The Highbury Murders

by Victoria Grossack

  She had many questions but no answers. All she could see was that Jane was staying with her aunt during a sad time in that person’s life, and if the apartment in Highbury was not the most comfortable, well, it was Jane’s childhood home, and she was accustomed to its privations. Besides, the money she had now probably alleviated those privations considerably. As for the Eltons’ affection towards old furniture, it might be peculiar, but she was at a loss to find an explanation for it of any significance.

  Despite Jane’s avowal that she would not spend the night at Hartfield, Emma stepped into the hall and told a servant to prepare a bedroom for her, so the servants themselves could retire if they wished to. As the maid went off to fulfill her orders, the door opened and Mr. Knightley entered.

  Even in the dim light of the hall, Emma could see that her husband was upset. “What is it?” she asked, helping him off with his hat and coat.

  He squeezed her hand with cold fingers. “Where is Jane?”

  “In the parlor,” Emma said. “What is it?”

  He lowered his voice. “Miss Bates is dead.”

  14 death of a spinster

  “No!” Emma cried. “What happened?”

  “I will tell you all I know. Fetch the brandy and then join me in the parlor.”

  Emma went to the dining room, and hastily prepared a tray with the brandy and three glasses, then joined her husband and their guest in the parlor. Mr. Knightley had pulled up a footstool and had seated himself on it, while Jane blinked sleepily, and then with alarm at the expressions on her hosts’ faces.

  “What is it? Tell me – tell me at once,” she implored.

  “You were right to be worried,” he said gently. “Miss Bates was found – dead – lying on top of the graves of your grandparents.”

  Emma quickly poured a glass of brandy and passed it to Jane, then poured two more, one for her husband and another for herself. “Drink this – please. Mr. Knightley, is it certain? Has Mr. Perry been called?”

  “Mr. Perry has been called, but I am afraid it is certain,” Mr. Knightley said. “Your aunt was certainly not breathing, and she was as cold as the earth beneath her.”

  “Can you tell me anything more?” asked Jane. “Is anything more known about how she died?”

  “Jane – Mrs. Churchill – I think it would be better if you first got a full night’s sleep, and we discussed the details when we know more, in the light of day.”

  “I have had a room prepared,” Emma said. “I know you said you would rather go home, but in the circumstances—”

  Jane glanced briefly at Emma, nodded, and then turned back to Mr. Knightley. “You know something more,” she said. “I want to know what it is.”

  Mr. Knightley sipped his brandy, then spoke slowly. “Very well. You have a right to know. Miss Bates’s head was bashed in.”

  Jane closed her eyes and slumped in her seat, while Emma was stunned. “I don’t understand,” Emma asked. “Did that happen when she fell? Or—” and the horror sank in.

  “She was killed by someone,” Mr. Knightley said bluntly.

  Emma shivered. “That is terrible,” she whispered. “Absolutely terrible.”

  “Do you know anything more? What has happened with – her body?” asked Jane.

  “Mr. Perry is taking your aunt’s body to the undertaker,” said Mr. Knightley. “I have asked him to come here later, partly because I was afraid you might need his services. Miss Bates told us you were not feeling well, and this cannot help.”

  “I am not ill,” Jane assured them, and sighed.

  “What more can you tell us, Mr. Knightley?” asked Emma. “What did you do?”

  Mr. Knightley asked that more tea be prepared – it would be a long night – and then he settled back to give them all the details of his evening. He had gone first, naturally, to the Eltons – but they explained that Miss Bates had left hours ago – certainly in sufficient time to reach home before dark.

  Mr. Elton had volunteered to accompany him in the search for Miss Bates, and Mr. Knightley accepted the offer. Mr. Knightley suggested that they walk from the Vicarage towards the town, and then recalled that Miss Bates had said something about stopping at the cemetery to visit the graves of her parents. “Yes,” Mr. Elton agreed, “she wanted to see that her mother’s grave was in order.”

  So they walked slowly in the dark, calling Miss Bates’s name aloud, and looking carefully for any sign of a woman in distress.

  But when they entered the cemetery, they found her body at once. She was lying, as Mr. Knightley had already said, across her parents’ graves. Mr. Knightley had knelt down, turned her over, and determined that she was deceased – but he sent Mr. Elton to fetch Mr. Perry anyway. Although Mr. Elton had seen dead bodies before, he was nevertheless shaken by the discovery. Mr. Knightley felt it was better to give the vicar something to do.

  “But were you not frightened?” asked Emma, alarmed for her husband. “A killer was about!”

  “There is a difference in attacking me, and poor Miss Bates,” said Mr. Knightley. “I am not a likely victim. Besides, the churchyard was empty - and I was on my guard.”

  “What more can you tell us?” asked Jane.

  While Mr. Elton went to fetch assistance, Mr. Knightley, waiting with Miss Bates’s dead body, had had time to look around. The brightness of the moonlight made discovery possible. He found a rock, part of a broken old gravestone – heavy but not too heavy for a strong arm to wield – it looked to have blood on it. He thought it was what had been used to kill Miss Bates.

  Jane looked ill as he described this; Emma reached out and squeezed her hand. Jane squeezed Emma’s hand in return, but then released it and sat up straight, as if resolved to bear her burdens alone. “What more do you know – or suspect, Mr. Knightley?” she persisted.

  There was the matter of the locket; the gold locket that had once belonged to Mrs. Bates. As far as Mr. Knightley could tell, it was missing. He thought that it had been on her neck that afternoon; was he correct?

  “I remember seeing it,” said Emma.

  “Yes, she put it on before she left,” Jane said. “So – do you think this was robbery?” she asked, a little incredulous.

  “I am just telling you that I did not see it. I searched the area, but not very thoroughly, as it was dark. Perhaps it fell off between the Eltons’ and the churchyard, or perhaps it is in her reticule. Here it is,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket and holding it out to Jane. “I did not feel right, opening it.”

  Jane took her aunt’s reticule and opened it and shook the contents out on the table beside her. They all leaned forward, scanning for the locket, but Miss Bates’s belongings consisted of a few pence, a handkerchief, an old pencil and a small wad of court plaister. “I don’t see it,” she said.

  “I examined your aunt’s neck – it looked as if it was yanked off of her,” said Mr. Knightley. “Was the locket very valuable?”

  “It was gold,” Jane said.

  “So, it could be robbery,” said Emma. “After all, Mr. Knightley, someone stole all your silver from Donwell Abbey.”

  “There is a difference, my dear Emma, between slipping into a mostly vacant estate to steal silver and murdering a woman in the village graveyard.”

  “Perhaps the thief at Donwell would have used violence if he had been discovered,” said Emma, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “I am glad you were not there.”

  “And that Hodges did not happen upon him.”

  Emma looked at Jane, who was clutching her aunt’s reticule like a talisman.

  “It is more comforting to think my aunt might have been killed by a stranger as opposed to someone she knew,” said Jane. “The first is terrible, but the latter is worse.”

  “Do you think it could have been someone she knew?” asked Mr. Knightley, but before Jane could answer that question, there was another bustle at the front door. Mr. Perry had arrived.

  Emma poured tea, Mr. Knightley tossed another log on the
fire, and Mr. Perry was invited to sit down. He told them that Miss Bates was definitely dead and that she must have died quickly from the blow. He informed Jane that he would send the body to the undertaker in the morning. He offered them all a sleeping draught, insisting especially that Jane take it.

  “I should go home,” said Jane, accepting the glass with Mr. Perry’s medicine.

  “Nonsense,” said Emma. “How can you think it?”

  “I cannot allow you to leave us,” Mr. Knightley said. “Not under these circumstances.”

  “Come, let me take you upstairs,” said Emma, and she helped Mrs. Churchill rise to her feet. “We are about the same size; you can wear one of my nightdresses.”

  They went upstairs, and Emma’s maid, who had understood what was going on – if there was any night when the servants might be listening at the door, this was it, and it would save explanations later – and had laid out one of Emma’s nightdresses and a nightcap. The lamp was lit, the bedding was fluffed and had been warmed with a warming pan; the water jug filled, and a towel placed out for the visitor’s use. Emma left Mrs. Churchill alone to be assisted by her own maid – she checked on the baby in the meantime – and then came back when Jane was in bed.

  “Is there anything you need?” Emma asked. “Are you comfortable enough?”

  “No, thank you,” said Jane. “I am grateful to you for your assistance.” A tear slipped down her face.

  Emma took a handkerchief from a chest of drawers and gave it to Jane. “I am so sorry about Miss Bates.”

  “It’s my fault,” Jane said, dabbing her eyes.

  “Nonsense; how could it be your fault?”

  “I should have gone with her,” Jane said.

  “Then you might have been killed as well,” said Emma.

  “I should have let her stay home, as she offered. I was tired, though, and I desired an afternoon to myself.”

  Miss Bates had been the kindest of women, but Emma had always thought that to be around the garrulous spinster without reprieve would be exhausting. “Do not blame yourself,” Emma said, and again urged Jane to sleep. Jane thanked her again, closed her eyes, and Emma extinguished the candles.

  15 the day after the murder

  Thanks to the Eltons, the Perrys and all the servants in their households and at Hartfield, the news of Miss Bates’s murder spread throughout Highbury and the surrounding area with the rapidity of wind. Everyone was terribly shocked, especially Mr. Woodhouse, who became acquainted with the distressing news at his own breakfast table. It was dreadful, so beyond anything he had ever imagined – such things might happen in foreign parts and the worst neighborhoods of London – but never in Highbury, not his beloved, sweet, placid little Highbury. He trembled with fear in his chair, and frequently glanced with trepidation at the poker by the dining-room fireplace, as if alternately planning to use it as a weapon in his defense or fearing it might rise up and attack him.

  Mrs. Jane Churchill, either due to staying up so late the night before, or from the sleeping draught Perry had administered, or from whatever condition was fatiguing her, was the last to descend. Her face was white and her eyes red and puffy.

  Mr. Knightley helped her to a seat and Emma poured her some tea and inquired after Jane’s health.

  “I am still horrified and shocked,” she said, “but other than that I am well, I thank you.” She apologized for intruding on them and bringing such a disturbance into their home, with a gesture at Mr. Woodhouse’s distress.

  “It is not your fault,” Emma said in a low voice – her father’s hearing had deteriorated to the point where he could not catch words spoken quick and soft, “and it is not as if we could have kept it from him.” She returned to comforting him and offering him assurances.

  Jane then thanked Mr. Knightley for his assistance the night before.

  “Think nothing of it,” he said. “What are friends and neighbors for? I only wish the news had been better.”

  Mr. Perry, realizing that both Mrs. Churchill and Mr. Woodhouse might require his attentions, was the first of their friends to arrive at Hartfield. He had the excuse of his profession and so could come while they were still at breakfast. Mrs. Churchill declared that she needed nothing, and so Mr. Perry turned his ministrations to Mr. Woodhouse.

  “You advise me to walk every day, but how can I do that, when murderers may be lurking in the shrubbery?” asked the frightened old man.

  “My dear sir, if you like, I will walk with you,” offered Mr. Knightley.

  “You need to attend to your farm,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “You cannot stay here protecting us all the time.”

  “Mr. Woodhouse, sir, how about if I walk with you today?” offered Mr. Perry.

  “We will both walk with you, sir,” said Mr. Knightley.

  Mr. Woodhouse appeared reassured for the moment, then asked, querulously, “But what about tomorrow?”

  “We will worry about tomorrow, tomorrow, Papa,” said Emma, although she, like her father, was concerned about Mr. Knightley’s being prevented from going to work on his farm. Yesterday there had been Mrs. Elton’s musical afternoon; now there was the murder of Miss Bates.

  Mr. Woodhouse was escorted by both his tall son-in-law, Mr. Knightley and his old friend Mr. Perry, for his after-breakfast walk, while Emma and Jane moved from the breakfast table to the large parlor. But before Emma could extract any additional information from Jane – not that she believed Mrs. Churchill would reveal anything to her – the front door opened and the Eltons arrived.

  Emma was not pleased to see the Eltons, but as Mr. Elton had been with Mr. Knightley the night before, and as Mrs. Elton could claim a much longer friendship of Jane’s, their appearance was understandable and she welcomed them in the parlor. Mrs. Elton accepted Emma’s offer of a cup of tea but ignored everything else said by Mrs. Knightley and turned her attention to Jane Churchill.

  “Jane – I mean, Mrs. Churchill – how are you, Jane? We are so very sorry such a thing has happened! Shocking, shocking! Never had anything similar in Maple Grove – well, there was the wife of the blacksmith who was killed by her husband when he was drunk, but they were lower class people, and one can ignore such things. But when the violence spreads to attacks on women of gentility! The daughter of a vicar! So near the church! Shocking, shocking! I am quite terrified to leave the house, Jane, without the protection of Mr. E.”

  “How was your musical afternoon? I was so sorry to miss it.”

  “Ah, yes, you were not feeling well,” and Mrs. Elton, whose chagrin at Mrs. Churchill’s absence had evaporated with news of the death of Miss Bates. “Perhaps, given what happened, Mrs. Churchill, it was for the best…”

  And then Mrs. Elton began a monologue worthy of the late Miss Bates, in which she praised the success of her musical afternoon, punctuating it with phrases expressing her concern for Mrs. Churchill’s health and spirits and exclamations of horror about Miss Bates.

  Mr. Elton agreed with his wife, sometimes saying, “Very true,” and “Exactly so,” but Emma thought the vicar looked fatigued and distracted. Well, he had had little sleep and it had to be unsettling to have a murder so close to his church.

  Mr. Woodhouse, Mr. Knightley and Mr. Perry came back inside, with Mr. Perry escorting Mr. Woodhouse to a separate room – Mr. Woodhouse wished for an examination and Mr. Perry was, as always, ready to humor his old friend. A few minutes after that, the Westons arrived, for a change without their daughter – to Emma they were a most welcome support, especially as the appearance of the others seemed to at least slow the flow of Mrs. Elton’s words. Mrs. Weston consoled Jane, offering gentle and unalloyed sympathy, while Mr. Weston was more practical. He told Jane that she ought to come stay with them at Randalls – but to Emma’s surprise, Jane demurred, saying that now more than ever she needed to go through the things of her aunt and her grandmother. Mr. Weston frowned, as if he thought she was being unreasonable, but Mrs. Weston put her hand on her husband’s arm in order to prevent him co
ntinuing that subject.

  “Jane, have you contacted Frank yet?” asked Mrs. Weston.

  “No, Mrs. Weston, not yet,” Jane said. “There has not yet been time.”

  Mrs. Weston addressed her husband. “My dear, why don’t you write to him? He should hear about this as soon as possible.”

  “I can write to him,” Jane said.

  “Of course you can, but you are not feeling well, and you are distressed by your aunt’s death,” said Mrs. Weston.

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Mr. Weston.

  “Very well,” Jane said, and then with an additional effort, “Thank you.”

  Emma thought that Mrs. Churchill did not seem eager to contact her husband, but then reflected that there were many possible explanations for Jane’s dispiritedness: the death of her aunt, her general fatigue, the late hour they had all gone to bed the night before, not to mention any after-effects from Mr. Perry’s sleeping-draught. She reminded herself that she did not know Jane well enough to interpret all that young woman’s looks and expressions.

  Emma supplied Mr. Weston with paper, a pen and ink, and he sat down at a desk to write the note to his son.

  “Jane, would it trouble you too much to talk about what happened?” asked Mrs. Weston.

  “No – I am thinking about it all the time, anyway.”

  “Do we have any idea who did it?” Mrs. Weston asked. “Mr. Knightley, you discovered the body. Do you know anything more?”

  “I was there too,” said Mr. Elton, quickly claiming his share of the credit.

  “Of course you were, Mr. E,” said Mrs. Elton. “Last night, when he finally came home, he was in a state, let me tell you!”