The man I spoke of before, the insurance investigator named Smithson, was discovered stabbed this afternoon by Miss Elizabeth. He succumbed to his injuries as she held pressure onhis wound while calling for help. Fortunately, Bingley and I were nearby and were able to come to her aide.
During the magistrate’s interview, Miss Elizabeth shared the man’s final words: “Tell the raven it was the crow”…or perhaps it was falcon or vulture. I cannot quite remember. Odd, is it not? It put me to mind of the summer you became obsessed with ravens, claiming they were the most cunning of all the birds. Perhaps the knowledge you gained that summer could be of use in interpreting what the man was attempting to say?
Given the gravity of the situation, I am sending this letter via express courier in the hope that it reaches you with all due haste.
Yours sincerely,
Darcy
Sealing the letter with his personal crest, Darcy rang for Bates. “Send this posthaste with the fastest rider we have. It needs to be delivered to Colonel Fitzwilliam tonight.”
“Very well, sir.”
As Bates began to leave through the dressing room, he paused. “Sir… is it true… was someone actually found murdered.”
Darcy closed his eyes. “Yes, Bates, I am afraid it is true.”
“And no one knows who did it?”
“That is correct.”
“The servants are nervous, sir,” Bates said. “What shall I tell them?”
“Tell them everything is being done to apprehend the culprit.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And Bates?”
The valet paused again. “Yes, sir?”
“If you hear anything of use, anything at all, do not hesitate to tell me about it. If someone feels too afraid to speak with me, assure them of my discretion and generosity.”
“Of course, sir.”
The door closed behind Bates, and Darcy let out a sigh of relief.Alone at last. What a terrible day this has been.
He leaned against the edge of the writing desk, the chill of the windowpane brushing against his back. The dying light outside cast long shadows across the room, and for a moment, he let himself close his eyes.
He could still hear her scream.
It had sliced through the quiet like a knife. For that brief, horrible moment, he had feared the very worst—that she was lost, that she had been attacked, that he had been too slow to help.
Then they found her, kneeling in the dirt, dress soaked with blood. Her face had been pale and drawn, her voice hoarse from her cries for help.
She had said that she was unharmed, but when she had fainted, he became terrified that some of the blood was hers after all, that she, too was wounded and dying.
He could still feel the shape of her in his arms as he carried her back to Longbourn, the world blurring around them, every step sharpened by the dread that she would not wake.
He had imagined her gone. It was not a thought he had ever consciously allowed before—never dared to entertain—but inthose harrowing minutes, he could not stop himself from seeing a world without her in it.
It was unbearable.
That absence, even imagined, had torn something open in him. Even now, he felt an ache in his chest at the danger she had been in.
He pressed a fist to his mouth, trying to contain the rise of emotion, but the questions came flooding through his mind.
What if Bingley and I had not gone riding?
