Edgar Churchill’s death, however, remained suspicious.
“You claim that you told Agnes Churchill you would attempt no contact with your father,” Darcy said, “yet you were seen with him here in Highbury at least twice—once in conversation at Randalls, and again in Broadway Lane whilst Frank purchased his snuff box.”
Mr. Deal nodded. “When I said that to Mrs. Churchill, I was so wounded by her treatment of me that I assumed I would receive a similar reception from her husband. But after my initial shock subsided and I had time to consider the matter, I realized that I was not the sole victim of her pride and deceit. In discarding me, she had denied Edgar Churchill his only son. I thought what my own feelings would be if I learned that an infant I believed I had buried more than half a lifetime ago was found to have lived. To the Roma, family is everything; to the English . . . not always. I had little reason to hope that Edgar Churchill was any different than his wife. He had married her, after all, and lived with her some forty years. But the fact that she had been so desperate to maintain his ignorance of me made me wonder what sort of man he was, and whether he might want to choose for himself to accept or reject me.
“My gypsy mother discouraged my wish to meet him. The omens were unclear, and she did not want to see my heart rent twice. I was persistent, however, and when the Churchills came to Highbury after Frank’s wedding, so did our caravan.
“As I had with Mrs. Churchill, I presented myself to my father first as merely a peddler, so that I might judge his character. I found him so very different from his wife that I could scarcely imagine them together. His manner encouraged my hopes and, with great caution, I revealed myself to him. He was understandably shocked, and grieved by my account of such deceit and cruelty on the part of his late wife. Yet he saw in me a glimpse of his younger self, and remembered irregularities in long-ago conversations with his wife, that made my story plausible.”
“He simply accepted you as his long-lost son upon the spot?” Mr. Knightley asked.
“Heavens, no. He was no gull. He intended to verify my history as best he could, and said he would write to his solicitor immediately. The physician who attended the birth was long dead, but the nurse might yet be found, and some of the servants present in the house that night were still with the family.”
“Money seemed to be foremost on Agnes Churchill’s mind,” Darcy said. “Did either you or he make any mention of your inheritance?”
“I assured him I did not want anything from him, save the pleasure of knowing him at last.”
“And how did he respond?”
“He promised that if I were indeed his son, I would finally know my father’s affection and acknowledgment.” He picked up his wine once more but did not drink, only stared at the glass in his hand. “That was the first and last conversation I had with him. We did not speak while Frank was purchasing his snuff box. It was too awkward, our acquaintance too new—more fragile than this glass.”
“Did he tell Frank Churchill about your conversation?” Darcy asked.
“If he did, my cousin has superior bluffing skills to even the gypsies, for he has betrayed no hint that he knows me as anything but a peddler.”
“You must have suffered quite a shock when your father died,” Mr. Knightley said.
“Indeed, yes.” He emptied the wineglass again, but declined Mr. Knightley’s offer of a third. “I grieved at the news. I grieve still.”
Mr. Deal rose and returned his wineglass to the side table from which Mr. Knightley had taken it. Elizabeth slipped out of the room. As she did so, Darcy caught sight of Mr. Cole in the hall.
“It sounds as if you learned a considerable amount about Edgar Churchill in a short period of time.” Mr. Knightley left his seat and approached him. “As you have no doubt heard, the coroner’s inquest ruled his death a case of poisoning, though whether accidental or deliberate remains undetermined. Can you think of anybody who might have wished him harm?”
The table rested beside a window, and Mr. Deal gazed into the gathering darkness. “I certainly did not. For me, his death could not have come at a worse time.” Bitterness tinged his voice. “I no sooner found my father than lost him.”
He turned to face Darcy and Mr. Knightley. “I have given you a full accounting of my dealings with the Churchills,” he said to the magistrate. “Am I free to leave?”
Mr. Knightley and Darcy exchanged glances. Mr. Knightley stepped forward.
“I am afraid not.”
Twenty-nine
“There is something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents and natural home!”
—Isabella Knightley, Emma
Pending verification of his story and further enquiry into his gypsy associations, Hiram Deal was committed to the county gaol. Mr. Knightley could not risk such an experienced itinerant fleeing. After thirty years of wandering with a gypsy caravan, the peddler surely knew every cove and corner of England, and Mr. Knightley and Darcy had no doubt of Mr. Deal’s success should he take it into his mind to disappear.
As the Darcys crossed Broadway Lane toward their waiting carriage the following morning, Elizabeth recalled her first meeting with the peddler. Though she presumed he possessed a colorful history, she had never imagined it so extraordinary. God forgive her, she was almost glad Mrs. Churchill had met her demise. It was fitting retribution, unjust only in that she died of natural causes while her guiltless husband had been poisoned.
“Are you quite certain you wish to accompany me to Guildford?” Darcy asked. “I should think you could find any number of more pleasant ways to occupy the day.”
The street was busy, Highbury already abuzz with word of Hiram Deal’s arrest. Elizabeth would just as soon escape the small village for a time.
“None superior to enjoying your companionship en route; we have had precious little time to ourselves since arriving here. Too, as much as I esteem the Knightleys, I do not mind absenting myself from Hartfield for a considerable portion of the day.” She smiled. “If Mr. Woodhouse orders me one more basin of gruel, I fear I shall choke on it.” The old gentleman meant well; she had come to realize that his gruel-mongering was a sign of regard. The two of them had developed an odd but congenial rapport. “But explain to me why you need to see Hiram Deal straightaway this morning, when he was just taken to gaol last night.”
It had required no small effort to persuade Darcy to allow her to ride with him to Guildford. Gaols were filthy places, breeding chambers for typhus, lice, and all manner of other plague and pestilence. By agreement, she would remain in the carriage while he met with Mr. Deal.
“Mr. Knightley and I did not complete our interrogation. By the time Mr. Deal explained his connexion to the Churchills and Mr. Cole returned, dusk was approaching, and Mr. Knightley wanted Mr. Deal on his way to Guildford before the hour grew late in case any of his gypsy familia lurked along the road with notions of liberating him.”
Darcy’s tone held a shade of derision as he pronounced the gypsy word. Though Elizabeth had been fascinated by Mr. Deal’s experience among the Roma and his friendship with Rawnie Zsófia, Darcy was more cynical.
“What else do you wish to ask him?”
When Darcy did not reply, she followed his gaze. Miss Jones had just emerged from Mrs. Todd’s house, apparently headed for the Crown Inn to ply her fortune-telling trade. She saw the Darcys, paused, and glanced towards her destination. They stood directly in her path to the Crown; there was no way to avoid them.
Miss Jones straightened her shoulders and continued towards them. “Good day to you,” she said in passing.
“Miss Jones—a word, if you please,” Darcy said. It was not a request.
Miss Jones stopped. She considered Darcy in silence for a moment. “And if I do not please?”
“I am confident that is not the case.”
“Then pray, be quick, for I have business this morning. There are those who will not begin their day until I have looked into their teacups.”
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“I, too, have business this morning,” Darcy said, “with a man who I believe is a mutual acquaintance. How well do you know Hiram Deal?”
“The peddler? Perhaps hardly at all.” She tilted her head to one side and regarded Darcy brazenly. “Perhaps very well. Why do you wish to know?”
“I understand he travels with the same gypsy caravan that you claim kidnapped you. I wonder if he might tell a different tale of your experience than the one that you related.”
“Hiram came and went. He was not with the caravan when I was taken—we met later.”
“And what was your relationship then?”
“Our friendship is . . . an unconventional one. We were the only two English living amongst the gypsies. Infer what you will.”
Until that moment, Elizabeth had contemplated only a business relationship between the two—Mr. Deal selling what Miss Jones and the other gypsies stole. Had there been a romantic liaison? Mr. Deal was easily old enough to be Loretta’s father, but more disparate unions occurred in all classes of society. The handsome peddler had attracted the interest of many a maid in Highbury.
“Mrs. Darcy! Good morning!”
Elizabeth turned at the familiar voice behind her. Miss Bates approached, carrying a basket covered by a checkered cloth.
“I see you have your carriage. It is a fine day for a drive, is it not? Though a bit cold—I am glad to see you have a blanket with you. We have not had rain for several days, so the roads are plenty dry—that makes such a difference when traveling—dry roads. Mr. Deal and I were just discussing that fact on Sunday, and he would know, traveling as much as he does.—But the most shocking rumor is circulating the village this morning. Our dear Mr. Deal has been taken to gaol!”
“Gaol?” Miss Jones appeared genuinely stricken. The defiance left her countenance. She looked to Darcy. “Is it true? Has Hiram been arrested?”
“He—”
“I learned it straight from Nellie Hopkins, who works in the kitchen at Randalls,” Miss Bates said. “I met her early this morning at the bakery. She was sent to fetch baked apples for Jane.—Dear Mrs. Weston! She has been sending her apples to Mr. Wallis for baking ever since I mentioned Jane was partial to them—he does them just right. But what was I saying? Oh, yes! Nellie told me about Mr. Deal. She had it from one of the Randalls housemaids—Hannah—her father is the coachman at Hartfield. An excellent driver, James—whenever Mr. Woodhouse invites my mother and me to Hartfield, James always collects us and brings us home. It was he who drove Mr. Deal to Guildford with Mr. Knightley and Mr. Cole. Nellie was half beside herself. I think she is sweet on Mr. Deal—calf love, you know—eyes big as moons whenever she sees him. She is such a pretty little thing, and says he is so charming towards her.”
“Indeed?” Miss Jones’s face bore an expression of annoyance. Even Elizabeth, who had more patience for Miss Bates’s chatter, wished the spinster could keep to her narrative without so much digression.
“Oh, he is charming towards everybody—even me,” Miss Bates continued. “He is such a nice man. I do not know what he was arrested for. If James knows, he did not tell Hannah—as he should not—a good servant keeps his master’s business to himself. He only said Hannah should not use a gypsy elixir Mr. Deal had given her. Nellie had one, too, that she bought from him—a love philtre, she said it was. Imagine, believing in such a thing! Oh, to be that young again. Nellie said she did not believe one word against Mr. Deal. Nor do I. This whole business must be a mistake. Yes, I am certain—simply some dreadful, unfortunate mistake that will be rectified as rapidly as possible. Surely Mr. Knightley is taking care of the matter even now. I saw him pass through town very early this morning, looking so businesslike. Doubtless, that was his errand. . . .”
In truth, Mr. Knightley was gone to London in search of the nurse who had attended Hiram Deal’s birth. As nearly forty years had passed, he harbored little hope of determining her name, let alone finding her alive, but he needed to at least attempt to locate her. He planned to call upon the Churchills’ solicitor as a starting point, and engage the aid of his own brother, a lawyer, as well. Elizabeth wished he and Darcy had traded errands—she would have preferred to accompany Darcy to London, where she could spend time with Lily-Anne while Darcy did his detecting—but Mr. Knightley’s status as a magistrate lent him more authority to loosen unwilling tongues.
“. . . all most shocking. Why, mere hours before Mr. Cole took him, Mr. Deal was in our parlor—he has visited my mother and me three days this se’nnight. Had a spot of tea with us on Wednesday, and brought us each a rose. Roses in November! They were dried roses, of course, but still so fragrant! I was quite speechless. . . .”
Elizabeth was amazed that anyone could render Miss Bates speechless. She met Darcy’s gaze; he looked eager to conclude their interview with Miss Jones and be on their way.
Miss Jones did not appear amused, either. Vexation continued to dominate her features as Miss Bates rattled on.
“. . . such an interesting man! I could listen to his tales for hours. He has started to call me ‘Bella’ when he relates them—it is a little joke between us, you see—instead of ‘Bates,’ he says ‘Bella’—It is Italian for ‘beautiful,’ he tells me.—‘Miss Bella, I have another story for you today.’—I expect he would call my mother ‘Mrs. Bella’ but she would not quite hear him and it would only confuse her. Oh! Here is Mrs. Elton coming up the lane. I heard you told her fortune, Miss Jones. What an extraordinary hobby! My mother and I only knit. I do not know that I believe one can see the future in a teacup, but there seems no harm in trying.”
“A teacup can indeed hold one’s fate.” Miss Jones regarded Miss Bates appraisingly. “I would be happy to look into yours this morning.”
“Would you? Gracious! I cannot imagine you would see anything interesting.”
“You might be surprised.”
“Well, I—perhaps another morning? I do need to speak with Mrs. Elton. Who is that with her? Oh! I believe it is Mr. Simon.—Indeed, it is Mr. Simon. Poor fellow—there is something not altogether right with him, I think. Good day to you, Mrs. Elton! Look—she motions for me to come to her. Oh, I nearly forgot! This basket is for Mr. Deal—bread and a pork pie and a cheese. I simply could not stop thinking about the poor man, cold and hungry in that dreadful gaol. Can you give it to Mr. Knightley, to see that Mr. Deal receives it?”
“I will make sure that it reaches Mr. Deal,” Darcy said. Elizabeth, who stood closer, accepted the basket from her.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy! So kind of you. Do tell him I pray that his health does not suffer while he is there. I understand that gaols are such ill places. Poor man!—Look, Mrs. Elton motions me again. I must go.”
“I will walk with you,” Miss Jones said.
“That would be lovely. Oh—there is Nellie, going into the Crown. What a list of errands she must have this morning! You can ask her more about Mr. Deal. Good day to you, Mrs. Darcy! Mr. Darcy!”
Miss Jones thus made her escape, and Darcy did not prevent her. They had a fourteen-mile drive to Guildford, and needed to be on their way. Darcy handed Elizabeth into the carriage and soon they were in motion.
Elizabeth set Miss Bates’s basket on the seat beside her, along with the blanket they had just purchased at Ford’s. “I expect Mr. Deal will appreciate Miss Bates’s thoughtfulness.”
“He will, indeed.”
Elizabeth heard the odd inflection in his tone. Darcy knew too well the conditions Mr. Deal presently suffered. A year ago he had been gaoled for two days on a false accusation. It was an experience he still avoided discussing. But the fact that it had been his idea to bring the blanket for a man who might have been complicit in robbing them, spoke volumes.
She was not sure, however, that even Darcy would do the same for a man he thought was a murderer. “Do you believe Mr. Deal’s story about the Churchills?”
He frowned. “I was just asking myself that very question.”
“And what was you
r self’s reply?”
“You interrupted at the very moment I was about to find out. Now we shall never know.”
The carriage increased its speed as it left the village. Darcy tilted his head back against the seat and let his gaze wander along the roof. “In the matter of his true parentage, all of the principals who could have corroborated his tale are dead, with the possible exception of the nurse—a circumstance rather convenient to Mr. Deal’s cause if he is lying.”
“Let us assume for the moment that he is indeed their son—that that much of his tale is true—the scarlet fever, the gypsy caravan—everything up to his confrontation with Mrs. Churchill. Do you think he is our poisoner? We have only his word that Edgar responded favorably to his revelation. Even if Mr. Deal truly had no interest in the Churchill fortune, people kill for reasons other than money. If Edgar Churchill rejected him, Mr. Deal might have killed him—and tried to kill Frank—out of revenge, or despair. And with an herbalist as his gypsy mother, he is the likeliest of anybody to have access to belladonna.”
“That last would be true no matter what his motive.”
“Perhaps Mr. Deal did do it for the money—and then also tried to kill Frank, the Churchills’ heir. Oh! But that makes no sense. Frank’s will likely leaves the estate to Jane, so Mr. Deal would have no claim upon it. For Mr. Deal to benefit from Edgar’s death, he would have had to wait until he had been written into Edgar’s will. The murder took place too early. So if we solely consider money, we are back to Jane Churchill and Mr. Dixon as our chief suspects, and of the two of them, I favor Mr. Dixon. He was not pleased when Miss Jones offered to divine the name of his true love. I think he carries a torch for Jane. Perhaps he intends to fuel it with the Churchill fortune, after she becomes a widow.”
Darcy shook his head. “You are mistaken. Frank is not Edgar Churchill’s heir.”
“Whatever do you mean? The Knightleys said that the Churchills had formally adopted him.”
The Intrigue at Highbury Page 24
