Free The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy by Regina Jeffers

she turned once more toward the door. “If you had had a mind to do so, you would have made a fine London rake, my husband. You manage to turn every conversation to your benefit,” she teased. Elizabeth presented him with a brief curtsy. “I shall return momentarily. Order tea, Fitzwilliam.”
    Looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread, Darcy sighed contentedly. It was very vexatious how much he required her in his life. Now that Elizabeth had placed herself under his protection, Darcy was inclined to credit what she wished. “When she is happy, my days are favorable to tenderness and sentiment.”

    â€œIt was a most unusual case,” Mr. Glover shared. The surgeon was a younger man than Darcy had expected, likely in his late thirties or early forties. “Your cousin’s body showed early signs of deterioration. After all, Samuel had lain on a woodedpath for many hours before one of Stowbridge’s footmen found him. It was prudent to see to Samuel’s services as quickly as possible.” Glover presented Darcy and Elizabeth the branch without a bark. “Per the late Mr. Darcy’s instructions, his man prepared your cousin’s body, but Mr. Williamson refused to allow Mr. Crescent to practice the uncivilized arts the man learned in Egypt. They are too primitive by English standards. The good Christians in this community would have no man’s body mutilated, even at the gentleman’s final wishes,” he said pompously.
    Sorrow and horror clouded Darcy’s countenance. He protested, “If my cousin’s last wishes were to have his body mummified in the ancient arts he had studied, then I do not understand how others presumed to choose otherwise.”
    Glover shot a quick glance of concern at Elizabeth, but he described the Egyptian process nevertheless. “Christians consider the practice barbarous, Mr. Darcy. No Englishman would tolerate such tomfoolery,” he declared in repugnance. “As a surgeon, I am not unaccustomed to cutting into the human body, but most Christians believe that God never intended for a man to have his lungs, liver, stomach, and intestines removed and placed in a jar. Nor would any in Wimborne permit a man’s brain to be violently ripped from his skull.”
    Darcy tightened his grasp on Elizabeth’s hand, but his wife did not appear squeamish. On the contrary, her countenance reflected her genuine interest in what Glover had said. “I understand how a person might find the possibilities appalling,” Darcy said evenly. “Yet, I am equally aghast that Cousin Samuel’s last wishes were ignored. What I know of Samuel Darcy says he would not have made such a choice without careful analysis. If Samuel came to a difficult decision regarding his resting state, I would have been inclined to honor it.”
    Glover apparently was not one to admit an injury or a weakness, for he said, “What was or was not addressed cannot be undone. Samuel’s body had obviously served him well in this world, and as we have no idea what became of him, we must follow the example set by Mr. Williamson’s parishioners and simply pray for your cousin’s eternal soul.”
    Darcy bit back his retort. “Do you have a theory as to what happened the night the Rom was killed?”
    â€œI examined Besnik Gry after the explosion. Mr. Gry likely died immediately. The gunpowder blew away part of the man’s countenance and left a gaping hole in Gry’s chest,” Glover reported. The surgeon shifted his gaze to where Darcy studied him. News of an explosion a revelation. “By the time of my arrival, Mr. Gry had expired, and the villagers had whisked his contact to the Wimborne gaol.”
    Darcy’s dark eyes were troubled. He was never at ease when a puzzle required solving. “I was led to believe only Besnik