The Intrigue at Highbury Read online

  “What about individuals who might benefit financially from your uncle’s death and yours? Do you have any business partners?”

  “Until last week I had no fortune with which to do business.”

  Elizabeth could see Darcy’s frustration mounting. Though Frank Churchill answered the queries willingly—or at least, gave the appearance of doing so—his replies provided no leads to follow. Why was he not more forthcoming, with his own safety at stake?

  Darcy released an exasperated breath. “Mr. Churchill, it is very likely that someone murdered your uncle, and has attempted to murder you. Are you telling me that you have not the faintest idea why, or who that individual might be?”

  “Believe me, sir, I wish I did.”

  Darcy sat back and studied Frank, who shifted self-consciously under Darcy’s silent brooding. Then Darcy looked at Elizabeth, glanced at Jane Churchill, and met Elizabeth’s gaze once more. Without his having said a word, she understood.

  Perhaps Frank Churchill knew quite well why someone might want to kill him. And perhaps it involved something, or someone, he would rather his new wife not know about.

  “Mrs. Churchill,” Elizabeth said, “I have need of Mrs. Knightley—she is somewhere in the house with Mrs. Weston. Might I impose upon you to help me locate them?”

  Though comfortable and well appointed, Randalls was not a very large house. Elizabeth estimated that she had five minutes—ten if she were very lucky—in which to both invent a reason for seeking Mrs. Knightley and elicit as much information as she could from Jane Churchill before their discovery of the other two ladies’ whereabouts put an end to this spontaneous interview.

  “Mr. Darcy and I found ourselves ensnared in a murder plot within a fortnight of our wedding,” Elizabeth said as soon as they had quit the drawing room and entered the hall. It was not an elegant or subtle opening, but it had the desired effect: Jane Churchill regarded her in amazement—and lost some of the defensiveness from her posture. “So I sympathize with your current circumstances,” she continued. “This might not be the most auspicious manner in which to begin a marriage, but we are proof that one can endure it.”

  Jane turned her head away, focusing her gaze on the central staircase that dominated the entry hall through which they passed. “Was the murderer caught?”

  “Yes, by Mr. Darcy—and me. We were relieved when the matter was finally resolved, and we could at last retreat to Mr. Darcy’s home in Derbyshire. Just as I imagine you are anxious to reach Enscombe.”

  “Indeed, yes. I wish we were there now.” Jane led her past the staircase and down a corridor. Paintings lined the walls—a few landscapes, including one depicting Randalls, and portraits of the Westons and Frank.

  “Will your friends, the Dixons, travel there with you?”

  “No, they return to Ireland on Friday next.”

  “So soon? Mr. Thomas Dixon will no doubt be disappointed to leave Highbury before the transformation of your aunt’s apartment is complete.”

  At the mention of Thomas Dixon, Jane stiffened. “Perhaps he can visit some other time.”

  “He seems a kind gentleman—generous with his time and attention. One wonders why he has never wed.”

  Mrs. Churchill directed her gaze towards the portrait of Frank as they passed it. “He was a younger son, and remains dependent upon his relations.”

  “But surely a man as handsome and affable as he could charm an heiress,” Elizabeth said. “Is that not how most men in his situation secure their independence?”

  Her companion stopped short. “Perhaps he has not the inclination.”

  They had arrived at an open doorway that led into a bright parlor. Female voices carried from within. “I believe we have found Mrs. Knightley,” said Mrs. Churchill.

  “So we have,” Elizabeth replied.

  Both of their smiles were forced.

  “So, what did you ask Frank Churchill about, once his wife and I left the room?”

  Darcy reached for his cravat. They had returned late from Randalls and had little time to dress for dinner, a process hindered by the fact that he had dismissed his valet so that he and Elizabeth could talk freely. “Can you not guess?”

  “Disappointed debutantes? Rejected lovers? Discarded mistresses?” Elizabeth adjusted the short sleeves of her gown to give the white sprigged silk more puff, then left the glass to Darcy.

  “All of the above. He claims to have none. Also no natural children.”

  “Any previous wives or legitimate children?”

  “Not this time.”

  She sat down on the chaise longue to don her slippers. The set of rooms they had been given at Hartfield—a bedchamber and dressing room—was smaller than what they had enjoyed at Donwell, but more comfortably appointed. Elizabeth preferred the relatively slender furniture to some of the older, heavier pieces that had dominated their chamber at the abbey.

  “Not even a scandalous ancestor lurking in the family tree? What about the uncle?”

  “To hear Frank tell it, both he and Edgar are the dullest victims we have ever investigated.” He lifted his chin to tie the neckcloth.

  “We can only hope that the poisoner has a more interesting past, though I presently favor Jane Churchill, whom everybody else seems to consider beyond reproach. It is always the quiet ones, you know.”

  Darcy looked at her askance. “In our experience, it has never been the quiet ones.”

  She contemplated that for a moment. “I suppose you are right. Oh, well—then it is time for a quiet one. And poison is a quiet weapon.”

  “That does not mean Jane Churchill is the one who used it. I confess myself very nearly persuaded by the Knightleys regarding her. They know her character better than we do.”

  “I thought you were asked to aid this investigation precisely because you do not harbor preconceptions about the principals’ characters.”

  “So I was. Regardless, Mrs. Knightley makes a good point about Jane’s not needing to kill Frank. As the new Mrs. Churchill, she already has everything she wants.”

  “You assume that she wants to remain married to her husband.”

  Darcy muttered something indistinguishable under his breath. He had pulled one end of the neckcloth too far and had to begin the entire process anew.

  “Why would she not?” he said. “Frank Churchill seems a decent, amiable fellow, her own age, with a comfortable home and generous income. Were I choosing a husband for my sister, I would prefer a more serious gentleman, but many young ladies marry worse.”

  She rose and went to the dressing table, where Lucy had laid out her long kid gloves. She slid them on until they reached past her elbows. For once, she had completed her preparations before Darcy.

  “Perhaps Jane Churchill is in love with somebody else.”

  “Thomas Dixon?” Both Darcy’s tone and expression reflected his disdain for the gentleman. Mr. Dixon was too frivolous to ever earn Darcy’s esteem.

  “They seem to be on unusually familiar terms, and you witnessed how the mere mention of his name provoked Frank Churchill. When I tried to coax her into speaking about Mr. Dixon while we were alone, she hedged.”

  “Why would any woman of sense—which Jane Churchill appears to be—choose Thomas Dixon over Frank Churchill? He may be charming, but he has not a guinea to call his own.”

  “If she were a wealthy widow, he would not need a shilling.” At his dubious look, she continued. “Imagine, Darcy: They meet at Weymouth—a watering hole devoted to pleasure. Patrick Dixon is courting Miss Campbell, Jane’s dearest friend and near-sister. She and Thomas Dixon, constantly in company together, fall in love but cannot marry because neither has the means. Then along comes Frank Churchill with an offer of marriage and the promise of a fortune. All Jane need do is marry Frank, ensure his aunt and uncle predecease him, then wear widow’s weeds for a twelvemonth.”

  “And murder her husband. You omitted that part.” He adjusted the cravat a final time and reached for his coat.
r />   Elizabeth helped him into it, smoothing the black wool across his shoulders. “Well, yes—that, too. I never said it was an admirable plan. But murder plots seldom are.”

  “This one is so coldly calculating that I can scarcely believe I just heard you utter it. And if Jane Churchill likened service as a governess to slavery, consider what profession your hypothesis suggests.”

  They left their room to go down to dinner. In the corridor they met Thomas Dixon—resplendent in an embroidered satin waistcoat, frilled shirt, and cutaway maroon frock coat with a high velvet collar and brass buttons. Whatever secrets his heart might conceal, the gentleman certainly knew how to dress.

  “I understand you are just returned from Randalls,” Mr. Dixon said. “How is Frank Churchill today?”

  “Much improved,” Elizabeth replied.

  “I am glad to hear it. What a fright for poor Jane! I hope he learned from this experience. If not”—his eyes twinkled—“we shall have to bring him to Ireland and teach him how to drink.” He seemed to be in a more pleasant mood than he had been the night before; Elizabeth wondered how he had spent his day.

  “Frank claims he was not intoxicated,” Darcy said, “—in fact, that he did not have a drink all day. But I understand that he was seen near the Crown shortly before the Eltons’ party.”

  “Was he?” Mr. Dixon began to remove his left glove, gently tugging on each finger. “I wonder what he was doing there.”

  “He claims he was on his way to the vicarage.”

  “I am sure that is all there is to it, then.”

  “The reports we have heard of his conduct at the Eltons’ sound similar to what we heard of his uncle’s final night,” Darcy continued. “Did you not take a walk with Edgar Churchill earlier on the day of the Donwell party?”

  “Yes.” He removed the other glove and held the pair in one hand as he tucked two fingers into his fob pocket.

  “Did he already seem to be feeling poorly when you were together?”

  Mr. Dixon fumbled with his fob chain, trying to retrieve his watch from its pocket. “He appeared fine.”

  “Perhaps the exercise strained him. Did you walk far?”

  He at last succeeded in withdrawing the watch. “We went nowhere in particular.” He sprung open the lid. “So late already! I must go dress for dinner.” He snapped the lid shut and hurried off.

  Elizabeth followed him with her gaze until he was well out of hearing. “I thought he was dressed for dinner.”

  “For all your speculation about Thomas Dixon’s relationship with Jane Churchill, I think the most significant connexion in his life is his tailor.” Darcy took her arm and led her towards the staircase.

  “All the more reason to plot marriage to a wealthy widow—he could afford a fleet of tailors. He is definitely hiding something.”

  “His quizzing glass?”

  “Jane said it was Thomas Dixon who saw Frank near the Crown before the party. And it was Thomas Dixon who took a walk with Edgar Churchill shortly before the Knightleys’ party—information also revealed by Jane. Thomas Dixon was the last person to see either poisoning victim in good health, before any symptoms appeared. And he seems quite reluctant to talk about it.”

  “You take this as evidence that he conspires with Jane Churchill? If she were indeed plotting to kill her husband so that she could become Mrs. Thomas Dixon, why would she volunteer any information that betrays his involvement?”

  “I do not yet relinquish the possibility of collusion between them,” Elizabeth said, “but there is an alternative theory we have not yet considered. Perhaps Jane does not know about the plot. Perhaps it is all Mr. Dixon’s.”

  Twenty-one

  “Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentlemen’s hands I ever saw.”

  “I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small—wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”

  —Emma Woodhouse and Mr. Knightley, Emma

  The second riddle arrived as had the first: in the post, anonymously.

  This one was not a charade, however, but a much shorter puzzle. And it came addressed not solely to Emma, but to both the Knightleys.

  It was Mr. Knightley, alone in the study, who opened it as he sorted through the letters that had arrived while he and the others spent the day interviewing the Eltons and their dinner guests. His first response, upon breaking the seal and seeing that the note contained but a single sentence, was annoyance that he had paid good coin to receive such a short message—particularly one postmarked in Highbury.

  His next response, upon reading the enigmatic line, was to immediately seek his wife to ask whether she had any better notion than he why the mysterious missive had appeared.

  He found her in the drawing room with her father, Thomas Dixon, and the Darcys, who had gathered there in anticipation of dinner and waited only on him to go into the dining room. His thoughts full of the Churchill matter, he had not realized the hour. He apologized to the company for having kept them from their meal, and drew Emma aside as the others started into the dining room.

  “We received a rather unusual message with today’s post.”

  Emma took the paper from him. With a glance at her father, who talked to Mr. Dixon as he made his slow way to the table, she unfolded the note.

  PERHAPS AN UNKIND INDIVIDUAL WITNESSED THE GATHERING OF BRAGGARTS OF AN ELEVATED RELIGIOUS HOUSE.

  It was penned, unlike the last riddle, in block letters to disguise the hand. Emma, however, needed no additional evidence of its authorship. She rolled her eyes ceilingward. “It is only Mrs. Elton again.”

  “Mrs. Elton?”

  “She sent me the most spiteful charade yesterday. Apparently, she has not done venting her spleen.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Nothing significant.” Emma knew her husband’s opinions on the subject of matchmaking, and did not care to hear them again at present. He might just side with Mrs. Elton. “Come look at this, Mrs. Darcy.” She hoped that a third party in the conversation would quell any lectures on matrimonial manipulation that her husband might feel inspired to deliver. “We have received another attempt at cleverness from the vicarage.”

  Mrs. Darcy came to her, curiosity writ on her countenance. Mr. Darcy crossed the room with her. She frowned as she scanned the note, which Mr. Darcy also read. “That is rather an odd message,” she said. “I cannot grasp quite how it relates to the content of the first. Are you certain it is from Mrs. Elton?”

  “Who but the Eltons would consider Highbury’s vicarage ‘an elevated religious house’? Their self-consequence never fails to astonish me.” At Mrs. Darcy’s expression of confusion, Emma continued. “This refers to their dinner party. Mrs. Elton must take one final opportunity to remind me that I was not invited.”

  “I do not believe that is her meaning at all, if this note is indeed from her,” said Mr. Knightley. “She is unlikely to call her own guests ‘braggarts.’ ”

  “Yes, it is a term better applied to the hosts.” Emma read the message again: braggarts of an elevated religious house. She drew a sharp breath as she realized its meaning. “That woman is altogether insufferable! Gathering of braggarts, indeed! Well, she need not ever concern herself about associating with such company again.”

  Her three companions all regarded her in puzzlement.

  Emma turned to her husband. “Do you not see? Donwell Abbey is the religious house. She refers to our dinner party. More specifically, to you and me—she says ‘braggarts of’—not at—an elevated religious house. Donwell is our home—nobody is ‘of’ Donwell but we.”

  “The reference could be to Donwell parish, which is home to half the guests who attended.”

  “Why do you defend her?”

  “I do not—I am simply trying to comprehend the message. You have not yet convinced me that it is from Mrs. Elton. What has she to gain by sending such a note?”

  “The satisfaction of vexing me.”

  “Then do no
t give her that satisfaction,” Mr. Knightley said. “Let us consider this more objectively. The message arrived addressed to both of us, on the day following an attempt on Frank Churchill’s life. The first note, you say, arrived yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, two days after Edgar died. And it was addressed solely to you?”

  Emma nodded.

  “What did it say?”

  “It was a charade. The solution was ‘hopeless.’ ”

  “Unfortunately, that could just as easily refer to our investigation. What made you believe the note was from Mrs. Elton?”

  “The penmanship appeared to be hers. And she and I are . . . having a bit of a disagreement.”

  Mr. Knightley regarded her suspiciously. “On what matter?”

  She hesitated. “Mrs. Elton is quite put out by my recent attention to Miss Bates.”

  “I see. So put out that she was inspired to write verse on the subject?”

  To avoid his gaze—and her increasing self-doubt—Emma once more studied the sentence. This time she took particular note of the penmanship. Though she did not have yesterday’s charade at hand for comparison, it appeared to her that these block letters were larger, scribed in bolder strokes than Mrs. Elton’s feminine script. “Perhaps someone else did write it,” she conceded.

  “The letter bears a local postmark, and Highbury is a small village,” Mr. Darcy said. “Would not the postmaster recall who brought it to the post office?”

  Emma laughed. “We can ask him, but I doubt he will be able to enlighten us. Mr. Fletcher is a man of rather advanced years, as deaf as Mrs. Bates and even more prone to nodding off in his chair. People leave letters on the counter all the time rather than disturb his naps. Jane Fairfax managed to conduct a secret correspondence with Frank Churchill all last winter and spring without anybody in the village being the wiser.”

  “I am afraid my wife is correct in her description of the postmaster,” Mr. Knightley said. “I will visit him tomorrow, but we are more likely to determine this note’s author through our own deduction.”