“You are but recently married?”
“Last month.” From Mrs. Knightley’s smile and the brightness of her eyes, Elizabeth was certain she had married for affection.
The rolls were indeed still warm, the tea hot, and the other offerings so appealing that Elizabeth realized just how hungry she was. She would have utterly failed as the heroine of a sentimental novel—far from being too traumatized to eat after an encounter with highwaymen, she was tantalized by the smell of the baked apples alone.
She and Darcy had just brought their plates to the table and taken seats across from Mrs. Knightley when her husband entered. Though he greeted them with cordiality equal to what he had shown the previous evening, his manner had an increased gravity about it. Elizabeth glanced at Mrs. Knightley, and read concern in her countenance as she, too, studied the magistrate.
“Do sit down,” Mrs. Knightley urged her husband. “Allow me to get your breakfast.”
He regarded her fondly, like a man unaccustomed but grateful to have a woman looking after him after years as a bachelor. “Do not interrupt your own meal.” He moved to the sideboard. “Have all of our other guests gone home?”
“All but the Dixons. Mrs. Dixon remains in Highbury to condole with Jane Churchill and be of whatever use she may until Edgar Churchill is laid to rest. However, now that Mr. Churchill no longer requires one of the spare bedchambers at Randalls, she and her husband have quit Donwell so that they can be closer at hand. That leaves only Thomas Dixon here.”
Despite Mr. Knightley’s assertion of competence in the task of obtaining his own breakfast, his wife went to the sideboard anyway. Under the guise of obtaining a second roll for herself, she spoke softly—though not quite low enough for Elizabeth to disregard their conversation. Elizabeth did, however, pretend not to hear it.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“Very little. I have just finished with Perry.”
“He was not here all night?”
“No. He returned again this morning after consulting some of his books.”
“And did he put your suspicions to rest?”
Mr. Knightley’s silence was answer enough.
Elizabeth met Darcy’s gaze and saw that he, too, had overheard the exchange. He busied himself cutting the cold pork on his plate. Darcy was uncomfortable with even accidental eavesdropping.
Mrs. Knightley cleared her throat and returned to her seat. “I am sure Mr. and Mrs. Darcy are wondering whether you learned anything overnight about the highwaymen.”
“I dispatched the parish constable to both of the Jones farms.” Mr. Knightley brought his breakfast to the table and sat down at its head, between his wife and Elizabeth. “Neither of the families have relations visiting, or knew anything of the woman you described. I believe we are safe in assuming that ‘Miss Jones’ was working with the thieves and fled with them after providing the distraction they required.”
“What is our next step, then?” Elizabeth asked.
“If your servants are sufficiently recovered, I should like to interview them. Perhaps they can recall something of use. I would also like to return with you and the constable to the location where the incident occurred, to look for evidence that might have been left behind.”
“We are at your disposal,” Darcy said. “Obviously, we want to resolve this matter as soon as possible.”
“So do I. Is there anything else you can tell me? You said the rear carriage lantern broke. How did that happen?”
“When we stopped to assist Miss Jones, a raven swooped down,” Elizabeth said. “I cannot imagine what brought it out, particularly after dark. I certainly have never seen one behave so aggressively. It flew behind the coach, we heard glass break, and the light went out.”
“The bird broke the glass?” Mrs. Knightley asked.
“Or someone took advantage of the bird’s appearance to break the glass at that moment,” Mr. Knightley suggested.
“The more I hear about these highwaymen, the more anxious I become.” Mrs. Knightley set down her roll, uneaten. “We must keep word of them from my father—he is still unnerved by the gypsies.”
“There are gypsies in the vicinity?” Darcy asked.
“A caravan passed through here last spring,” Mr. Knightley explained. “On that occasion, they camped along the Richmond road. They frightened a couple of girls, but moved on before they could be apprehended.”
“Frightened? They terrorized poor Harriet. If Frank Churchill had not come along at the critical moment, heaven only knows what might have befallen her.”
Mr. Knightley regarded his wife in silence for a moment, his expression contemplative. “I had forgotten about that. Yes, Frank Churchill did happen to arrive at just the right time, did he not? As I recall, he decided on some whim to send his horses ahead and walk a mile or two up the road?”
“It was not a whim—he said he was inspired by the fineness of the morning.”
“He was in too great a hurry that day to take proper leave of you, yet he had time to stroll toward Richmond at a pace so leisurely that no one noticed his approach until he was among them.” Mr. Knightley made a sound of disgust. “You are correct: that is not a whim. That is Frank Churchill to the core.”
“Mr. Knightley, you will prejudice our visitors against the gentleman before they even meet him.” Mrs. Knightley turned to the Darcys. “Frank Churchill is actually a charming fellow. My husband unfairly expects all young men to conform to his own exacting standards of behavior.”
“My standards are no more rigorous than what society expects of any well-bred gentleman.”
Mrs. Knightley smiled at the Darcys. “I look forward to introducing you should an opportunity present itself.”
“I take it that Frank Churchill is not the Mr. Churchill who passed away last night?” Elizabeth asked.
“Oh, dear. You learned of that already? No, it was Edgar Churchill who died. Frank is his nephew—adopted son, actually; Edgar’s only heir. It was Frank and his new wife, Jane, whom last night’s dinner was meant to honor.” She looked at her husband. “Truly, Mr. Knightley, could you not show a hint of compassion for him, just for today? Tomorrow you may return to being critical.”
“I feel his loss keenly. How is that?”
“Much better. Now, when do you propose taking the Darcys to the London road?”
Mr. Knightley, having finished his breakfast, swallowed a final sip of coffee. “We can proceed as soon as you are ready,” he said to the Darcys.
“Let us go now, then,” Darcy replied.
As Elizabeth and Darcy waited in the hall with Mr. Knightley for a servant to retrieve their cloaks, a gentleman arrived whom they recognized as one of the guests from the night before. Mr. Knightley introduced him as Mr. Frank Churchill.
“Mr. Darcy and I heard of your recent marriage and your uncle’s death,” Elizabeth said. “Please accept our congratulations on the former and condolences on the latter.”
“With gratitude. It has been a bewildering four-and-twenty hours, to go from a state of elation to one of grief. I hope by this call, however, to begin to put both my feelings and my uncle’s final affairs in order.”
He seemed a pleasant young man, her own age or perhaps a year older, with a handsome, clean-shaven countenance and clear blue eyes that looked as if they seldom took the world seriously. Mrs. Knightley had called him “charming,” and Elizabeth sensed he was a gentleman who took pains to make himself liked by all he met. Even now, despite his recent bereavement, his manners were calculated to please. His demeanor was warm, and lighter than Mr. Knightley’s had been at breakfast while discussing the same death.
Frank turned to Mr. Knightley. “I have written to Mr. Ian MacAllister, my uncle’s solicitor in London, to inform him of Mr. Churchill’s death. Among other business, I asked him to arrange for an undertaker to come today to collect my uncle’s remains and prepare them for transport to Yorkshire. I assume he will engage the same man who handled my aunt’s arrang
ements.”
“Before I can release Mr. Churchill, I must confirm that Mr. Perry has done with him.”
Frank chuckled. It was a thin sound, as if he realized its inappropriateness. “While I hold Mr. Perry’s medical skills in as much esteem as does everybody in Highbury, I think my uncle is beyond the good apothecary’s aid. Even the eminent Mr. Flint, my late aunt’s physician, could not revive him at this point.”
Mr. Knightley did not return the humor. “As you yourself stated last night, Edgar Churchill’s death was sudden and unexpected. Mr. Perry only wishes to ascertain, if he can, the nature of your uncle’s final illness. We would like to be able to assure the village that no virulent disease threatens Highbury.”
Despite the opinion that Mr. Knightley held of Frank, Elizabeth thought he could speak a little more sympathetically toward a young man who just lost his uncle and benefactor. If Donwell Abbey had hosted last night’s party in Frank’s honor, Mr. Knightley must be on at least somewhat friendly terms with Frank Churchill. Yet now he was comporting himself like—
Like a magistrate.
Elizabeth regarded the two gentlemen more closely, particularly Mr. Knightley. She knew that Mr. Knightley harbored suspicions about the cause of Edgar Churchill’s demise.
Suspicions which apparently included Edgar’s heir.
Nine
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry.
—Emma
The site of the robbery proved easier to find than Darcy had anticipated. The horses had stamped and skittered so much during the episode that their hoof marks—along with plenty of human footprints—covered that section of the road, and shards of glass from the carriage lamp still lay in the dirt.
Darcy wished they had arrived sooner, before other traffic had marred the scene. Returning before any subsequent vehicles had passed through would have been impossible, but he could not help but reflect that some of the fresher wheel marks likely belonged to Mr. Knightley’s departing guests. There was no help for it, however—the magistrate had, rightfully so, spent the earlier part of the morning occupied with the matter of Edgar Churchill. In Mr. Knightley’s place, Darcy, too, would have fixed a higher priority on investigating a suspicious death in a prominent local family—not to mention one that had occurred in his own home—over the robbery of strangers passing through the village.
Fortunately, the later vehicles and pedestrians had not utterly obliterated two sets of men’s boot prints that led out of and back into the trees on one side of the road. Miss Jones’s accomplices had apparently hidden in the elms, then approached the carriage from behind once the rear lamp was extinguished. Their trail, however, disappeared once it reentered the woods.
Darcy moved among the elms with Mr. Knightley and Mr. Cole, the parish constable. As he searched for some indication of which direction the thieves had gone, he saw Elizabeth go back to the road. She paused when she reached the spot where their coach had stopped the night before, and stared with a deflated expression at the jumble of prints toward the rear.
He approached. She picked up a glass shard from the ground and lifted her gaze to the treetops.
“There is not even a sign of that troublesome raven.”
Darcy, too, felt frustrated by the lack of leads this excursion had produced. “The bird has doubtless found another shiny object to capture its interest.”
She released a sigh as Mr. Knightley joined them. “We are not going to recover our belongings, are we?”
“Come, now,” Mr. Knightley said. “Surely you can grant me and Mr. Cole at least a day before resigning hope?”
“Of course. Though I do not know how you intend to solve a robbery without any evidence.”
“I hardly expected the bandits to leave behind a calling card. We do, however, have another potential source of information. There has been a peddler in the village of late. It is possible that the thieves approached him, trying to sell the stolen goods. If he is still in the neighborhood, we will question him. Even if he has not personally encountered the robbers, his profession brings him into contact with so many people that he might have heard something about highwaymen in the area.”
“Perhaps he should also be asked about gypsies,” Darcy said. “Might the band your wife spoke of this morning have returned? You did mention a recent series of poultry thefts.”
“It is possible—we have not yet caught the poultry thieves. However, filching turkeys from unguarded outbuildings is hardly as bold an enterprise as stopping a private carriage and stealing a gentleman’s chest.”
“Both crimes employ stealth rather than direct confrontation. Our robbers might not be the same individuals who are raiding Highbury’s henhouses, but they could be members of the same caravan.”
Mr. Knightley pondered this a moment. “Did Miss Jones appear of gypsy blood?”
“I have never met a gypsy, only seen depictions,” Darcy replied, “but Miss Jones looked quite English. However, there are tales of English men and women traveling with gypsy caravans, and the ruse to which we fell victim is just the sort of trickery one would expect from gypsies.”
A man on horseback came down the road, headed toward Highbury. The rider slowed as he neared them, and Darcy recognized the livery of Donwell Abbey. The servant hailed Mr. Knightley. “I have a reply for you, sir.”
Mr. Knightley turned to the others. “Pray, excuse me a moment.” He took the letter from the servant, whom he bade continue to Donwell.
Elizabeth tossed the glass fragment back onto the ground. The shard clinked against a solitary, dark grey stone.
A stone a bit too perfect in form.
Darcy picked it up. It was smooth and almond shaped, weighing perhaps two or three ounces and easily fitting in the cradle of his palm. Of greatest interest, however, was the fact that it was not a stone at all, but a lump of molded lead.
Mr. Knightley pocketed his letter and rejoined them. “Have you found something?”
Darcy held out his open palm. “I believe this is a sling bullet.”
He had not used a sling since boyhood, and then had nearly always thrown stones. One afternoon, however, whilst engaged in target practice with his cousins, the Fitzwilliams’ gamekeeper had discovered the boys and provided a sack of sling bullets for them to try. Darcy had quickly come to appreciate their superior accuracy.
Mr. Knightley took the object and examined it. “It has a double notch on one surface—I expect from the mold.” They surveyed the ground but found no additional missiles. “Mrs. Darcy, did you hear any sounds before the lamp shattered?”
“Only the raven and the horses. The bird agitated the team considerably, so they were snorting and rattling their harnesses.”
“No indication of anything striking the coach?”
She shook her head.
“It appears, then, that at least one of the thieves is a highly proficient slinger.”
Darcy had drawn the same conclusion. Not only had the ruffian used a molded bullet instead of an ordinary stone, but he had disabled the light with a single shot.
Elizabeth held out her hand for the bullet. “May I?” She weighed it in her palm and turned it over to examine both sides. “Why not simply use a stone? It would have been far easier and less expensive to obtain.”
“Bullets cast from the same mold provide consistent weight, shape, and balance—and therefore improved accuracy for a slinger who uses them regularly,” Darcy explained. “Our thief did not want to risk missed shots that would have drawn attention to himself or squandered the cover afforded by the raven’s behavior.”
“I did not realize slings were in such common use,” Elizabeth said.
“Though primitive, they can be an effective hunting weapon. My brother and I took many a hare that way as boys,” Mr. Knightley replied. “Because slings are more portable and less expensive than bows and firearms, especially if one throws stones instead of bullets, there are men who prefer to use a sling�
��particularly individuals who want a small, lightweight weapon with free ammunition that can be replenished as they roam.”
Elizabeth returned the bullet to the magistrate. “Such as gypsies?”
Mr. Cole emerged from the elms. “Miss Jones’s trail disappears into the woods, just like the others.”
Mr. Knightley shared their discovery, then pocketed the bullet. “Try the Richmond road,” he told the constable. “Look for signs of recent encampment. It may be that our gypsy friends have come back to Highbury.”
Upon their return to Donwell Abbey, Darcy and the others found Mrs. Knightley in the morning parlor. Having just come from visiting her father at a neighboring estate, she was seated near the fireplace, about to start on some needlework. She happily set aside her thimble and turned to her husband with a hopeful expression. “Did you discover anything of use?”
“Possibly,” Mr. Knightley replied. “We hope, however, that you might also provide some assistance.”
“I certainly shall if I can.” She invited them to join her near the fire and rang for tea. An autumn chill had settled in Surrey, and their morning errands had left them all in want of warm refreshment.
A servant entered with the tea accoutrements and arranged them on a round mahogany table circled by four shieldback chairs. After she left to retrieve the hot water, Mr. Knightley turned to his wife.
“The peddler who has been in the village this fortnight—Mr. Deal—do you know where he might be found?”
Mrs. Knightley frowned. “Surely you do not think Mr. Deal is involved with the robbery? I daresay he is the most honest peddler I have ever met, and Mrs. Weston will concur.”
“I merely wish to ask him a few questions and secure his cooperation should the thieves approach him with the stolen items.”
The Intrigue at Highbury Page 8
