Mr. Darcy's Daughter (41 page)

Matthew
Ward and he had finally completed their work for their presentation and, though
it had been exhausting and time consuming, it had also brought considerable
satisfaction.

He
was glad of the opportunity to enjoy the feeling of achievement and share some
of it with his family. Their pride and pleasure in his success was always a
source of great joy. Yet, he could not help wondering why the subject of
Margaret Baines's disappearance had not been raised at all that evening. He
could not believe it was from a lack of concern, the strain upon the faces of
his wife and daughter was unmistakable; perhaps, he thought, Lizzie had been
very upset and her mother may have wanted to spare her further distress.

Whatever
the reason, the family spent a rather strange evening, when everyone knew what
subject was uppermost in each other's minds, but no one was willing to raise
the matter. It was as if they were all determined to suppress their concern for
one reason or another.

Only
when Lizzie sat down to the pianoforte after dinner and found she could not proceed
beyond the first page, was it obvious that, whatever they may have hoped to do,
not everyone was succeeding.

*

On
the following morning, Mr. Carr arrived soon after breakfast, having arranged
to take Darcy with him to meet Mr. Hand, the innkeeper at Matlock.

A
genial and talkative host, Hand was keen to welcome them when they arrived at
the inn. He was cleaning out the floor of the parlour and said with a grimace,

"I've
lost my last two guests, sir, one of 'em left this morning on the coach for
Derby, and the other's dead!"

He
had taken quite a liking to the young artist turned fisherman who had spent
several weeks in the district that Summer. "I was sorry to lose him, good
quiet gentleman, with a love of painting and fishing, though I have to say, he
were a better painter than a fisherman, sir; he never caught a fish worth
speaking of," he said with a great laugh that echoed around the room.

Darcy
had no idea of whom he was speaking and Mr. Carr explained.

"There's
been a young artist working in the area these last few months; your sister and
I have met him sketching and painting in the dales on many occasions. I have
seen him fishing, too, down by the river, but I do not believe he was very
successful."

"No,
but I tell you he was a pretty observant fellow, sir," Mr. Hand
interrupted. "Kept to himself mostly, but he had an eye open for what went
on around him," he added in a conspiratorial whisper, which, considering
the place was quite empty, was really unnecessary.

Still,
Mr. Carr was interested in the rest of the innkeeper's story and so was Darcy.

He
told a strange tale of a night when young Mr. Wakeham had returned fairly late
to the inn, "looking for all the world like he'd fallen asleep in a
haystack," and seeming rather disturbed.

"It
was most unusual, sir, as I said to my wife, he's usually a quiet type of
gentleman, clean and sober, yet he looked as if he'd had a few rounds with the
boys. He told me later he'd been up among the moors around the peaks,
sketching; he showed me his pictures, they were the prettiest pictures you
could imagine, he was very clever with his drawings.

"Anyhow,
the lads in the bar were all agog about the body being found in the quarry, you
know, Mr. Jones...and they were taking bets, whether the girl or Josh Higgins
would go down for it. Mr. Wakeham, he didn't say anything at the time, but
after dinner, which he always took in his room, he came downstairs, when I was
cleaning out the bar and wiping down the tables, and said he wanted a word in
private. Very troubled, he looked.

"He
tells me he had heard the boys talking about the dead man that was found in the
quarry; he didn't know him, he said, but he had seen him many times, in the
woods and down by the stream with the girl, you know the one with the great
head of flaming red hair." Seeing he had them absorbed, Hand continued
dramatically, "One afternoon, he said he saw them together, when he was
painting down in Dovedale and the man came up to him and tried to threaten him,
claimed he was following them, but the girl stopped him, he said."

Mr.
Carr listened, intrigued, but Darcy was becoming impatient.

"Did
he see them on the day of the murder?" he asked and, to his astonishment,
for he had not anticipated the answer, the innkeeper opened his eyes wide and
leaning over the bar, said in a dramatic whisper, "He did, sir, in the
woods above the old quarry," and as Carr and Darcy leaned forward, he knew
he had their interest and went on, "It was around five o'clock, he said,
but he could not be sure, for he carries no watch, sir; he saw them and whereas
most times, they were all loving, this time they were arguing. However, he was
sure that it could not have been the girl who killed the man, he said."

Pausing
for effect, Hand continued. "I asked him why he thought that, seeing as
women could do the job just as well, if they had a mind to do it, but he was
very sure, and here's the best bit, he says it could not have been young Josh
Higgins either. Why? Because, on that day Mr. Wakeham had been on the other
side of the river, fishing with his usual lack of success, and Josh come along
and helped him catch a fish, his first in weeks. He says he was so pleased, he
gave the lad some money for his trouble."

Mr.
Carr looked at Darcy and though they said nothing, each had thought the same
thing--that would account for the money Josh had, which the police thought he
had stolen from the dead man.

"Did
he say why he was dishevelled and disturbed when he got in?" asked Darcy,
but unhappily the innkeeper had no answer.

Hand
admitted that he had tried to persuade Wakeham to go to the police, but he had
said they would never believe him.

"However,
he was sure the truth would come out, because there was another man in the
woods that day and he believes this man was watching out for the lovers,"
said Mr. Hand and Mr. Carr was puzzled. "Do you mean he was stalking
them?" he asked.

"I
do not know, sir. Mr. Wakeham thought the man may have been a friend of Mr.
Jones and was probably keeping watch for him, in case someone came by."

"And
how might we contact this Mr. Wakeham, should we need to find him?" asked
Darcy, keen to follow up the new information.

The
innkeeper shook his head. "I wouldn't know, sir, he's from Hertfordshire,
some little village over there I'd say. I cannot read much, but my wife once
saw a letter that came for him, from Hertfordshire, let me ask her,"

he
said and went within.

When
he returned, he had in his hand a folded paper, like the cover paper of a
letter with a part of the seal still stuck to its side. The direction, though
written very ill, was still quite readable. It was addressed to Mr. Francis
Wickham, care of the innkeeper at the Matlock Arms.

"Wickham?"
said Mr. Carr. "This says he is Francis Wickham! He told us he was Frank
Wakeham. Now I wonder why that is?"

"I
do not know, sir, there's many folks change their names, probably hiding from
his family, I'd say, sir. Or may be he's been in trouble with the law. Come to
think of it, he did look very troubled when I suggested he tell his story to
the police," said Mr. Hand.

Darcy
meanwhile had been gazing at the scrap of paper for a few minutes, before
leaping up from his seat.

"Of
course, Frank Wickham from Hertfordshire, that's who it is! Come on Carr, let's
get back and tell my mother about this, she will know where we can find
him."

Puzzled,
Mr. Carr followed him, having thanked Mr. Hand for his help and taking the
scrap of paper with him, not knowing what on earth Darcy was talking about.
When they were back in the carriage and on the road, Darcy told him of the
Wickham family; cousins, with whom they had little or no contact.

Carr
was intrigued, "Why?"

"Because
they are all either disreputable villains or dissolute libertines or both, and
my grandparents will have nothing whatever to do with them, nor will my mother.
I do know they used to live in Hertfordshire."

Mr.
Carr was amazed. "Have you never met any of them yourself?" he asked.

Darcy
shook his head, laughing. "No, not officially. I did meet two of them in
London, George and Philip, a very long time ago at the house of a mutual
acquaintance; they were the most appalling scoundrels you could hope to meet.

Don't
tell Mama, please, she will be furious!"

"What
about this fellow Frank, then? He seems a perfectly decent fellow as well as
being a pretty good artist. Surely, he cannot be of the same family?" said
Carr, quite bewildered, but Darcy was sure he was.

"The
name rings a bell, there were three or four sons and I think one was called
Frank; but never mind, Mama will know, and if we can track him down and get him
to talk to the police, Josh Higgins may yet be saved.

Unless,
Wickham is on the run from the law, too," Darcy said and added,

"I
wonder who this other man was: was he a friend of Jones? Who could he be? Now
he may well be a witness to whatever happened in the woods that evening."

Mr.
Carr could provide no credible answer. His lack of familiarity with the
district and his inability to recall the names of some of the men he had met at
the inn recently put him at a disadvantage. Darcy, on the other hand, was sure
that the second man referred to by Wickham had to be someone from the area who
knew the woods well and was familiar with people in the village.

As
they reached the house, Cassy, seeing them arrive, came downstairs and met them
in the hall with the news that her parents were back from Kent and they were
all to go over to Pemberley on the following evening to acquaint her father
with what had occurred in their absence.

"Papa
is sure to give us some sound advice," she said.

To
her great astonishment, her son interrupted her.

"Mama,
we cannot wait until tomorrow evening. Some very important information has come
to light and we must act quickly," he said and, between them, Mr. Carr and
Darcy related the gist of the innkeeper's tale, holding back until the end the
identity of the artist, Mr. Francis Wickham.

"Wickham!
Oh my God, he must be Frank, Aunt Lydia's youngest son!"

she
cried and, thereafter, all was confusion, until Lizzie arrived and helped bring
a modicum of order to the proceedings.

Darcy
was determined that he and Mr. Carr should leave for Hertfordshire forthwith
and try to find Frank (or Francis) Wickham (or Wakeham) and persuade him to
return and tell his story to the magistrate.

Cassy
was not so sure; she was wary of letting her son become involved and
exceedingly cautious of any contact with the Wickhams. Even though the wily Mr.
George Wickham, so detested by her parents for his duplicity, had died sometime
ago, Cassy recalled that her Aunt Lydia was not the pleasantest person and she
feared Mr. Carr and Darcy would find themselves drawn into deeper water than
they could cope with.

She
pleaded with them to wait until tomorrow, but Darcy was determined, pointing
out that "every hour that passes leaves less time to save Josh."

Mr.
Carr spoke up. "Mrs. Gardiner, I understand the anxiety and disquiet you
feel, but I give you my word, your son will not be allowed to put himself in
any danger, I shall guard him with my life," at which they all laughed and
Cassy reluctantly agreed, on condition that Darcy acted only with the consent
of Mr. Carr, and would not rush impetuously into any situation.

"I
would not do that, Mama," he protested, but she knew him too well and
would only be satisfied after he had given her his word to be ruled by his
friend in all his dealings with the Wickhams.

"It
grieves me to say this, Mr. Carr, of a member of our family, but Mrs. Wickham
is not to be trusted; she is mercenary and every bit as guilty as her husband
of guile and chicanery, so do be warned," she said, and was herself
surprised at how much she had come to trust Mr. Carr. His integrity and decency
were, to her, beyond question.

Preparations
were soon afoot for the departure of the two gentlemen to Hertfordshire.

"Will
you take the train or go by road?" asked Lizzie, and her brother groaned,
feigning agony even at the memory of his last train journey.

"Oh
no, not the train again, I cannot bear it, not twice in one week. Even though
the journey will be done in less than half the time, I shall be so sore; I will
be of no use to anyone for a week. I am still suffering the consequences of my
last journey, the seats, the crowds, and the smoke!"

"Did
you not travel first class?" asked Mr. Carr, who was quite accustomed to
train travel in America.

"I
did, but so did hundreds of other people; it seemed as though half of London
was on the train, every man, woman, and child, each with its own load of
luggage, including a parrot in a cage! No, Lizzie, I shall
not
take the train,"