Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

When Ned rode in on Jupiter, he saw Mrs. Darcy in the stable yard, and tipped his hat to her courteously. To his surprise, she beckoned him over when he had dismounted.

“Mr. Skinner, could you spare the time from your search to call in at Hemmings and see how Mrs. Wickham is doing?”

The hair rose on the back of his neck; had his eyes been a lighter colour she might have noticed their pupils dilate, but their blackness saved him. The request had taken him completely aback. For a moment he simply stared at her, amazed, then he turned his reaction to good purpose by looking at her in puzzlement.

“Do you have a feeling, Mrs. Darcy?” he asked.

“A feeling? Of what sort?”

“Oh, I don’t know, exactly. A presentiment or some such?” He looked apologetic. “I suppose it was the look on your face, ma’am. With all the to-do about Miss Mary, I confess I had clean forgotten Mrs. Wickham.”

She thought more kindly of him, and put a hand on his arm. “Dear Mr. Skinner, perhaps I do have a presentiment. How acute of you to see it! I hate to ask you to make the ride, but Angus and Charlie are staying somewhere, and it is a week since Mrs. Bingley and I visited her. Miss Maplethorpe promised to write, but has not. I worry that something is amiss.”

“Think nothing of it, Mrs. Darcy. Jupiter and I will start at once. He’s a good lad, my horse. The only one can carry me.”

Thinking of the horse, she had a qualm. “Are you sure? Ought not Jupiter to rest?”

“No, ma’am. He and I are up to the ride.”

And he managed to make his escape before the sweat on his brow became noticeable. Oh, the wretched, wretched woman! A thorn in Fitz’s side for twenty-one years now, and a thorn in Ned Skinner’s side too. Still, he reflected, making sure Jupiter had a drink of cool water, Lydia had to be discovered anytime now, and this was probably the best way. Despite which thought, he rode the miles to Hemmings with a hideous weight in his belly and a grey veil before his eyes. Let her have been found already, please !

Luck was with him. The afternoon was drawing on when he rode into the Hemmings driveway and saw several vehicles choking it. A group of respectable-looking men were gathered just outside the front door; he dismounted and joined them.

“What’s amiss?” he asked.

“Who are you to make it your business?” asked a man officiously.

“Mr. Darcy of Pemberley’s personal aide, by name of Edward Skinner. What’s amiss?”

Fitz’s name worked wonders, of course. The officious man shed his arrogance at once. “Constable Thomas Barnes of Leek,” he said, fawning. “A tragedy, Mr. Skinner! Robbery, murder and mayhem!” A phrase he had been waiting half a lifetime to utter.

“Mrs. Wickham?” Ned asked, concerned. “Very fair, youngish.”

“Is that the lady’s name? Dead, sir. Done to death.”

“Oh, dear Jesus! She’s Mr. Darcy’s sister-in-law!”

Huge consternation reigned. It was some time before Ned could get a lucid story out of them, interspersed as it had to be with his own explanation as to why Mr. Darcy’s sister-in-law was living so far from Pemberley. Most were present only to poke and pry, and took absolutely no notice of Constable Barnes. They soon took heed of Ned Skinner, who told them to leave very softly, but with such a look in his eyes! Brrr! That reduced the group to Dr. Lanham, Constable Barnes, and two shire odd-job-men who held their tongues.

Their reconstruction of events was considerably plumped out by Ned’s account of who should have been at Hemmings, and were not. A few skillful remarks from Ned soon led them to the conclusion that Miss Maplethorpe and her staff had set upon poor Mrs. Wickham, done her to death, and absconded with everything of value the house held. Also, as Ned pointed out after a walk to the stables, a barouche carriage, two matched thoroughbred horses, a pony and a trap. What was worse than anything else, these villains had been Mr. Darcy’s employees!

“I must return to Pemberley as soon as possible,” said Ned at the end of half an hour. “Dr. Lanham, may I leave it to you to convey Mrs. Wickham’s body to Pemberley tomorrow?” A few guineas changed hands. “Constable Barnes, may I ask you to write a full report for Mr. Darcy?” A few more guineas changed hands. “Thank you, gentlemen, particularly for your tact and discretion.”

And all that went better than I could have hoped, thought Ned, riding away. The story of ruthless employees will spread far and wide. Serves you right, Mirry! Your cowardice has convicted you, for all that the lawyers prate of being innocent until found guilty.

He was happy, very happy. Fitz was freed from all threat, and no one would dream of associating him with Lydia’s death.

He reached down to pat Jupiter’s steaming neck. “You were right, old man. That was the time to kill her, while someone was on hand to take the blame. Steady on, now! Just to Leek for you, my dear good boy. I’ll hire a chaise-and-four at the post house and travel like a lord the rest of the way. You’ve done enough.”

When he finally reached Pemberley a little before midnight, he was surprised to find Parmenter up and waiting for him with a message from Mr. Darcy.

“The master wishes to see you this moment,” the old man said, oozing curiosity. “I am to bring you dinner in the small breakfast room when you’ve seen Mr. Darcy. Is Miss Mary found?”

“Not to my knowledge. And thank you for the dinner. I could eat any horse save Jupiter.”

Fitz was in his parliamentary library, and alone-a relief. That probably meant that Mary had not been found, but what could Fitz have to say to him? A Fitz who looked white and worn, plucked at the strings of Ned’s heart-who was lumping fresh cares on him? Was it that wretched wife?

“Ned, I have disturbing news,” Fitz said.

Ned went to the port decanter and filled a red wine glass full to its brim-it had been a very long and anxious day, and Jupiter was in a strange inn’s stables, though the grooms had been threatened with murder if they so much as looked the wrong way at Jupiter.

“Tell me your news first, Fitz. I have ill news too.”

“Matthew Spottiswoode has had a letter from Miss Scrimpton-the tabby who runs a ladies’ employment agency in York. It seems Miss Scrimpton encountered the Marquess of Ripon somewhere in York, and ventured to tell him that Miss Mirabelle Maplethorpe was proving as good a companion to her client as she had to his deceased relative. But Ripon denied all knowledge of insane relatives, dead or alive, and of Miss Maplethorpe. Whereupon Miss Scrimpton discovered that there are no female inmates in the Bedlam on Broadmoor, which is for the most violent of males only.”

Fitz got to his feet, held out his hands. “What can it mean, Ned? Is someone trying to get at me through Lydia? But it all happened so quickly-none of it makes sense!”

“It makes some sense to me,” Ned said grimly. “I have to tell you that Miss Maplethorpe is an imposter-or, at least, that her being an imposter fits well with her activities at Hemmings.” He stopped, drained his glass, poured another. “No, I’m not reduced to guzzling your best port, Fitz, but my news is the worst. Mrs. Wickham has been murdered.”

“Jesus!” Fitz sank into his chair as if his legs had lost all power, the lock of stark white hair that had recently appeared in his jet-black mop falling over his brow. His eyes were wide, but only shock gave him pause; his intelligence was superior and still functioning. “You imply, murdered by Miss Maplethorpe?”

“Yes, assisted by the five men she had with her as helpers. I thought it odd that she was the only female apart from her maid, but she has a certain authority about her, so I didn’t question it beyond wondering. After all, she came recommended as a lady with experience of-er- wild patients. They were all in the plot, apparently.”