The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (51 page)

He could have simply shot the butler, but Darcy suspected the man held answers to so many of Woodvine's mysteries that he held hopes of apprehending the man alive. “Do not make matters worse, Barriton,” he warned. From his eye's corner he could see McKye rolling the body of Mrs. Jacobs in the dirt to smother the fire. He heard Holbrook order the dozen or so women who sat upon the ground to remain where they were.

The butler maintained his steady retreat, and they were soon covered by the shadows. “You realize I cannot permit you to simply walk away,” Darcy declared.

Barriton snarled, “And I cannot permit you to place me in custody.”

Darcy steeled his resolve. He brought the gun into position. He had hunted grouse and rabbits, had fished, had even killed the occasional fox, but Darcy had never shot a man. He wondered how many times Edward had looked into another's countenance and pulled the trigger. Darcy swallowed hard against the roll of his stomach. Determinedly, he lifted his hand and was surprised to observe that it did not shake. “I will ask you once more to surrender.”

Yet, before he could act, someone hit him from behind, a mighty blow across his shoulder blades. Darcy pitched forward and staggered to keep his balance. “Bloody hell...” he growled through tightly clenched teeth. Bent over and gasping for breath, Darcy glanced up to see a tree branch. “Run, Jacks,” his attacker yelled to the butler, and Darcy was sore to react before the man's footsteps announced his escape.

Darcy dropped to his knees He shook his head in desperate denial as his vision blurred. From behind him, those in pursuit breezed past him. The woman who had struck him darted around him, but Darcy had the forethought to catch the female's long flowing robe and to give it a hard yank, pulling her backwards to land less than a foot from where he staggered to his feet. “I am a gentleman,” he growled, “but if you move one hair, I will cuff you.”

Holbrook was at his side. “Mrs. Jacobs has several burns, but she will survive.” The groom braced Darcy to a steadier stance. “McKye and Castle have gone after Barriton.”

“Can you manage this alone?” Darcy was anxious to see an end to this badly staged burlesque.

“Aye, Sir.”

“Beware of this one,” he cautioned as the blonde pulled herself to a seated position.

Holbrook grinned wryly. “Like taming a headstrong horse, Sir.”

Darcy nodded his gratitude before trailing after the sound of shouting and hurried steps. He slowed his pace when he overtook Tregonwell's men. “To the left,” McKye whispered. Darcy's breathing had not fully recovered, but he managed to follow McKye's command and move off to the left to circle the trees where they had taken cover earlier. McKye took the right and Castle the middle. Both men moved stealthily through the vegetation to emerge on the other side, and Darcy mimicked their moves.

He stepped gingerly over a fallen branch from the tallest of the three trees, only to be taken down by an uncloaked Barriton lying on the ground. Tumbling forward, Darcy encountered a fist to the side of his head that snapped his jaw to the right before he smacked the hard earth face first. Rolling to his knees, he lunged at the man, who had scrambled to his feet. His momentum carried them both backward, where Darcy pressed Barriton over the rotted wood. The punches and jabs came short and hard. He had often wrestled with Edward as a youth, but Darcy had only once used his knuckles on a man. Well, actually twice. But both times it had been the same man: George Wickham. Once when they were at university and Wickham had openly defamed Darcy's father, the man who had treated Wickham as a beloved godson. The second time he had used his fists on the man was when Darcy had interrupted Mr. Wickham's attempted elopement with Georgiana.

Now, he rolled and kicked and punched a man for whom he held no rancor, just disgust. He landed an uppercut on the point of Barriton's chin and prepared to strike again, but the wily butler had his own designs. Barriton's fingers caught the handle of the once-forgotten ceremonial knife, and the butler thrust upward to catch Darcy across his ribs. The knife cut through his waistcoat and shirt and left a three-inch gash across Darcy's side.

Instinctively, Darcy reached for the wound. In doing so, he released his hold on Barriton's lapels. The butler bolted away, and then a shot rang out. “No!” Darcy groaned as he staggered to his feet.

The butler lay face down on the grassy patch under the trees. The moon had lost its luster, but the sky held streaks of the morning sun. Bent over, Darcy half crawled to where Barriton rested; he rolled the butler to his back. “Barriton, Barriton,” he pleaded. “Speak to me.”

Slowly, the man opened his eyes. “Better than Jack Ketch,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

Darcy leaned closer. “Tell me the truth. Did you kill Hotchkiss, Bates, and the others?”

Barriton gurgled, and a stream of blood dribbled from the corner of the man's mouth. McKye and Castle knelt beside him, but Darcy did not turn his head. He needed to hear the butler's final words. Barriton's eyes rolled Heavenward. He said through tight lips, “Yes, Hotchkiss discovered my secret. He followed me here.”

Darcy pressed his hand to his wound, but the blood seeped through his fingers. Ignoring the pain, he insisted, “And Bieder Bates? And Clarkson? And Falstad?”

“That is where you err.” The butler gasped for air. “Only Hotchkiss.” Barriton's voice was barely a whisper. “There is more than one evil at Woodvine.”

“His answers only leave more questions,” Darcy said in frustration as the butler released his last breath in a shuddering exhale.

Castle's face paled. “I meant only to still his steps. I feared if he escaped that Barriton would attack you again.” Darcy knew real regret: Despite Mr. Barriton's past crimes, Darcy had seen enough of death.

“We should see to the others,” he said as he stood.

McKye caught Darcy when he stumbled forward. “You are hurt, Sir?”

Darcy murmured, “A flesh wound.”

Castle braced Darcy's right shoulder and McKye the left. Tregonwell's men half dragged him to where the fire would provide them additional light. “Permit me to have a look,” McKye said as the men lowered Darcy to the ground. McKye ripped open Darcy's waistcoat and tugged his shirt from his breeches. Then gently the man probed the area with his fingertips. “The wound does not appear deep, but it is bleeding quite heavily.” McKye pulled a small knife from an inside pocket. “Permit me to cut a strip from your shirt to bind the wound. Then I will send for the magistrate. With Glover's passing, there is no surgeon in the area. I will return you to the care of Mrs. Darcy.” McKye tore several strips from the bottom of Darcy's fine lawn shirt. He placed a clean linen against the wound before wrapping the strips about Darcy's waist, and tied them tightly in place.”

As he sucked in a sharp breath, Darcy said, “Mr. Newby remains in Mr. Glover's stead. Mrs. Jacobs will require his care. Send Holbrook for Newby and Stowbridge.” From where he rested against one of the large stones, which had brought him to this field, Darcy surveyed the circle. Women wept and clung to each other in misery. Holbrook and Castle secured the blonde by tying her hands behind the girl's back, and Mrs. Jacobs rested on the ground. One of the dark capes served as a blanket. She moaned in pain. “So much mayhem,” he said sagely.

“At least, you have an answer to Mr. Hotchkiss's death.”

Darcy's gaze remained on the oddly expressed scene. “Yet, I fear it will not be enough.”

Stowbridge arrived before the surgeon. The magistrate had brought several of his servants with him to take possession of the prisoners. “Hell of a story,” Stowbridge said as he sat upon the ground beside Darcy. The man wore no cravat or waistcoat.

Darcy said solemnly, “The day we discovered his body, I retrieved several gold threads from Mr. Hotchkiss's grasp. They are in my quarters at Woodvine. I believe you will find they match those on Mr. Barriton's cloak.”

“The Thigpen girl triumphantly told me how Hotchkiss had followed Barriton when the butler came to the stone for the Oimelc celebration. Miss Thigpen says no one else was in attendance. Barriton meant to leave Mr. Rupp a warning sign, but the butler and Hotchkiss argued. Barriton hid Hotchkiss's body behind the hedgerow until he could retrieve a shovel from Rupp's barn. According to the girl, Barriton thought the steward was dead when he buried him, but evidently, the butler erred. The stone on Hotchkiss's chest kept the steward from escaping the shallow grave.”

Darcy could do little but listen to the magistrate's retelling. “Oimelc?” Darcy asked.

“It is a celebration of spring, right before our Candlemas. The Irish ‘imbolc' is sometimes rendered as ‘Candlemas,'” Stowbridge explained.

Darcy did not understand the connection between a pagan celebration and an ecclesiastical one, but he kept his comments to himself. “What of Mrs. Jacobs?”

“The young surgeon says the woman will have a time of much discomfort, but Mrs. Jacobs will recover. I will have Holbrook see her to Woodvine. For now, Mrs. Rupp tends the maid in her home.”

Darcy had always found Stowbridge more than a bit incompetent, but in this matter, the magistrate had acted honorably. “I appreciate the speed at which you have responded to this matter.”

Stowbridge managed a warm smile of utter insincerity. Darcy had to work to keep his composure against a most untoward gravity of deportment. “It is but a token to what I owe Samuel Darcy's memory.” The magistrate stood and stretched. “Will you be able to sit a horse, Darcy?”

Darcy rose slowly to stand beside the magistrate. “Although Newby has pronounced me in fair condition, I believe I will return to Woodvine and seek Mrs. Darcy's tender care.”

Stowbridge brushed the dirt from his coat, his countenance a perfect study in stone. The early rays of sun had lightened the sky. “A woman can bring a man comfort,” the magistrate said confidently. “Your wife would not suit every man, but Mrs. Darcy appears to complement you.” Darcy felt he should take the man to task for disparaging Elizabeth's personality, but he considered it an act of futility. Stowbridge would never change his opinions of the fairer sex, nor would the magistrate learn to address women with more than an injudicious particularity, and the argument would delay Darcy's return to Elizabeth's side.

“By the way,” the magistrate continued, ignorant of Darcy's earlier objection. “Mrs. Jacobs admitted that the footprints in Samuel's hidden room were hers. She borrowed the younger maid's shoes because Mrs. Jacobs' pair had a hole in them, and the elder woman was to walk to the village to purchase several items for Mrs. Holbrook. Els knew nothing of the exchange, for Mrs. Ridgeway had given the girl some time off as Els suffered with her womanly woes. While Els slept, Mrs. Jacobs borrowed the girl's shoes for her journey.

“Upon her return to Woodvine, Mrs. Jacobs came across a partially open passage leading to Samuel's private room. The woman swears she knew nothing of the treasure room until that day. Mrs. Jacobs admitted to removing the map of this field and the Lemegeton.”

Darcy ran his fingers through his hair. “Mrs. Jacobs' explanation sheds light on why the maid dropped the tea kettle when she overheard Mrs. Darcy and the Society men discussing the document. Mrs. Jacobs likely thought someone would discover her presence in Samuel's private room,” he reasoned. “But where did the woman hide the papers? Mrs. Darcy and the colonel searched each servant's quarters.”

“Evidently, when Mrs. Darcy excused Mrs. Jacobs to her quarters to tend the burn on her hand, Mrs. Jacobs hid the map and document behind several loose boards in the wall behind her bed.”

Darcy nodded his gratitude for the explanation. “If you require nothing else from me at this time, I will return to Woodvine. I am certain Mrs. Darcy has known no sleep in my absence.”