Chapter Eight

Several hours earlier Darcy and Bingley were enjoying a light nuncheon with the officers and Sir William in the private parlor of the Red Lion. The conversation was agreeable enough, though the young gentlemen were a bit rambunctious for Darcy’s taste. Bingley was enthralled by the tales of audacious exploits from the subalterns, though he privately doubted their complete authenticity. Sir William spent half the meal looking for acquaintances from his days in uniform that might be shared with the more senior officers and, finding none, spent the other half commiserating on the hardships common to all military men. The militia regiment was raised in Derbyshire and Darcy was familiar with some of the families represented. His father and Colonel Forster had been acquainted some years before, though Darcy had never met the man prior to their common arrival in Hertfordshire.

At around a quarter before one o’clock, a young man in the uniform of a private soldier came breathless into the room. He passed a whispered message to Captain Carter, who in turn desired a moment of the Colonel’s time.

“Sir! There has been an attack on the road to Hatfield. Mr. William Goulding is murdered.” Captain Carter reported excitedly.

“What!” “How?” and other exclamations and less savory expostulations filled the room.

“Major, have the lieutenants prepare the men for patrols. Captain Carter, please take me to the attack site. Captain Hawthorne, Sir William if you will accompany me.”

“We shall accompany you as well,” Darcy interjected. The Colonel considered him for a moment then nodded his acquiescence.

Eschewing their horses, the group walked quickly to the grisly scene. Darcy had seen worse. There was only one man and his mount lying dead by the side of the road. The harsh smell of burnt flesh and the copper tang of spilt blood was deadened only somewhat by the light rain. Captain Hawthorne, the regimental surgeon, moved to examine the young man’s body.

“Three shots, two to the upper thorax and one to the left leg. He also has severe burns on his left arm, shoulder, neck, and face.” The surgeon pointed to each wound as he cataloged them.

“His horse has been burned as well, but it looks odd,” Captain Carter observed.

“That is an electrical burn,” Darcy explained.

“But there’s been no lightning?” Bingley questioned. His countenance was noticeably ashen as he assiduously avoided looking too closely at the macabre tableau. Darcy thought this might be his friend’s first experience of bloody death.

“This is not natural. It is an elemental attack.” Darcy stated. “This was the work of gifted assailants.”

“We should send for Mr. Jones … and for Mr. Goulding,” Sir William said, his face as somber as Darcy had ever seen it. “Poor lad.” The private soldier was once again sent to Meryton, this time to fetch the apothecary who had treated the deceased for most of his tragically truncated life.

Darcy began examining the scene, looking for evidence of the attackers. He suspected there was more than one. The differing types of powers used, as well as the number of shots fired, made it highly unlikely that a single assassin could have executed the assault.

The attack had taken place on a narrow lane crowded on one side by trees and thick undergrowth and on the other by a low stone fence separating the lane from fallow fields. He found the burnt remnants of several paper cartridges in the grass on the lane side of the fence. The thick wet growth made it hard to find specific tracks, though there was evidence of several people waiting in ambush.

Before he could investigate too deeply, the private soldier returned with a most distressing report. Miss Bennet had been attacked on her way to Netherfield and the apothecary had gone to treat her.

“We must return!” Bingley demanded. Only Darcy’s firm grip on his arm prevented him from racing away on his own.

“Two attacks in as many hours. This may be something more than highwaymen.” Colonel Forster said.

“I agree,” Darcy replied. “We’ll go to Netherfield and find out what has happened. If it is possibly related, we will send word.”

“In the meanwhile,” Colonel Forster continued, “I fear we must raise a general alarm. Sir William, please write out notes to all the landed families. My men will deliver them. Tell them to secure their properties, but to hold fast. We’ll search the roads. Mr. Bingley, may I suggest you take my surgeon with you. He’s likely more familiar with this sort of attack,” He gestured vaguely to the deceased gentleman. “… than your local fellow.”

“An excellent idea,” Darcy said. “Thank you. With your permission Captain, I will fly you to the house. Bingley, we’ll fly close to the ground. Please escort us. It is safer to travel in company.”

Bingley agreed, and they set off, covering the distance in mere minutes. Upon their arrival Darcy was shocked to discover Miss Elizabeth already present. He had considered the wisdom of requesting her presence for her healing ability, but had decided to await the prognoses of the medical men.

After seeing to Miss Bennet’s immediate needs, Darcy had prevailed upon Bingley to inform both the mayor and regimental commander of the events at Netherfield. His young friend was unhappy to leave with his guest in such straits, but Darcy was able to convince him that all relevant authorities had to be alerted and informed. They could then send further word to the neighborhood.

“But I could reach all the estates in the area more quickly than Sir William or Colonel Forster.”

“That’s true. But you are new to the neighborhood and your warning might carry less weight than that of one their own. Colonel Forster is even less known to the area, but his uniform and position lend him additional credence.” Darcy grasped his friend’s shoulder gently. “Ultimately your responsibilities lie with your own estate. It is the duty of the chief magistrate and the militia to inform and protect the larger population.”

“But …”

“Charles, go now. Once you have informed them, come back. If they need more assistance, I will go when you have returned.”

“Very well.” The young man, armed with a saber and brace of loaded pistols, speed away into the rain. Darcy used his enhanced vision to scan the edge of the trees and the far-flung fields. There were people out there, but none that looked particularly suspicious.

Inside, Bingley’s sisters and Mr. Hurst were sheltering in the parlor, fortifying their courage with French brandy, despite the early hour. Darcy winced inwardly as he knew that inebriation was anathema to the sort of clear headed think that the current crisis required.

“It must be the French,” Miss Bingley argued. “They’ve begun their invasion and mean to see us all beheaded, or worse.” The last was uttered in such portentous tones that her sister uttered a small shriek of fright.

“Mr. Darcy!” the younger sister cried when she noticed his entrance. She surged somewhat unsteadily to her feet and flung herself towards him. He managed to catch her by the arms before she could clutch him in a most unseemly fashion. He led her back to her seat.

“Be at ease, Miss Bingley. While the situation is yet grave, there is no reason to suspect that it is the French. Our Navy yet protects our shores. Rather it is more likely that a highwayman or brigand set upon our guest. A danger, to be sure. But not a catastrophe.” He yet kept from the ladies that Miss Bennet had not been the only attack in the neighborhood, nor the worst.

He turned to Mrs. Hurst, who seems somewhat more rational and asked to be apprised of her recollection of the events that led to Miss Bennet’s presence at Netherfield.

“We had invited her to visit for the day, after you and Charles had departed for the militia headquarters. We sent a man with a note, and he returned with her acceptance.” Mrs. Hurst began. She was warming to the task, as she seldom was given the opportunity to tell a tale with her sister present.

And so it proved on this occasion as well. As Miss Bingley could not relish losing the limelight in any social situation, especially she would not forgo an opportunity to bask in Mr. Darcy’s attention and favor; she interrupted her sister’s recitation. “We expected her to travel in a carriage, like any civilized person might. Especially as it seemed likely to rain. I mean, even a family as poor as the Bennets must have a carriage at their disposal, as outmoded as their conveyance may be. Instead she chose to travel on horseback. Alone and in the rain.”

“Where and how was she attacked?” Darcy knew Miss Bingley could continue her animadversions almost indefinitely and he needed to discern the facts of the case.

“We know not,” Mrs. Hurst interrupted. “She arrived bleeding and barely conscious. How she managed to maintain her faculties in such a condition I cannot imagine. Once she was in sight of the house, she collapsed from her horse. It stopped and stood over her like a sentinel. I wondered if it would let the footmen approach her to bring her into the house.”

“What time was this?”

“It must have been at half past twelve?” Mrs. Hurst suggested.

“Perhaps a bit later; almost one,” Miss Bingley disagreed, not to be out done. “From her reply to our note, we expected her between twelve and half past.”

“Thank you, ladies. I must excuse myself. I encourage you to find some way to pass the time productively. It is likely that dinner will be delayed or curtailed this evening. Perhaps you can make provisions for such an eventuality.” With that, he left the room and made his way to the temporary sickroom.

He stopped to question the housekeeper, who had positioned herself in a chair across the hall from the door. “Mrs. Weaver, have you any word as to the progress of the surgery?”

“Miss Elizabeth came out a little while ago to dispose of the used water and to ask for more clean ewers to be brought. She said the surgery was a success, but that Miss Bennet is far from recovered. It’s the lightning, I heard Mr. Jones say. It has injured her insides something fierce.”

“Is there anything they need, other than more water?”

“I know of nothing.”

“Very well. We appreciate your efforts in this matter.” The older woman blushed slightly at the gentleman’s praise. “Please keep me informed of any requests or reports.”

Afterwards Darcy made his way to his apartments. His valet, Prentis, was brushing off the protective clothes he occasionally wore when investigating in the country. Buckskin trousers, double breasted leather waistcoat and a heavy coat of dark green. There was a harness for four pistols, a broad bladed knife and a small sword. There was a case of small bottles and envelopes for collecting evidence and some bandages for any wounds. In his many pockets, he carried his warrant as crown magistrate, a tinderbox, candle stubs, cord, various useful tools, and a pencil and paper for notes.

“Will you be needing this, sir?” Prentis inquired.

“Perhaps, but not quite yet. Thank you for your forethought.”

“Best to be prepared.” The valet’s aphorism was as well-worn as it was true.

“Please let me know when either Miss Elizabeth or the medical fellows emerge from the room, Mr. Bingley returns, or we have another visitor. I need to make some notes.” Darcy expected that Mr. Bennet might visit to see to his two daughters. On the other hand, that would leave the rest of his family unprotected. Whether or not he came would likely depend on how much he trusted his wife to secure their home versus how well he expected his second eldest daughter to deal with the attack. It was an unenviable position for the man,, but given that he had made Miss Elizabeth his sheriff, Darcy felt it was unlikely they would see him this evening.

That proved to be the case. Prentis alerted him upon Bingley’s return. “Any news, Charles?”

“Nothing new. How is Miss Bennet?”

“Nothing new.”

That afternoon Darcy had patrolled the surrounding environs. From the air he could see fewer people than he might expect. And many of those were farmers and their families standing guard over flocks and homes with whatever makeshift weapons they might lay their hands upon. He found no sign of further attacks, or the attackers.