“Nay, only tea, which we took with the Westons at half past four.” He approached his uncle, touched his hand. “I regret the pain all the secrecy surrounding our betrothal caused. Yet it was necessary at the time. Who could have imagined, when I met Jane, that within a twelvemonth I would have my independence? That I would lose both aunt and uncle in so short a span? I would not have dreamed it, nor wished it, for the world.”
Indeed, Emma thought, who could have imagined the two deaths occurring so unexpectedly? And with such fortuitous results for one individual?
Frank stepped away from the lifeless body. “I must impart the news to Jane before the rest of the company learns of it. What a somber end to our celebration! And what an odd homecoming it will be when I bring my bride to Enscombe — installing her as mistress and myself as master all at once.” He left to find his wife.
Emma felt sorrow for both the misters Churchill. This was a shocking loss to Frank, particularly following so rapidly upon the death of his aunt. She could not help but also realize the unpleasant repercussions of this event to herself. Surely this was the most infamous dinner party in Highbury’s history! One of their most prominent guests had died — practically at the dining table. She could envision now how Mrs. Elton would describe the event in her next letter to Maple Grove.
No one would ever dine at Donwell again. Everybody would assume—
Her stomach churned. What if their assumptions proved true? What if, in fact, it was not drink that had killed Mr. Churchill, but spoiled partridge or tainted mussels, or some lethal root mistaken by the cook for horseradish?
“Mr. Perry, might he have died because of something he ate?”
“Unless others were ill when you left them just now, I doubt it was anything you served.” He offered a reassuring half-smile. “You need not fear having inadvertently poisoned your guests, Mrs. Knightley. Mr. Churchill’s distress seemed to have begun before anybody even entered the dining room. I believe the rest of us are quite safe.”
Emma’s uneasiness diminished, but Mr. Knightley now frowned.
“Perry, what do you believe caused Edgar Churchill’s death?”
“He could have ingested something earlier that did not agree with him, perhaps with his tea. One might expect, were this the case, that Frank Churchill and the Westons would be suffering similar effects if they took tea together. Edgar Churchill, however, was older, and would be more vulnerable to any virulence that he happened to encounter, particularly if he was already suffering melancholy due to the recent loss of his wife.”
The apothecary put on his coat, buttoning it across his generous paunch. “I know nothing about Edgar Churchill’s state of health before tonight,” he added. “It may be that he took medicine for some malady and accidentally used too much.”
“What sort of medicine? Laudanum?”
Mr. Perry shook his head. “Several of his symptoms do not correspond with opium overdose. Laudanum contracts the pupils, whereas his were quite dilated, and does not excite but slows the pulse. As I have also not observed among patients taking laudanum the sort of raving in which Mr. Churchill indulged, I would suspect another drug to be the agent of his demise, if it was caused by any drug at all. Perhaps Frank can tell you whether his uncle was taking remedies for any complaints.”
“Could more be determined by examining Edgar Churchill’s remains?” Mr. Knightley asked.
“I doubt it, but I can make an attempt. I need to retrieve some instruments from my office, however.”
Mr. Perry departed, leaving the Knightleys with the uncomfortable business of breaking the news to their guests.
“We should return to the drawing room,” Emma stated, “and attempt to control what is said of this matter — if word has not somehow reached everybody’s ears already. Doubtless, the servants are talking amongst themselves, and Frank Churchill’s disclosure to Jane might have been overheard.”
“Frank Churchill is a man capable of great secrecy when it suits him.”
“Do you intend to ask him about his uncle’s general health?”
Her husband was silent for a minute. “I have several questions for Frank Churchill.”
Emma did not like his tone. “Surely you do not believe Edgar Churchill’s death to be anything but a most unfortunate accident?”
“As Frank Churchill himself stated only minutes ago, his uncle’s death results in his inheriting a handsome estate just as he is taking a wife and starting a family of his own. I would not be a very competent magistrate if I failed to notice the coincidence.”
“Frank Churchill is as shocked by this event as we are.”
“Not too shocked to immediately realize the benefit of it to himself.”
Of course he had realized it — Frank was only human, after all. She herself had even thought almost immediately of the likely gossip and its effect on her own reputation in the village. It was not a reaction of which she was proud, but it was natural.
“You are unjust. From the moment Frank first came to Highbury — nay, before he even visited the village — you did not like him. All Highbury adored him, yet you privately expressed to me criticism of his character that I daresay you continue to harbor. You believed him derelict in his duty toward his father whilst he served the will of his rich aunt and uncle, the very people towards whom you now accuse him of not feeling enough. Could not your prejudice against him be causing your distrust?”
“I neither accuse nor suspect Frank Churchill of anything at present. But even did I not have a responsibility as magistrate, a guest has died in our house, and until the cause is clear, I cannot be easy. Nor, I should think, could you, given that this event will doubtless be the talk of the village for months.”
“Highbury will not think ill of Frank, and neither should you. Now, come assist me in disbanding this party and mitigating the inevitable gossip.”
“I am afraid no one can leave Donwell quite yet. One of our guests might have observed something regarding Mr. Churchill that we did not, and I want to speak with each person while his memory is untarnished.”
Emma regarded him in horror. “You are not going to conclude Frank and Jane’s marriage fête by interrogating all their friends and family?”
“I will merely ask a few questions of each guest, in as discreet a manner as possible — a brief but personal conversation. I shall give the appearance of breaking the news of Edgar Churchill’s death gently and individually.”
Emma inwardly cringed. Mr. Knightley’s straightforward manner — which she considered one of his most admirable qualities — would doubtless defeat all his intentions of delicacy.
“Will you allow me to assist you?”
“You can aid me best by keeping everyone calm and diverted while I conduct the tête-à-têtes.”
“Then perhaps one of the other parish officials? There are so many guests that it will take you all night to question them.”
“Whom else can I trust to handle this properly? Mr. Elton? His vanity would turn the process into a witch hunt. Mr. Weston? As much as I esteem him and his friendship, and value his help in other matters, under these circumstances he is entirely the wrong person to further involve in the affair. Not only does his connexion to the Churchills render him biased, but he is of too social a disposition. He would take every person he interviewed into our trust, and there would be the end of any confidentiality.”
Though Emma loved the avuncular Mr. Weston, she had to concede Mr. Knightley’s assessment of his fitness for this particular duty. The man possessed such an open, honest character that he was constitutionally incapable of keeping a secret.
“What about Mr. Cole or Mr. Cox?” she suggested.
“They have no experience with investigations, and their connexion to the Churchills is slight; their involvement at this stage would appear odd enough to inspire the very speculation and gossip we hope to discourage. The one person I might depend upon is Mr. Perry. Though he serves as our coroner, his interest would most lik
ely be seen as medically, not legally, motivated. But his time at present is better spent examining Mr. Churchill’s remains, and I want to conduct the interviews and disperse immaterial witnesses as quickly as possible. No, I am afraid I must do this myself.”
As there was no dissuading him, Emma returned to the drawing room to divert her guests’ attention from a process which, despite Mr. Knightley’s characterizing it as a series of “personal conversations,” had to her all the hallmarks of an inquisition.
Fortunately, Edgar Churchill had interacted with only his most intimate acquaintances whilst in the drawing room, and Frank, though he had flitted from group to group, had in his usual style said little of consequence, so most of the guests had observed nothing of import and were released fairly quickly. They all might see their beds before the hour grew unconscionably late. Emma was particularly eager to send her father home, as word of anyone’s death was sure to upset him. The Westons took the news of Edgar Churchill’s demise particularly hard, and Miss Bates’s exclamations, though heartfelt, were enough to inspire a hasty retreat by every member of the company even had propriety not.
Despite her warm defense of Frank, Emma could not dismiss Mr. Knightley’s skepticism from her mind as she encouraged their overnight guests to retire to their individual chambers, and saw the rest depart. There would be no more merriment, let alone matchmaking, among this assembly. Guests originally expected to stay a se’nnight were already forming plans to leave on the morrow. So much for her hopes regarding Miss Bates. The only person’s prospects that had improved this evening were Frank’s.
Yes, it was most inconsiderate of Edgar Churchill to die during his nephew’s marriage celebration.
But for his nephew, it was also most convenient.
Volume the Second
in which Mr. and Mrs. Darcy become acquainted
with Mr. and Mrs. Knightley… and
all of Highbury
“There are secrets in all families, you know.”
— Mr. Weston, Emma
Seven
“The sooner every party breaks up, the better.”
— Mr. Woodhouse, Emma
Donwell Abbey was an impressive residence, its entire façade alight against the surrounding darkness. Like a number of England’s great houses, Donwell had once been home to a religious order before King Henry the Eighth dissolved the monasteries, and its stone walls yet evinced dignity and grace. Though successive generations of private owners had influenced its current architecture, enough carved saints piously embellished its remaining pointed arches to recall the building’s hallowed origins.
It was appropriate that a former center of religious life should yet serve parish business — as the home of the magistrate — and on any other occasion Fitzwilliam Darcy would have welcomed the opportunity to become acquainted with the master of such a house. But the purpose of this visit was not pleasure, nor was Darcy in a social mood.
Unfortunately, it appeared that pleasure was foremost on the mind of Mr. George Knightley this evening. Carriages lined the circular drive before the mansion’s stately front doors. Half the neighborhood must be within.
“It appears the magistrate is hosting a party,” Elizabeth said as their coach joined the queue. “I doubt he will welcome an intrusion from us.”
Darcy concurred. Upon reaching Highbury, they had stopped at the first house they saw to enquire where the constable or magistrate might be found, and were directed to Donwell Abbey. Their informant had failed to mention that the present might not be a suitable time to impose on Mr. Knightley’s notice. Had Darcy known, he might have postponed this call until morning. He and Elizabeth had wanted, however, to alert the local authorities as soon as possible to the presence of highway robbers in the area, not only in hopes of their own stolen possessions being recovered but also to prevent others from being similarly victimized. Too, while they were nearly certain that “Miss Jones” had conspired with the thieves to create a distraction, the very slight chance that an innocent woman had in fact been abducted along with their chest impelled Darcy and Elizabeth to report the incident posthaste.
“If the highwaymen are still about, his own guests could be at risk when they depart. Let us advise the butler of our reason for calling; he will know whether his master will consider our business urgent enough to warrant an interruption.” The competence and dedication of magistrates varied widely from parish to parish; Darcy hoped Mr. Knightley would prove himself to be among England’s more conscientious administrators. “If Mr. Knightley does not see us tonight, I shall request that he contact us at the inn.”
His valet had by now secured a room at the Crown, which they both looked forward to reaching. Already weary from the long day of travel, anxiety over the health of their groom and footman compounded their desire to dispatch their business quickly so that all could rest. Though upon regaining consciousness the two servants had insisted they were none the worse for the assault, Elizabeth had assessed them with a mother’s eye and remained troubled all the way to Highbury.
He stepped out of the carriage and turned to assist her. As he offered his hand, the doors of Donwell Abbey opened and people spilled onto the steps. They chattered, as guests normally do when leaving a large assembly, bidding each other farewell and exchanging promises to call upon each other soon. But there was a muted quality to the burble, an unusual restraint, and repeated murmuring of the words “shocking” and “Churchill.”
Darcy and Elizabeth paused to allow the majority of departing guests to clear the stairs. Two ladies and a gentleman escorted an older man in a thick muffler and heavy greatcoat.
“Poor Mr. Churchill!” the old man exclaimed. “I am quite certain it was the bisque. Do not allow the servants to dine on the leftover soup, Emma. Nor the syllabub.”
“I shall make sure they are safe, Papa.”
Darcy approached the butler. “We have been told that this is the home of Mr. George Knightley, the magistrate?” At the servant’s affirmation, Darcy presented his card and lowered his voice. “My wife and I are passing through Highbury. We were just robbed on the road from London and would like to apprise Mr. Knightley of the incident.” He gestured towards the departing guests. “If this is not an appropriate time, we can return at his first convenience.”
The butler invited them to step into the entry hall, where they were dwarfed by great columns supporting the ribbed vault ceiling. Tapestries adorned the grey stone walls; the one nearest them depicted a medieval hunt. The servant soon returned with a tall, authoritative-looking gentleman.
“I understand you are looking for the magistrate. I am Mr. George Knightley.”
Darcy bowed. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, of Derbyshire, and my wife. Pray excuse us for arriving at such an inopportune moment.”
“Our party was just concluding. I do have another pressing matter, so we might have to continue our conversation tomorrow, but I can give you a few minutes now. Let us discuss your business in the library.”
They followed him through former cloisters to a large chamber that held at least as many volumes as did Pemberley’s library. A passing glance at some of the titles — Darcy could not help himself — revealed a wide range of subjects and authors: philosophy, economics, history, science, law, politics, poetry. He saw, too, that Mr. Knightley shared his commitment to keeping abreast of the latest agricultural theories and practices. On one of the tables lay open a book that Darcy had been reading himself before leaving Pemberley.
Mr. Knightley motioned them toward two armchairs, then took a seat on the opposite side of the table. “I am sorry that your introduction to Highbury was less than cordial. Tell me what occurred.”
“We were on the road from London, a mile or two outside of the village, when a young woman hailed our carriage,” Darcy said. “We stopped to assist her. Claiming to have injured her ankle, she drew us and our coachman away from the carriage. While we were thus distracted, someone else struck our other two servants unconscious an
d stole our chest. Then the woman slipped away as well.”
“Did you see the assailants?”
“No. The rear carriage lantern broke, and I had brought the forward lantern with me when I approached the woman. Our servants did not see anyone, either. When they regained consciousness, our footman said he had been hit from behind while repairing the lantern. After some minutes, the groom went to check on him, discovered him lying on the ground, and was struck from behind, as well.”
“So the robbers never directly confronted you?”
“We saw only the woman.”
Mr. Knightley closed the agricultural volume and set it aside, along with a page of notes. From a drawer he withdrew a fresh sheet of paper and reached for his quill. “Kindly describe her. You said she was young?”
“Perhaps sixteen. She had blond hair.”
“Light blond,” Elizabeth said. “Her face and arms were tanned, considerably browner than her ankle, which she asked me to examine. She had small bones but seemed strong. She wore a white muslin dress. It was somewhat dirty, but not beyond what one would expect for a person who had been wandering lost in the woods for hours, as she claimed to have done.”
Mr. Knightley nodded as he took down the details. “What story did she tell?”
“She identified herself as ‘Miss Jones,’ though I would be astonished if that is indeed her true name,” Darcy said. “She said she was visiting cousins, also named Jones, at a nearby farm.”
“We have two families named Jones who farm in this parish. I shall enquire after the woman. Did she offer any other information?”
“Nothing about herself,” Elizabeth said, “though just before she disappeared, she told me there were highwaymen about.”
The Intrigue at Highbury m&mdm-5 Page 6
