The Intrigue at Highbury Page 10

  “Yes, and with good reason. It is highly toxic. People, particularly children, are sometimes tempted by its sweet purple berries, with tragic consequences. In fact, a colleague of mine in London treated three children this past summer who had eaten only a few berries each. Two of the children died.”

  “Are other parts of the plant poisonous?”

  “All of it, in varying degrees—the root most of all. In controlled amounts belladonna possesses medicinal properties, but the leaves and roots can prove as fatal as the berries.”

  “What symptoms did Mr. Churchill exhibit?”

  “It seems to have begun with fever and dry mouth,” Mr. Perry said. “Mr. Knightley and others report that from the time Edgar Churchill arrived at the party, he was flushed and complained of being too warm.”

  “He also suffered thirst. Frank could not fill his wineglass fast enough,” Mr. Knightley added. “He then became agitated and belligerent, raving incoherently and even suffering a hallucination. I confess, we merely thought him drunk. Mr. Perry, however, says that such behavior is also symptomatic of belladonna poisoning.”

  “As were the later signs I observed firsthand—dilated pupils, vomiting, extraordinarily loud and rapid heartbeat,” Mr. Perry said. “The utter loss of voice and repetitive finger movements are particularly indicative.” He winced and looked away, his gaze passing over the various tools of his profession. “In hindsight, of course. If only I had realized at the time what was happening, I might have been able to save him.”

  “Perry, you take too much responsibility upon yourself. None of us had any reason to suppose he had been poisoned, let alone with belladonna.” Mr. Knightley gestured toward the book-strewn table. “As it was, you spent half the night perusing your references to identify the probable agent. Edgar Churchill cannot benefit from our self-recrimination. Our time and energy are best spent determining whether the poisoning was accidental or intentional.”

  “Where might Mr. Churchill or a poisoner have acquired the belladonna?” Darcy asked. “Does it grow in this area?”

  “Though it is cultivated for its medicinal value, I do not grow it myself—I would not want the berries to entice my children or anybody else’s. The small amount of dried root that I keep on hand, I obtain from a London chemist and keep hidden. I checked my store of it this morning, and it has not been pilfered. Belladonna could, however, thrive somewhere in the neighborhood without my knowledge, or even that of the landowner. Though more common on the Continent, the plant can be found growing wild here and there in England.”

  Mr. Perry withdrew his watch from the fob pocket of his waistcoat. “I should leave now, to ensure that I reach London before dark.” He looked at Darcy apologetically. “Forgive me for cutting short our conversation, but I am going to consult my colleague to see if he agrees with my conclusion of belladonna poisoning. If he does, I shall be grateful for your aid in sorting out the rest of the matter.”

  Darcy glanced at Mr. Knightley. “If his colleague does concur, perhaps Mr. Perry should call upon Edgar Churchill’s solicitor whilst in town and enquire into the particulars of his will. Frank mentioned the gentleman’s name this morning—Ian MacAllister. While I understand that Frank is Edgar Churchill’s primary heir, we need to determine whether other individuals have a financial interest in his death.”

  Mr. Perry agreed. “I will also stop in Richmond, to speak with the Churchills’ physician about Mr. Churchill’s general health.”

  “Frank Churchill said that his aunt and uncle were in the care of a Mr. Flint,” Mr. Knightley told him. “While talking with him, pray also enquire more closely into the particulars of the seizure that claimed Mrs. Churchill.”

  Mr. Knightley and Darcy exited the shop, and Mr. Perry went to collect his horse.

  “Despite my apprehensions regarding Frank Churchill, I cannot envision him tramping about the country harvesting wild nightshade,” Mr. Knightley said.

  “No—but a more knowledgeable person might.”

  “An herbalist?”

  “Particularly one lacking a fixed location in which to cultivate his or her own plants.”

  “A gypsy herbalist.”

  “It would seem, Mr. Knightley, that our interests might be more allied than we realized. Both investigations could involve, directly or indirectly, gypsies.” Darcy gazed down the street. He now wanted more than ever to speak with Hiram Deal, but there was still no sign of his cart in Broadway Lane. “We need to find that peddler and determine the extent of his relationship with the gypsies whose wares he vends, and ascertain to whom in the neighborhood he sold their so-called remedies.”

  “ ‘We’? You agree to assist me, then?”

  Darcy was uncertain how Elizabeth would feel about his entering into such a commitment. She would not oppose it on principle; it was her nature to render aid when she could. However, taking on responsibility for a murder investigation would likely mean not only postponing their visit to Colonel and Anne Fitzwilliam at Brierwood, but also leaving Lily-Anne back in London with Georgiana a while longer. If an assassin indeed roamed Highbury, he wanted his daughter nowhere near.

  Yet, as he had just told Mr. Knightley, it appeared that in lending his assistance to the Churchill matter, he might also forward his own interests, or at least ensure that the robbery investigation did not become altogether forgotten as the local authorities concentrated on the more serious Churchill affair. Too, he had to admit, if only to himself, that the Churchill matter intrigued him.

  He extended his hand. “I suppose I do.”

  Mr. Knightley accepted it and shook firmly. “Excellent. For there is another individual whose association with the gypsies warrants questioning.”

  Darcy looked past Mr. Knightley’s shoulder to a person who had just entered Broadway Lane.

  Frank Churchill.

  Eleven

  The only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with.

  —Emma

  Leaving Donwell Abbey, Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley set out in the opposite direction from the gentlemen. Though Mrs. Knightley affected to let chance choose their course, Elizabeth sensed that her hostess had a destination in mind. She walked with purpose, and carried on her arm a basket with several small jars inside.

  Their strides eventually brought them to a stream spanned by a small wooden footbridge. On the far bank, a path ran alongside the water toward a mill.

  “This is a pretty walk,” Elizabeth said. “Do you take it often?”

  “No. Mr. Knightley and I actually live at Hartfield, my father’s estate. Papa is in declining health and dependent upon my companionship. When we married, we thought it best to defer my permanent removal from the house until . . . until my father no longer needs me. We are presently at Donwell only because of last night’s party.”

  “Mr. Knightley sacrificed his independence to reside in your father’s home?” Elizabeth could not imagine Darcy even temporarily relinquishing life at Pemberley to live with her parents at Longbourn.

  “Mr. Knightley has known my father even longer than I have, and is as dutiful a son as Papa could wish for.”

  They crossed the stream and followed the path until they reached a farmhouse. It was a small but sweet cottage, well cared for and cheerful despite the gloomy clouds that obscured the sun. They had approached it from the side; Mrs. Knightley led them to the front, which faced a narrow lane.

  “This is Abbey Mill Farm,” Mrs. Knightley said. “We are here to visit Mrs. Harriet Martin, the young lady Frank Churchill rescued from the gypsies last May. If they have returned to the neighborhood, perhaps she can recall something that might aid us in apprehending your thieves.”

  Their knock was answered by a pretty woman with an artless manner and ready smile. “Mrs. Knightley! I did not anticipate the pleasure—Oh, do forgive me! I have not yet waited upon y
ou since your wedding-trip, but I had heard how occupied you were with the Churchill party. Was it a lovely affair? With you hosting it, I am certain it was! Do come in. Robert is out—he has taken his mother and sisters into the village. They will be sorry to have missed you.”

  “I am sorry for it, too, but my object in calling was to see you. Here,” she said, reaching into her basket, “I have brought you some apple butter from Donwell Abbey.”

  Mrs. Knightley made introductions, identifying Elizabeth as a visiting friend. Harriet offered a smile and invited them into her sitting room, a neat but busy space with an abundance of frilly curtains, pillows embroidered with flowery platitudes, and mediocre watercolors. A portrait of Harriet hung above the fireplace. It was a good likeness, painted by a more skilled artist than the other pictures, though in Elizabeth’s opinion it rendered its subject too tall.

  Harriet ushered them into seats and attempted several times to take one herself. She leaped out of it at random intervals, however, as new ways to accommodate her guests entered her mind. She must make them tea. No? Would they like a bit of cake? The fire screen must be adjusted. Were they quite sure they did not want cake? Perhaps toast spread with the Donwell apple butter? There was a note she had written for Mrs. Knightley that now she could hand-deliver.

  “It is a charade, actually.” Harriet seemed almost shy as she handed it to Mrs. Knightley. “I showed Robert the book of charades and other riddles I compiled last year. Do you remember what pleasure we had in collecting them? Why, even Mr. Elton contributed an original one. Robert asked whether I had written any of them myself, and when I said I had not, he encouraged me to try my hand at one.”

  Mrs. Knightley unfolded the paper and read the lines to herself. After a moment, she smiled.

  “What do you think, Miss Woodhouse—I mean, Mrs. Knightley? Have you solved it already? Oh, I can see that you have! You are always so clever at working out puzzles.”

  “It is an excellent first attempt, Harriet. The meter in the last line wants refinement, but otherwise it is at least as good as some of the others in your book. Have you shown it to your husband?”

  “Not yet. I wanted your opinion of it first.”

  “I am sure it will please him very much. Shall we share it with Mrs. Darcy and see whether she can solve it?”

  Harriet looked at Elizabeth hopefully. “If you are interested?”

  “Indeed, yes.” Elizabeth accepted the page from Mrs. Knightley.

  A place of worship, and a home

  A place where wind or water turns

  A place where crops and livestock grow

  A place for which my heart yearns.

  Elizabeth read it through twice. The third line came easily. From there, once she recalled the name of the Martins’ home, it was a facile effort to solve the charade. “Abbey Mill Farm?”

  “You guessed! Is it too simple?”

  “Not at all. Had Mrs. Knightley not told me the name of your home just as we approached, I would have been altogether at a loss.” Elizabeth handed the note back to Mrs. Knightley.

  “The charade will be a worthy addition to your collection, Harriet.” Mrs. Knightley set it on a small table beside her. “It is interesting that you should be thinking of days past, for I wish to ask you about something that occurred last spring—the day you and Miss Bickerton encountered the gypsies on the Richmond road.”

  “Oh.” Harriet sank into her seat and at last appeared likely to remain still for two minutes together. “Why ever do you want to talk about that? I thought they were long gone.”

  “Mr. Knightley wishes to ensure that they remain so.”

  “Oh! Well, it is as I told you. We—Miss Bickerton and I—were walking along, never imagining such persons were about. When we reached that very shady stretch—you know, past the bend—we slowed our pace. The morning was warm, so the shade felt refreshing, and we were happily conversing when we noticed the gypsy camp just ahead, on the greensward. They must have noticed us at the same time, for within moments a girl came running towards us and begged for a shilling.”

  “How old was the girl?”

  “Eight or nine. She had long, dark hair all tumbled about her.”

  Elizabeth heard this with disappointment. The gypsy girl could not possibly be Miss Jones.

  “Remind me what happened next,” Mrs. Knightley said.

  “Miss Bickerton screamed and ran up an embankment to escape. I tried to follow her but a cramp in my leg stopped me. At least half a dozen more gypsy children rushed forward and surrounded me, all of them demanding money. And then a woman and a large boy appeared. I hoped they would tell the children to leave me in peace but instead they spoke gypsy-talk to them and the children begged all the more insistently. I have never been so frightened in my life. Look at me—I tremble even now to speak of it.”

  “How very alarming,” Elizabeth said. “The woman—how old was she?”

  “Oh, who can tell with such people? Fifty or sixty? Her hair was covered in a kerchief and her dress was wildly colored. Her eyes were even darker than the children’s—so dark I thought she could stare right through me.” Harriet shuddered. “She carried a basket of plants and had a charm around her neck, like some sort of witch-woman. I was terrified that she would give me the Evil Eye and throw a curse upon me, or worse! They say that is what gypsies do, you know. I offered them a shilling, and still they would not go away.”

  “And this is when Frank Churchill happened along?” Mrs. Knightley asked.

  “Yes, thank heaven! I do not know what would have become of me had he not been traveling to Richmond that day. I was in such terror that I did not even see him approach. Nor did the gypsies, for they were quite surprised when he suddenly appeared.”

  Elizabeth recalled Mr. Knightley’s having said that Frank arrived at the scene on foot. “How did Mr. Churchill rescue you from the gypsies? What, precisely, did he do?”

  “He gave a shout to draw their attention, then ordered them to leave me be.”

  “And they immediately ceased harassing you?”

  “Yes. He said he was going to summon the authorities and have them all arrested. I believe he quite frightened them. Even the woman looked at him in astonishment and hurried away.”

  “They disbanded the camp quickly,” Mrs. Knightley added. “The entire party was gone by the time I told Mr. Knightley of the incident.”

  “Did you see any English among the gypsies?” Elizabeth asked. “Female or male?”

  “Oh, believe me, Mrs. Darcy, I wish I had! I would have begged their aid.”

  A knock sounded on the door. It was not an unwelcome noise—Elizabeth hoped the arrival of a new visitor would enable her and Mrs. Knightley to exit gracefully. While she appreciated the opportunity to hear Harriet’s account firsthand, Elizabeth by this point despaired of obtaining any useful information. Harriet Martin was a sweet girl, but not exceedingly clever.

  “Oh, my! I am spoiled for company today.” Harriet rose to answer the knock but continued talking over her shoulder. “No, the only English face I saw was Frank Churchill’s, and I was grateful for the sight of him. When he interceded, the beggars all scattered. Even the bird flew away.”

  Elizabeth suddenly wished the new visitors away.

  “Bird?”

  Frank Churchill had just emerged from Ford’s mercantile when Darcy caught sight of him.

  “Apparently, Frank Churchill’s grief does not run so deep as to prevent his spending the afternoon shopping,” Mr. Knightley muttered as he raised his hand to hail him. “Though meeting him here is fortuitous, as we can question him alone. Had we been obliged to call upon him at Randalls, it might have been an awkward business to separate him from his new wife or the Westons for a private conversation.”

  Frank Churchill crossed the lane and greeted the gentlemen. Unfortunately, Darcy and Mr. Knightley were not the only persons who had seen him exit the shop, nor did they alone seek his conversation. Several villagers approached him to e
xpress their condolences on the loss of his uncle, and some minutes elapsed before he managed to disengage himself.

  “Mr. Churchill, I wonder whether you might be able to assist us,” Mr. Knightley said when they at last had Frank’s attention.

  “I shall if I can,” he replied. “Does this concern my uncle?”

  “Another matter entirely. My friend Mr. Darcy had an unpleasant encounter with some highwaymen recently, and we are hoping the incident does not herald the return of the gypsies from whom you rescued Harriet Smith last May. You were in such a hurry to reach London that day that I never had an opportunity to receive a firsthand account from you, but we would like to hear the particulars now.”

  “I shall tell you all I can remember. I was walking along the road toward Richmond. As I approached a bend, I heard voices ahead. Children’s voices, primarily, but two women’s voices, as well. One of them, of course, was Harriet Smith’s, though hysteria raised her pitch so high that I did not recognize it before I laid eyes on her. The other voice belonged to an older woman who spoke in a language I could not comprehend.”

  Frank paused, momentarily distracted by activity down the lane. The mail coach had arrived at the Crown, and passengers hurried inside to obtain a quick meal in the brief time allowed whilst the horses were changed. Fortunately, Frank did not appear to have noticed Mr. Perry leaving on horseback from the inn’s livery with his portmanteau—else he might have wondered where the apothecary was traveling whilst Edgar Churchill’s corpse remained in his custody.

  “When you heard the voices, what did you do?” Darcy asked.

  The question diverted Frank’s attention from the inn. “That stretch of road is heavily shaded when the trees are in full foliage, so I hid myself in the shadows as I approached. When I saw Miss Smith surrounded by gypsy beggars, I immediately stepped forward and bade them be gone. They took themselves off, and I assisted Miss Smith to Hartfield and the Woodhouses’ care.”