The Intrigue at Highbury Page 9

  Mr. Knightley’s reply seemed to satisfy his wife. “I believe that he generally calls upon people at their homes, but you might try Broadway Lane. That is where I last saw him.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two days ago. I did not speak to him at the time, however, as Frank and Edgar Churchill occupied his attention.”

  “Indeed? What were they doing?”

  “Frank purchased a snuff box. At least, I assume he bought a snuff box, as he was looking at a pair of them before his uncle and I became engaged in conversation.”

  The maid returned with the silver tea urn, and they all moved to the table. Mrs. Knightley prepared the tea, using a silver scoop to measure leaves out of a wooden caddy inlaid with ivory. She spooned the tea into a Wedgwood pot, then poured boiling water from the urn.

  “How did Edgar Churchill appear?” Mr. Knightley continued.

  “Out of sorts, though not nearly so out of them as when he arrived here for dinner. He seemed melancholy, and I supposed Frank’s wedding had reminded him of his late wife. I tried to improve his mood but—” She glanced at the Darcys self-consciously. “I am afraid I made a blunder of it. I had half a mind to ask Mr. Deal afterwards whether one of his gypsy remedies could cure a broken heart.”

  “Gypsy remedies?” Darcy could not help but interrupt.

  Mr. Knightley regarded his wife with equal surprise. “Mr. Deal sells gypsy wares?”

  “Various physics and ointments,” she said. “He had a chest of them when I first met him at Mrs. Weston’s house—cures for everything from rheumatism to warts. They are quite popular with the villagers.” The tea having steeped sufficiently, Mrs. Knightley turned to Elizabeth. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

  “Let me be sure I understand you,” Mr. Knightley said slowly as his wife poured tea. “Mr. Deal regularly consorts with gypsies?”

  “Well, I do not know that he consorts with them. But even if he did, that is not a violation of the law, is it?”

  “Not long ago, merely being found in their company would have put him at risk of hanging. Those laws have been repealed, but as you know from Harriet Smith’s experience, gypsies remain uncivilized, lawless vagrants given to all manner of criminal behavior, and Mr. Deal would do well to avoid association with them. His own itinerant habits render him suspect enough.”

  “He is a peddler! How is he to practice his trade without traveling?”

  “In a proper shop, as Mr. Ford does.”

  “I patronize Ford’s as often as anybody else in Highbury. I have yet to see some of the goods there that Mr. Deal offers. The shawl Miss Bates wore last night came from him, as did the lace on the handkerchief Jane Churchill carried on her wedding day. The village is enamored with him and his merchandise. So long as he obtains his goods legally, what is it to us where or from whom he acquires them? Indeed, by engaging in business with the gypsies, he does us all a service—he deals with those people so that we need not.”

  “Did he mention when he had acquired the remedies?” Darcy ventured to ask. “Might the gypsies presently be in this area?”

  “He did not say—I assumed he had brought them from elsewhere.” Mrs. Knightley turned to her husband. “If he had indicated that gypsies were again in the neighborhood, I certainly would have told you.”

  “Did Edgar Churchill purchase anything from Mr. Deal?” Mr. Knightley asked.

  “Not that I witnessed.” She sipped her tea. “I suppose he might have before I came upon them, but judging from his demeanor, I doubt it. He seemed impatient for Frank to finish his transaction, so he likely did not engage in one of his own.”

  “Did Frank Churchill buy one of these elixirs?”

  “Frank? No. Whatever would Frank Churchill need a remedy for? He is in excellent health. He could not even benefit from a potion that promises luck—he just wed a woman he adores, and stands to inherit a fine estate. Were it not for his uncle’s death, his life would be perfect.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Knightley said. “Perfect.”

  She set down her teacup. “Mr. Knightley, need I remind you that Frank Churchill is the stepson of my dearest friend?”

  “Not at all. I am fully aware of that fact.”

  Mrs. Knightley glanced at Elizabeth and Darcy. All felt the awkwardness of the little moment of marital discord.

  “Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Knightley said, “I have an errand in the village. Would you care to accompany me? I could show you Highbury, which is a charming little village when one is not being robbed by highwaymen, and the walk would provide an opportunity for us to have that discussion about Stuart’s theories.”

  Darcy wanted to talk about gypsies, not husbandry. Nor, having just returned from tramping about the London road searching for evidence, and having scarcely finished his tea, did he particularly relish the notion of immediately reentering the chill November air. Perhaps, however, they could visit Broadway Lane and find the peddler. “I would be pleased to accompany you.”

  “Mrs. Darcy, you are welcome to come with us,” Mr. Knightley offered.

  Elizabeth looked as if she had much rather not. “It is most kind of you—”

  Mrs. Knightley intervened. “Mrs. Darcy, do not feel obliged to subject yourself to discourse on crop rotation and livestock breeding merely because my husband invited you. Most people tire of those subjects long before he does. Let us take our own walk and become better acquainted.”

  Ten

  Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle.

  —Emma

  Darcy and Mr. Knightley were not thirty yards from the house when Mr. Knightley dropped all guise of initiating an agricultural discussion.

  “Mr. Darcy, I hope you will forgive me. While I do need to call upon someone—and would enjoy discussing Stuart’s theories with you at some point—I have a more pressing issue upon which I wish to consult you.”

  The confession intrigued Darcy. “Go on.”

  Though reassured by this encouragement, Mr. Knightley yet seemed not altogether at ease. “I am hardly in the habit of imposing upon strangers, nor of confiding in gentlemen with whom I have so newly become acquainted. But finding myself in a complex and delicate situation, I am in need of disinterested aid, and after our conversation last night, I believed you might be the very man to help me. When I learned that we share a mutual friend, I wrote to Lord Chatfield and enquired whether my instincts were correct.” A cold gust of wind rustled the dry leaves of the apple trees they passed. The faint scent of apples yet hung about the orchard.

  “The letter I received while we searched for evidence on the London road this morning was his lordship’s reply,” Mr. Knightley continued. “Chatfield not only attested to your character and reliability, but also encouraged me, given the circumstances, to indeed solicit your assistance.” He stopped to withdraw from his pocket a small sealed note, which he handed to Darcy. “The earl enclosed this for you.”

  Darcy,

  Did I not urge you to stay in town long enough to cross swords with me at Angelo’s before hastening off to Sussex? This is what comes of forgoing the pleasure of a fencing match. Now you are at the mercy of my friend Knightley. Despite the incident that brought you to his attention, however, fortune follows you, for you could not have found yourself in better company during a crisis. George Knightley is one of the most capable gentlemen I have the privilege of knowing—second only to you, of course. Had the two of you ever been in town at the same time, you would certainly have met in my drawing room. Depend upon it, he will do all he can to resolve your present difficulties, if you and your clever wife have not already settled the affair yourselves.

  Meanwhile, I understand Knightley has a matter of his own which could benefit from your experience. Perhaps the fortune is all on his side, for you are the very man I wou
ld have recommended had you not presented yourself to him before I had the opportunity. I am still in your debt for the service you rendered me last year. Pray, aid Knightley if you can. Afterwards, you both must come to town and regale me with the tale of your success.

  If I can be of assistance to either of you, know that you need only ask. I am—

  Yours most sincerely,

  Chatfield

  The letter was classic Chatfield, full of good humor that to someone less well acquainted with the earl might disguise the keen intellect that lay beneath it.

  Mr. Knightley watched him pocket the note. “In his letter to me, Chatfield alluded to a sensitive matter involving his wife’s brother. He did not disclose the particulars, but he credits you and Mrs. Darcy with resolving it with intelligence and discretion, qualities also essential in the matter on which I seek your assistance. It concerns Edgar Churchill.”

  Darcy had suspected as much. The death had obviously been much on Mr. Knightley’s mind, and the magistrate had not been as reserved about discussing the subject in Darcy and Elizabeth’s presence as Darcy would have expected among casual acquaintances. “I shall hold in confidence any information you choose to divulge.”

  “Thank you.” He and Darcy resumed walking along a path that wound through Donwell Park towards the main road. “As you know, Edgar Churchill’s death occurred under circumstances curious enough to warrant probing. His behavior before he took ill and the rapidity of his decline in themselves merit attention. But what most raises my concern is the timing of his death as it benefits one individual.”

  “His heir?”

  “Yes, Frank Churchill. Frank is the golden child of Highbury. He left the village as a toddler to be raised by his aunt and uncle after his mother’s death, and for two decades all Highbury—fueled by periodic reports by his father, Mr. Weston, on his advancement—eagerly awaited his return. When he finally came last winter, he was like a lost prince come home to claim his throne. This village adores him, and his recent marriage to another beloved resident, Jane Fairfax, secures him in the affections of everybody.”

  “Everybody but yourself.”

  He nodded. “I never thought Frank Churchill an inherently evil person, simply a self-absorbed gentleman lacking maturity, propriety, and a sense of duty. But now—where shall I begin? A year ago, he was an idle young man secretly engaged to a respectable but portionless young lady of whom his tyrannical aunt would have never approved. The sudden death of his aunt in June cleared the way for him to marry. And now, less than a se’nnight wed, the sudden death of his uncle awards him a substantial estate free and clear. The confluence of events strikes me as rather suspicious.”

  From the few particulars with which Knightley had acquainted him, Darcy agreed. “How did the aunt die?”

  Mr. Knightley chuckled without mirth. “Agnes Churchill suffered various complaints for decades—generally, whenever she wanted a change of scenery or Frank at her disposal. Frank would make plans to visit his father, and just before his departure she would suddenly be stricken by some malady or nervous disorder that inspired her removal to whichever of their houses they did not occupy at the time, and required Frank to attend her there. Few in Highbury ever believed she was truly indisposed until she actually died.”

  “In hindsight, however, it sounds as though she suffered poor health the whole while,” Darcy said. “It can hardly be suspicious that she would eventually succumb to an illness that plagued her for years.”

  “But she did not. When Frank Churchill wrote to his father and stepmother informing them of his aunt’s demise, he reported that Mrs. Churchill had been taken by a seizure of a different sort than any of the earlier ones. Further, this unexplained fit occurred hard upon Frank’s arrival at their Richmond house following a quarrel with Jane in which she told him she was calling off their betrothal because he would not openly acknowledge their engagement.”

  “And so you believe Frank killed his aunt rather than reveal the engagement to her and risk being disinherited?”

  “I did not question her death at the time—only considered it extraordinarily lucky for Frank. But now, having seen Edgar Churchill also die of an unexpected ailment, I cannot help but wonder about the nature of the aunt’s.”

  “Has Mr. Perry reached any conclusions about the cause of Edgar’s death?”

  Mr. Knightley stopped, his countenance grim. “He suspects Edgar Churchill was poisoned.”

  They had reached the road. Not too far distant, Darcy could see several buildings huddled at the village’s edge.

  “I find myself confronted with two suspicious deaths,” Mr. Knightley said, “one of which occurred in my own home. And the chief suspect is a man against whom I have long harbored prejudice. I fear I am not capable of the objectivity required to properly investigate the matter.”

  Darcy respected the magistrate’s self-knowledge, but also wondered why Mr. Knightley felt the responsibility fell entirely upon himself. “Ought not Mr. Perry, as coroner, conduct the enquiry?”

  “Mr. Perry is a good apothecary and an excellent man, but he is no investigator. He will offer his medical expertise and hold his inquest, but unless someone actually witnessed Frank Churchill administering the poison, he will likely declare Edgar’s death a case of accidental ingestion.”

  “Mr. Cole, then?”

  “Mr. Cole is a reluctant constable. It is a position no one in this parish particularly wants, so it rotates annually. Cole does what is expected of him, but no more, and has not the drive to pursue an unpopular investigation against a very popular member of this community. I am afraid no one in Highbury does.” He paused. “This case requires a disinterested party who can gather and evaluate evidence without the influence of prior connexions or fear of negative consequences to his own reputation within the village. After receiving Lord Chatfield’s endorsement this morning, I am rather hoping that you, Mr. Darcy, will do me the great favor of guiding the investigation.”

  Darcy was surprised at being asked to take such a prominent role. His countenance must have registered his astonishment.

  “You need not answer me this moment,” Mr. Knightley said. They headed into the village, where Darcy hoped to catch sight of the peddler’s cart. “I realize I ask a great deal—much more than our brief acquaintance supports. Pray, forgive my presumption. I ask not out of my own interest, but the interest of justice.”

  Darcy was not by nature disposed to insert himself into affairs which did not concern him. “I do not know whether I am the proper person to assist you so directly. I have no official standing—no legal or moral authority that would compel anyone to cooperate with my efforts.”

  “It is precisely your lack of formal status that I hope will enable you to undertake this enquiry in a subtle manner that does not alert the entire village to the fact that Frank Churchill is under suspicion of murder. Should a more official role become necessary, I can appoint you one. Pray, consider my proposal a while longer before refusing it out of hand.”

  They had reached the village centre. A signpost indicated that they stood in Broadway Lane, but to Darcy’s disappointment, no peddler’s cart greeted them.

  Mr. Knightley noted Darcy’s expression. “It would have been convenient to find Hiram Deal waiting here for us, but I suppose only Frank Churchill enjoys that sort of serendipity. We shall enquire after the peddler.” He stopped before a respectable-looking house with a shop front on the lower level. A sign bearing a mortar and pestle hung above the door. “First, however, let us call upon Mr. Perry.”

  They entered the shop, a compact but orderly space designed to accommodate the apparatus of the apothecary’s art. Two wooden cabinets with numerous small drawers held all manner of ingredients for medicines, salves, and other remedies, while shelves displayed the measuring tools, mixing equipment, and scales used to prepare them. In the far corner stood a bookcase, its neat rows punctuated by gaps from the removal of several volumes that lay open on the worktable. A por
tmanteau rested on the floor against one of the table legs.

  The room was empty of people save for Mr. Perry himself, though scampering footsteps above revealed the presence of either several children or a scurry of squirrels. The sound put Darcy in mind of Lily-Anne, who could crawl across the floor of Pemberley’s nursery with considerable velocity. It would not be long before she took her own first independent steps. He hoped the matter of the robbery would be resolved and their family united in short order.

  Mr. Perry greeted them with an expression of concern. “Mr. Knightley, I did not expect to see you again until I returned from London. Has something else occurred?”

  “Nothing of a sinister nature. I merely hoped that you might impart to Mr. Darcy the suspicions you shared with me this morning. Mr. Darcy has some experience probing unusual deaths, and I have solicited his assistance with the Churchill matter.”

  Darcy experienced a moment’s apprehension that the coroner would resent the intrusion of a stranger into his enquiry, but Mr. Perry’s countenance instead reflected relief.

  “Indeed? Mr. Darcy, I welcome any wisdom you can shed on the matter. I have completed my examination of Edgar Churchill; he presently lies in the next room. Do you wish to see his remains?”

  Darcy had no wish to see anything of the sort if he could help it. Though he had witnessed the results of violent death before, it was hardly a pleasant experience, and he still was not entirely certain he wanted to involve himself in this affair.

  “I am not a medical man, so perhaps you could simply report your findings. Mr. Knightley said you found evidence of poison?”

  “I found nothing definitive in respect to his remains. My suspicions, therefore, derive from the symptoms I and others observed in Edgar Churchill while he was yet alive. I believe them consistent with the consumption of belladonna.”

  Darcy had heard of the plant, but knew little of it. “Belladonna is also called ‘deadly nightshade,’ is it not?” The question comprised nearly his entire store of knowledge on the subject.