“Has the rain started?” Emma asked. She had not heard any drops falling, but it had threatened all day.
Mrs. Darcy started and turned round. “What? Oh—no, it has not. I beg your pardon—I did not hear you enter.” She moved away from the window and sat down on a chair near the fire. “I was contemplating something Miss Bates said this afternoon, though it might be entirely insignificant.”
“If Miss Bates said it, it probably was.” Emma took the seat opposite her. “However, tell me anyway.”
“She mentioned that she had just found a note from Mr. Deal, and assumed he had left it at her door sometime before his arrest. But were that so, would she not have discovered it earlier? We encountered her in Broadway Lane this morning, and she had already been to the bakery and back to pack a basket for Mr. Deal. Surely she would have seen the letter lying there?”
Emma found it rather curious that Miss Bates should be sending anything to the peddler, as she suffered such straitened circumstances herself. But Miss Bates had a kind heart, and even in her own want shared what she could with those less fortunate.
“Miss Bates lives for letters. I cannot imagine that a note from anybody would have repeatedly escaped her notice.” The room was cold; Emma rose and stirred the fire. “Indeed, I am surprised she did not recite it verbatim when she spoke of it later. Or did she?”
“No, she said only that he thanked her for the tea he had shared with her and Mrs. Bates on Sunday.”
“Mr. Deal has been taking tea with the Bateses?” Even more curious. Was he on such familiar terms with other customers?
Emma sank back into her seat as the most extraordinary thought took hold. Was Mr. Deal wooing Miss Bates? Impossible! But . . . taking tea at her house . . . small little gifts . . . writing to her—a practice decidedly improper unless a couple were engaged. . . .
Could it be? It would not be the first instance of a courtship having advanced right before her eyes without her realizing it. But—independent of his status as a murder suspect—he was entirely unsuitable! A peddler—an itinerant—raised by gypsies!
It was inconceivable that a respectable lady such as Miss Bates—a clergyman’s daughter, no less—could consider such a disreputable character. Even if he were cleared of the murder, even if his claims upon the Churchill name proved true, he had no claim upon the Churchill fortune. It belonged to Frank. Was Miss Bates—Mrs. Hiram Deal—to tramp across England with him, living out of his cart? The notion was absurd.
Still more absurd, however, was Mr. Deal’s interest in Miss Bates. With every scullery maid and farmer’s daughter in the village making eyes at the man, what attraction did a windy spinster hold for him? He could not possibly have fallen violently in love with her.
Did he prey upon her sentiments for some ulterior purpose?
Emma realized that she yet held the fire poker. She rose and replaced it, but did not sit back down.
“Mrs. Darcy, I am suddenly quite interested in that letter myself. Would you care to take a drive with me?”
Thirty-five
“A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye . . .”
—Miss Bates, Emma
Mr. Knightley withdrew a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “I want a list of every person in Highbury to whom you sold any sort of remedy—a physic, tincture, ointment, infusion—anything purportedly medicinal.”
Mr. Deal regarded him incredulously. “I do not know the name of every single customer.”
“No, but you know some of them quite well—such as the maid Nellie, who spent half her wages buying philtres from you and who is now abed with belladonna poisoning.”
“Nellie? Poisoned!” Mr. Deal looked genuinely horrified. “Will she recover?”
“We believe so.”
“There are others to whom you have given particular attention,” Darcy said. “What is your design on Miss Bates?”
“Miss Bates? Why, nothing at all unseemly. I meant only kindness.”
“Nothing unseemly?” Mr. Knightley said. “Everything perfectly proper? Such as corresponding with her—an unmarried lady?”
“We are not corresponding.”
“Miss Bates told me this morning that she had received a letter from you,” Darcy said.
“What are you talking about? I wrote no letter to Miss Bates.”
“You did not leave her a note thanking her for the tea you took together on Sunday?”
“No, though perhaps I ought to have. But it was only Wednesday—yesterday—that we had tea and”—he gestured at his surroundings—“I have been a little occupied.”
Darcy noted Deal’s memory for dates, which coincided with Miss Bates’s account. The letter’s author had erred; Mr. Deal had not. Who, then, had written the letter? And to what purpose? Why would anybody trouble himself to forge a thank-you note?
Unless it was not a thank-you note.
Someone in the village had sent three letters to Hartfield with hidden meanings. Though Mrs. Elton had admitted to writing the first, he could not credit her with the others. Had Miss Bates’s note been authored by the writer of the latter two? Was it not a simple thank-you, but another word puzzle?
Darcy drew Mr. Knightley aside. In a low voice, he shared his conjecture. Mr. Deal watched them with open interest, making no attempt to pretend he was not trying to hear their conversation.
“We need to see that note,” Darcy finished.
“We will call upon her tomorrow as early as possible.”
“I think you should go now,” Mr. Deal said.
The peddler’s impertinence took Darcy aback. “I do not recall our having solicited your opinion.”
“I give it to you freely.” He leaned towards them on the rickety chair. “Gentlemen, someone has murdered my father, attempted to kill my cousin, and poisoned an innocent young girl. Now a fraudulent letter bearing my name has appeared at the home of one of the few people in Highbury who has extended friendship—honest, disinterested friendship—towards me. This letter concerns you enough that you suspended your interrogation of me to discuss it between yourselves. I have told you that I am not the criminal you seek, told you in so many ways that I do not think there is another manner of expressing it. Yet you waste your time here with me while Miss Bates might even now be in danger. I beg you—set off without delay for Broadway Lane to examine the note and ensure that good lady’s safety. If you insist on continuing this interview, we can do so another time.” He motioned towards the stone walls with a defeated shrug. “I am not going anywhere.”
Mr. Knightley turned to Darcy and nodded. “He speaks sense. We can finish this tomorrow, after we have determined more about the letter and taken steps to protect Miss Bates, if necessary.”
Much as Darcy hesitated to trust the peddler, any threat he posed was contained by prison bars—while if the poisoner yet roamed free, Miss Bates was not the only person at risk. “Let us go directly.”
Mr. Knightley approached the door to signal the guard. Mr. Deal rose.
“Mr. Knightley—”
He turned back to the peddler. “Yes?”
“I do not suppose, sir, that you would contemplate taking me with you?”
At the magistrate’s startled gasp, Mr. Deal held up his palm. “Pray, do not dismiss the idea yet. Only consider—I might be able to help. That letter allegedly came from me; it was almost certainly written by someone familiar with my movements. If I were to examine it, I might find something in it that you cannot.”
Mr. Deal also might use the opportunity to lead their investigation further astray. Or to escape. Or worse. “We can bring the letter back with us if we believe his perspective would prove useful,” Darcy said to Mr. Knightley.
“How many trips to Guildford do you want to make?” Mr. Deal responded. “At the expense of valuable time?”
“Is it not rather late to be calling upon the Bates ladies unanticipated?” Elizabeth asked as she and Mrs. Knightley negotiated the dark staircase that led to the apartmen
t. She was anxious herself to see Mr. Deal’s letter, cherishing faint hope that it might somehow illuminate larger questions about the peddler, but she did not want to incommode or intrude upon the older women.
“Trust me, they will be grateful for the company.”
Mrs. Knightley knocked upon the door. Voices within indicated that at least one other visitor was with the ladies. She and Mrs. Knightley were not only intruding, Elizabeth thought ruefully, but also unlikely to obtain a glimpse of the letter depending upon who was present.
Miss Bates was delighted by their arrival. “Oh, do come in! Mother, look who has come! It is Mrs. Knightley and Mrs. Darcy. You remember Mrs. Darcy? Darcy. What an impromptu little party we are forming! Mrs. Darcy, can you guess who else is here?” She moved aside to allow them passage into the apartment.
At the tea table sat Miss Jones.
Elizabeth endeavored to disguise her chagrin. Loretta Jones was the last person before whom she wanted to broach the subject of Mr. Deal’s letter. She still did not know quite what to make of the relationship between the young woman and the peddler. Though Rawnie Zsófia had refuted any romantic attraction on Mr. Deal’s part, Loretta’s words this morning suggested a rather proprietary interest in the man.
Miss Jones seemed equally discomposed by Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley’s appearance in the apartment. She forced a laugh. “How very unexpected, Mrs. Darcy, to see you again today.”
“Indeed. I had no idea you were a friend of Miss Bates.”
“My mother and I were just getting better acquainted with Miss Jones,” Miss Bates said. “Do sit down.”
The parlor looked much the same as it had upon Elizabeth’s last visit, right down to old Mrs. Bates knitting in her customary place. Apparently, Thomas Dixon had not yet implemented any of his grand plans for the room. Elizabeth wondered whether the elderly lady was among the few furnishings he would allow Miss Bates to keep.
Miss Bates adjusted her mother’s lap blanket. “Are you warm enough, Mother? To me it feels quite warm over here by the fire, but I know you are often cold. Do you need your shawl? Your shawl? No? Do but say the word if you change your mind.” She drifted back towards the tea table, where a pair of cups, one overturned onto its saucer, rested near a small pot. “Miss Jones has come to tell my fortune. You have arrived just in time to hear it.”
Elizabeth supposed the fortune-telling trade was not as lucrative as Miss Jones had hoped, if she was going door to door attempting to increase business. “I did not realize, Miss Jones, that fortune-tellers make house calls.”
“For particular persons, I do.” She smiled at her hostess. “As Miss Bates said, we are getting better acquainted.”
“I am so glad you came by, Miss Jones! Indeed, at first I declined to have my fortune read, did I not? But afterwards, I said to myself, ‘Now, Hetty, what is the harm?’ I hoped perhaps Miss Jones could read Mr. Deal’s fortune for me, that I might learn how long he will be consigned to that horrible gaol. But she says that is not the way such things work—he is not here to drink his own tea, which is required.—Do I have it right, Miss Jones?—I have been learning all about fortune-telling this evening! One must drink one’s tea and then swirl the leaves to get a proper reading, she tells me. I cannot do it on Mr. Deal’s behalf. Though, in a sense, it would be Mr. Deal’s tea, as it came from him. Is that not sad, that his tea should be here but not him?”
“Whatever do you mean, Miss Bates?” asked Mrs. Knightley.
“Why, the tea was a gift from Mr. Deal! He took tea with my mother and me yesterday, and afterwards he left us a lovely note expressing his thanks, and a small parcel of tea. Oh! Now where did that note go? I showed it to Miss Jones, and now I cannot remember where I placed it. Do you recall, Miss Jones?”
Miss Jones glanced about, her brow furrowed. “I do not. But surely it will turn up.”
“I regret you have misplaced it,” Mrs. Knightley said. “I should like to see what sort of letter a peddler writes.”
“Oh, Mr. Deal writes a fine letter! Do you not agree, Miss Jones?”
“Yes, very fine.”
“When did you find the parcel?” Elizabeth asked.
“I went out around noon today, and there it was, just inside the door at the base of the stairs. Such a surprise! I do not know how I overlooked it earlier. And so thoughtful of Mr. Deal! I was going to save the tea for his next visit, but when I told Miss Jones of it, she encouraged me to use it tonight for the fortune-reading. She said if I used Mr. Deal’s tea and concentrated on a question pertaining to him while I drank it, the leaves might reveal the answer.”
“As there is much in question about Mr. Deal at present, I am sure you will have no trouble,” Mrs. Knightley said. “Except, perhaps, limiting the experiment to a single query.”
Elizabeth did not think Miss Bates ought to consume anything provided by Mr. Deal until the poisoning matter was resolved. “It seems a shame not to save the tea to enjoy with Mr. Deal. Maybe you should reconsider.”
Miss Bates laughed. “Oh, it is too late to reconsider now! The tea is already made. Would either of you care for some? There is plenty. My mother does not drink tea this late when we are at home—she says it keeps her awake—and Miss Jones declined. I have already drunk mine and swirled the leaves. Miss Jones was about to read them when I heard your knock. Why do not both of you take some, too, and we can all have our fortunes read together?”
“Miss Jones has already read my fortune, several days ago.” Alarm passed through Elizabeth at the news that Miss Bates had drunk the tea. She assessed Miss Bates for indications that the tea had been tainted. Unfortunately, Elizabeth realized that she had not the faintest idea what she ought to be looking for. To her untrained eye, Miss Bates appeared her usual self, if perhaps a little flushed from the excitement of visitors and fortune-telling.
Miss Bates reached for the pot. “What about you, Mrs. Knightley? Would you care for tea?”
“I think it has gone cold,” Miss Jones said. She moved the pot to the other side of the table and reached for one of the teacups. “Let us read your fortune, Miss Bates, before your impression fades from the leaves. Afterwards, we can make a fresh pot if anybody cares for a cup. Where is your maid? The remaining tea from this pot should be dumped so that nothing interferes with the signs.”
Elizabeth did not recall such interference having been a concern when Miss Jones told her fortune at the Crown; the would-be drabarni had embellished her patter with experience. Considering how unpracticed Loretta’s “dukkering” had been when she arrived in the village, Elizabeth could only imagine how she must have sounded while affecting to read Edgar Churchill’s leaves at the gypsy camp. The fortune that poor Nellie heard this morning had likely been far more intriguing and smoothly delivered than Edgar’s, at a fraction of the price. She wondered how much Miss Bates was being charged for this performance.
“Oh! Well! We certainly do not want anything to fade or interfere. Patty, come take away this pot for us.—She will be but a moment, I am sure. Can we begin? What must I do?”
“Simply take a seat and keep still, so I may concentrate.”
“Ah, I can do that.” She sat down at the table, across from Miss Jones. “Right here—as I was before?”
“Yes, just so. Now, tell me the question you held in your mind as you drank the tea.”
Miss Bates closed her eyes and rested one hand on the table. “When will poor Mr. Deal return to his friends in Highbury?”
Thirty-six
“Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief.”
—Mr. Knightley, Emma
You may open your eyes, Miss Bates. Let us see what the leaves say.” Miss Jones rotated the teacup. “Look—there is a D—and a trail of leaves—that means a journey.” She looked up at her client. “I said you may open your eyes, Miss Bates.”
The spinster blinked several times and brought her other hand to her head. “Forgive me—I feel a bit dizzy. It must be the excite
ment. Though it is exceedingly warm in here.”
Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley exchanged glances and went to her directly. Mrs. Knightley put a hand to the spinster’s forehead. “She does feel quite warm.”
“Maybe someone should open a window,” Miss Jones suggested.
While Mrs. Knightley attended Miss Bates, Elizabeth approached not the window, but the teapot. Perhaps she could determine by smell whether the tea had been adulterated. Before she could reach it, however, Miss Jones seized the pot.
“Good idea,” said Miss Jones. “We should get these things out of the way.” She picked up Miss Bates’s teacup with her other hand.
Elizabeth reached again toward the pot. “I was not—”
Miss Jones rose and spun away from her chair to take the tea things into the next room.
A folded sheet of paper fell from her skirts.
They both watched it slide to the floor. And then both scrambled to retrieve it. Though Miss Jones was closer, her hands were full, and Elizabeth snatched it up first.
It was Mr. Deal’s note. He thanked Miss Bates for the tea he had enjoyed with the ladies on Sunday, and in return humbly offered a special China black he reserved for his best customers. He further urged her to try it before he next saw her, so that she might tell him whether she liked it.
Miss Jones disciplined her anxious expression into one of false brightness. “Look at that! It must have fallen aside after Miss Bates showed it to me. Thank heaven we found it.—Good news, Miss Bates—Mrs. Darcy has found your letter.”
Miss Bates blinked. “The letter from Mr. Deal?” She rubbed her eyes and blinked again. “I am having trouble seeing it. Patty,” she called out, “can you bring my spectacles? Everything is a blur.”
Elizabeth fixed Miss Jones with her own gaze. She could see quite clearly.
Miss Jones had taken the letter. Just as she had seized the teapot. Or—more to the point—seized the tea inside it. The tea that had arrived with the letter. The tea that she did not want anybody else examining too closely.
The Intrigue at Highbury Page 28
