The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (48 page)

Drewe pounced on the suggestion. “I know of two in Christchurch. I could ride for one.”

Darcy nodded his agreement. “I will send for the magistrate, as well as the curate, and I will guarantee no one will touch the body until you return with a man of medical expertise.”

Drewe shot a quick glance to Glover's silent repose. Darcy wondered if the man's nature gave the poet permission to believe in ghosts and apparitions. “I will ride with all speed, Mr. Darcy,” the young man declared, and then he was gone.

Ironic
, Darcy thought. A man frightened by his own shadow. In contrast, when Darcy was Drewe's age, he had held the running of Pemberley and his father's vast holdings for more than a year. Darcy had come into his majority as Pemberley's Master. “Let us see if there are other clues to Mr. Glover's demise.”

Darcy gingerly lifted each of Glover's arms to search for wounds and then replaced them in the same position. It seemed important to maintain the scene until the authorities had reviewed the evidence. He next lifted the surgeon's head, but there was no sign of bruising, only a bluing of the lips and the small veins about Glover's nose. He replaced Glover's cheek into the pool of tea. It bothered Darcy to do so, for Glover did not deserve such degradation. Despite the man's affinity for Mrs. Ridgeway, Darcy could not speak ill of the surgeon. Glover had served the community well.

Then he noticed something unusual: Glover had used crumbled bits of beet sugar to sweeten his tea. Darcy had seen many of his tenants do so. The mixture was cheaper than the sugar loaves used in Darcy's kitchens. The spilled tea had left a sweet paste behind on the table's surface. Upon closer inspection, Darcy could make out a few letters scrawled in the paste. He set the teacup aright before he leaned over Glover's body for a closer look. “
A
,” he murmured. “
R
.” He thought the third letter was an “
E
” or an “
S
.” The sugary paste had obscured the bottom half. The final letter was another “
E
.” Darcy muttered, “A, R, E, E.” It made no sense. “A, R, S, E.” His first thought was the surgeon had thought himself an
arse
, but the beginning of the fifth letter proved that premise incorrect. “Arsenic,” Darcy announced to the empty room. “Someone has given the surgeon arsenic. There is no other explanation,” Darcy reasoned aloud. “A man does not commit suicide and then leave a note written in sugar on a table top. It makes little sense.”

A little over an hour later, he stood in the same cramped kitchen, along with Mr. Williamson and Mr. Stowbridge. Other than an exceedingly well-equipped room for a country surgeon to use to treat his patients, they had taken no note of the unusual. The curate and the magistrate had quickly come to the same conclusions as had Darcy: Arsenic was the source of the surgeon's demise. In reality, Williamson had made the logical connections, and Stowbridge had concurred. The magistrate's concentration had been sorely absent, and Darcy held his suspicions as to the right of it. Mr. Stowbridge had brought Mrs. Ridgeway along in his coach.

“Why do you not send the lady home while we deal with this tragedy?” Darcy had suggested diplomatically. “This is no place for a woman.”

Stowbridge waved away Darcy's objections. “Mrs. Ridgeway insisted on accompanying me. The lady and Mr. Glover were once dear friends.” Darcy regarded the magistrate with scathing incredulity.

Darcy found it telling that Stowbridge had thought it appropriate for Mrs. Ridgeway to be exposed to Glover's death, but the man had thought Elizabeth's “feminine frailties” too pronounced to hear of Samuel Darcy's death. Perhaps it was how Stowbridge thought of women: Elizabeth was a lady to be protected and patronized, whereas Mrs. Ridgeway was the magistrate's property. Although he knew her current residence had been the housekeeper's choice, Darcy experienced a twinge of self-reproach upon the woman's behalf, which he purposely ignored. “The lady could have turned to Mr. Glover,” he warned his self-blaming thoughts. “Then perhaps we would not be making arrangements for the surgeon's passing.”

Secondly, Darcy could not justify Stowbridge's benevolence in allowing Mrs. Ridgeway to express her grief over Glover's passing. He could understand if Stowbridge had brought the woman along to bolster his own self-importance in the lady's eyes, but if Mrs. Ridgeway was the man's property, he would not normally wish to share her with the memory of Geoffrey Glover.

“In that case, I must insist the lady remain in the drawing room. We must preserve the scene for the surgeon,” Darcy declared.

“I will speak to her,” Stowbridge assured. The magistrate's smile remained; yet, Darcy held the clear impression that Stowbridge had made a shift from indolent to watchful.

Before they could reexamine the scene for additional clues, Mr. Drewe returned with a young surgeon by the name of Michael Newby. “I cannot believe Mr. Glover is gone,” Newby spoke confidentially to Darcy. “I trained under him at a private medical school in the North.”

“That is odd,” Darcy said as he assisted Newby with Glover's already-stiffening body. “I had thought Mr. Glover had spent a good number of years in this community.”

“Oh, he has, Sir. In fact, Mr. Glover is the reason I chose to set up my practice in Dorset. He convinced several in my college to follow him. Mr. Glover was a dynamic instructor.” The young surgeon's praise rubbed against Darcy's early opinion of Glover. “I must say, Mr. Darcy, there will be more than a few fellows who will see Glover's passing as a great loss.”

Darcy examined Mr. Newby's composure. The man appeared competent in a youthful sort of way. “If it would not be importuning you, I would be obliged if you would consider remaining in Wimborne; at least, until another surgeon can be enticed to the community. You might even use Mr. Glover's quarters. I am certain no one would object.”

Newby paused as in contemplation. “There are several more experienced surgeons than I in Christchurch. I might find my calling in a community which possessed a need for my services, and I would be honored to serve in Mr. Glover's stead.”

Darcy nodded his approval. “Perhaps a period of transition would serve the good people of Wimborne, as well as you. It appears prudent that such a relationship be mutually acceptable.” Darcy knew better than to speak for the villagers, but he observed nothing out of the ordinary in the young surgeon.

Newby swallowed his anticipation. “Such appears logical,” he said softly.

Judiciously, Darcy changed the subject. “What do you suspect for the cause of death?”

“That is a simple diagnosis.” The surgeon pried Glover's lips apart. “Can you smell the odor coming from Mr. Glover?”

Darcy fought the gagging reflex. He had purposely opened doors and windows and had waited outside for Williamson's and Stowbridge's appearances. “Quite pungent.” He could not understand a man who would choose to perform these tasks for a living.

“Your assumption of arsenic is accurate,” Newby assured. “The strong smell of garlic. The regurgitated remnants in Glover's throat.” The surgeon rested Glover's body against the back of the chair. He lifted Glover's hand. “Notice the change in the color of Mr. Glover's fingernails.” After Darcy's quick perusal, Newby returned Glover's hand to the older man's lap. “Likely, Mr. Glover has been receiving small doses of arsenic over several weeks.”

“How is that possible? Would not a surgeon recognize the symptoms?” Darcy asked skeptically.

Newby shook his head in the negative. “A bit of arsenic would cause Glover stomach cramps. It might cause him to drink more water. Those are common symptoms, along with a few less savory possibilities.” Newby washed his hands in a nearby basin. “The arsenic could be in the water Glover used to make his tea. It is common in the wells in the North.”

Darcy pressed, “It appears you have determined the source of Mr. Glover's demise, but not how the surgeon came to have the arsenic in his system.”

Newby explained, “If you are asking me if Mr. Glover was murdered, I cannot swear to it. Arsenic caused Mr. Glover's passing; yet, I cannot say in all honesty how he came to have ingested the poison.

Darcy nearly groaned aloud with frustration. “Another unsolved death.”

“How did Mrs. Ridgeway react to Mr. Glover's passing?” Elizabeth asked as they dressed for bed. Darcy sat behind his wife as she brushed her long hair. He preferred it when Elizabeth left her auburn locks free of her nightly braid. It was glorious to have the opportunity to run his fingers through the length of it, to feel the silky strands surrounding her shoulders.

Darcy tore his attention from the auburn strands. “The lady shed what appeared to be genuine tears.”

“If that is so, then why did Mrs. Ridgeway choose to accept Mr. Stowbridge's veiled invitation?” She turned on the small padded stool to face Darcy. “Mr. Glover demonstrated an affection for the woman. I am certain the surgeon would have extended a legitimate offer.”

Darcy smiled easily at her. His beautiful wife possessed a sentimental heart. “I have thought long on just that question,” Darcy assured. “You noted Mr. Glover's overt affection for Mrs. Ridgeway, but did the woman ever display a like interest in Glover?”

Elizabeth paused in concentration. “None I might name,” she confessed. “But surely you are not suggesting that Mrs. Ridgeway affects Mr. Stowbridge?”

Darcy shook his head in denial. “Hardly. What I suspect is Mrs. Ridgeway has an inflated opinion of her worth, and the lady thought being a surgeon's wife below her.”

Elizabeth's features twisted in disapproval. “What Mr. Glover offered was a sensible choice for a woman with no family of which to speak. I possess no knowledge of Mr. Glover's family, but the surgeon operated as a gentleman.” She came to sit
beside Darcy, and he thanked his stars his wife's hair remained unbound. Her long locks were a delicious distraction from the worries of late, and Darcy wrapped one curl about his finger. “A surgeon's wife in a small rural community could wield great influence.”

“Yet, not as much power as a squire's wife. A husband who is also the local magistrate,” Darcy countered.

Elizabeth appeared shocked by the possibility. “Could Mrs. Ridgeway believe that she can bring Mr. Stowbridge to the altar?”

Darcy said sarcastically, “First, the woman would be required to enter the church.” He brought a strand of his wife's hair to his nose to sniff the lavender oil she used to scent it. He said abstractedly, “I suspect Mrs. Ridgeway intends to withhold what Mr. Stowbridge most requires of her, using her person as an enticement for his making an honest woman of her.”

“What a tangled web you weave, my husband,” Elizabeth accused.

He required no reminders of the aggravating control this mystery had over Darcy's life. He slid an arm about her shoulders. “Not everyone marries for love,” he said in firm tones. “We are the fortunate ones.”