Page 11 of A Debt Inherited

“It was a note of direction, sir.”

“For whom?”

He could not lie. “For Ashby.”

The Owl’s gaze did not waver. “The same Lord Ashby whose name now stands in the Dean’s prayers.”

A silence spread. Even the Mole’s pen faltered.

“You speak as of the dead.”

“We do,” said the Owl. “Lord Ashby’s carriage was found overturned beyond Stamford.”

The words struck without motion, without pity.

Bennet’s mouth dried. He looked from one to another.

“Beg pardon, Vice-Chancellor,” said the Bull, turning slightly towards the shadowed end of the chamber. “Mr Shale is present from the Borough Court. The constables made their return this morning.”

A stocky man stepped forward, hat in hand. The smell of wet leather and horse clung to him. His coat was spattered with mud to the knees.

“Speak plainly, Mr Shale,” said the Owl. “We require fact, not flourish.”

“Yes, sir.” Shale bowed stiffly and opened a folded paper. His voice carried the rasp of the road. “The post-boy at the Swan and Trumpet reports that the chaise passed Stamford near midnight. It was later found overturned by the toll bridge. The strongbox rifled. The gentleman—Lord Ashby—had been struck about the head with a blunt instrument. Death likely instant.”

Bennet felt his stomach tighten. Instant. There was mercy in that word.

Shale cleared his throat. “The young lady—Miss Pember—had been carried some yards from the road. There were signs of violence upon her person and in the grass.”

“Enough,” said the Owl sharply.

The man lowered his eyes. “The physician from Stamford found injuries consistent with ravishment before death. He sets the time no later than the second hour past midnight.”

“This is not the assizes,” the Owl said, his tone edged now with steel. “You will confine yourself to circumstance, not outrage.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Owl’s voice softened. “You comprehend the gravity, Mr Bennet?”

His own paper lay before him, that neat line from Cambridge to Stamford. He thought of Ashby’s laugh in the quadrangle, Miss Pember’s hand upon the carriage rail, the quick tilt of her head when she smiled.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I comprehend.”

The Owl regarded him a moment longer, then drew himself upright. “That will suffice, Mr Shale. You may withdraw.”

The constable bowed and stepped back into shadow.

The Vice-Chancellor’s gaze returned to Bennet. “This court recognises,” he began, “that misfortune has visited more than one household. It does not sit to avenge grief. It sits to preserve the honour of the University.”

He folded his hands.

“The events laid before us are grave. Your hand, Mr Bennet, has been found among the instruments by which they were enabled. You are therefore called to account.”

Bennet felt the weight of every syllable. Your hand. He had written the directions with perfect clarity, meaning only to help a friend. Now that clarity stood against him.

Against him alone.

Fitzwilliam’s father was an earl. Darcy’s was the richest man in the northern counties. Privilege drew its own curtain: thick enough to keep them safe, thin enough that Bennet could still see their silhouettes beyond it.