'Clwyd Castle' - An Austen Homage to Clue

             Hello, Readers! I’m here to make Spooky Season a little spookier with my upcoming release, “Clwyd Castle.”

Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, and a horde of other Austen characters find themselves inveigled in a whodunnit inspired by the cult classic film, Clue! A dozen guests – including Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth Bennet, and characters from all the other Austen novels - are invited to Clwyd Castle (pronounced “clue-id”) by Henry Tilney, who uses the alias “Mr. Butler.”

Hijinks abound, accusations fly, bodies pile up and the remaining guests try to solve the mystery, unlock the castle's drawbridge, and make it out alive!

The excerpt I'm sharing today is my juiciest one yet... enjoy!

Mr. Darcy smiled indulgently, but it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford he addressed with mischief in his eyes. “Miss Bennet and I have ever been in the habit of vexing one another for sport, knowing ourselves to be the cleverest of our company at the time we met. When I responded to Miss Bingley’s rather haughty definition of accomplishment by suggesting that extensive reading was the finest accolade of all, I thought Miss Bennet would cast her book into the fire at once.”

Elizabeth stared at him in amazement. She never imagined that was how he had interpreted her determination to quarrel with him, which had been borne chiefly from her wrath after his insult, and the late Mr. Wickham’s horrid lies. But he grinned at her now as if it had been a great amusement they had shared. 

Mr. Crawford laughed. “Miss Bennet would never! She has all the bearing and ready wit of a great reader, I am sure. We must hope that her tastes run to mysteries, since she and her sister are our resident detectives; this would be an accomplishment indeed.”

“Miss Bingley once accused me of taking no pleasure in anything but reading; I look forward to informing her that I have expanded my accomplishments,” Elizabeth said. Fearing they were being terribly indiscreet, she glanced down the table, but nobody else was paying them much heed. 

Mr. Parker was regaling Mr. Rushworth and Lady Susan with tales of his native village, Sanditon, and further down the table, Mr. Willoughby sat between Harriet and Emma, and seemed to be heartily amusing them both at once. Sir Edward and Lady Allen were carrying on together as if they had never been parted a day in their lives, while Cathy and Mr. Tilney were quite engrossed in a lively conversation with Miss Denham.

At least they were about their business for the evening, and Elizabeth wondered how she might likewise coax Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford to be more expansive. She wondered if perhaps that was Mr. Darcy’s gambit, for she had never known him to be so conversant; perhaps he hoped the lovers would grow equally candid. 

It was as if he read her mind, for when she looked over at him, he winked before saying to Mr. Crawford, “Mr. Rushworth informed me that he met you and your sister at a house party like this one last year.”

“There has never been a house party like this one,” Mr. Crawford drawled. “Mary and I were not guests at Mansfield Park; we were visiting our half-sister Mrs. Grant at the parsonage. Tom invited his friend Yates for a fortnight when he returned from Antigua, and then Miss Price, a cousin of the Bertrams who lives there, invited her brother, whom I assisted a little in his naval career.”

Mrs. Rushworth sneered at this; it was a thread Elizabeth might have pulled at, but they were interrupted as a footman made his rounds of the table, refilling the wine. Elizabeth instinctively covered her glass, wishing to have her wits about her. Mr. Darcy did not act as quickly, and the lovers seemed eager to continue drinking. Indeed, this seemed to be the one thing the rest of their party was in agreement on.

Down the table, Sir Walter was attempting to make a toast, and some manner of speech meant to impress Emma, and Mr. Willoughby toppled his own wine glass before calling loudly for another. The whole party was half-sprung, and surprisingly normal, which was very odd indeed.

Mr. Darcy began to lift his own full glass to his lips, and hesitated as he looked at Elizabeth. “I suppose we all needed some strong drink to fortify ourselves after yesterday’s events. I daresay the entire ordeal will trouble us for quite some time. It is an awful thing.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed with a sigh. She stared rather forlornly at her own glass, and was on the point of hailing a footman when Mr. Darcy poured half of his wine into her glass, and then made a subtle gesture of salute before sipping what remained of his wine. 

Elizabeth smiled warmly at him and reciprocated the little toast before taking a drink, and then she turned her attention back to Mrs. Rushworth. “So there is a cousin who resides with your family? It was very gallant of Mr. Crawford to aid her brother in the navy. Have you some connections, sir?”

“My uncle, Admiral Crawford saw the favor as a means of making amends with me after a… household dispute.”

Elizabeth raised her brows with curiosity, but Mrs. Rushworth interjected. “I had imagined Mr. Crawford quite keen to recommend himself to Fanny Price, when he stayed on at the parsonage after Rushworth and I removed to Sotherton.”

The lady had spoken loudly, with an evident design of gaining her husband’s attention. It worked, and Mr. Rushworth looked over at her. “What is this, dearest? Fanny and Crawford? Aye, a pity she refused him, but they would never have suited, any more than your brother Edmund and Mary. Well, it all turned out right, eh? A bachelor’s life for you, Henry.”

Mrs. Rushworth had gone pale, and stared open-mouthed at her husband. Elizabeth looked over at the man and gasped. Blood had begun to drip from one of his nostrils. 

“Are you quite well?” Mr. Crawford made a subtle gesture to his nose; when Mr. Rushworth did not take the hint, he told him of the nosebleed directly. 

Mr. Rushworth dabbed at his nose, and gaped at the blood on his fingertips. His head tipped strangely, as if he had drunk too much to have any sense of posture. “Is there a mirror?”

“Just behind me,” Sir Walter said; he had preened into it when they had come into the room. Mr. Rushworth staggered past Lady Susan, and Sir Walter recoiled with dismay at the sight of the lumbering idiot. He started to draw a handkerchief out of his pocket and then thought the better of it, and offered Mr. Rushworth the napkin from his lap instead. “You ought to tidy yourself up a bit, my good man!”

Mr. Rushworth let out a cry at the sight of himself, and then brought his hands up to his stomach and groaned. Mr. Bertram came around from the other side of the table, with everybody else watching the scene in anxious silence. With patient concern, he approached Mr. Rushworth. “James? Is something the matter? You never drink to excess.”

“I did not,” was all Mr. Rushworth could say before his chest began to heave and convulse, and he took a staggering step back toward his chair. He blinked rapidly in confusion, his expression so twisted with agony that Elizabeth recoiled as if he were a rabid dog. He was shambling so wildly that she feared he would collide with her. 

Mr. Darcy leapt to his feet and pulled Elizabeth’s chair away from the man. A moment later she jumped out of her seat, and her chair fell away as she staggered backward into Mr. Darcy. He braced her with one arm as they both looked on in horror and confusion. 

Mrs. Rushworth also leapt to her feet, in such a panic that she openly clasped Mr. Crawford’s hand. “Good God, what is happening?” And then she was running around the end of the table, though she hesitated a few feet away from her husband.  The man was still heaving and retching, nearly doubled over; the blood from his nose fell in droplets that splattered onto the floor. 

Mr. Darcy took a step back, drawing Elizabeth with him, and Mrs. Rushworth braced herself against the wall, knocking the mirror askance as she held one hand to her chest and began to cry out. Mr. Crawford gaped and stammered. “Someone get help! A servant or - where are Mrs. Younge and Mrs. Clay? Somebody do something, for the love of God!”

Mr. Rushworth righted himself and lurched toward the table. He reached for the potted flowers his wife had repositioned to shield herself from his view as she conversed with Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. He gave a guttural scream, and cast up his accounts into the flower pot. 

Elizabeth looked away, burying her face in Mr. Darcy’s chest as he encircled her protectively in his arms. She began to weep, knowing what must be coming. She finally looked back at Mr. Rushworth, who swayed and braced himself against the table, blood and sick smeared across his face. 

“Turn away, Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy murmured, brushing one hand gently across her face. But she could not. She watched in abject terror as the dying man let out a final, gut-wrenching whimper, reached out for Mr. Crawford, and then collapsed across the table.