Page 92 of The Lost Prophecy

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. “Calmet.”

“The volume was open on the desk. I interpreted its presence as providential guidance.”

Mr Darcy walked nearer to the corpse but did not touch it. “You concealed the point under the brass ferrule.”

Fletcher spoke without turning from the service door. “I observed the join in the ferrule when Mr Collins surrendered his hat, sir.”

Mr Darcy turned to him. “And you permitted it.”

“I did, sir. The gentleman was to stand between Miss Elizabeth and a vampire. It seemed unkind to disarm him.”

“My injured toe permitted me to retain the stick,” Mr Collins offered.

“Your toe is not injured.”

“No.” Mr Collins folded his bloodstained hands. “I regret the deception, although subsequent events have justified it.”

Mr Hurst moved forward and offered a formal bow. “Mr Collins, I withdraw several objections to your character.”

“Only several?”

“We have known each other for less than a fortnight. Allow the friendship to develop naturally.” Mr Hurst surveyed the clergyman with fresh attention. “You were furnished with a watchword, Mr Collins. I listened for it throughout the evening. It never came.”

Mr Collins straightened in the chair. “There was insufficient time for Lady Catherine, sir. The circumstances required brevity.”

“Her name comes more often than your own, and on the single occasion it was actually wanted, you economised.”

“I shall confess the omission when I next write to her.” Mr Collins regarded the corpse. “Although the letter may present certain difficulties of composition.”

The service door opened. Two servants entered carrying a long storage chest between them. Neither reacted visibly to the corpse, the stake, or the clergyman sitting beside Charlotte, which suggested that Fletcher had selected them for qualities extending beyond strength.

Fletcher locked the door before directing the servants to place the chest near Mr Wickham. Heavy linen was spread on the floor. Mr Hurst assisted in rolling the remains from the carpet, careful not to disturb the stake or the residue gathered around it.

The corpse no longer had enough weight to require three men. Its limbs folded inside the cloth, the scarlet uniform collapsing around dry bones and hardened skin. One brass button broke free and rolled to the punch bowl.

The bowl trapped it under its rim.

Fletcher extended one hand. “Release it.”

The bowl remained still.

“The button is required as evidence.”

It tilted away from him.

Elizabeth crouched beside it. “You cannot keep pieces of everyone you defeat.”

The bowl lifted enough for her to retrieve the button. Fletcher accepted it, placed it with Mr Wickham’s personal seal and returned to the chest.

A smear of dark blood marked the bowl’s rim. Fletcher produced a cloth and attempted to clean it. The bowl shuddered, rolled backwards, and struck his shoe.

“I shall attend to it,” Elizabeth offered.

“It should be cleaned before the blood dries.”

Elizabeth wiped the silver herself. The bowl submitted at once, rocking gently against her hand while Fletcher watched with professional disapproval.

The servants closed the chest. Fletcher secured its fastenings and directed them through the service passage to the cellar. He covered the stained section of the carpet with another length of linen. “The carpet cannot be removed until the guests depart. This room will remain locked. Mr Wickham’s coat, hat, and gloves will be taken from the vestibule, and a groom will return his horse to Meryton after midnight.”