It was something that Darcyhadconsidered, though he had not thought of it in any detail. The situation had now changed, because in a few months, there would be another heir of the property, not that an assailant would know of it. Darcy hesitatedto speak of it, as it was a private matter between Elizabeth and himself, but Fitzwilliam was a trusted ally, one he knew would act in their best interests. Thus, Darcy determined to inform him.
“There is a development on that front, for Elizabeth told me just the other day that she suspects she is with child.”
Fitzwilliam’s mien softened for just an instant. “That is excellent news, Darcy, and I congratulate you. All the more reason to unravel this, for in time she will become a target too.”
“What do you propose?”
“That we question the stable hands. They may lead us to some piece of evidence we have not considered.”
With a nod, Darcy rose, and they exited the room together. That this was likely futile, he did not consider for a moment, even though the event was almost half a year in the past.
They reached the stables, and a man there led them to the lead hand, a rugged man of about fifty, short-cropped gray hair, a scruffy beard, and a scar running up the side of his face from the edge of his jawline to his ear from a horse’s hoof or shoe. The man greeted them with respect, though his voice contained a natural gruffness that was not at all intended as an insult.
Upon questioning, the man considered the events of that day and answered, but he revealed nothing they did not already know. “Mr. Darcy was already dead by the time we reached him. Neck broken from the fall.”
“Was there any sign of what might have caused it?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“No, there was not, and that was the troubling part.”
The hand turned and led them to a stall not far away where a tall white stallion was stabled. The animal whickered at the sight of them, nosing Darcy’s outstretched hand for a treat he did not possess. Darcy made a mental note to bring a carrot or apple when next he visited.
“Zeus here is spirited, but he does not spook easily. Mr. Darcy rode him since he was a young man, for perhaps ten years. He knew the master, and the master knew him. It made no sense for him to throw the master, for once I even saw him do nothing more than sidestep an adder when I was riding him for exercise.”
Fitzwilliam considered this for a moment. “Was there anything amiss with the saddle? No cut straps or the like?”
The man shot him a look of surprise, but recovered at once. “There was nothing amiss, Colonel Fitzwilliam. The saddle is one Mr. Darcy’s father gave him, not long before he passed away. You can inspect it if you wish; it has not been used since the accident. Stowed away in a hurry, as I recall, given the events of the day.”
At Fitzwilliam’s nod, the man showed them to where the riding equipment was stored, bridles and saddles mixed with spurs, blinders, and other such articles an equestrian would find useful. The saddle in question was a fine piece made of supple leather, stitched with sturdy thread, not ornate, but the work of a man who knew his business. The buckles showed nothing of wear, the straps all appearing in good order with no wear that might show a pending problem.
“There is nothing at all,” muttered Fitzwilliam to himself, as he inspected the piece.
Then he grasped it and turned it over, the blood draining from his face as his eyes alighted on something.
“Darcy, look here,” said Fitzwilliam, his voice a little shaky.
Stepping closer, Darcy looked where Fitzwilliam was pointing. On the underside of the saddle near where the rider’s right leg would rest were the prickly remains of some hard vegetation, brittle and crumbling, but there all the same. Understanding flooded Darcy at once, and he gaped at Fitzwilliam, as the enormity of what they had discovered became apparent to him. Someone had put burrs under the saddle, theremains of which were still distinct even six months after the event.
The evidence now suggested that someone had murdered Jameson Darcy, the previous master of Pemberley.
Chapter XXXVI
“My cousin’s death was not an accident,” murmured Fitzwilliam, unable to keep the shock from his voice.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam!” exclaimed the lead hand, his shocked eyes wide. “No one at Pemberley would lift a hand against the master! We all respected him, and he treated us with honor.”
With a visible effort, Fitzwilliam tamped down on his emotions. “Do not concern yourself, for I was not accusing anyone. Could someone have entered to do this without your men seeing them? Could it have been done by someone not employed here, yet known to you?”
The man frowned. “There are always men going in and out of the building. During the day, I would say it is nigh impossible.”
“Were there any visitors to the estate that day or in the preceding days?”
For a moment, the man did not respond, then his eyes widened, and he stared at Fitzwilliam. “As I recall, therewasa visitor that very morning. Mr. Wickham came to Pemberley to speak to the master and came out soon after with a face like a thundercloud.”
“Wickham!” spat Fitzwilliam. “Was he alone in the stables at all?”
The man blew out a heavy breath. “Not long, but when he returned from the house, he spurned any suggestion that we would fetch his horse. I cannot say there was no one else in the stables, but it is possible.”
“Keep this silent,” instructed Fitzwilliam. “At present, there is no proof, and I do not wish to spread rumors.”
