The Intrigue at Highbury Read online

  She discovered that she would have to settle for one out of two. Her husband was absent, but a cheerful blaze greeted her. So did her maid, Lucy, who advised her that Darcy had been closeted with Mr. Knightley in the study since their own return three-quarters of an hour earlier.

  Elizabeth set her new stockings on the dressing table and went to the fireplace. When sufficient warmth had seeped into her bones, her maid helped her dress for dinner. Lucy had just finished arranging Elizabeth’s hair when Darcy entered the room.

  He appeared pensive, and perhaps weary. It had been a long, busy day for them both. He carried two small sacks, which he deposited on a table beside the door. Their contents clacked against each other and the table’s wooden surface, engaging her curiosity.

  Lucy smoothed one last lock of Elizabeth’s hair and departed. When the door had closed, Darcy approached.

  “How was your outing with Mrs. Knightley?” he asked.

  “Illuminating. How was your excursion with Mr. Knightley?”

  “Intriguing.”

  He tucked her wayward lock of hair, which had come loose the moment Lucy quit the room, behind her ear. As he regarded her reflection in the glass, he noticed the stockings on the dressing table. “Are those new?”

  “I bought them from Mr. Deal today.”

  He picked them up, holding them by their tops so that the silk unfurled to full length. “Did you need new stockings?”

  “We need the peddler’s cooperation. I considered them an investment.” She turned away from the mirror and reclaimed them. “I did not realize you took such interest in ladies’ stockings.”

  “Only yours, Mrs. Darcy.”

  She rose to put them away, deliberately brushing him as she passed. “Next time I shall buy two pair.”

  He laughed and stole a kiss. “It seems the peddler did quite well by us today, for you are not the only one who encountered him.”

  “Indeed? And what did you purchase?”

  He nodded toward the sacks. “See for yourself.”

  Requiring no further encouragement, she crossed to the table, took up one of the bags, and opened it. The sack held colored glass beads of varying sizes. She withdrew a handful.

  “And you questioned the stockings. What are we to do with these?”

  “They are for Lily-Anne.”

  “Lily-Anne?” Whatever was her husband thinking, buying scores of beads no larger than acorns for a nine-month-old child? “I hope you do not intend them for her until she is older. If you give them to her now, she will put them straight into her mouth.”

  “Then I suppose you will consider the other bag even less appropriate for her.”

  She had assumed the sacks shared the same contents. She returned the beads to the first and lifted the second. It was much heavier. With a questioning glance at Darcy, she loosed the drawstring and looked inside.

  Her gaze immediately returned to him. “Mr. Deal sells sling bullets?”

  “He not only sells sling bullets, he sells sling bullets identical to the one we discovered this morning. Distinctive markings identify them as having almost certainly come from the same mold.”

  “And to whom does he sell them?”

  “That, Mr. Knightley and I have yet to determine.”

  “Mr. Knightley is the magistrate. Cannot he compel Mr. Deal to name his customers?”

  “As you well know, simply asking someone a question does not guarantee a truthful reply, particularly if it could incriminate the respondent. We have been discussing whether to arrest Mr. Deal outright. The sling bullet connects him to the robbery, and so provides sufficient cause. At present, however, we believe he will prove more useful to us if he remains at liberty. Mr. Knightley has assigned a man to monitor him.”

  “The two of you think he was directly involved in the robbery?”

  “Even if Mr. Deal knows nothing about the crime, it is highly probable that the thieves obtained their bullets from him.”

  “Unless they obtained them from the same source as the peddler. In fact, he could have acquired the bullets from them in trade for something else.”

  “Mr. Deal claims that he obtains the bullets from a man in Richmond. Granted, that same man could supply other merchants, could have sold the bullets directly to the robbers, or could even have committed the crime himself. However, our thieves were here in Highbury last night, and Mr. Deal has been in the neighborhood for a fortnight, so the bullets used in our robbery likely came from him.”

  “Merely selling ammunition does not make him an accessory to robbery.” She paused. “Does it?”

  “No, but it is possible that he sold—or even gave—the thieves the bullets in full knowledge of their intended purpose.”

  “For a share of the stolen goods?”

  “Our robbers were practiced criminals, and Mr. Deal is in a perfect position to profit from their crimes. Whatever they steal in one town, he can sell in the next. He could even be one of the thieves himself.”

  “He has but one hand.”

  “Mr. Deal, I am sure you observed, is extraordinarily adept. And a cord-sling can be wielded by a one-handed man. Were it not for the fact that we found two sets of footprints, I would say that he and Miss Jones could have comprised the entire conspiracy.”

  Elizabeth considered the man she had met only a couple hours earlier, and tried to reconcile the person who had treated a spinster and a simpleton with kindness, with the image of him as a conspirator in a robbery ring. He had seemed so agreeable. But then, experience had taught her that outward appearances could not be trusted. She had known—or thought she knew—other individuals whose amiable veneer had hidden a less-than-honorable heart. A man persuasive enough to sell a sack full of colored beads to Darcy could sell anything—including himself.

  “There was at least one other conspirator besides the slinger and Miss Jones,” she said, “for we saw him with our own eyes.”

  “Whom?”

  “The raven.”

  “Its appearance was indeed timely, but I doubt the bird plotted robbery.”

  “No, but perhaps its trainer did.”

  Darcy looked at her in surprise. “A trained bird—I had not considered that possibility.”

  “The raven startles and distracts potential victims, then its master presses the advantage.”

  “I have to concede, it is a good stratagem. What led you to think of it?”

  “I met Mrs. Martin today—the young woman Frank Churchill rescued from the gypsies last spring. When she described the incident, she said that a large black bird had swooped around while the beggars harried her. How many such birds can there be in Highbury, appearing so conveniently?”

  “So, our thieves are indeed gypsies, almost certainly the same ones Frank Churchill encountered. Did Mrs. Martin spy Miss Jones or Hiram Deal among the band?”

  “She said she saw no English. It sounds, however, as if she was too much terrorized to notice anything beyond her immediate situation. We shall have to ask Mr. Churchill whether he saw Miss Jones or the peddler that day.”

  “Frank Churchill might not be forthcoming on that point.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is increasingly possible that his appearance on the scene was even less coincidental than that of the bird. Mr. Knightley and I suspect he might have deliberately sought out the gypsies. Mr. Deal says there is an herbalist among them who makes up the physics he sells, and Frank might have gone to her for a specially prepared one.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To poison his aunt.”

  She stared at him. “I discerned from Mr. Knightley’s earlier manner that he harbored doubt towards Frank in the matter of his uncle’s death. But in the aunt’s as well?”

  “Mr. Perry has determined that Edgar Churchill most likely died of belladonna poisoning. Agnes Churchill died of a suspicious seizure within a month of Frank’s allegedly chance meeting with the gypsies.” Darcy explained how old Mrs. Churchill’s death had enabled Frank
’s marriage to Jane, and how the uncle’s death now secured Frank’s independence.

  “Good heavens,” she said when he finished. “That is quite the cold-blooded scheme, if these suspicions about Frank Churchill prove accurate. I wonder, however, that Mr. Knightley shared them with you, a near-stranger. He impressed me as a more discreet gentleman, particularly regarding a matter yet under investigation.”

  Darcy cleared his throat. “The investigation is the reason he took me into his confidence. Frank Churchill’s status within the village, coupled with Mr. Knightley’s admitted bias against him, render it necessary to have a more objective individual probe the affair. Upon Lord Chatfield’s recommendation, Mr. Knightley solicited my assistance.” He paused. “And upon Chatfield’s request, I agreed.”

  At the mention of the earl, Darcy’s willingness to involve himself became more understandable. Elizabeth could not, however, help feeling her spirits sink at the realization that Darcy’s participation in a murder enquiry would necessitate an extension of their unplanned stop in Highbury. She wanted to reach Brierwood. And she missed her daughter. “Should we send for Lily-Anne?”

  “It is my hope that we will not be here overlong. Mr. Perry has gone to London to consult a colleague more knowledgeable about belladonna, and travels home by way of Richmond to learn more about Agnes Churchill’s seizure from her physician. We also await information from the Churchills’ solicitor. If all goes well, this matter should be resolved within days. If you wish, however, I can take you to the townhouse and return here. Your continuance in Highbury is not required merely because I am committed.”

  “Indeed? So you do not want to hear what I know of the gypsy herbalist?”

  That commanded his attention. “How came you by information regarding the herbalist?”

  “From Mrs. Martin. She said one of the gypsies who accosted her was an older woman—a ‘witch-woman,’ Mrs. Martin called her—gathering plants. I would wager that she is your healer.”

  “Did she appear to know Frank Churchill?”

  “She appeared startled by his appearance and fled with the rest of them, so whether she knew him or not is a subject for further speculation. I suppose it certainly would have been surprising to be chased off in such a manner by a gentleman to whom one just sold poison, if that was Frank Churchill’s true purpose for being there. Do you and Mr. Knightley believe, then, that Frank obtained from this same gypsy the belladonna that killed his uncle?”

  “Directly or indirectly. He possibly acquired it through Mr. Deal.”

  “Surely the peddler would not trade poison so openly?”

  “The poison could be passed off as one of the remedies he sells. Or belladonna could be a component of some of the physics, added intentionally or in error. Mr. Perry says that in small amounts it has legitimate medicinal value, and that the berries are sometimes mistaken for edible ones. I suspect, however, that if this gypsy herbalist incorporated deadly nightshade into one of her concoctions, she knew precisely what she was doing.”

  “If she were accidentally poisoning people, Mr. Knightley would have heard by now of other customers who had suffered ill effects.”

  “Even so, I purchased Mr. Deal’s remaining gypsy remedies, ostensibly for personal use, but I have given them to Mr. Knightley so that the apothecary can have a look at them.”

  “What do they purport to cure?”

  “Gout, dropsy, and—” He coughed. “Female complaints.”

  She regarded him archly. “What sort of female complaints?”

  “I hoped you would know, for I have not the faintest notion.”

  Elizabeth found it both amusing and charming that, after nearly two years of marriage and the birth of their child, such a subject could discompose him. “So now Mr. Deal believes I suffer from a peculiarly feminine malady. I thank you for that—it should make my next encounter with him all the more delightful. Is there anything else I ought to know about the reputation I am forming in Highbury?”

  “No.” He paused. “Well . . .”

  She raised a brow.

  “Should Mr. Churchill enquire, you were all but debilitated by a headache today.”

  “Indeed? It seems I am on the verge of becoming a professional invalid. Are the gout and dropsy my ailments as well?”

  “No, only the headache and the . . . other.”

  “Thank heavens. I would not want my deteriorating state to burden anybody. Incidentally, I understand that Mrs. Knightley’s father suffers ill health, and that the Knightleys reside with him when not hosting lethal routs. As we returned this afternoon, Mrs. Knightley expressed a wish for us all to quit Donwell for Hartfield, as she is needed there. Her sister and family, who have been staying with Mr. Woodhouse, must go home to London tomorrow, and now that all the other guests save Thomas Dixon have departed, there is no reason for us remaining few to continue at Donwell.”

  “When is the removal to occur?”

  “On the morrow, as early as is reasonable. From the sound of it, you and Mr. Knightley intend to spend the day capturing criminals, and therefore will scarcely notice the transition.”

  “Will you?”

  “Not as much as our servants.” She opened the armoire, where her maid and his valet had just hung all the clothes from their trunks, which would have to be repacked. “Now, you had better dress for dinner, or we shall be late.”

  “The Knightleys keep country hours, then?”

  “Yes, and I am glad of it, for after the events of last night and today, I would like to retire earlier tonight.”

  Darcy raised a roguish brow. “How early?”

  She smiled and moved towards him, holding his gaze all the while. When she reached him, she placed a hand on his chest, which he covered with his own as she stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.

  “I am afraid tonight is inconvenient, dear. . . . Apparently, I have a headache.”

  Seventeen

  “I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in every thing material.”

  —Frank Churchill, Emma

  The room Mr. Knightley had made into his study at Hartfield was smaller than that of Donwell, but reflected the character of its new resident nonetheless. Oak-paneled walls, paintings of country scenes, and burgundy draperies tied back with braided gold cords surrounded sturdy yet graceful mahogany furniture. Two Sheraton armchairs encouraged conversation over tobacco or the Madeira wine that stood ready on a side table between the east windows. A third chair—the one which saw the most use—waited behind the inlaid satinwood writing table; a matching glass-fronted library case dominated the north wall and held the magistrate’s most oft-referenced books. It was a gentleman’s room, suited to the serious purpose that occupied the three gentlemen gathered there.

  Mr. Perry called directly after he returned from London. Though his mission had required little more than four-and-twenty hours to complete, it had yielded intelligence of significance. Barely had he taken a seat in the armchair opposite Darcy than he commenced his report. “My colleague confirms my suspicions,” he said. “Edgar Churchill almost certainly died of belladonna poisoning.”

  The news came as no surprise to Darcy. The more he had heard about Frank Churchill’s encounter with the gypsies and the fact that the band apparently included an herb-woman, the less he believed Edgar Churchill’s death had occurred by natural means.

  “What did his physician say?” Mr. Knightley brought a third chair from the writing table so that they might have a more intimate discussion. “Had he been taking any medicines that might have contained belladonna?”

  “None at all. Mr. Flint reported that other than experiencing occasional fits of gout, Edgar Churchill was in good health and seldom had need of his services. It was Mrs. Churchill who kept him and the local apothecary employed. She suffered from nervous complaints and took several physics regularly. I spoke with the apothecary. They were standard remedies, nothing unusual about their composition.”

 
; “The peddler who has lately been in Highbury sells a cure for gout,” Darcy said. “I purchased one for you to examine.”

  “I will have a look. Did you learn whether Mr. Churchill might have bought one? He did not have anything of that sort on his person when he died.”

  “We found no such items among his possessions,” said Mr. Knightley. “What of Mrs. Churchill’s final illness? Were her symptoms similar to Edgar’s?”

  “No. To all appearances, she died of apoplexy.”

  “The physician is quite sure?” Darcy asked.

  “Mr. Flint was with her at the end, but she was too far gone for his ministrations to have any effect. He is insistent, however, that Mrs. Churchill died of natural causes.” He paused. “Mr. Flint is a physician of no small renown. He did not appreciate my questioning his professional judgment.”

  Darcy had never met Mr. Flint, but he had met his ilk: medical men so full of their own self-importance that their patients were an afterthought. He had probably taken great umbrage to the suggestion that he could have failed to recognize a murder occurring before his eyes, particularly as it had been voiced by a mere apothecary. “Mr. Flint sounds unlikely to reconsider his diagnosis. We should therefore focus our efforts on resolving Edgar Churchill’s death, which we know more about. What that investigation brings to light might then illuminate Mrs. Churchill’s.”

  Mr. Knightley agreed. “Perry, what did you learn from Edgar Churchill’s solicitor?”

  “Mr. MacAllister set down the particulars for your reference.” Mr. Perry produced a sealed packet and handed it to Mr. Knightley. “As is generally known in Highbury, when Frank Weston reached his majority three years ago, in exchange for legally adopting the name ‘Churchill,’ Edgar designated him his heir.”

  “Is anyone else named in the will?” Darcy asked.

  “Edgar inherited Enscombe unentailed, so it was his to leave to whomever he chose,” Mr. Perry said as Mr. Knightley broke the seal and scanned the pages. “Upon his marriage, Edgar wrote a will granting Agnes a life interest in the estate should he predecease her, with the property then passing to Edgar’s issue upon her death. As they had no children by the time Frank attained his majority, and Mrs. Churchill was past childbearing age, they formally adopted Frank.”