The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (64 page)

“Now, if some miracle would permit me a means from this death trap...”

Cowan and Sharp reappeared with shovels in hand. “Here, Colonel.” The Runner handed Edward the tool they had retrieved from the sexton's work shed. “Move away, Mrs. Darcy.”

“I want to be of assistance,” Elizabeth protested.

Edward pulled her to her feet. “Then assist Mr. Williamson with the lanterns. We will require light to see what we are doing.”

Reluctantly, Elizabeth stepped away from the grave. She watched anxiously as the three men attacked the gravesite.

“Mrs. Darcy,” the curate said softly beside her. He handed Elizabeth a lantern and struck a flint. “Here is the candle,” the man offered. Elizabeth automatically lit several candles, but her eyes never left the spot where the men worked frantically. As soon as the lanterns were lit, Elizabeth placed them along the rim of the memorial so they would shine downward into the hole.

“Would you wish to pray?” Mr. Williamson suggested as he set his lanterns beside hers.

Elizabeth did not wish to leave her husband, but she nodded her agreement. With the curate's assistance, she stepped to the other side of the Darcy family crypt.

Initially, the curate's reverence and benevolence was a soothing balm on Elizabeth's anxious heart. Mr. Williamson spoke of hope, of love, and of compassion, but when the man's words spoke of accepting whatever happened as God's will, Elizabeth interrupted, “Forgive me, Mr. Williamson.” Elizabeth gave herself a sound mental shake. “I realize this is blasphemous, but I shall never accept Fitzwilliam's death as God's plan. I cannot believe that God would take him from us. And until that moment arrives I will not entertain such thoughts.” With a quick curtsy, Elizabeth returned to the site.

“Colonel?” she asked uneasily.

“A few more minutes.” Edward strained to lift a large shovelful of dirt.

Elizabeth stood at the foot of the grave. She swayed from side to side, and soon she lifted her voice in song.

Running out of air, Darcy fought to keep his senses about him, but his eyes felt heavy. He dreamed of Elizabeth. He could see her teasing him at Sir William Lucas's party. He could visualize how he had foolishly followed her about the room because he had begun to wish to know more of her, and as a step toward conversing with her himself, had attended to her conversation with others. He could hear Miss Lucas insisting upon Elizabeth's lending her beautiful voice to the evening's entertainment.
Could hear Elizabeth's singing the same song as she had that evening. So close, it seemed his wife stood above him. Looking down upon him. If only he could touch her, speak words of affection in her ear.

Automatically, Darcy's hands reached for her. “Elizabeth,” he said weakly when his fingers grazed the wooden lid. “Sing for me, Lizzy.”

“We have hit something hard, Colonel,” Cowan said as his shovel's tip struck the wooden frame.

Edward lifted another shovel of dirt to the side. “Keep digging,” he ordered. The sweat poured from his face and down his back, but Edward would not stop. Elizabeth had been correct. Someone had buried a coffin in Samuel Darcy's grave. God! Was his cousin even now taking his last breath? “Sing louder, Elizabeth,” he encouraged. “Sing for Darcy.”

She raced to the grave's edge and began her song again, directing her voice to the outline of a box, which had emerged from the pit. “Fitzwilliam!” she called through her sobs.

Edward struck the box with the tip of his shovel. “Darcy!” he shouted, accenting his efforts with the tap of the metal to the wood. “Answer me, Darcy!”

Crazy as it seemed, Darcy could swear his wife's voice had moved closer and that she called his name. In addition to Elizabeth's pleading was a complementary sound of his cousin's commanding baritone. Darcy made his mind acknowledge their pleas. Forced his lids open to stare into the blackness. A thud vibrated the box. “The torpedo!” Darcy's brain formed the word, but his lips would not cooperate. Necessity caused his heart to race. He must stop them! If his cousin and Elizabeth meant to rescue him—to remove him from the coffin—they would meet Besnik Gry's fate, which was exactly what Areej Stowbridge had planned.

Darcy attempted to make a fist, but his hands had lost all sensation. So, instead of pounding on the lid for attention, he slapped at it, creating a musical tattoo to accent his wife's singing. “No!” he called over and over. “No!”

Edward was the first to feel the vibration beneath his feet. “Quiet!” he ordered. “No one move.”

Weakly a dull thud came from below, deep in the grave. “He is alive!” Elizabeth squealed. “Fitzwilliam is alive. Oh, hurry, Colonel.”

Elizabeth scooted to the side, where she could scoop armfuls of dirt from the grave. “Oh, please, God,” she prayed as tears streamed down her face. “We must reach him. Dear God, we must reach him.” She slung the dirt behind her, handful after handful, clawing her way into the earth.

The three men redoubled their efforts, and within minutes, Edward straddled the upper section of the coffin. On all fours, he crawled along the edges, knocking dirt from the surface. “Darcy,” he called as he tapped on the lid. “Darcy, we are here.” Placing his ear to the lid, Edward listened carefully. Nothing else moved in the cemetery. He looked up with a frown.

“What is it, Colonel?” Cowan asked the question no one else dared to ask.

“Whoever or whatever is inside this box appears to be saying ‘No.'”

Elizabeth grabbed another armful of dirt. “I care not for my husband's objections,” she asserted. “I want him out of this box. Out of this grave.”

“Give me a hammer, Mr. Sharp,” Edward demanded. “Cowan, assist Mrs. Darcy with the dirt behind me. We do not want it to collapse in on my cousin.”

Edward placed his mouth as close to the lid as possible. He brushed more loose dirt away. “Darcy,” he shouted. “Turn your head to the right. I mean to tear part of this away.” With that, he wedged the hammer against the edge of the wood. Using the claw, Edward ripped away at the upper left corner of the box.

Within less than a minute, the colonel had opened a small hole, perhaps two inches by three. “Hand me a light,” he yelled, and Elizabeth scrambled to do his bidding.

“Are we in time?” she pleaded as she lowered the lantern into the hole.

“Fortunately, Mrs. Stowbridge and Mr. Gaylord have wedged the coffin into the hole at an odd angle,” Edward explained. “The coffin has not been buried as deeply as I had originally expected.” He did not confide the fact that he kept his full weight from the lid in fear of plummeting the box deeper into the earth. It would prove of no use to have Elizabeth in more distress. Straddling the sides of the box, the colonel balanced precariously on the edge. Lowering his weight onto the coffin, he lifted the light to peer into the small opening. “Darcy? Can you hear me?”

A quick inhale of air rewarded the colonel's efforts. “Move away,” a weak familiar voice ordered. “Dangerous.”

Although muffled by the wood and the depth of the hole, the message's urgency stayed the colonel's efforts. “Everyone, step away from the grave,” he ordered.

In the soft lantern light, Elizabeth's eyes flared with disapproval. “Why?” she demanded.

Edward's shoulders stiffened. “Your husband claims it is dangerous to be here.” The colonel spoke with more calm than he felt. “Please step clear of the area until I can ascertain what Darcy means by the warning.”

Kneeling at the grave's edge, Elizabeth defiantly refused to budge. “I will not leave him.”

“Elizabeth, please,” Edward implored.

“You know my mind, Colonel. Be on with it.” She lay out full on the ground where she could reach into the hole.

Edward nodded to Cowan and Sharp to step behind the crypt's solid wall. “No sudden moves, Elizabeth,” the colonel warned. “Allow me to assess the situation.” When his cousin's wife made no further protest, Edward eased forward to where he could speak into the opening. “Are you injured, Darcy?”

A weak “No” escaped the small hole in the lid. “Only what...what remains of my earlier...confrontation with...Mr. Barriton and...this afternoon...with Mrs. Stowbridge.” Behind him, the colonel heard Elizabeth stifling a sob of concern. However, Edward felt no such emotion. A breathless panic had taken its hold on the colonel's heart. Darcy should be begging for a quick release from his prison; instead, his cousin had ordered his rescuers from the site.

“Why would you send us away?” he asked slowly, enunciating each word clearly.

A long silence told the colonel his cousin considered his words carefully. Edward concentrated his full being on understanding what Darcy meant to say. “There is something...something attached to my left leg.” A hesitation followed. “It is my opinion...Mrs. Stowbridge has buried...buried Samuel's torpedo model with me. I fear if you remove me...from this hard bed...the torpedo will explode.”