The Intrigue at Highbury

by Carrie Bebris

  “According to Edgar’s solicitor, the will names Frank as his heir only in the absence of a child of Edgar’s body. If Mr. Deal is truly Edgar’s son—”

  “Then when Edgar died, Mr. Deal became the owner of Enscombe.” Elizabeth tried to sort out the implications of this unexpected fact. “But does Mr. Deal know that? And is Frank aware of Mr. Deal’s identity? It all comes down to how much each suspect knows, and when he learned it. Edgar requested a meeting with his solicitor just before he died. Did he want to write Mr. Deal into the will more formally? Eliminate him from it altogether? Perhaps the meeting was not specifically to discuss the will at all, but to initiate an investigation to confirm Mr. Deal’s parentage.”

  “Regardless of the meeting’s purpose, it was in Mr. Deal’s financial interest for Edgar Churchill to die before it took place,” Darcy said. “He was already the heir; there was nothing more to be gained by the meeting and much to lose if Edgar in fact wanted to write him out. If Mr. Deal knew the terms of the will, he had motive to kill Edgar before those terms could be changed. Though he claims not to want the money, it is now his by default if he can prove his identity.”

  “And the motive behind Frank’s poisoning, if Mr. Deal is guilty of Edgar’s?”

  “Kill off the pretender for good measure.” Darcy frowned in concentration. “Let us skip over Frank as a suspect for the moment and move on to Jane Churchill and Thomas Dixon, or Thomas Dixon acting alone. They are the least likely to know about the ‘heir of the body’ provision. If we assume their ignorance, they believe their interest lies in first eliminating Edgar, then Frank.”

  “They are in for a rude surprise when they learn that Mr. Deal’s existence has undone all of their careful scheming, if indeed either of them is the poisoner.”

  “Now to Frank Churchill. Of all the suspects, he is the most likely to know that the will contains the provision, but does Frank know that Mr. Deal is Edgar’s son? If so, Frank has no motive for killing Edgar—he is better off trying to persuade his uncle to change the terms of the will to do right by his adopted heir. But if he does not know Mr. Deal is Edgar’s son—and Mr. Deal says Frank does not—then Frank believes he benefits immediately from Edgar’s death. And if he knows about Mr. Deal but does not know about the provision, he believes he benefits by killing Edgar before his uncle can write Mr. Deal into the will.”

  “But in any case, if Frank poisoned Edgar, who poisoned Frank?”

  “Perhaps Frank himself? His poisoning was less severe than Edgar’s. He could have taken a smaller dose, or pretended the symptoms, to give the appearance that he, too, was a victim. He maintained a secret engagement for months—this would not be the first instance of Frank’s acting in deceit to throw suspicion off himself in pursuit of greater gain.”

  Elizabeth sighed and looked out the window at the passing autumn landscape. “This was simpler when Mr. Deal was merely a friendly traveling peddler.”

  Darcy handed Mr. Deal the basket and blanket, and endeavored not to touch any surface in the cell or breathe too deeply of its air. Mr. Knightley said there had been no recent cases of gaol-fever in Surrey, but one never knew.

  Mr. Deal accepted the gifts with surprise, glancing inside the basket to quickly ascertain its contents. “Thank you, sir. I fair near froze last night, and the food is not fit for swine.”

  “The basket is not from me, but from Miss Bates.”

  Mr. Deal’s face brightened a little—as much as anything could appear bright in such dismal surroundings. “Indeed?”

  “She also sends many wishes for your continued health and a swift resolution to what she is certain must be an extraordinary misunderstanding.”

  He smiled. “Miss Bates is a lady with a heart full of affection and generosity. It is a shame she has only her mother on whom to expend it. You, too, sir, are most compassionate. The blanket—”

  “Yes, well . . .” Darcy coughed, uncomfortable being thanked by a man he had helped incarcerate, and still more disturbed by their present surroundings: an all-too-concrete reminder of the ordeal that had motivated the gift. “I am not come here on a social call. Now that you have admitted the extent of your gypsy associations, I have questions for you regarding our robbery and your acquaintance with Miss Jones.”

  “I swear to you, sir, I do not have your belongings.”

  “But you know who does. The thieves were part of your caravan.”

  “The caravan departed immediately after the robbery.”

  “Where has it gone?”

  “I do not know. I have not been in contact with them.”

  “Surely you have some notion. How else would you know where to meet the caravan when you wish to rejoin it?”

  “Perhaps I do not intend to rejoin it.”

  “Because you plan to live on Edgar Churchill’s fortune?”

  “What? No!” He swept his hand as if sweeping away the suggestion. “I told you, I have no interest in his money. I simply grow tired of tramping.”

  Mr. Deal’s earnest expression and manner inclined Darcy to believe him. But Darcy knew that in any conversation with Deal, he could not allow himself to forget that he spoke with a salesman.

  “Would you not miss your gypsy mother?”

  “I would find a way to see her. Or she would find me.”

  Though a high, barred window revealed a patch of sky, the cell was dim. The gathering clouds reflected Darcy’s mood. If the peddler would not, or could not, offer any information regarding the gypsies’ present whereabouts, Darcy would never see the christening garments, or his mother’s ring again. The thieves knew they were being hunted. Doubtless, the caravan was far from here.

  Though Elizabeth had promised to wait in the carriage, it was not long before cramped muscles led her to amend her agreement to beside the carriage. Darcy was inside the gaol; he need never know that she had quit their coach for a time to circle the vehicle and breathe fresh air.

  Their coachman eyed her askance. “Now, Mrs. Darcy, I am going to be in a world of trouble with your husband if—”

  “Nonsense, Jeffrey. I am not going anywhere.”

  The gaol stood some thirty yards away. Two gaolers guarded its entrance. They appeared ignorant, unclean fellows, distinguished from the prisoners within only by their liberty to leave at the end of their shift. They lounged on tipply wooden stools and occasionally passed between them a flask that Elizabeth doubted contained water.

  She gathered her cloak more tightly about her. Though the morning had begun promisingly enough, dark clouds now hung heavy in the sky, threatening rain. As eager as she had been to leave Highbury, she now wished Darcy would hasten his business so they could return.

  A woman wandered into view. She was tall, and wore a brightly colored dress that swirled about her legs as she walked. Long, thick black hair streaked with grey hung down her back, tumbling over her dark purple shawl and bound only by the kerchief tied round her head. She carried a basket trimmed in red, gold, and purple, similar to one Elizabeth had seen on Mr. Deal’s cart. She walked with purpose towards the gaolers.

  Elizabeth could not hear what she said to them, only the mocking laughs they issued in reply.

  “He’s busy—got a gen’leman with ’im now,” said the stouter of the two guards. “But even if he didn’t, I’d ’ardly let in the likes of you.”

  The woman spoke again, gesturing towards her basket.

  Elizabeth moved several yards closer. Her footman was beside her in an instant. “Ma’am . . .”

  If Darcy questioned her, she was still near the carriage. “Hush, Ben. I only want to hear.”

  The gaoler stood up, knocking over his rickety stool. “Prisoners ain’t allowed stuff from outside.” He lied—Darcy had walked in carrying both the blanket and Miss Bates’s basket without eliciting so much as a second glance. “Whatcha got hidd’n in there—knives’n such?”

  His hand darted towards her. The woman quickly stepped back, but not before the gaoler managed to snatch somet
hing from the basket. “An apple? Surely y’got somethin’ better in there.” He took a bite and spat it out at her feet.

  “Aw, Joe, can’t you see she was saving that for ’im?” The smaller fellow, emboldened by his comrade’s bottle-fed bravado, now rose. “What else are you savin’ for ’im? Are you his gypsy whore?” He yanked off the woman’s kerchief, revealing a greater proportion of grey.

  Elizabeth had witnessed enough.

  She started towards the entrance. Her footman matched her strides. Behind, she could hear Jeffrey trotting after them.

  “Ma’am, surely you are not contemplating—”

  “Indeed, I am not contemplating. I am quite decided.”

  The stout guard barked out a laugh. “She’s old for a whore.”

  “There’s no accountin’ for some men’s taste.” The woman tried to grab her kerchief, but the gaoler crumpled it in his grimy fist. “What will you gimme for it?”

  “Sheka.”

  “Gypsy dog!” The guard with the apple threw it at her. It struck hard enough to make the woman stumble. The taunts escalated, slurs so cruel and coarse that Elizabeth’s ears burned to hear them.

  So engrossed were the gaolers in tormenting the woman that Elizabeth was upon them before they noticed her.

  “Is this how Englishmen in service to the king treat a woman?”

  The gaolers said nothing in response, but ceased their abuse. The stout guard spat in defiance.

  Elizabeth held out her hand, palm up, towards the other gaoler, and fixed him with what she hoped was a commanding stare. Apparently, it was forceful enough, for he surrendered the kerchief. She turned to the woman to give it back to her, and met eyes as black as night.

  “Nais tuke.”

  “You are welcome.” Elizabeth gestured towards her coach. “Come with me. We can speak in my carriage.”

  They started back towards the vehicle, her servants following. The coachman cleared his throat. “Mrs. Darcy, if I may speak freely?”

  She paused. “What is it, Jeffrey?”

  He cast a wary glance past her shoulder at the gypsy woman. “Are you certain it is wise to invite a . . . a person you do not know . . . into the coach?”

  “I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but I know perfectly well who this woman is.”

  Rawnie Zsófia.

  Thirty

  “This is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it.”

  —Emma Woodhouse, Emma

  Bracelets clinked and jangled as Rawnie Zsófia stepped into the carriage. She sat down opposite Elizabeth and assessed her with an unwavering gaze. Perfume, barely noticeable when they had been outside, now added to the air a foreign scent Elizabeth could not identify. Though the coach was Elizabeth’s domain, it was difficult to say which woman occupied the small space with greater presence.

  “So.” The gypsy woman set her basket on the floor and adjusted her skirts. “You are Rawnie Darcy.”

  “Rawnie?” Elizabeth regarded her in puzzlement. She had thought “Rawnie” was Zsófia’s Christian name. If indeed gypsies were Christians.

  “Rawnie—‘lady.’ Lady Darcy. Or madam, if you prefer.” She brought a hand to her own chest. “The gorgios sometimes call me Madam Zsófia.”

  “It is simply Mrs. Darcy. I have no title.”

  “You are more a lady than many who boast the title, Rawnie Darcy.”

  Elizabeth wondered how Rawnie Zsófia had known her surname, and asked whether she had divined it.

  The old gypsy smiled enigmatically. “If I told you that your name formed in the mist of my crystal ball, would you believe me?”

  Elizabeth hesitated.

  “Do not answer. I heard your servant address you.”

  Rawnie Zsófia shook out her kerchief, determined that it was none the worse for having been clutched by a cretin for several minutes, and retied it round her head. Though according to Mr. Deal’s tale she must be sixty, she was yet a striking woman. While threescore years and a lifetime of traveling had etched lines in her dark skin, her angular face reflected wisdom as well as age, and her eyes appeared to hold secrets as numerous as Mr. Deal’s wares. She gingerly touched her side where the apple had struck.

  “Did they injure you?” Elizabeth asked.

  “They did nothing I have not endured many times before. But you did not invite me here to talk about Zsófia. You want to talk about my son. What is it you wish to know?” She had a low, mellisonant voice, one that charmed and disarmed its listeners.

  “Whether he poisoned Edgar Churchill.”

  Rawnie Zsófia laughed. The sound blended with her clattering bangles to form its own music. “You are direct. I admire that. So few gorgios are. I shall answer you with equal frankness. No, he did not.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “I know Hram.”

  “Hram?”

  “That is his nav romano—his gypsy name. Hram Deal. It was I who gave it to him. It is not a name from the modern Romany tongue, but one formed of older words from the mountains of Romania, whence my mother’s people came. It means ‘church hill.’ The name connected Hram to his past, which I scryed in my ball, and to his future trade, which I read in his hand. He alters it to ‘Hiram’ when dealing with the gorgios, but among us he remains Hram. And Hram, despite having formed in the womb of a cold-blooded gorgie, has the heart of a Rom, and could never betray or harm a member of his familia—Romano or English.”

  “He considers himself a gypsy, then?”

  “Nai. He has learned our ways, and he sells our goods. He sings and dances with us, has celebrated and sorrowed with us. But he is not fully a Rom. Yet he is no longer purely English, either. Hai shala—do you understand? From nine to nine-and-thirty, he has divided himself between two worlds, existing in both but belonging to neither. I suspect that is why he has never taken a wife—though I sense, too, that he fears passing to a child the deformity that has so troubled his own life. Hram has a good heart and would make a fine husband to any woman. I know he would never stray, for he does not even accept what some would freely give.”

  Rawnie Zsófia’s last statement brought to Elizabeth’s mind the morning’s conversation with Miss Jones. “There is a young Englishwoman whom I believe has been traveling with your caravan.”

  “Hai. Loretta. She left the kumpania several days ago, I hope to return to her family.” Rawnie Zsófia sighed heavily and shook her head. “Her signs are very difficult to read. She is clever but not wise. Passion rules her instead of reason.”

  “Was she kidnapped, as she claims?”

  “Nai. She fell in love with a handsome young Rom of our kumpania and ran away from her family to be with him. Unfortunately, he did not return her love. She stayed with the caravan, hoping to win him, but he did not want a gorgie wife, especially one so headstrong and foolish. Two months ago he married a Romani.”

  “And yet she continued to travel with the caravan?”

  “I counseled her to go back to her own kind. So, too, did Hram. He had been away when she first joined the kumpania, but he returned shortly after the young man rejected her. She spent much time with Hram, following him like new pup, and he pitied her. I hoped that since he is English, like her, she would listen to him, but nai.”

  “Did they—were they ever—” Elizabeth faltered, unsure how to delicately phrase her question. They were, after all, discussing Rawnie Zsófia’s son.

  “Were they lovers? Nai. Hram has long been a man, and Loretta, though she has a woman’s body, is still very much a child. Perhaps she offered herself—sons, especially grown ones, do not tell their mothers everything, and even the most gifted drabarni cannot discern all. But he has no interest in her, save that of offering guidance to a fellow gorgio. He helped her understand the ways of the gypsies, but he did not teach her the ways of men and women.”

  “Did her education in gypsy ways include the art of fortune-telling?”

  “She is dukk
ering for the gorgios, is she?” Rawnie Zsófia released a low chuckle. “Hai, she asked me to teach her, and I saw that she has the intelligence to learn. But she had not the patience. Learning to read leaves or the cards or a palm takes time. One must know what to look for, and then how to interpret what is seen, and this knowledge comes only through practice. But Loretta, she wanted this understanding instantly. By the gods, she wanted to begin her training with the crystal! She sulked when I said we would start with tea. It was the same when she asked to learn the healer’s art. We were not an hour gathering plants when she complained of boredom and went off to watch her young Rom train ravens.”

  Trained ravens. Elizabeth had suspected that the bird which appeared so conveniently at the time of their robbery had been a party to the conspiracy. She now had confirmation.

  Rawnie Zsófia continued. “I do not think Loretta wanted to gain the skill of a drabarni, so much as the mystique of one. She is not alone in this. There are many Romani who learn only enough to persuade gorgios to part with their money. Loretta found such a one in our kumpania to teach her, and was starting to earn a fair number of coins. But it will be luck, not prophecy, if any of her foretellings actually come to pass. When she told Edgar Churchill’s fortune, she made such a jumble of it that another drabarni had to help her.”

  “She met Edgar Churchill? When?”

  “He came to our camp one afternoon, the day after Hram revealed himself to his father. Another gentleman was with him. I do not know his name.”

  “How did you know he was Mr. Churchill?”

  “My son had told me about his meeting with Churchill the day before, and my tea leaves that morning had told me to expect a visitor named ‘C.’ But even without that sign, I would have known him for Hram’s father.”

  That Edgar Churchill had visited the gypsy encampment was certainly an interesting turn of events. “Why did Mr. Churchill come?”

  “They were not seeking our camp, but when they came upon it, Loretta and a Romani girl persuaded the other gentleman to have his fortune told. Churchill looked uneasy, but also curious. He kept glancing about—maybe he hoped to see Hram, who was away in the village, or maybe he simply feared someone else would pass by and see him talking with gypsies. The girl and Loretta took them aside, and I busied myself nearby so I could observe the man my son had so long yearned to meet.