The Intrigue at Highbury Read online

  Despite the effusive welcome, Elizabeth feared her presence as a stranger was an intrusion on the family so soon following Edgar Churchill’s death. “Allow me to wish you joy upon your marriage,” she said to Mrs. Churchill, who was seated beside Mr. Dixon on a worn sofa. “I believe I met your husband earlier today. I was sorry to hear about the loss of his uncle.”

  “It is all most distressing,” said Miss Bates. “To be so happy at the start of a day, and end it so sadly. I am sure I never imagined Edgar Churchill would take ill—he seemed in perfect health when I saw him the day before. And Jane was just saying that he appeared fine at breakfast yesterday—were you not just saying that, Jane?”

  “He was quieter than usual, but otherwise seemed well.” She turned to Mr. Dixon. “You took a walk with him in the afternoon. Had you any suspicion?”

  “None. I—” He shrugged. “Mr. Churchill was as robust a walking companion as ever I had. A fine gentleman all around, gone far too soon.”

  “Indeed. I am still not over the shock of it.” Tears formed in Jane Churchill’s eyes. “I am grateful he died among friends.”

  Mr. Dixon patted Mrs. Churchill’s hand. The gesture struck Elizabeth as rather familiar, and she wondered what level of intimacy existed between the families.

  Mrs. Knightley appeared to be studying him, as well. “Mr. Dixon, it is so good of you to stay on, along with your cousins, to console Mrs. Churchill and her husband.”

  “I would wish to be nowhere else, even were I not at my cousin’s disposal.”

  “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Dixon at present?”

  “We left them at Randalls.”

  Miss Bates turned to Elizabeth. “Jane said she longed for the company of her aunt and grandmama this afternoon. Frank being already out, Mr. Dixon kindly attended her.”

  “How could I neglect an opportunity to spend more time in your charming company, ma’am? When Jane revealed her destination, I insisted on escorting her.”

  The compliment delighted Miss Bates. “You are always welcome to visit our humble parlor, Mr. Dixon.”

  “Humble? Not at all. It is . . . unpretentious. Why, I believe it wants only new wallpaper to complete it—lend it final polish, one might say.”

  “New paper?” Miss Bates looked round, and Elizabeth could not help raising her own gaze to the walls and corners. It would take more than new paper to awaken the room from its tired state, but covering the present faded pattern would indeed improve it. “Oh, I see. Yes! There are a few worn patches, are there not? And it begins to peel up there, along the molding. Perhaps we ought to consider it.”

  “Ought? You must. And I know the very pattern: a paisley stripe. I have it in my own bedchamber. It will give this happy little room just the subtle touch of elegance for which it cries.”

  “Do you truly think so?”

  “Oh, indeed! My friend Ridley, who just purchased a townhouse in Mayfair, utterly transformed his drawing room simply by changing the wallpaper—left all the furnishings just as they were. You need not alter another thing. Though if you were of a mind, new coverings might refresh the chairs.”

  The chairs were indeed in want of refreshment—at a minimum. The bottom of Elizabeth’s own seat was so worn that she hoped it would hold her, and the sofa arms were as threadbare as the Bates ladies’ attire. Indeed, the only object in the cramped room that appeared possessed of fewer years than old Mrs. Bates was a pianoforte wedged into a corner.

  Although Mr. Dixon’s assessment and proposed solutions were valid, Elizabeth doubted that the household could afford the changes he advocated. Surely, however, he would not have suggested them did he not believe the family had means—to do so would demonstrate a profound lack of feeling. Perhaps his recommendations had been meant as a hint for Miss Bates’s niece, now that Jane had married well and Edgar Churchill’s death had left her still more secure.

  Elizabeth studied the new Mrs. Frank Churchill. Her expression was inscrutable. She was possessed of such strong self-command that Elizabeth could not upon this initial meeting penetrate it.

  Mrs. Knightley, however, seemed undisturbed by the course of the conversation, and in fact smiled with approval. “Mr. Dixon, that is a splendid suggestion,” she said. “Perhaps you might counsel Miss Bates on suitable fabric.”

  “I should be honored. Why, I know the very shop in London to help us. Extraordinary selection! My dear Miss Bates, if you will permit me, I would be delighted to undertake the commission on your behalf. There is nothing so satisfying as finding just the proper materials for fitting out a room—except, perhaps, the planning of a new waistcoat. Yes, you must allow me to assist you. I shall set off at first light tomorrow.”

  Mr. Dixon appeared quite pleased with himself, and Emma even more so, at this proposal. Miss Bates, however, became flustered.

  “Oh! Your offer is so kind, Mr. Dixon—so very kind. Is it not, Mother? Imagine that! Fabric all the way from London adorning our plain chairs here in Highbury. But it is too good—you are too good—the present chairs will suffice. No need for new upholstery—”

  “Heavens, I quite agree!” Mr. Dixon said. “Some simple coverings fitted over the seats were what I had in view. . . . Though now that you mention it, new upholstery might be the very thing.” He was by now quite animated. “Yes! Why did I not suggest it at the outset? New upholstery—and draperies! Of course if we renew the wallpaper and upholstery, we simply must change out the draperies. And the carpet—there is no sense in refreshing everything else only to neglect what is underfoot. Harding and Howell, in Piccadilly—they will have everything we need!”

  Emma appeared so delighted by the suggestion that one would think it was her sitting room about to be transformed. Miss Bates, however, paled.

  “Draperies? Yes, they . . . I suppose these have served quite some time. But I beg you not to trouble yourself. These will do us nicely a while longer. The carpet, too. No need to change everything at once—”

  “But there is every need, my dear lady! An utter transformation! What could be more pleasant?”

  A tooth extraction, from the expression on Miss Bates’s countenance.

  “But the—” Miss Bates’s expression beseeched her niece to put an end to the discussion. “The expense—we simply cannot . . .”

  Jane glanced at Mr. Dixon, then reached over and took her aunt’s hand. “Perhaps we can.”

  Fourteen

  “One never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.”

  —Miss Bates, Emma

  Good afternoon, sir. What do you seek today?”

  Darcy hesitated. His natural impulse was to state his purpose and question the trader directly about his transactions with the Churchills and the gypsy remedies he had been selling. However, even a gentleman might dissemble when cornered, and Hiram Deal—a common peddler known to conduct business with gypsies, persons of disreputable character—was not by birth, circumstances, or association a gentleman. Neither his cooperation nor truthfulness could be assumed.

  Though Mr. Knightley had never personally dealt with the peddler, he and Darcy agreed that Mr. Deal had been in the neighborhood long enough that he likely knew the magistrate’s identity. An honest man might hear the local authorities named in ordinary conversation as he went about his business; a dishonest one would make it his business to determine, upon arrival in any new village, those persons whose notice he should avoid.

  And so Mr. Knightley stood some yards away, engaged in conversation with a tenant who had happened along at an opportune moment, while Darcy approached Mr. Deal. He would learn what he could through informal means before Mr. Knightley joined them, if necessary, for official questioning. Darcy wished Elizabeth were with him. He disdained idle chatter; she was much his superior in this sort of thing.

  “An acquaintance of mine owns a very nice snuff box, and tells me he purchased it from you,” Darcy said. “His name is Frank Churchill. Do you recall selling it to him?”

  “Indeed, yes!
Mr. Churchill spent a considerable amount of time selecting it. I had two, and he liked them both so well that he could not quite make up his mind. I still have the other. Let me see—”

  As Mr. Deal rummaged through his wares, Darcy noticed with surprise that the peddler had but one hand. In all the discussions pertaining to Mr. Deal, no one had ever mentioned the fact.

  “Yes, here is the other snuff box,” Mr. Deal said. “I warrant you will not find a finer one outside London, and perhaps within.”

  Darcy accepted the case and made a show of examining it, though his true object was examining the peddler. Mr. Deal’s countenance was open and his manner warm, yet as Darcy handled the snuff case, Deal’s gaze repeatedly darted past him to the street beyond. Darcy wondered whether he had spotted Mr. Knightley or merely canvassed the village for more potential customers.

  “It is a very fine snuff case, though I prefer Mr. Churchill’s. It is a pity he discovered it first. When did you sell it to him?”

  “The day before yesterday.”

  “So recently? When next I see him, I shall have to commend him on his timing as well as his taste. Did he purchase anything else?”

  “No, only the snuff box.”

  Frank Churchill had been telling the truth about not having purchased any of the gypsy remedies. But had Edgar bought a fatal physic? Darcy did not want to appear too interested in the family’s affairs.

  “My wife’s birthday rapidly approaches, and I have not yet settled upon a gift for her. I hope to find something unusual. Have you any jewelry—something out of the ordinary?”

  “I have a few items. How much do you want to spend?”

  “That depends upon what you have to offer.”

  He began to open a small wooden box. “I have several necklaces that she might appreciate.”

  “I had hoped to find a ring.”

  Mr. Deal’s gaze took in the quality of Darcy’s attire beneath his open greatcoat, the gold fob chain dangling from his waistcoat pocket, his bearing. “I believe I can accommodate you. I recently acquired a gold ring. It is set with five small diamonds.”

  Darcy’s hopes, briefly elevated, sank. “My wife is averse to diamonds.”

  Mr. Deal’s lips curved in amusement. “A lady who would not welcome diamonds? I did not know such a creature existed.”

  A twelvemonth previous, Darcy and Elizabeth had seen all they wanted of diamonds for a lifetime. “You do not know my wife.”

  “Perhaps I could interest you in something else? Have a look about.”

  Darcy had been hoping for just such an invitation, and seized upon it readily. Mr. Deal traveled with an eclectic inventory of tinware, trinkets, tools, and textiles. Though according to Mrs. Knightley he had been peddling in the neighborhood for a fortnight, he had no shortage of wares. “I have heard such tell of you in the neighborhood that I should have thought your stock nearly depleted, but your cart seems a veritable emporium.”

  “I acquire new goods regularly. Customers offer me things in trade, or I buy them from local artisans in the villages through which I pass. I also visit London and other cities in the course of my travels.”

  “Do you ever obtain goods from less conventional sources?”

  Mr. Deal regarded Darcy warily. He walked around to the opposite side of his cart and adjusted several items. “If you refer to smuggling, no. The profits might be high, but so are the gallows.”

  “I did not mean to suggest any such thing. My mind ran more toward gypsies.” Darcy had intended by indirections to find direction out, but paltering did not come smoothly or comfortably to him. Indeed, thus far he felt himself the deceiver in this interview, and the sensation did not sit well. He would engage in a more direct manner of questioning.

  “Gypsies?” Deal picked up a copper teakettle and hung it for display. It caught a shaft of low afternoon sunlight penetrating the clouds and glowed as warmly as if it boiled on a hearth. The flash lasted but moments, however, before the clouds obscured the sun once more, shadowing the peddler’s countenance as well.

  “The villagers say you sell gypsy wares.”

  “From time to time, I meet gypsies in my journeys—it is inevitable that someone who travels as much as I do will cross paths with other wanderers. Gypsies are renowned tinkers and woodworkers, and so, yes, I engage in business with them when the opportunity arises.”

  “I hear you sell remedies that rival anything the village apothecary can provide, and that you tout them as having been prepared by a gypsy.”

  “Gypsies have traveled for centuries; their healers possess knowledge gained in the many lands their forebears passed through. I would trust a gypsy remedy above anything concocted by an English chemist.”

  “Insofar as any gypsy can be trusted?”

  Deal made no reply as he hung two pie tins next to the teakettle.

  “When did you obtain the cures you have been selling in Highbury?” Darcy pressed.

  “I met with a gypsy party not long before arriving in the village.”

  “So near? Are they still about?”

  “I believe they have moved on.”

  “Do you know in which direction? My wife and I will be traveling, and we would not want to encounter such a group.”

  “I cannot say, for the Roma are as predictable as the wind. But should you happen upon them, you have nothing to fear. It was a band I have done business with before, and they will not trouble you if you do not trouble them. Indeed, if one of them offers to tell your fortune, the meeting might bring you luck.”

  Darcy had little interest in that sort of nonsense. “Are gypsy predictions more or less reliable than their remedies?”

  “It depends upon the fortune-teller. There is one among that band who is both a seer and a healer, who earned my respect years ago. Indeed, I cannot say with certainty that I would be standing here now were it not for her. It was she from whom I acquired the remedies.”

  “Have you any remaining?”

  “A few. Do you need something in particular?”

  “I should like to see what you have.”

  Mr. Deal moved to the opposite side of the cart, where several wooden cases of different sizes rested in a corner. As he rearranged them to gain access to the one he wanted, Darcy marveled at the smoothness with which he handled the task, not in the least slowed or hampered by the lack of one hand. He had learned to compensate well for the missing appendage—a necessity, no doubt, for a man whose profession required constant travel and brought him into contact with individuals from all walks of life, including ruffians only too eager to take advantage of any perceived weakness.

  Mr. Deal also had much to gain from such individuals, were he a man of few scruples.

  “Do you ever acquire items from gypsies that they did not produce themselves?” Darcy asked.

  “Whenever a person, be he English or otherwise, offers me something of interest, I accept it if I believe it worth the price.”

  “With no questions?”

  “On the contrary. An object’s history adds to its value. If an item has a story, I ask to hear it.” He lifted a medium-sized wooden chest and rested it atop another, then opened it to reveal two vials and a packet. “These are all the remedies I have remaining. You do not happen to suffer from dropsy or gout?”

  Darcy enjoyed perfect health, but he wanted Mr. Perry to have a look at the preparations. “I will take them all.”

  “The third is for female complaints.”

  Darcy cleared his throat, declining to enquire into the particular complaints the concoction purported to cure. “My wife may find it of use. I shall purchase it while I have the opportunity.”

  “Very good, sir.” Mr. Deal smiled. “Though I suspect it is hardly the birthday gift you had in mind.” He gestured toward the cart. “Have you spotted anything else that might delight her? Is she musical? I have the most unusual wooden flute—”

  Darcy shook his head and scanned the cart once more. Nowhere amid the coffers and case
s lay the chest he had hoped to discover. If his stolen possessions were amongst the peddler’s wares, they were well hidden.

  A small doll, however, caught his notice. It reminded him of Lily-Anne, and the hope that he would see her again before much more time passed. Though Darcy had no intention of purchasing the doll, Mr. Deal noticed that it had momentarily captured his gaze.

  “Ah—are there little ones at home? I have some colorful glass beads that children adore. Where did I put that sack?” He moved to another side of the wagon in search of it.

  Darcy spied a cloth bag with rounded bulges protruding from its sides. “Is this it?” He untied the drawstring.

  “No, no. I remember stowing it over here. Those are—”

  Sling bullets. Darcy kept his countenance neutral as he glanced at the peddler.

  “. . . not what you are looking for.” Mr. Deal smiled, but the expression appeared forced. “Those would hardly delight a little girl now, would they? Just set those down—what you want is over here.”

  Darcy did not set them aside. Instead, he removed one of the bullets from the sack. The missile appeared to be the same shape and weight as the one found at the robbery scene that morning. Mr. Knightley, however, had retained that bullet, and presently remained some yards distant engaged in conversation with his tenant.

  “Yes, here are the beads.” Mr. Deal came back to Darcy’s side of the cart with a sack tucked under his left arm and several beads in the palm of his single hand. “Little girls love to play with them, and governesses use them to teach counting and simple arithmetic.”

  “I will take them. And these as well.” Darcy pulled the drawstring shut and lifted the sack. The one sling bullet, however, he retained in his palm, not wanting to let it leave his grasp.

  “Oh, I see—you must also have a son. Of course you cannot remember one child without remembering them all, if you want to keep peace. But hardly anybody uses slings—perhaps your boy would be more interested in something else. How old is he? Does he practice archery? I have some arrows with colorful fletching.”