The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (37 page)

“Follow my lead,” Edward cautioned under his breath. “And do not permit any Rom to tarry behind you. They are known to be deadly accurate with a knife.”

Darcy nodded his understanding, for the truth was unavoidable: He operated under the impediment of principles and good manners. Darcy feared he possessed no skills to defend his wife's honor under these bizarre circumstances. A duel would have easily expressed the contempt he felt, but men of breeding dealt differently with honor than did these men. Yet, he held the
responsibility to right the wrong exacted against his wife, even if Elizabeth had told him in her indomitable manner that she required no such revenge.

Gry met them when they entered the gypsy camp. As they had done the previous time, several of the band gathered behind their leader. “Mr. Darcy? Colonel?” the gypsy asked tentatively. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Gry glanced to the corpse. Intent crossed his countenance, and Edward warned menacingly, “Do not mistake our purpose, Gry.”

The gypsy asked stiffly, “Of what is my cousin accused that he would deserve such disrespect? Or is his only crime that of being a Rom?”

“Your cousin,” Darcy growled, “had the audacity to insert himself into the life at Woodvine.”

“And for that crime Vandlo Pias met his death?” Gry accused. “I would know Vandlo's offense. What did my cousin do? Flirt with one of Mr. Samuel's servants?”

Edward nudged his horse between Darcy and the gypsy leader. He swore beneath his breath when he noticed the darkskinned youth stepping from the clearing. Darcy purposely planted his heel in the horse's side, and the animal dutifully kicked his hind legs. “Best not to stand too close,” Darcy said blandly. “I do not know this mount.” He motioned with the gun he had produced prior to their riding into the camp. “I suggest you join your family.”

With a knife he had palmed for protection, Edward leaned over to cut the two ropes securing the corpse to the horse's hindquarters. The one Gry called
Vandlo Pias
unceremoniously slammed into the dirt. His distorted features told part of the tale.

Gry's expression changed instantly from his usual feigned respect to one of pure hatred.

Darcy could almost feel the gypsy plunging his knife into Darcy's chest. “
Desperate situations
,” he heard his father's voice as a warning. Darcy said indignantly, “Despite my better judgment, I have returned your cousin's body.”

Gry hissed, “I have yet to hear of Vandlo's crime.”

Before the gypsy leader's words died in the late spring breeze, Darcy was off his horse and striding toward the man. He caught Gry up by the man's open-necked shirt. Behind him, he heard Edward's horse whinny sharply, and he knew his cousin had, literally, protected Darcy's back. “Your filthy cousin placed his bloody hands on my wife,” he growled within inches of Gry's face. “Left his fingerprints on Mrs. Darcy's wrists. I watched in horror as my wife fought the bloody bastard. As he attempted to drown her. You speak of injustice, Gry. Where was the justice when your cousin attacked an innocent woman? If he held me at fault for some matter, then I should have been his target. Instead, the bloody coward looked for a victim.”

Gry's eyes betrayed guilt's edge. “A woman brought about Vandlo's end?”

The thought made Darcy smile. “Not just any woman, Gry, but
my
woman. Why do you think I rushed to make Mrs. Darcy my wife? Elizabeth Darcy is as magnificent as she is invincible. Your cousin was no match for her.”

Gry asked defiantly, “Then why are you here?”

Darcy shoved Gry from him. “I want you and yours gone from this place within the hour. If you ever come near Dorset again, I will see your family brought up on charges for assault and for horse theft. And Heaven help you if you think of entering Derbyshire during my lifetime.”

“An hour?” Gry repeated incredulously.

Darcy strode to his horse. He easily swung into the saddle. “Would you care to vie for half that time?” he growled. “At one minute past the hour, my men and the local magistrate will take anyone remaining on Woodvine land to gaol.” With that, he turned his horse and swiftly rode away from the scene. His anger had transformed into cold wrath. He had erred in permitting the gypsies to remain on Woodvine land. He vividly recalled Elizabeth's self-imposed silence and her vulnerability. He had hoped never to taste such fear again. Fear that he had utterly failed her. He bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on his accountability. Darcy slowed his horse's pace as Edward came abreast of him. He could no longer afford to cherish pride or resentment. He required a large glass of his cousin Samuel's best brandy and the presence of the one woman whose spell had captured him some nineteen months prior. The soft certainty of Elizabeth's love was Darcy's only reason to live, or to seek honor.

Within the half hour, they rode into Woodvine's stable yard. Seeing Holbrook scrubbing the planks of the flat wagon to remove the stench of the bodies surprised them. “What happened to the other three?” Edward inquired.

Holbrook wiped the sweat from his brow. “Glover went for the curate while Mr. McKye and I brung the bodies around. Once Mr. Williamson arrived to claim the deceased, the curate thought it best to git the deceased in the ground as soon as possible. By and by, the gentleman be recalling the clothing of one of our discoveries and the gold watch we found on another.”

“Did you recognize the names Williamson provided?” Darcy asked as he dismounted.

“No, Sir, but Mr. Williamson seemed to know enough of each to think that he could contact those the man left behind.”

“Where is McKye? Glover?” Darcy glanced to his cousin, who was patiently watching and waiting.

“Dun't know 'bout Glover. Supposin' he had others to tend to. Said something about having to git home to wash up after his examination. Didn't look so good if'n you ask me. Looked as pale as I did earlier.” The man wiped his neck with a large handkerchief. “Seeing how three more of Tregonwell's men arrived while we be at the lake, McKye assisted the curate with transporting the bodies to the church.”

Darcy desperately wished to see to his wife's recovery, but as the afternoon had gotten away from him, he said, “We should speak to the curate before dusk.” He caught the saddle and mounted once again.

His cousin's brow gathered in deep thought. “We might wish to send Holbrook and a couple of Tregonwell's men to be certain the gypsies have departed.”

Darcy glanced to the house. “Take Murray and Jatson also,” he instructed the groom. “I have told Gry that I want him and his family off Darcy land within the hour. If he has not obeyed me, send for Stowbridge.”

“Aye, Sir. I be glad to see that lot gone. Never understood why the late Mr. Darcy be tolerating them such about.” Holbrook dropped the brush he had been using on the wooden slats into a bucket of water. “I be bringing me gun.”

“No one is to use force unless the gypsies initiate a confrontation,” the colonel cautioned.

“Does no harm to be prepared,” Holbrook assured as he walked away.

Darcy might have once cared for the outcome of the ejection of the gypsies from Woodvine land, but his interest in the result had died the moment Vandlo Pias had touched Elizabeth Darcy. Instead, he turned his head, his mount, and his heart from the possibility.

Without discussion, he and his cousin set a comfortable pace. It was not far to the village. Darcy doubted that Edward approved of Darcy's actions in dealing with the gypsies. The colonel was a man of diplomacy; yet, his cousin would think differently once Edward married. Even if the colonel settled for a marriage of convenience, rather than one based on true affections, a married Edward Fitzwilliam would have sought revenge on the gypsy camp, likely exacting a more violent response than had Darcy. Edward was slow to rile, but he was dangerous once he was. “The curacy is just ahead,” Darcy said as he dismounted outside the entrance gate.

“Mr. Williamson and his sexton have been kept busy this past week,” Edward observed as they let the knocker drop on the weathered door.

“Much to my chagrin,” Darcy remarked. “We have uncovered five bodies in less than a week. How will this community ever recover?”

Edward said seriously, “By uncovering the perpetrator.”

The door opened upon the normally jovial curate on the other side. Darcy noted how the dark eyes acknowledged them grudgingly. His cousin's affairs had introduced deceit into the society of this country. “We had thought to speak to you before the additional deaths become common knowledge.”

The curate stepped aside to admit them to his austere quarters. “I have asked Mr. Sharp to hire additional diggers, and I will conduct the ceremony tomorrow,” Williamson explained. “Mr. Glover assures me the bodies will decompose quicker once they have been brought to the surface. I thought to keep the services very private. It requires a delicacy of feeling.”

Darcy nodded his agreement. “I trust your judgment on such matters, Williamson. I will see to the costs if you will send me a tally of the expenses.”

Williamson gestured to a cluster of chairs. “You are everything that is generous and considerate, Mr. Darcy. The church members will be glad to know that charity will not be necessary.”

Edward expressed his regret at the sudden intrusion of death upon the village.

The curate's dark eyebrows drew together in a pronounced frown. “One does not anticipate so much devastation in the space of days, but I suppose I should have expected something would go amiss. Our little village has known God's benevolence for too long not to face the world's worst as a test of its worthiness.” Williamson paused before saying, “I have failed to recognize the obvious, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy leaned forward with interest. “Would you care to explain?”

In an attempt to clear his thinking, the curate scrubbed his face with his dry hands. “In this matter, I have sought similarities, as I am certain have you, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy inclined his head aristocratically. “You perhaps have the better of me in that matter. I have no knowledge of the relationships that bind Wimborne's residents to one another.”

The curate offered tea, which both Darcy and his cousin declined. Finally, the man said, “From what I know of three of the victims, they each planned to marry.”

“I am not certain I understand,” Edward interrupted.

The curate explained, “As I am the vicar's representative in this village, those who plan to marry often call upon me for advice and to arrange for a calling of the banns.” He paused as if to gather his thoughts. “As such, some time last autumn, Mr. Meurig Pugh called upon the curacy. I recall most vividly how Mr. Pugh extolled his future wife's many fine qualities, which I thought quite amusing because the gentleman had yet to meet the woman. A friend of an acquaintance had suggested a correspondence between Pugh and his lady, and they had regularly written for nearly a year before Pugh had decided that they should meet and marry. As his home parish was in the western reaches of Wales, I suggested that Pugh establish a residence in the area while the banns were called.

“He left my parlor on that day with a promise to return once he had earned the lady's hand. Unfortunately, I never saw the man again. I made the assumption that the woman had sent Pugh packing.”

“What did Pugh say of the lady?” the colonel inquired.

“The Welshman spoke of a woman I could not envision. At the time, I had thought that perhaps the lady resided in another parish. He spoke of a woman who had known something of the world. One who had earned her living as a governess before arriving in Dorset to tend to her brother's household.”