In addition to the usual expenses for food and staff, Darcy had sanctioned the hiring of Tregonwell's men, the letting of the captain's horses, and the burial expenses of eight men.

He retrieved the pen and ink, but an item of interest among those Samuel had posted caught Darcy's notice. Another notation brought his full attention. Then another. “What is this?” he mumbled as his finger traced the column. “Supplies for some sort of explosive: gunpowder, stand pipe, cork, a funnel, thin metal sheets. Our mysterious torpedo! It appears Samuel meant to make more than one of these devices.” He studied his cousin's notations before gathering his gloves from a nearby table. The evidence of what he and the colonel had suspected lay in his cousin's estate books. “Yet, I have seen none of these supplies. I should speak to Mr. Holbrook. See if the groom knows of Samuel's experiments.”

Two hours later, Darcy knew no more than he had when he had started. He and Holbrook had searched the stables, the barn, and two small outbuildings on his cousin's property. Other than a layer of dust on his shoulders and a patina of sweat across his forehead, Darcy had returned to the manor house having gained nothing. “Another trail which leads nowhere,” he grumbled. He sat heavily in his cousin's chair. “Why would Samuel make drawings in his journal if he had no intention of recreating some sort of device?” He leaned backward into the chair's cushions and closed his eyes. All he required was to solve one of the house's mysteries, for Darcy was certain if he solved one, the others would follow. “Unravel the threads,” he murmured. None of the deaths made sense. “No connections,” he declared.

“Fitzwilliam?” his wife's voice was a welcome diversion.

He opened his eyes to discover Elizabeth standing before the desk. How had she entered without his hearing her? Automatically, he smiled. “Yes, my dear?” He stood to circle the desk to capture her hand.

“A message arrived while you were out.” Her tone remained uninviting, but Elizabeth's expression had softened. She would forgive him soon, and they would go forward with their relationship.

Darcy grabbed at the opportunity to kiss her fingertips. He held her hand to his heart. “What do you know of it?”

Elizabeth recovered her hand from his grasp to reach into a pocket of the apron she had donned to protect the pale green day dress she wore. “It is from Mr. Drewe. The gentleman wishes to speak to you immediately upon your receiving this note. I took the liberty of sending Mr. Drewe a message that you were out but expected soon.”

“Mr. Drewe?” Darcy's frown lines deepened in concentration. “I thought my business with the gentleman at an end.” He accepted the note from his wife to read: “I have called upon Mr. Glover. It is of great import that you come to the surgeon's cottage. Drewe.”

Elizabeth continued, “I also took the liberty to ask the lower groom to saddle a horse in anticipation of your response to Mr. Drewe's request.”

“I should go,” he murmured as he reread the note.

Elizabeth nodded curtly. She had latched onto the opportunity not to ignore his pride of duty by saying, “I have considered your remark regarding Samuel's former relationship with Perdita Darcy. I have attempted to use both the date of Perdita's birth, as well as that of her joining to Stewart Darcy. However, I did not use significant dates for Lady Cynthia. I thought to apply those to Samuel's journals.”

Darcy gathered the stack of thin journals. The vulnerability, which had been plainly visible in his wife's eyes only moments earlier, had disappeared. Guilt slapped him hard, but Darcy said evenly, “I have made no progress. I was out of doors because there were unusual purchases recorded in Samuel's ledgers. Mr. Holbrook and I searched for the purchased items, but to no avail.”

Quite unexpectedly, Elizabeth said, “Fitzwilliam, I want this madness to end. I want to return to the bliss we knew at Pemberley.” Her chin rose in that adorable defiance of which he had become so enamored while they shared Charles Bingley's company at Netherfield.

He said honestly, “If you feel that strongly, we will depart tomorrow.”

Elizabeth's eyes stung with tears, and she blinked hard to keep them away. “Mr. Cowan and the colonel are due tomorrow. And then there are Sunday services,” she protested.

“Then Monday. Whether we have a resolution or not...” Darcy declared.

Elizabeth reminded him, “Samuel Darcy's will is to be read on the seventh.”

Darcy reached for her, and his wife came willingly. “Elizabeth, if you wish to leave, we will. I promise.”

She buried her head in his chest. Several minutes passed before she sobbed, “I do not know what I want. All I know is that we have been out of sorts with each other since we arrived in Dorset. I despise finding fault with you, and I do not wish to be the reason you do not see these matters through to a conclusion.”

“Then we will leave Woodvine. We can remove to Christchurch, or, better yet, to Lyme. You wished to walk along the Cobb, and I promised you a stroll along the shale beach. We can return for Mr. Peiffer's reading of the will. By then, Rardin and Cynthia will have arrived.”

Elizabeth's arms came about his waist. “You are the most generous of men.”

Darcy lifted a hand to cup her chin. “I am simply a man who places his wife's happiness above all else.”

Elizabeth sighed heavily before she released him. His wife closed her eyes and fought for some semblance of control. “You should see to Mr. Drewe's request.” Straightening the line of her dress, she continued, “Might we dine in chambers this evening? I do not relish facing the Antiquarians and Captain Tregonwell's men. Being the only lady in the party has become quite distressful.”

“Certainly.” Darcy kissed her forehead. “I will be pleased for Cynthia's arrival. The Countess's company will do you well.”

Elizabeth gathered the journals. “I look forward to holding Lord Rardin's newest heir.”

Darcy noted the longing in his wife's eyes.
Soon
, he thought; yet, their future was in God's hands. “It has taken Rardin three attempts to have his son. I imagine the Earl to be quite beside himself.”

Elizabeth mused, “Do you happen to know the birthdates for Rardin's two daughters?”

Darcy understood immediately. “I recall both girls were born in the same month. They celebrate before Michaelmas, although I cannot recall the exact dates.”

“And their ages?”

“Margaret will be eight in the fall, and Perdita will turn four.”

“There is a child named for Samuel's great love?” Elizabeth asked curiously.

Darcy shrugged. “It is a possibility, but do not set your hopes too high, Lizzy.”

Darcy had asked Mr. Holbrook for directions to Glover's cottage. The surgeon's small house sat upon the village's outskirts. Both a well-tended vegetable garden and an exquisite rose garden spoke of the surgeon's many interests, and Darcy was ashamed to admit he had not thought of Glover in that manner. As he dismounted before the main door, Darcy considered how uncharacteristic the very straight rows of the garden were in comparison to the often-disheveled appearance of the village's physician.

“Thank God!” Drewe expelled as he jerked open the door. “You have come at last. I knew not who else to contact.”

“My goodness, man.” Darcy followed the author into Glover's main foyer. “Has something amiss happened to Mr. Glover?”

Drewe's voice arched in agitation. “Amiss?” The man paced the hall. “
Amiss
does not come close to defining what has happened in this house.” Drewe gestured wildly.

Darcy used his best Master of Pemberley voice. “Where is Glover?”

“Dead!” Drewe said in disturbance, as his pacing came to a sudden halt.

There was no avoiding the truth: The impossible had occurred once more. “Where?” Darcy demanded. “Where is the surgeon's body?” Darcy prayed he would not have to unearth yet another corpse. An unconscious hand rose to soothe his furrowed brow.

Drewe pointed toward the back of the house. “Through there!” The man's voice squeaked with edginess.

Darcy pushed past Drewe and trailed his way through the shadowed hallway. Other than the telltale tick of a clock, no other sound could be heard.
The passage of time
, he thought as the possibility of yet another murder loomed. He entered the kitchen and came up short. The surgeon's body sat slumped over a roughly hewn table, almost as if the man had fallen asleep; but nothing moved. No breath seeped in and out of Glover's lungs.

Darcy circled the table, where he might look upon the scene. Glover's head rested in a pool of tea, which slowly dripped from an overturned cup sitting precariously on a saucer's edge.

“What you see is how I found him,” Drewe said from the still-open door.

Darcy looked about the well-ordered kitchen. “You did not move him?”

Drewe shuddered violently in denial. “I shook his shoulder. I thought Glover asleep. I had come to see the surgeon about a personal matter, but Glover did not respond to my knock; and neither did the woman the surgeon hires to clean for him. Thinking he might not have heard my entreaty, I called at the kitchen door. That is when I saw him lying over the table. I tried the handle, and when it turned, I let myself in. I discovered Glover just as you see him. I did not know what else to do. There have been so many deaths of late. What if someone accuses me of Glover's death?”

Darcy glanced at Drewe, and his brow creased in consideration of the young poet. He was likely no more than three and twenty, a man with a softer side, who dabbled in poetry, probably modeling himself after Byron and praying for the same success as the English Barony of Byron of Rochdale had achieved with
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
“We do not know whether Glover's passing was an accident or something more sinister. I observe no obvious wounds upon the man's body.”

Drewe latched onto a string of hope. An expression of genuine relief crossed the young man's countenance. “Could Glover have passed naturally?”

“The stress of the last few weeks,” Darcy suggested.

“Of course,” Drewe declared. “Why did I not consider such?”

Darcy sighed in exasperation. “First, we will require someone who can identify the cause of death. I know of no other surgeons in the village.”