The Highbury Murders

by Victoria Grossack

  Struggling to keep her unsuitable thoughts to herself, Emma missed part of the conversation, but when she attended again she discovered that everyone was continuing to agree that Jane Churchill’s musical talent was superb, and that the Churchills should and would come to Highbury, both assertions equally pleasing to Miss Bates, the fond aunt. Just then the tiny apartment was invaded by more of Highbury’s finest: the Perrys and the Otways and Mrs. Goddard. Miss Bates welcomed them with delight and gratitude, while Mrs. Knightley, Mrs. Weston, and Mr. and Mrs. Cole, in order to make room for the newcomers, decided to depart. Mr. Weston stayed behind, for Miss Bates wanted to consult with him about some pecuniary matters; given their family connection he often assisted her with advice and letter-writing. The Eltons also remained with Miss Bates, as Mr. Elton was the current vicar, and needed to settle certain details with Miss Bates regarding her mother’s funeral.

  Emma, feeling she had done her duty, descended the dark and narrow staircase, and then walked out into the sunlight.

  2 strolling through highbury

  It was a lovely day in early autumn, the air fresh and the sun warm and bright after the cramped and crowded apartment. The last few days had been free of rain, which was convenient for those checking their ricks of hay and getting in the harvest on the surrounding farms. The clemency of the recent weather meant the roads and paths were dry, which was also convenient for the shoes of gentlewomen walking from Highbury to their homes a little distance from the village. Mrs. Knightley and Mrs. Weston parted from the Coles, whose house was in a different direction, and then walked together.

  Emma Woodhouse Knightley was happy to have a few moments alone with her friend Mrs. Weston. Mrs. Weston was the second wife of Mr. Weston, and hence the stepmother of Mr. Frank Churchill, the relationships in Highbury being as complicated as the dynasties of some of Europe’s royal houses. Before marrying Mr. Weston, which joyful event had occurred about two years ago, Mrs. Weston had been Miss Anne Taylor and had resided with Emma at Hartfield as Emma’s governess. Besides her husband, Mr. Knightley, there was no other person in the kingdom to whom Emma could speak her heart with such lack of reserve as she could with Mrs. Weston, who in addition to being her governess, had been her second mother and her dearest companion.

  “Do you think the Churchills will come?” Emma asked.

  “I think they will. They are not far, you know, having recently arrived in London from Yorkshire, and the season and the roads are good for traveling. Besides, ever since Mrs. Churchill’s death they have been much more flexible.”

  “But are you certain? Have you heard anything?”

  “No, but it is the right thing to do, to show Miss Bates attention on such an occasion. She must be feeling very melancholy.”

  “If you say so,” said Emma, but a quirk of her lips indicated that the woman they had just called upon showed no symptoms of sinking into melancholia.

  “Of course, all the company she is receiving right now is cheering her up,” said Mrs. Weston, unable to stop herself from making this slight correction to her former pupil. “That was the point of our visit, Emma.”

  “You are absolutely right, Mrs. Weston,” Emma acknowledged, and thought of her own father, beloved to her and not in the best of health. She might very well be the next person in Highbury to receive these condolatory visits. “What do you suppose Miss Bates will do, now that her mother is gone? She is so accustomed to having someone to care for.”

  “That is a good question, Emma, but Miss Bates will surely find a way to keep busy. Perhaps the Churchills will assist in that matter.”

  “The Eltons are most eager that the Churchills should come to Highbury just now – they are more eager even than you and Mr. Weston,” Emma observed. “I mean no reflection on you and Mr. Weston, but the Eltons show unsurpassed zeal.”

  “The minister and his wife must know how much Miss Bates would welcome a visit from Jane right now.”

  “And the Churchills will certainly give a larger donation to the church on the occasion of Mrs. Bates’s funeral than Miss Bates would on her own,” added Emma.

  Mrs. Weston laughed but scolded Emma anyway. “For shame, Emma! You are finding levity on a serious occasion.”

  “Forgive me, my dear friend. You know that I have an unserious side – there is a part of me that needs to laugh, and after a condolence visit such as this, my mirth needs to be released and exercised.”

  “I understand, dear Emma, and your wit has given me great enjoyment over the years. But take care – not everyone would appreciate it.”

  “And my levity does no credit to you, either, who raised me.” They were fast approaching Hartfield, the large house and its well-manicured grounds just beyond the great iron sweep-gate. Emma waved towards the house, where Mrs. Weston had resided so many years as well. “Remember that when I am home right now, there is no laughter. My father feels Mrs. Bates’s death far more keenly than any of the rest of us.”

  “Ah, Emma, I know. Mr. Woodhouse remembers Mrs. Bates from his own young days, and it must be so sad to think of one of his oldest friends gone. Give my best to him, my dear, and to Mr. Knightley, and kiss your baby for me.”

  Emma likewise gave her friend best wishes, and walked through the sweep gate towards her house. How lovely it was to enter her own home, so spacious and orderly and comfortable and full of family. It reminded her to think with compassion of Miss Bates, whose apartment was so small and who had just lost her mother – the woman she had lived with her entire life.

  In the foyer, her mood once again suitably serious, Emma removed her hat and coat, learned from a servant that the baby was taking a nap, and prepared herself to go speak to her father in the parlor.

  Mr. Woodhouse was anxious to learn about her visit in Highbury. “How was everyone, my dear? My dear old friend Miss Bates?”

  “She is doing very well, Papa. Many people were calling on her.”

  The old man sighed. “I should have gone to see her myself. But that staircase – I never liked that staircase. Still, on such an occasion I should have made the effort.”

  “No, Papa, that was not necessary. The staircase is as steep and narrow as you remember and besides, the apartment was very crowded. You would have made yourself ill. I assure you that Miss Bates understands quite well that you are not up to it, and she thanked me for your kind note. She was very grateful for your note, Papa.”

  “You wrote it, my dear,” remarked Mr. Woodhouse, with more self-awareness than usual, possibly brought on by the contemplation of the passing of one of his contemporaries.

  “But it was your thought, Papa. Miss Bates, more than anyone, appreciates the kindness of your thoughts. I only expressed them for you.”

  “I am not up to anything, my dear Emma. It will be my turn next.”

  Even though Emma had harbored the same notion just a few minutes earlier, she was quick to contradict her father. “No, Papa, don’t say any such thing!”

  “At least Mrs. Bates went in her sleep, says my friend Mr. Perry,” mused Mr. Woodhouse. Mr. Perry was the local apothecary and a frequent visitor to Mr. Woodhouse at Hartfield. “Ah, my dear, it will be my turn next.”

  Emma sought a way to rouse him out of his unhappy reflections, and reminded him that he had walked around the garden earlier that day, and how well he had mentioned feeling just a few days ago. These cheerful thoughts reduced the frequency and duration of his sighs. Then Emma re-read to him a letter that had come the day before from his eldest daughter, Isabella, who lived in London, and they had a discussion about how well her husband, Mr. John Knightley – the younger brother of Emma’s own husband – how well Mr. John Knightley, a lawyer, was doing in his profession. These reminders of his eldest daughter stopped Mr. Woodhouse from sighing. Finally the nursemaid told Emma that the baby was awake, and when little George was brought and carefully placed in his grandfather’s lap, Mr. Woodhouse actually smiled.

  As dusk was falling, they heard Mr. Knightley entering
through Hartfield’s front door. He arrived, full of life and news about his farm and the harvest. Even Mr. Woodhouse could not resist his son-in-law’s good humor as Mr. Knightley talked about the bushels of apples, the yipping dogs and the antics of one of Farmer Gilbert’s young bulls. A large bull calf had crashed its way through the hedgerows, and had left the Gilbert farm for Donwell Abbey, Mr. Knightley’s estate.

  “An animal of both good breeding and taste!” Emma exclaimed.

  “Just so,” said Mr. Knightley.

  Her husband’s smile let her know that he comprehended her compliment to Donwell Abbey. How lovely it was to be married to a man who not only understood her quick wit but who appreciated it! But both Mr. and Mrs. Knightley realized that the multiple meanings to Emma’s remark could not be understood by Mr. Woodhouse, so they deferred their pleasantries until later.

  “What did the animal do?” asked the old gentleman.

  Mr. Knightley, dancing his baby on his knee, explained that the bull calf had made its way into Mr. Knightley’s kitchen garden, and had contentedly and determinedly grazed on turnip leaves while Mrs. Hodges, Mr. Knightley’s cook, had alternated between useless terror and impotent fury. The rest of them had tried to chase it off with dogs, sticks and shouts, but the animal refused to budge. Then one of Gilbert’s temporary workers, a gypsy fellow named Draper hired for the duration of the harvest, had an idea. Without consulting anyone, he returned to Gilbert’s farm and came back with a cow. Draper then suggested introducing the cow into the garden, and said that they could use her to tempt the bull to leave. This solution did not please Mrs. Hodges, who did not want another bovine trampling her turnips, and even Mr. Knightley admitted that he had had his doubts.

  But Gilbert said they should follow Draper’s advice. “He’s clever with animals,” said the other farmer.

  Mr. Knightley finally consented, and while Mrs. Hodges frowned from her place near the door, the farmer’s worker led the cow into the turnips. The young bull noticed the cow, greeted it with affection – and then when Draper led the cow out of the kitchen garden, the young bull followed at last.

  “Well, I never!” said Mrs. Hodges, descending from her position of safety, and approaching Mr. Knightley, Mr. Gilbert and William Larkins, who worked for Mr. Knightley. From the edge of the garden they watched Draper leading the animals away.

  “Draper’s a magician,” said Mr. Gilbert, some pride in his voice.

  “Gypsy magic, is it?” asked William Larkins, who was frustrated by his failure to get the bull calf to leave the Donwell garden. The gypsies who came through and worked on some of the farms during the busy seasons were resented by some of the Highbury and Donwell yeomen.

  “Nothing like that,” said Mr. Gilbert placidly, who was aware of the local prejudice but nevertheless hired Draper and the others in his clan, for he was pleased with their work. “That was the bull’s mother.”

  Gilbert then apologized to Mr. Knightley for the time and trouble that his animal had taken, and especially to Mrs. Hodges for having given her such a fright. He promised to send over a basket of his garden’s best parsnips, to make up for the damage that his bull calf had caused – and later, when the animal was killed, several excellent steaks.

  The prospect of good beef softened the crusty Hodges, although she could not completely admit it, and she only said pointedly that she hoped there would be someone at Donwell Abbey to eat it. She then went back inside. The turnips were once more at peace, and everyone returned to their tasks.

  Emma was perceptive enough to discern Mrs. Hodges’s displeasure at her master’s not being around to eat her dinners. She glanced at Mr. Knightley, who shrugged in understanding. Their marriage had inconvenienced those at Donwell Abbey, but while her father lived, she was needed at Hartfield.

  Mr. Woodhouse was concerned about the security of the grounds. “Are you taking steps to make sure it does not happen again?” he asked. “How did the animal get into the estate in the first place?”

  Mr. Knightley explained that he could not control Gilbert’s herd, but he had given William Larkins the task of repairing the gate. Somehow the latch had broken or else the animal would never have gotten in.

  They learned then that dinner was ready. Emma and her father consumed their usual portions, but Mr. Knightley, hungry after his long day working his farm, had several helpings of goose and fried pork. Emma watching him, relaxed. Mrs. Hodges might not want to believe it, but Mr. Knightley, despite living at Hartfield, was eating well.

  3 excursions of a lively mind

  Emma had once believed that being married to Mr. Knightley would steady her. But a lively mind, although it may respect and admire steadiness, although it may give that virtue all its due, does not always enjoy being in that state. Nearly a year of marriage and the birth of their son a few months before had given her ample opportunity to become more sober – yet Emma had discovered that she actually preferred to let her imagination run free, and that attempting to restrict her thoughts was annoying.

  “Your father used to scold me for meddling,” Emma told her child, who had decided to stay awake that night, even though his grandfather and most of the servants were asleep in their beds. Baby George’s good humor, though, made his wakefulness a pleasure instead of a penance, especially for the father who had been gone all day tending his farm in the next parish, and Emma talked to the baby as he lay on her lap and pulled her finger. “He was right; I did meddle, and poorly too as I guessed wrong in several instances. But I still think there is value in observing people and trying to understand what they are about, Baby George.”

  Mr. Knightley, who was changing into his nightclothes, overheard everything that was nominally being addressed to his son, but which both parents knew was really meant for him. “My dear wife, what are you planning?”

  “You will not reproach me for thinking and wondering, will you?” Emma asked archly.

  “As long as you confine yourself to thinking and wondering, and do not actually interfere in others’ lives, I have no objection; indeed, I encourage it, “ said Mr. Knightley tolerantly, who as he was sixteen years older than his wife, and knew how people did and did not change, had never expected that their marriage would reform his wife’s character.

  “What are you thinking and wondering, then?” he asked, settling in a comfortable chair and reaching for his son. “I am interested to listen to it.”

  Emma was happy to hear this and she told him of some of what had happened when she had made her condolence call to Miss Bates. Then she brought up the point that was intriguing her. “Why are the Eltons so eager for the Churchills to come to Highbury for the funeral of old Mrs. Bates?”

  “Ah, your favorite enemies, the Eltons! Baby George, I hope you will not inherit your mother’s dislikes, and will be friends with young Philip Elton,” Mr. Knightley advised his son, who gurgled in response.

  The Eltons also had an infant son, a few months older than the Knightleys’ child.

  “Well, it is much more pleasant to think bad thoughts about people we don’t like, rather than bad thoughts about those we do.”

  “That is absolutely true, but not terribly Christian,” Mr. Knightley said. “The subject might make a good sermon for Elton.”

  “You will not suggest it to him, I hope!” Emma responded in horror. Mr. Elton’s sermons had improved since he started reading the works by others rather than trying to preach one of his own, for his own essays were too full of poetry and fine flourishes for the prosaic taste of Highbury. He still occasionally inflicted an original on his poor parish.

  “So Mrs. Elton has had at least one good influence on Mr. Elton,” Mr. Knightley said, making faces at his son. “What dark secrets do you ascribe to them? Why can’t they simply wish for Miss Bates to be comforted by her nearest relatives?”

  “My notion – laugh at it if you will – is that the Eltons want the Churchills to come down in time for the funeral, not just to comfort their dear friend Miss Bates,
but because the Churchills would very likely make a large donation to the Vicarage on the occasion. There!” she added smilingly, as she rearranged her combs and brushes on her table. “I think them avaricious, that is all.”

  Mr. Knightley scratched his chin. “You may be correct, Emma.”

  Emma was delighted. “Really? You think I may be correct?”

  “Well, the returns on Mrs. Elton’s thousands may not be as high as they were two years ago.”

  “And we all know that Mr. Suckling’s business has suffered due to complications arising from the slave trade,” said Emma. Mr. Suckling was the wealthy brother-in-law of Mrs. Elton. Emma had never actually met the man; the Sucklings had been promising a visit to Highbury for several years, ever since the Eltons married, but somehow the visit was always postponed. Still, Mrs. Elton spoke so frequently about her wealthy brother-in-law and his estate, Maple Grove, that Emma could not escape knowing many details, as did the rest of Highbury.

  Mr. Knightley frowned at this mention of the slave trade, which he found abhorrent, but with the baby on his lap he did not go into his usual tirade about the despicable practices in the Americas. Instead he confined himself to a grunt, which was open to many interpretations, then reached for a cloth from Emma, for the child was drooling.

  “And Mrs. Elton simply must have the finest lace for her gowns, for all that she likes them simply made,” Emma continued hastily, regretting having mentioned the slave trade, which she too found dreadful, but also too distant to be relevant to their lives.

  “Yet I cannot believe that a donation made on the occasion of a funeral would be so significant as to make a material difference to the Eltons’ income.”

  “Perhaps they will try again to improve the church,” said Emma. As Emma’s father was the richest man in Highbury, the Eltons had already appealed to Mr. Woodhouse for funds to support this ambition. Mr. Woodhouse was a generous man, and had assisted the families in the region his entire life, but when Emma studied the petition, she could not countenance the expense proposed by the Eltons. It was sizable and seemed to be designed more to serve the splendor of the parson than the comfort of the parish. Emma’s conclusions had been supported by Mr. Knightley, the Coles, and even the affable Mr. Weston, and so had been dropped, although with many loud regrets about the short-sightedness of Highbury parishioners. But the Churchills, even wealthier than the Woodhouses, could be a new source for this scheme. “They could name it after Mrs. Bates. As Mrs. Bates’s husband was a vicar, the Eltons could get Miss Bates – and through her, Mrs. Churchill – to support it.”