The Highbury Murders

by Victoria Grossack

  The Highbury Murders

  A Mystery Set in the Village of

  Jane Austen’s Emma

  Victoria Grossack

  Copyright © 2013 Victoria Grossack

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1482627450

  ISBN-13: 978-1482627450

  fOR cATHERINE,

  who took care of me when I was injured and who loves a good cup of tea

  CONTENTS

  1

  Condolence Calls in the Bates Apartment

  1

  2

  Strolling through Highbury

  7

  3

  Excursions of a Lively Mind

  12

  4

  Mrs. Weston’s Morning Call

  18

  5

  Harriet Martin Is Terrified

  24

  6

  Carriage Ride to Hartfield

  34

  7

  The Funeral of Mrs. Bates

  38

  8

  Musings After the Funeral

  46

  9

  Losing Silver

  52

  10

  Details from Donwell

  57

  11

  Calling on Mrs. Churchill

  63

  12

  Mrs. Elton’s Musical Afternoon

  68

  13

  Mrs. Churchill Comes to Hartfield

  75

  14

  Death of a Spinster

  79

  15

  The Day After the Murder

  83

  16

  Waiting, Worrying and Wondering

  92

  17

  Condolence Call on the Churchills

  97

  18

  Another Bates Funeral

  103

  19

  Finding Gold

  105

  20

  Sketches from the Past

  110

  21

  Searching for the Light on a Dark and Stormy Night

  114

  22

  Mrs. Bates’s Mushroom

  120

  23

  Revelations

  124

  24

  A Murderer’s Confession

  134

  25

  Confidantes at Last

  142

  26

  Two More Funerals

  146

  27

  Restored Treasure

  148

  Author’s Note

  153

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I must thank Catherine Cresswell, for her advice about

  agriculture in Surrey, Alice Underwood

  for her assistance with formatting and cover design,

  and Debbie Chambers and Susan Warren,

  who both have sharp eyes and

  who both made many helpful suggestions.

  © Chrislofoto | Stock Free Images

  & Dreamstime Stock Photos

  is the source of the cover photo.

  Jane Austen,

  though long dead, remains a great inspiration.

  1 Condolence calls in the bates Apartment

  The death of Mrs. Bates, a very old lady whose hearing had long since gone and who had spent her last few months either in her bedroom or sitting in her chair in the parlor, would have gone unremarked in London, where people spent their time discussing fashion, nobility, and the latest offering at the theatre. In Bath her decease might have been mentioned as a piece of dull news, before the residents and visitors resumed discussing who had been seen at the Pump Room during the day or who was giving a whist party that night. In Highbury, however, Mrs. Bates’s passing was an event which was talked over in every house, both great and small. They wondered about her last hours, hoped that their own ends would be so peaceful, and discussed what they had heard about the funeral arrangements. To the romantic, a death may not hold the same fascination as the hopes for a wedding, but just as young ones begin, old lives must end.

  As soon as it was deemed that the undertaker had done what was necessary, and that the nearest and dearest were ready for it, those who claimed any acquaintance with the Bates family – and that was most of the parish, as Mrs. Bates was the widow of a former, fondly remembered vicar of Highbury – entered through the door shared with the shop below, climbed the dark and narrow staircase, turned at the landing, and crowded into the tiny apartment to offer their condolences to Miss Bates.

  Miss Bates was the middle-aged spinster daughter of the just deceased Mrs. Bates, and she received the visits of friends and neighbors with a voluble mixture of gratitude and sorrow. “Mrs. Knightley, you are so kind and yes, we – I mean I, after so many years with my dear mother I cannot yet learn to say I, but I know she would be as thankful for your words as well, so perhaps the word we is appropriate”-- wiping away a tear, but smiling at the same time – “we were so grateful too for the lovely note sent earlier by your kind father, Mr. Woodhouse! So considerate of him! I have received notes from so many people; I am quite overwhelmed! The Coles sent over this cake, may I offer you a piece? And Mr. and Mrs. Weston have brought a large cheese, and the Perrys have been so kind as to send a bottle of wine to drink to my mother’s spirit, would you care for a glass, Mrs. Knightley? My mother would be so honored.”

  Mrs. Emma Knightley, daughter of Mr. Woodhouse, the wealthiest man in the parish of Highbury, and also happily the wife of Mr. George Knightley, the local magistrate, farmer and the owner of the estate known as Donwell Abbey, in the adjacent parish, was the most recent to squeeze into the apartment, which was already full of Westons, Eltons and Coles. Emma took advantage of Miss Bates’s pausing for breath to accept a tiny glass of wine and to say what else needed to be said. “My husband will call upon you later, but he asked me to tell you that he grieves for you. Also, he is honored to serve as one of your mother’s pallbearers.”

  “Ah, thank you, that is so kind of him – Mother would be so grateful, and of course Mr. Knightley must be terribly busy with the harvest. Time and tide wait for no man, and nor do the apples and the onions – nor death,” and Miss Bates sighed and looked at Mrs. Bates’s chair in the corner, which was vacant out of respect for the deceased, even though every other seat was filled and some of the gentlemen were obliged to stand. Mrs. Emma Knightley had accepted the chair occupied by Mr. Weston, who had risen out of politeness and who joined the vicar, Mr. Elton, in leaning against a wall.

  “Highbury will miss your mother,” said Mrs. Weston, glancing at Mrs. Bates’s empty chair, where she had spent most of the last few years of her life, knitting and nodding into naps. “She was a very good woman.”

  “She was, she was! She and my dear father, when they lived in the Vicarage, did so much for the poor. Everyone knew they could come for cheese, or for advice, or for bread, or for a cup of tea and a comforting word. Even in hard times she found a way to be generous, preparing baskets for the needy. A jar of broth, and depending on the season, apple tarts or homemade elderflower wine, dandelion salad or mushrooms she gathered from the forest herself. Mother could make even the smallest income go a long way; she was never stingy, but open-handed.”

  Mrs. Knightley thought that this description of the generosity of the prior inhabitants of the Vicarage would not gratify its current residents, the Eltons, who were also in the room and who both colored and frowned. To hide her amusement, so inappropriate for this occasion, Emma put her hand over her mouth but she could not resist glancing with mirthful eyes at Mrs. Weston, whose lips twitched. Mr. Weston, apparently sharing their understanding, coughed and put his empty cake plate down on a sma
ll table and then leaned back against the wall, while Mrs. Cole agreed with Miss Bates that Mrs. Bates, when she lived at the Vicarage, had enhanced its reputation for true Christian charity.

  “No one ever said she did not,” said Mrs. Elton with some asperity, while Mr. Elton looked down and fiddled with his shirt cuffs.

  Miss Bates, as genuinely artless as she was loquacious, finally comprehended and tried to dispel this poor reflection on her callers. “Oh, Mrs. Elton, you don’t – I didn’t – I mean, times change and so how could anyone expect the Vicarage to be what it was thirty years ago? You have added so much elegance and refinement to Highbury. No other mistress of the Vicarage wore such lace, Mrs. Elton.”

  As Emma was not certain that these words would entirely do away with the Eltons’ displeasure, for Mr. Elton continued to look uncomfortable and it was difficult to argue that Mrs. Elton’s liberal purchases of fine lace were entirely in keeping with being liberal towards the poor, Emma decided it would be charitable to steer the conversation to safer waters. “You have certainly informed the Churchills, have you not, Miss Bates, of your mother’s death?” asked Mrs. Knightley.

  “Oh! Yes, we have. Or rather, Mr. Weston here was kind enough to take care of sending the message.”

  “Well, I have traveled to London many times myself and sent messages there even more frequently,” said Mr. Weston, a man in his early fifties who was in business with his brothers in the city. “Taking care of the message was the least I could do. Frank and Jane certainly will come if they can, Miss Bates. You can be assured of that.”

  “It would be such a comfort! To see them here! And of course Jane must miss her grandmamma terribly. But they may be too busy,” said Miss Bates.

  “Nonsense! They will certainly come,” Mr. Weston repeated. “That is why we have scheduled the funeral for the day after tomorrow; it will give them sufficient time to make the journey.”

  “I have confidence in my son-in-law, and you, Miss Bates, know how very attentive your niece is,” said Mrs. Weston. “I agree with my husband: Frank and Jane will come to grieve with you.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Frank Churchill were a couple who both had their roots in Highbury, even though neither Frank Churchill nor Jane Fairfax Churchill had grown up in that placid village. Frank Weston Churchill was Mr. Weston’s son, but had been raised from the age of two in distant Enscombe under the care of a wealthy uncle – his deceased mother’s brother – and that uncle’s wife. Upon reaching majority he had taken his rich uncle’s name and was acknowledged to be that man’s heir. He was, despite his removal from Highbury, the pride and joy of his father, Mr. Weston, who had visited him once a year at least and had always returned home with reports so glowing that some doubted that a young man could be so tall, handsome, talented and good-natured. Mr. Frank Churchill, however, when he had finally made his appearance in Highbury for the first time not quite two years ago, had managed to live up to and even exceed the reputation that preceded him. All the women agreed that he was charming and even the men conceded he was good-looking.

  Jane Fairfax Churchill was the granddaughter of Mrs. Bates through her deceased daughter, Jane Bates Fairfax, and a Lieutenant Fairfax. Due to the early demise of both her parents, Jane had spent the first part of her youth in Highbury, doted upon by her fond grandmother and cheerful aunt. For several years she was considered a tragic figure, rather like an exquisite flower in the forest, doomed to bloom then fade back into the earth unseen by all. Her superior beauty, talent and sensitive nature should have marked her out for greatness, but because of her nearest relatives’ straightened means her prospects were extremely limited. Providence, however, seemed to change its mind and decided not to throw away its worthy creation. When Jane was still quite young she was taken in by friends of her father’s, a Colonel Campbell and his wife, whose only living child was a girl about Jane’s age. From that time the Campbells raised Jane with their daughter, teaching her, loving her, and sharing their lives with her. They were not, alas, able to provide her with a fortune – Colonel Campbell’s thousands were not so many and had to be bestowed, he believed, on his daughter – but the education they provided to Jane Fairfax equipped her better for the challenges of the world.

  Despite both being removed from what should have been their native home, Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax had somehow met each other and had fallen in love and had become engaged – secretly engaged. Their romance was the favorite history of Highbury – two semi-orphans meeting and marrying despite obstacles – and perhaps the tale kept its luster all the more rosy because the principals no longer lived in Highbury. They were with Frank’s rich uncle, the wealthy, genial Mr. Churchill. Other unions that had taken place about the same time had become ordinary in comparison. Mr. and Mrs. Weston – Mr. and Mrs. Elton – Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin – even the marriage between Mr. Knightley and Miss Emma Woodhouse, representing the two most important families in the area – no matter how much happiness, or lack of it, those unions yielded to the parties involved, they could not match the entertainment provided by those speculating about Mr. Frank Churchill and his bride, Jane Fairfax. Since their marriage, the famous pair had only been once in Highbury, as the rich uncle, Mr. Churchill, was suffering from gout and needed his nephew and his wife to take care of him.

  “I believe the Churchills should come,” said Mrs. Elton. “It would be very wrong of them not to come. Don’t you think so, Mr. E?”

  “Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Elton, who had picked up an old-fashioned gold locket from the top of the piano and seemed to be inspecting it with interest. “You are quite right.”

  “What are you doing, Mr. E?” asked Mrs. Elton, frowning at her husband with disapproval.

  “That locket belonged to my mother,” said Miss Bates. “It was the one valuable piece of jewelry that she owned and she wore It contains a lock of my father’s hair – not that he had much when he died – and my sister’s, too. Mother wore it every day and even when she was sick she insisted on having it with her.”

  “Ah! Very good, very good,” said Mr. Elton but he put the locket back on the top of the pianoforte as hastily as if it were a hot lump of coal.

  “Just looking at it makes me want to cry,” said Miss Bates, blinking back tears as she surveyed her visitors, and moving over to the instrument. “It is mine now, but I have not yet made up my mind to wear it – it seems to still belong to my mother, do you understand? Or perhaps I should give it to Jane? That is why I put it on the pianoforte, because I always think of this as Jane’s corner – she plays it so beautifully, everyone says so – but I am not sure about the locket. What do you think?”

  “You should wear it, Miss Bates,” Mrs. Weston assured her gently. “The locks of hair are from your father and your sister. You remember them best.”

  “Besides, Mrs. Churchill has plenty of other necklaces and jewels,” added Emma.

  “That is true,” said Miss Bates, lifting up the locket. “To me – as it was to Mother – this locket is very precious, but the Mr. Churchills may not feel the same way. They may have other jewels that they prefer to see her wear.”

  “I’m sure Frank would appreciate the value of the locket,” said Mr. Weston, who could not bear to hear any words that might even slightly disparage his son and his sensibilities, “but I am also sure that he would want you to keep it for yourself, Miss Bates.”

  “You are very generous, but it is too soon for you to be giving away your mother’s things,” said Mrs. Cole. “Mrs. Churchill will understand if you keep the locket.”

  Miss Bates, with all this encouragement from her friends, clutched the locket and took it back with her to her little chair and sat back down again.

  “We have not seen Jane – I mean, Mrs. Churchill – for such a long time,” Mrs. Elton spoke rather loudly, returning to the topic that interested her most. “I quite miss her.” During Jane’s last stay in Highbury – a visit of many months, which had only ended when her engagement to Mr. Frank Churchill
came to light – Mrs. Elton had made a fuss over Jane Fairfax, inviting her frequently over to the Vicarage for whist, music and meals. Among the young ladies of Highbury, Mrs. Elton had chosen Jane rather than Emma as her new, local confidante for many reasons, not the least being Emma’s thinly veiled distaste for Mr. and Mrs. Elton. Mrs. Elton repeated herself: “It would be very rude of the Churchills not to come on this sad occasion.”

  “Indeed,” echoed Mr. Elton. “Exactly so, my dear, but I am sure the Churchills will do what they can.”

  “Poor Jane will be so sad to learn of her grandmamma’s passing,” sighed Miss Bates, staring at the pianoforte. “How my mother loved to listen to her play the instrument.”

  Mrs. Weston complimented Miss Bates on the excellence of Jane’s piano performance, while Emma’s thoughts were divided between several inappropriate reactions to the mention of music. She experienced a bit of selfish alarm, because she realized that she had not practiced her instrument for more than a fortnight, and if Jane did come to Highbury, it would be impossible for anyone to listen to the two of them and consider her playing superior – a sad fact, but Jane was certainly the better musician and perhaps it was time to admit it. The other thought was just as unworthy – Mrs. Bates had been so deaf at the end, how could she possibly have enjoyed Jane’s playing? But that thought was wrong and unchristian; even if she had not been able to appreciate the music, Mrs. Bates had certainly been happy to watch her granddaughter play.