The ballroom's occupants spilled out onto Meryton's main thoroughfare that ran in front of the inn that housed the assembly rooms. The chaise and four, certainly the finest carriage of anyone's in attendance, still stood parked in the space closest to the door. The horses had not been removed from the carriage, and everything stood at the ready, as though in preparation for the owners to make a fast getaway. Except that the coach's driver, the reins still in hand, dressed in the finest of livery, providing even more of a contrast of elegance than the Netherfield party itself, dressed so finely in fact, that his appearance bordered on satire, sat listing over on the bench, his head lolling. Blood poured freely from his neck, the man's throat had been slashed open. The flow of blood, which seemed never-ending was silent, as the red rivulets ran onto the bench, and spilled noiselessly into the dirt, where it pooled faster than in it could seep into the dry dust.
Had there been a victim's cry at the attack, or a gurgle as the first blood spilled forth, that was past, for all was silent now. But the arrival on the scene of the ball-goers, did follow so closely on the heels of the event that everyone, from the merrymakers in the street who had been displaced from the Inn's pub, to footmen and stablemen waiting at the ready, all stood in perfect silence and stillness, all eyes fixed on the tableau the macabre chaise and four presented. The only sound that had been thus far presented was the scream of the scullery maid who had stepped into the street to empty a basin of cleaning water, and presumably been the first to become aware of the grisly scene, besides the driver and his killer. It was her single night-rending scream which had alerted the finer people of Meryton to some commotion and led their exodus from the ballroom. She now was still and silent too, in a half-faint, being only part held up by two grooms who were paying more mind to the macabre vision than the woman they had seemed in the process of assisting.
In fact for that brief moment between when those who were in attendance at the ball standing closest to the door stood in the street, quietly taking in the coachman's violent death, before the second wave of Meryton's more successful stepped out, it might have seemed to be an otherworldly sort of stillness. That is except for the four horses, as one would occasionally shake his head, another let out a soft neigh, providing those few moments with the only sound and movement. Of this, Darcy took quick note. The horses stood neither at attention nor in disregard. They were in the posture of calm waiting that any well trained carriage horse would assume when hitched onto a chaise at the ready, completely unaware that they were without a driver, or any other sort of impediment holding back on their reins. And this itself was rare, thought Darcy. Had the murder been committed so quietly that even the horses inches away were not conscious of any panic or violence?
And even now, what of the smell of blood? For Darcy had enough experience of both that metallic scent and horses to know that in general there was no surer way to spook a horse. His eyes narrowed as he watched the mundane complaisance of the four horses, which in this unusual set of circumstances became out of place. Whether it was pride or vanity, he did believe himself in possession of an uncommonly heightened sense of smell, but he would not need that to be aware of the strong, specific odors. Even from 15 paces away, that very specific scent was asserting itself above the stable smells of straw and manure, wood smoke and decaying leaves that were hallmarks of any small market town on an early autumn night, and on this night were joined by the celebratory scents of cinnamon and ginger that spilled out from the open door leading to the celebration. Yes, the calm of the horses was odd.
Elizabeth, who just prior to the maid's scream had been stationed closest to the door, having found two good friends to further perfect the diverting tale of her wounded vanity, until another diverting topic could be found, had been one of the first out of the assembly rooms, and followed quickly by several more had been pushed to the very front of the scene with the two Lucas girls to whom she had been conversing. As a result, she stood a good deal closer to the body than Darcy's 15 paces. Additionally, she considered it neither pride nor vanity to own that in addition to a very good sense of hearing, her eyes also possessed an uncommonly fine power of sight. It was just an accurate sketch of her person to say as much. And so between her proximity and that excellent ability to see, she found herself staring at one particular point of the coach driver's person.
Of this, Darcy also observed, directly after making his assessment of the oddness of the state of the horses. As his own eyes, which possessed powers that were not at all out of the uncommon way, but were nonetheless more than sufficient, found themselves settling on Miss Elizabeth's fixed gaze, and following it, he could not perceive what it was she saw so extraordinary that it would cause her to stare so. It did not seem she was looking at the throat, the origin of all that blood, nor what is always the distressing sight of a dead man's face, nor was it the entirety of a dead man sitting on a coach box. Rather her eyes were pointed at a point on the body somewhat lower, close to the hand or arm. Darcy carefully studied as near as he could determine to where the eyes of Miss Bennet seemed to be affixed. He wondered if she could see something clenched in the former driver's hand, but all he could see there were the reins, though he determined he would examine the hands more closely.
Turning back to Miss Elizabeth's arrested gaze he then considered that she was perhaps in shock. Unfortunately that too was something which Darcy had had prior experience to witness, and it would make sense that presented with the horror of the scene, as one of the symptoms of having gone into shock she would fix on a random point which was marked only by being not the most dreadful part. This conjecture caused him to realize how unseemly and inappropriate it was for any ladies to be present at this scene at all and moved to walk the few steps towards the three ladies closest to the bloody coachman, when he paused again.
He was still looking at Miss Elizabeth's face, and he had to own that though she stood still, her face showed none of the symptoms of shock. Her countenance displayed neither complete lack of emotion, nor heightened emotions moving swiftly. Rather she seemed to be in the pose of one in deep contemplation. And as he continued to watch her, he observed her tilting her head slightly to the right, as though trying to make something out, further emphasized by an elegant arch forming in her raised left eyebrow. She then frowned slightly, creating a very subtle furrow between her brows and across her smooth forehead. Finally, her eyes narrowed, in an expression that bore a striking resemblance to the very same one which Darcy made whenever he observed something which did not quite fit. Of course, never having made that expression while looking into the mirror he was unaware of any similarity, but his own face once again settled into that doubting squint as he continued to watch the expressions move rapidly across Miss Bennet's face, expressions which he had to own were quite sensible for a crime scene.
Recalling himself, he shrugged. Regardless of shock or good sense, a scene of murder was still no place for a lady, and he took a step towards Miss Bennet and the two Miss Lucases, just as the second wave of ballroom dancers stepped into the street and the spell of quiet stillness was broken.
The commotion would have seemed entirely past, as the only sound was the intermittent gasps, as another ball-goer stepped out into the cold air, as presented with the grisly tableau before them, and then fell silent before the bloody scene of death.
