Death at the Netherfield Ball

Written by Jennifer Joy and Riana Everly

A Note from one of the authors

I had the privilege of giving a brief presentation on mystery writing at a conference with fellow mystery writer, Riana Everly. The following is a short story we co-wrote to use in our presentation to demonstrate a basic mystery plot. We sure had a lot of fun with it and, instead of publishing, we decided to share it with our readers as a gift. I hope you enjoy it!

1

A Body on the Balcony

Elizabeth Bennet stepped out of the ballroom and onto the balcony. The night air carried the chill of impending winter, but she welcomed the brisk breeze after her heated discussion with Mr. Darcy. Even after Sir William interrupted them and they stopped dancing, she was unable to return to her usual good humour. She had spent some time with Charlotte and had taken some refreshment—avoiding Miss Bingley, who loomed nearby, brushing her hands and fanning her face to call attention to the gaudy jewelry she wore—but the pique remained. What was it with that man? Was he always this annoying? And whatever had possessed her to agree to dance with him? The heavy glass doors with their elaborate draperies closed behind her, shutting out the noise from the band and the light that blazed from a hundred burning candles.

She looked around. She had seen Mr. Darcy storm out of these very doors a short while before, but he had remained outside for only a few minutes before returning to the ballroom with a frown and disappearing, presumably up to his room in Bingley’s large house. Now she was alone, thank the heavens. A moment of peace was what she needed.

But no! As her eyes adjusted to the dark night, she noticed someone in the shadows, sitting on a stone bench near the wall. Or, rather, leaning against the wall, slumped over perilously. Was it some reveller who had over-imbibed on punch? Or someone who had danced himself to exhaustion? It was a man, to judge by his clothing, his head drooping down onto his chest and hiding his face. She should call somebody to help him. He might need his sleep, but if he remained outside on this frigid night he would become ill. She should at least rouse him enough to bring him inside.

She stepped over and shook his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir? Sir?” The man did not wake, but collapsed even further, and did not wake at all. “Sir?” She reached out for his hand to try to pull him upwards. Something was wrong. There was no response, no reflexive twitch or shift in his breathing… Oh no! He did not seem to be breathing at all. Elizabeth leapt back with a small cry. This man was not asleep. He was dead!

2     

The Frenchman

Elizabeth followed Mr. Bingley and two of his strong servants as they carried the dead man through another set of doors and into the library. It would not do to disturb the dancers because one man had succumbed to overexertion. It must, Elizabeth decided, have been his heart. She had known seemingly healthy men drop dead with no warning from the simplest of activities. Bingley had suggested she return to the ball, or sit for a while in one of the unoccupied parlours until she felt equal to company again, but she was too disturbed to sit alone. And, she admitted, a part of her was curious. She must know this person; the company at the ball were almost all of her general acquaintance.

The servants laid that man down on the floor, and at last she saw his face. It looked familiar, but she knew nobody with that large moustache and beard. Indeed, such styles had gone out of fashion decades before, although this seemed to be rather a young man, no more than thirty years of age from what she could tell. It was strange… and his clothing, too, was unusual. These were not good English fashions at all, but rather, they looked French.

With the fuss and the men milling around the dead man, she could not approach too closely and looked on from a distance.

She screwed up her brow. She had heard somebody earlier speaking in a rather pronounced French accent, but she had not been able to see the speaker. This must be him! But she had not met or spoken to the Frenchman; why, then, did he look so familiar? If only she could get closer!

Mr. Jones, the apothecary, shu ed in, followed by Colonel Forster from the militia regiment. The former knelt to look at the dead man, while the latter asked in a voice just loud enough for Elizabeth to hear, “Who is the magistrate in these parts? Sir William?”

Whatever Bingley or the servants said was lost in an exclamation from Mr. Jones. “By God, this was no natural death, men. Whoever this fellow is, he was poisoned!”

3     

Murder

The sotto voce murmurs now exploded into a chorus of shouts. “What?” “Poisoned?” “In my house?”

“You mean to say,” Colonel Forster’s steel-edged syllables cut through the outcry, “he was deliberately killed?”

Mr. Jones stood up. “I do believe so,” he sighed. “Unless I have misread what I see, this man was murdered.”

Mr. Bingley’s normally cheerful face drained of all colour. “I… That is… Who should we… I do not know what to do. What should we do?”

Another voice interrupted, this one from behind a large arm chair facing the fireplace. Elizabeth had not noticed him until now, hidden as he was from view. “We must summon Sir William and ensure that nobody leaves the house.” He rose from his chair, but Elizabeth knew who he was already. She would know that voice anywhere. Mr. Darcy!

“If he was murdered, his killer must still be about. In fact, he might be in this room.” Mr. Darcy looked about meaningfully, and even Elizabeth could not keep from sucking in her breath along with everyone else. A murderer—at the Netherfield Ball. Had she danced with him?

“Peter, Tim,” he addressed the two servants, “inform Mrs. Nicholls and have the doors and exits secured. Then call in the magistrate.”

He crossed the room in three long strides and peered down at the body. Mr. Jones was muttering things about froth at the mouth, dilated pupils, and a distinctive odor, but though Elizabeth paid rapt attention, Mr. Darcy seemed hardly to hear him. Something had caught his attention. Elizabeth stepped closer, trying to see what he noticed.

4       

A Revelation

Mr. Darcy peered down at the mysterious Frenchman, the frown on his face deepening. “Who is this man?”

Bingley shrugged. “He came with the Sotherns from Benningham. I thought him one of their party. He introduced himself as Monsieur Charbonnier. He seemed pleasant enough.” He looked like he had been slapped.

“I believe,” Colonel Forster mused, “that I saw him arguing with somebody outside when I arrived. My men’s voices were raised in excitement and I did not catch what this man was saying, but his tones were those of someone ill pleased with his companion.”

“Who was it?” Elizabeth asked. “Did you see who he was?”

The colonel shook his head. “Alas, I did not. This man, with his moustache and large hat, was easy to notice, but whoever he talked to stood in the shadows. All balls are fraught with such high emotions and we paid it no consequence. Until now.”

The door opened and Sir William hurried in.

Darcy nodded at the local magistrate but he soon returned his attention to the stranger, his gaze narrowing. What did he find so captivating?

Without a word, he knelt on the floor and reached out to finger the end of the dead man’s moustache. Then, in a single violent stroke, he ripped his hand away, bringing the facial hair with it.

Elizabeth gasped.

“Darcy!” Bingley yelled, as Colonel Forster exclaimed, “I say!” But Darcy rose, the moustache dangling in his hand, a single piece that could now be seen as artificial. Before Elizabeth could get a better look, Mr. Jones leaned over the body and ripped off the beard, holding it up for all to see. There was a collective intake of breath as the men stared down at Charbonnier, quite hiding him from Elizabeth’s view.

She stepped forward to see what had so bothered the others, a convenient space between the gentlemen’s arms providing a glimpse of the man’s face.

Elizabeth felt her jaw drop. She pinched her eyes open and closed several times, but no matter how many times she blinked, the sight remained the same.

The man lying on the floor, who had been known as Monsieur Charbonnier, was no Frenchman at all. Despite his strange French clothing and strong accent, this man was none other than English militia lieutenant George Wickham!

5     

A Suspect

The space around Mr. Darcy widened, leaving him standing alone beside Mr.

Wickham’s corpse. The eyes that now stared at him were not friendly.

Colonel Forster cleared his throat and pulled himself to full height. He was a great deal shorter than Darcy but the mantel of authority rested well on his shoulders and he presented a formidable mien.

“You know this man?” It was phrased as a question, but his tone suggested it was anything but.

“We are…” Darcy spoke in his haughtiest voice, “acquaintances from our childhoods.

Friends, once.”

“Enemies now, you mean.” Bingley gave a titter. He was clearly trying to lighten the mood, but it was poorly conceived.

“Enemies?” The colonel stepped forward. “What quarrel have you with this man, my lieutenant?”

“Our disagreement is of a personal matter. It was resolved. That is all there is to it.” There was a chill to Mr. Darcy’s voice that otherwise would have discouraged further questions.

Elizabeth wondered if he was the other individual engaged in the altercation Colonel Forster had observed earlier.

“But did you not say…?” Bingley started, until Darcy’s glare stopped him short.

Sir William now screwed up his brow. “Did I not see you walk out onto the balcony after… after your dance with Miss Bennet? Such fine footwork is not often seen in these parts, and I was sorry not to see the dance conclude. You did look rather, er, unhappy when you left the ballroom.”

“Out on the balcony, you say?” Colonel Forster repeated. “And in an unhappy mood, and to meet a man with whom you have a dispute. Sir, this does not look good for you.”

Elizabeth chewed on her lip. How fitting, that this disagreeable man should also prove to be a murderer. And yet… And yet it did not fit what she knew of him. She had tried to sketch his character and had such different accounts as to make him quite the enigma to her, but at no point had she thought him cruel or violent. No, she could not imagine it was possible. She did not like Mr. Darcy, it was true. He was proud and disagreeable, even if he had a pleasant smile, but he was not evil and calculating. And further, if he were indeed the culprit, why was he so quick to reveal Mr. Wickham’s real identity?

Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Mr. Darcy glanced at her and a look of relief washed over his handsome face. It was a crack in the ice, something she had not seen before, and it tugged at her. For the first time she felt genuine sympathy for this arrogant man. For what else had he been accused of, which might not be true?

Her thoughts were cut off by Sir William’s question to Mr. Jones. “You are certain it was poison? Could not have been something natural, something innocent?”

The apothecary shook his grey head. “No, sir. I know my tonics and potions, and I know poison when I see it. Look—the foam around the mouth. It has a bitter almond scent. My best guess is arsenic.”

“What, eh?” Mr. Hurst spoke for the first time. “I thought arsenic was tasteless and odorless. Er, from what I’ve read, don’t you know.”

Mr. Jones shrugged. “Some are. Others are not. This powder has a distinct odor.”

Mr. Darcy’s hands twitched at his sides as he spoke. “Arsenic? A powder in his drink?” His eyes widened. “Do you recall, sirs, where Mr. Wickham was seated, or where he placed his cup? We must find it and prevent anybody else from taking the poison.”

Once again, Elizabeth’s heart softened. Here was a man more concerned with protecting other people than with proving his own innocence. This could not be a killer.

Elizabeth had to help him. “If I may, sirs, I recall seeing the Frenchman. I knew not that he was Mr. Wickham at the time, for he danced only with Miss Bingley, who would never deign to dance with a mere officer. I remember how her green necklace matched the green in his coat and thought them a fine-looking couple. After the dance, he took his drink and went into the gaming room. I saw him there too, for I was hoping to avoid my cousin, Mr. Collins.”

“Aye,” Mr. Hurst nodded. “He was there. Sat right by me. Thought he was just a Frenchie, so I didn’t try to talk to him. Never seen the man before at all.” His eyes dared the others to contradict him. “His money was good, though.”

“That it was,” echoed another gentleman. Uncle Phillips! Elizabeth had not seen him come into the library, but he must have entered with Sir William. “He was winning nicely, but lost his concentration. Stomach pains, I believe. He was clenching his hand at his gut… Oh, sorry, Lizzy.” At a nod from Colonel Forster he continued, “Seemed to pain him something strong, for after a time, he rose from the table and ran out so quickly he didn’t even collect all his coin.”

There was a huff from Mr. Hurst, whose face grew even redder than usual.

“He won a tidy some from you, if I recall. What did you do with the rest of his winnings?” Uncle Phillips was a lawyer, after all. He noticed these things.

Now all eyes turned from Mr. Darcy to Mr. Hurst. “Er, well, that is, I uh, I kept them, of course.” He patted his pocket. “Keeping it safe for him, don’t you know.”

Mr. Jones returned to the body on the floor and rubbed his chin. “It definitely sounds like arsenic. It is fast-acting, and stomach aches are a common symptom. Mr. Bingley, might I examine his glass? I can do tests at my shop, but I can taste a small amount as well.”

The usually jovial young man hung his head. “I am certain the servants have cleared everything away by now. I can… I can ask.” He rushed out the door but Colonel Forster stopped

the others from following him. He was back in mere moments, having sent a servant to make the inquiries

There ensued great consternation as to the loss of this vital evidence, but Elizabeth was troubled by more than Mr. Wickham’s untimely demise.

If Mr. Jones was certain it was arsenic, then it must be so. But that seemed to be the wrong question. What seemed more certain a path to solving this murder was to ask whyever Mr. Wickham was in disguise!

5

The Plot Thickens

Darcy crumpled back into his chair. Nobody had directly accused him of poisoning Mr. Wickham, but Colonel Forster, echoed by Sir William, suggested that he remain where he was. Even Bingley looked at him with scared eyes. Did his friend really believe this of him? He knew Bingley was suggestable, but to think that he—Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley—was capable of murder was a slap in the face. Only Miss Elizabeth Bennet considered him with something like compassion.

She skirted the room to avoid the crowd of men near the door and the body on the carpet, and edged closer to him. “I cannot believe it was you. We do not rub along well together, you and I, but I do have some pride in my ability to judge a man, and you are no killer.”

Darcy blinked. She did not like him? Had she not been responding to his flirtation? Oh, heaven forbid, her rebuttals were serious. He stifled a groan. That was why she had refused his offer of a reel when she was tending to her ill sister.

It seemed a minor matter now. If he could not provide the real killer, his neck would be in a noose.

She wrinkled her pretty nose and asked about the disguise. “You have known Mr. Wickham for a long time. He told me…”

“I hate to imagine what he said,” Darcy replied. “The stories are often founded on truth, but are so misleading as to be pure fantasy. I hope that, should we resolve this current matter, you will allow me to present my own side of the story.”

She nodded at him. Her eyes were serious but kind. “Was he always one to dissemble?

This disguise seems akin to a lie, unless…” “Unless he was a spy?”

She nodded. “But why pretend to be a Frenchman? Were he in France, that would make sense, but to wear foreign garb here? That is no way to learn secrets, even should we have any to keep in our corner of Hertfordshire. What a strange sort of spy that would be.”

“A spy?” Sir William must have overheard her. “Our very own Mr. Wickham, a spy? Capital!” He rubbed his hands together in glee. Darcy imagined the gentleman blabbing this tale to all and sundry at his next visit to St. James’.

Soon the room was abuzz in speculation as to who, exactly, was his employer, and what secrets he hoped to learn—or to share! Only Darcy and the young woman at his side kept silent.

The rumble of conjecture fell silent as the door opened and Caroline Bingley rushed through, her hands at her temples. The candlelight caught the sparkling gems at her ears and on her finger, green to match her elaborate dress that must have come from London for exactly this occasion.

“My apologies, Charles, but I have a dreadful headache—” Her eyes found the body on the floor and she stopped short. Her mouth opened once, then again, but no sound came out, and without another word she crumpled to the floor.

“Most appropriate thing she has ever said,” Darcy murmured. Next to him, he heard Elizabeth stifle a giggle.

Still, this was no time for such indulgence. A lady was in distress. Bingley rushed to his sister’s side, and Darcy joined him. Already her eyes were fluttering open and together with Bingley, he helped her to an armchair in a far corner of the room, as far as possible from the body. All the while she said not a word, but her face was as white as Darcy had ever seen it.

Could seeing the corpse have caused such a dire reaction in her?

Once more the door opened. “Caroline? Charles, have you seen Caroline? Where is my husband? Ah, here you are. I—”

She, too, stopped her words as she saw the body on the floor. Darcy could tell that from where she was standing, with the men in the way, she could see only the dead man’s feet, unlike Caroline who had seen his face as well.

“Monsieur le comte! What has happened to him? Is he ill?” Her voice was almost a

shriek.

Colonel Forster turned to her. “You know him, Mrs. Hurst?”

Her eyes flickered to her husband, who was examining his feet with great intent.

“I.. I only met him tonight.” She was a terrible actress. It was evident that she was lying.

“Louisa?” Bingley stepped aside, revealing the dead man’s face. “What do you know?”

Now she gasped, her hand at her mouth. “Why, that is Mr. Wickham, from the militia.

Why is he wearing the count’s clothing? Why is he impersonating an aristocrat? Charles?”

Hurst stumbled forwards and caught his wife’s elbow. “Come, Louisa. Caroline looks quite ill. You should take her up to her room. Let me call her maid…” He moved towards the door.

Did he wish to escape? From the corner of his eye, Darcy saw Caroline rubbing her hands against her skirts and Louisa looking from her sister to her husband and back, as if wanting them to tell her what to do.

Darcy stepped forward. “Stay, Hurst!” The rotund gentleman turned around, looking like he was about to face a firing squad. “Mrs. Hurst,” Darcy addressed his friend’s sister, “tell me now. I demand it. How do you know this man, Monsieur le comte, Charbonnier, or whatever he called himself? Tell us.”

Mrs. Hurst went as red as Caroline was white. “He… he and my husband knew each other through the gaming tables.”

“Louisa!” her husband growled, but she would not be stopped.

“He owes… owed the count a great deal of money. I heard him talk about it. He was considering selling some of his family’s artwork to make up the amount. I am sorry, my love, but it would have come out. It has gone too far. Better they all know now.”

Mr. Hurst’s eyes bulged. “You cannot think I did this!”

The colonel swiveled about to scowl at him as Hurst protested his innocence in increasing volume.

Darcy returned to Elizabeth, who looked even more unsettled than before. “What think you, Miss Bennet? It seems too easy, although I am pleased no longer to be the duck at whom they are all drawing their aim. Still, I cannot see him resorting to such measures. And what of opportunity? Did you see if the men were drinking at their card game?”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “No. I cannot recall exactly, but I do not remember any glassware at the table. I believe the men were too concerned with their game to risk the influence of drink on their concentration. If it was Mr. Hurst, he did not do it then.”

“And if Wickham ran off during the game, he must have taken the poison before he sat down to play.”

“Then if it was not Mr. Hurst who introduced the poison, who did?”

7

The Clue

On the far side of the room, Caroline Bingley gave a low moan from her seat. “Louisa, help me upstairs.” Her sister helped her to her feet and the two moved toward the door, Caroline’s steps slow and unsteady. For a half a second Elizabeth contemplated offering her assistance, but she was far too engaged in the little mystery before them to wish to leave the room. And Mr. Darcy might need her help! He certainly needed her friendship right now.

The man himself stepped forward to take charge. Certainly, Sir William was doing nothing of the sort, seeming relieved to let the colonel and others command the scene.

“We should check his person for more clues,” Mr. Darcy suggested. “Some letter, perhaps, or some other suggestion of why he was dressed thus.”

Sir William nodded as if this were his very own idea and knelt to pat the dead man’s pockets. “Strange. There is something here.” He reached into the pocket and pulled out a necklace, diamonds and emeralds glinting in the glow of the chandelier above them.

Diamonds… and emeralds!

“Why, that is Caroline’s!” Mr. Bingley exclaimed. “It was a gift from our father, the last thing he gave her before he died. Caroline?”

Caroline and Louisa were almost at the door, and for a moment Elizabeth thought they would try to escape the room. But any reprieve would be short lived.

With an energy that belied her recent swoon, Caroline swung around and threw a ring-bedecked hand to her bare neck. “The thief! He stole my necklace! This was everything he deserved then.” She sent a scowl at the body which, if the man were still alive, might have killed him anew. Colonel Forster strode over to block the doorway.

Elizabeth’s eyes were not on the colonel, however, but on Caroline Bingley. Her ring matched exactly with the earrings she wore, and with the necklace that had moments before been in Mr. Wickham’s pocket. Could she really not have noticed it was missing? Surely such a loss would have been remarked upon and a hue and cry raised. Unless…

“Unless she herself had been the one who gave it to the man.” Elizabeth did not realize she had whispered the words out loud until Mr. Darcy nodded his agreement.

“I follow your thoughts, Miss Elizabeth. But did she give it to Mr. Wickham, or to the man she thought was the French count?”

Elizabeth contemplated Caroline once more, now wailing to her brother and Sir William about the scoundrel who had robbed her and demanding her necklace back. Caroline Bingley was young and very pretty, but she was also calculating and ambitious.

“Do you think…?” Mr. Darcy whispered to her. “Could it possibly be?”

It seemed that, despite their inauspicious beginnings, they were of one mind and very much in accord at this moment.

8

Laying a Trap

“You must be relieved the necklace was found, Miss Bingley.” Elizabeth moved towards the two Bingley sisters. “It would be a pity if it were separated from the ring and earrings. I have seldom seen such fine pieces. Might I have a closer look at your ring? It is simply splendid.”

Miss Bingley tucked her hand behind her. “Oh, it is a mere bauble, nothing of any real value. It is old and worn. Please, I must return to my rooms.”

Mr. Darcy appeared beside her now, with a look of satisfaction on his face. He really was very handsome, Elizabeth considered, especially when he was not acting so superior. Perhaps being a suspect, even for a moment, has been good for him.

“It is a very fine necklace,” Mr. Darcy commented, reaching over to take the piece from Sir William, who still held it with the tips of his fingers. Mr. Darcy peered at it and examined some of the stones. “It is so easy to substitute genuine emeralds with paste, but these are genuine, if I know my stones. My mother,” he announced to the room, “had an emerald set, and I was entranced by its beauty. I wonder if the ring is made the same as I remember hers being.

May I take a closer look, Miss Bingley?”

Miss Bingley shook her head so violently Elizabeth thought her hair would spring loose from its pins. She hid her hand behind her back.

But there was no way to refuse, and Miss Bingley knew it. Hesitantly, she raised her hand..

Mr. Darcy lifted Miss Bingley’s hand, holding it tenderly for a moment before bending over it. Was he going to kiss her hand? Elizabeth could not imagine what he was thinking, offering such a gesture now. But instead of bestowing a kiss, he Ricked his finger at some part of the jewel and the ring sprang open. He leaned over even further and sniffed.

“Bitter almond,” he intoned, almost as if he were commenting on a fine wine. “And I see some residual Rakes in the cavity. Mr. Jones, your expert opinion, if you will.”

As the apothecary came over to examine the scent, Miss Bingley tugged her hand away and backed herself against the wall. But she was trapped.

“Caroline?” There was no mirth at all in Mr. Bingley’s voice now. He sounded confused and utterly defeated.

“Charles, I… Oh, Charles!” She slid her back down the wall and buried her face in her hands as she dissolved into a torrent of tears.

Eventually she calmed enough to be brought back to the large chair where, between sobs, she told her story.

“I met him in London,” she sniffed, “at Louisa’s house. He said he had escaped the guillotine, but that his title was intact. I thought he loved me, and I dreamed of being a countess. All those little people who turn up their noses at our fortune because it comes from trade would now have to stand aside for me. Lady Caroline, the countess!”

For a moment, Elizabeth felt a pang of pity for this social-climbing woman.

“I learned about the debt Mr. Hurst owed to the count, and I hoped that when we were married, Antoine would forgive it, and I encouraged him even more. This is why I did not want to come to Hertfordshire, Charles!” She turned on her brother in anger. “You were taking me from Antoine! I had such hopes!”

“What happened, Miss Bingley?” Mr. Darcy’s voice was calm.

“I saw him. I saw him here. Oh, we did not associate with the officers, Louisa and I, but we were often in company in other homes. Oh, he could wear a red coat and look so very English without his beard and moustache, but he could not change his eyes, and I knew him at once.

“I thought, at first, that he was here in some social capacity, playing the part of an officer in the militia. He could not, of course, acknowledge me, and I kept my peace, thinking it only a matter of time before he came to me and confessed his true reason for being here.

“But then I heard Mr. Darcy warn Charles about him. About George Wickham! Mr. Darcy had known him all his life, and there could be no mistake, no other explanation. The man I thought was a French count was nothing but the son of a country steward. Pah!” She spat and her face went hard.

“But what happened, Caro? Why did you not tell me?” Mr. Bingley was almost crying.

“You would have taunted me and sent me to live with Aunt Alice in Scarborough for being taken in by such a man. I thought I could ignore him and pretend I did not know him at all, and that would be the end of it. You can only imagine my shock when he arrived tonight, dressed for all the world to know him as Antoine Charbonnier, Comte de Dorval. I saw him when he arrived and pulled him outside to have words and send him away. I threatened to reveal his duplicity.

“But he laughed at me. He dared me to tell Mr. Darcy that I had been courted by George Wickham! Oh, the shame! And further, he knew that my brother would demand an engagement, for the cad threatened to say we had… we had been intimate. He never cared for me at all. It was my dowry he wanted. Whether as Antoine Charbonnier or George Wickham, he wanted my twenty thousand pounds. I could not abide that. I would lose all social respectability, any chance of catching Mr. Darcy, and all hopes of happiness. I had to do something!

“I pleaded, I begged. At last I offered him my necklace if he would forgive Mr. Hurst’s debt and leave at once. A man could live a long time and very well on the proceeds. He agreed. But then he saw Mr. Hurst and I heard them discuss another game of cards.

“‘Dance with me, Caroline,’ he taunted me. ‘One last dance. For now, at least!’ I knew I had to do something quickly. And then I remembered the ring. I told him I had duties as hostess at the moment, but that I would stand up with him after the next set.” Her voice grew strong as she added, “I went to my rooms and put the poison in the cavity in the ring, to add to Mr. Wickham’s drink after our dance. I knew that he would forever be a thorn in my sister’s side. He was a rat and I would rid the world of him.”

“Wherever did you get the poison?” Mr. Phillips voiced his question.

“It was rat poison!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “You killed him with rat poison.” How fitting, really, to dispose of a rat thus. “There is always poison in the back stairwells; it is easy to find.”

Caroline glared at her, but said nothing more, not even as Sir William helped her to her feet and led her away.

“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth.” Mr. Darcy bowed his head. “Your clever observations solved this puzzle and saved me.”

“I could not see an innocent man be accused of such a terrible crime.”

“You believed me innocent? I have it on good authority that you did not like me.”

She smiled at him. “Appearances, as we have just seen, can be deceiving. You have always been honourable and forthright, even if we did not get off to the best start. I prided myself on my ability to sketch a man’s character, but now I see I have misjudged you.”

“And I, Miss Bennet, have underestimated you. You are clever and wise, and more than handsome enough to tempt me.”

She turned to him with a smile.

“Sadly, I believe there shall be no more dancing tonight, but perhaps I might pay a call at Longbourn tomorrow… to apprise the family of the outcome of tonight’s unfortunate events. If the weather is fine, would you walk with me?”

“I would be most pleased, sir.”

And arm in arm, they left the room with a new understanding.

The End

© 2021 Jennifer Joy and Riana Everly