His offer had, of course, not been enough, but in the end he had settled and had left the house as if it had been infected with the plague. And that had been the first of the large sums which it had been necessary to provide before George Wickham could be persuaded to marry Lydia Bennet.

Elizabeth, exhausted after the journey, retired to bed immediately after dinner. She was asleep when he came into the bedroom to join her, and he stood for some minutes quietly at her bedside, regarding with love her beautiful and peaceful face; for a few more hours at least she would be free of worry. Once in bed, he turned restlessly in search of a comfort which even the softness of the pillows could not provide, but at last felt himself drifting into sleep. 

3

Alveston had gone early from his lodgings to the Old Bailey and Darcy was on his own when, shortly before half-past ten, he passed through the imposing hall which led to the courtroom. His immediate impression was that he had entered a birdcage of chattering humanity set down in Bedlam. The case was not due to be called for thirty minutes but the first seats were already packed with a gossiping crowd of fashionably dressed women, while the back rows were rapidly filling. All London seemed to be here, the poor crammed together in noisy discomfort. Although Darcy had presented his summons to the official at the door, no one showed him where he should sit or, indeed, took the least notice of him. The day was warm for March and the air was becoming hot and humid, a sickening mixture of scent and unwashed bodies. Near the judge’s seat a group of lawyers stood talking together as casually as if in a drawing room. He saw that Alveston was among them and, catching Darcy’s eye, he came immediately over to greet him and to show him the seats reserved for witnesses.

He said, “The prosecution are calling only the colonel and you to testify to the finding of Denny’s body. There is the usual pressure of time and this judge gets impatient if the same evidence is repeated unnecessarily. I will stay close; we may get a chance to talk during the trial.”

And now the hubbub died, as if noise could be cut with a knife. The judge had entered the court. Judge Moberley carried his honours with confidence but he was not a handsome man and his small-featured face, in which only his dark eyes were prominent, was almost extinguished by a large full-bottomed wig, giving him, to Darcy, the look of an inquisitive animal peering out of its lair. Groups of conferring lawyers separated and reformed as they and the clerk took their appointed places and the jury filed into the seats reserved for them. Suddenly the prisoner, with a police officer on either side of him, was standing in the dock. Darcy was shocked by his appearance. He was thinner, despite the food that had been regularly provided from outside, and his taut face was pale, less, Darcy thought, from the ordeal of the moment than from the long months in prison. Gazing at him Darcy was hardly aware of the preliminaries of the trial, the reading of the indictment in a clear voice, the selection of the jury and the administration of the oath. In the dock Wickham stood stiffly upright and, when asked how he pleaded to the charge, spoke the words “Not guilty” in a firm voice. And even now, in fetters and pale, he was still handsome.

And then Darcy saw a familiar face. She must have bribed someone to keep her seat in the front row among the female spectators, and she had taken it quickly and silently. She now sat there, hardly moving, among the flutter of fans and the rise and fall of the fashionable headdresses. At first glance he saw only her profile, but then she turned her face and, although their eyes met without acknowledgement, he had little doubt that she was Mrs Younge; even that initial glimpse at her profile had been enough.

He was determined not to catch her eye but peering from time to time across the courtroom he could see that she was expensively dressed, with an elegance and simplicity at odds with the gaudy ostentation around her. Her hat, trimmed with purple and green ribbons, framed a face which seemed as youthful as when they had first met. So had she been dressed when he and Colonel Fitzwilliam had invited her to Pemberley to be interviewed for the post of Georgiana’s companion, presenting before the two young men the picture of a well-spoken, reliable and well-born gentlewoman, deeply sympathetic to the young and aware of the responsibilities which would fall upon her. It had been different, but not so very different, when he had run her to ground in that respectable house in Marylebone. He wondered what power held her and Wickham together, strong enough to make her part of the audience of women who found entertainment in seeing a human being fight for his life. 

4

Now, as the counsel for the prosecution was due to deliver his opening speech, Darcy saw that there was a change in Mrs Younge. She still sat upright, but was staring at the dock with an intensity and concentration of gaze, as if by silence and a meeting of their eyes, she could convey to the prisoner a message, perhaps of hope or of endurance. It lasted for a few seconds only, but it was a moment of time in which, for Darcy, the panoply of the court, the scarlet of the judge, the bright colours of the spectators, no longer existed and he was aware only of those two people and their absorption in each other.

“Gentlemen of the jury, the case before you is singularly distressing for us all, the brutal murder by a former army officer of his friend and erstwhile comrade. Although much of what happened will remain a mystery since the only person who can testify is the victim, the salient facts are plain and beyond conjecture, and will be put before you in evidence. The defendant, accompanied by Captain Denny and by Mrs Wickham, left the Green Man in Pemberley village, Derbyshire, at about nine o’clock on Friday 14th October to drive through the woodland path to Pemberley House where Mrs Wickham would spend the night and some indefinite period while her husband and Captain Denny were driven to the King’s Arms at Lambton. You will hear evidence of a quarrel between the defendant and Captain Denny while they were at the inn, and of the words spoken by Captain Denny as he left the chaise and ran into the woodland. Wickham then followed him. Gunshots were heard, and when Wickham did not return a distraught Mrs Wickham was driven to Pemberley and a rescue expedition was mounted. You will hear evidence of the finding of the body by two witnesses who vividly recall this significant moment. The defendant, bloodstained, was kneeling beside his victim and twice in the clearest words confessed that he had murdered his friend. Among much that is perhaps unclear and mysterious about this case, that fact stands at its heart; there was a confession and it was repeated and, I suggest to you, was clearly understood. The rescue party did not pursue any other potential murderer, Mr Darcy was careful to keep Wickham under guard and immediately to call the magistrate, and despite an extensive and most conscientious search there is no evidence that any stranger was in the woodland that night. The people in Woodland Cottage, an elderly woman, her daughter and a man on the point of death, could not possibly have wielded the kind of heavy stone slab which is thought to have made the fatal wound. You will hear evidence that stones of this type can be found in the woodland, and Wickham, who was familiar with these woods from childhood, would have known where to look.

“This was a particularly vicious crime. A medical man will confirm that the blow to the forehead merely disabled the victim and was followed by a lethal attack, made when Captain Denny, blinded by blood, was attempting to escape. It is difficult to imagine a more cowardly and atrocious murder. Captain Denny cannot be brought back to life but he can have justice and I am confident that you, gentlemen of the jury, will have no hesitation in delivering a verdict of guilty. I shall now call the first of the witnesses for the prosecution.” 

5

There was a bellow – “Nathaniel Piggott” – and almost immediately the innkeeper of the Green Man took his place in the witness box and, holding the Testament aloft with some ceremony, pronounced the oath. He was carefully dressed in his Sunday suit in which he habitually appeared in church, but it was worn with the confidence of a man who feels at ease in his clothes, and he stood for a minute deliberately surveying the jury with the appraising look of one faced with unpromising candidates for a vacancy at the inn. Lastly he fixed his gaze on the prosecuting counsel as if confident to deal with anything that Sir Simon Cartwright could throw at him. As requested, he gave his name and address: “Nathaniel Piggott, innkeeper of the Green Man, Pemberley village, Derbyshire.”

His evidence was straightforward and took very little time. In reply to the counsel for the prosecution’s questions, he told the court that George Wickham, Mrs Wickham and the late Captain Denny had arrived at the inn on Friday 14th October last by hack-chaise. Mr Wickham had ordered some food and wine and a chaise to take Mrs Wickham to Pemberley later that night. Mrs Wickham had told him when he was showing the party into the bar that she was going to spend the night at Pemberley to attend Lady Anne’s ball the next day. “She seemed right excited.” In reply to further questions, he said that Mr Wickham had told him that after calling at Pemberley he required the chaise to continue to the King’s Arms at Lambton where he and Captain Denny would stay the night and, next morning, would be taking the London stage.

Mr Cartwright said, “So there was no suggestion at that time that Mr Wickham should also stay at Pemberley?”

“Not that I heard, sir, it wasn’t to be expected. Mr Wickham, as some of us know, is never received at Pemberley.”

There was a murmur in the court. Instinctively Darcy stiffened in his seat. They were venturing earlier than he had expected on dangerous ground. He kept his eyes on the prosecuting counsel but knew that those of the jury were fixed on him. But after a pause Simon Cartwright changed tack. “Did Mr Wickham pay you for the food and wine, and for the hire of the chaise?”

“He did, sir, while they were in the bar. Captain Denny said to Mr Wickham, “It’s your show, you will have to pay. I have only enough to last me in London.” ”

“Did you see them leave in the chaise?”

“I did sir. It was about eight forty-five of the clock.”

“And when they set out, did you notice what humour they were in, the relationship between the two gentlemen?”

“I can’t say that I noticed, sir. I was giving instructions to Pratt, the coachman. The lady was warning him to be careful putting her trunk into the chaise because it held her dress for the ball. I could see that Captain Denny was very quiet like he was when they was drinking in the inn.”

“Had either gentleman been drinking heavily?”

“Captain Denny only drank ale and no more than a pint. Mr Wickham had a couple of pints and then went on to whisky. By the time they set off he was red of face and none too steady on his feet, but he spoke clear enough, although loud, and got into the chaise without help.”

“Did you hear any conversation between them when they got into the chaise?”

“No sir, none as far as I remember. It was Mrs Piggott that heard the gentlemen quarrelling, as she told me, but that was earlier.”

“We shall be hearing from your wife. That is all I have to ask you, Mr Piggott, you may stand down unless Mr Mickledore has anything to ask you.”

Nathaniel Piggott turned to face the defence counsel with confidence, as Mr Mickledore rose. “So neither gentleman was in a mood for conversation. Did you get the impression that they were content to be travelling together?”

“They never said they weren’t, sir, and there was no argumenting between them when they set out on the journey.”

“No sign of a quarrel?”

“None sir, that I noticed.”

There was no further cross-examination and Nathaniel Piggott left with the satisfied air of a man who is confident he has made a favourable impression.

Martha Piggott was then called and there was a small commotion in the far corner of the courtroom where a stout little woman disentangled herself from a crowd of supporters murmuring encouragement and strutted her way to the stand. She was wearing a hat heavily trimmed with crisp pink ribbons which looked new, bought no doubt as a tribute to the importance of the occasion. It would have been more impressive had it not sat atop a bush of bright yellow hair and from time to time she touched it as if unsure whether it was still on her head. She fixed her eyes on the judge until the prosecuting counsel rose to address her, after bestowing on him an encouraging nod. She gave her name and address and took the oath in a clear voice and confirmed her husband’s account of the arrival of the Wickhams and Captain Denny.