The Highbury Murders

by Victoria Grossack

  Emma knew that attempting to change the subject would be impossible, and that Mr. Woodhouse’s mood had to be endured until his normal spirits returned. She tried to reassure him by representing that people knew that Donwell Abbey was thinly staffed, and that its owner was never there at night, whereas everyone knew that Hartfield’s owners were always at home. Her ideas did not comfort her father, however, for they suggested that people were watching the rich houses – and Hartfield, as the richest house in the neighborhood, would be watched the most.

  “Perhaps you are right, Papa,” said Emma and wondered if they should warn the other leading families of Highbury – especially the Coles, the Westons, and even the Eltons – about the break-in and robbery. Then she decided it was unnecessary; the information would spread rapidly, as did everything of note in Highbury.

  “Harriet? What did you say earlier about Harriet?” Mr. Woodhouse inquired, proving that he had overheard part of the conversation between Emma and Mr. Knightley.

  So Emma, as she feared, was forced to relate that Harriet had seen some strangers at the back of Abbey-Mill Farm but had no idea if they were involved. “They could simply be people who lost their way.”

  But Mr. Woodhouse became convinced that Harriet’s strangers were responsible, that they had first watched Donwell Abbey and then had moved in the direction of Abbey-Mill Farm.

  “It is possible,” Emma conceded.

  “What other explanation could there be? Do you think that Mr. Knightley’s silver could have been stolen by someone who lives in either Highbury or Donwell?”

  Put like that, Emma had to admit that the idea of someone familiar robbing the great houses in the area was especially unnerving. Still, in order to calm her father, she tried to minimize his fears. “Now, Papa, you know that William Larkins always exaggerates. Perhaps there has been a mistake.”

  “What sort of mistake could there be?”

  Emma had to stretch her imagination to come up with a reasonable answer. She suggested that Mrs. Hodges, the cook, was no longer a young person. Perhaps she herself had moved the silver – in order to clean it – and had forgotten that she had done so.

  “That is possible,” Mr. Woodhouse said. “Just two days ago I could not find my slippers.”

  “So, it could all be nothing,” said Emma. “We should not worry until Mr. Knightley returns with more information.”

  Excellent advice – Mr. Woodhouse agreed that they should not worry – but continued to do so anyway. Emma had hard work that morning – the backgammon table and even Baby George did not distract her father - and she could only hope that the day would pass quickly and that peace would be restored at Hartfield.

  Emma sat down at the piano to amuse her son and her father, but had only played a few bars when they heard a bustle at the door. Mr. Woodhouse nearly jumped out of his chair, while Emma hoped – rather unreasonably, it was too soon – that Mr. Knightley had returned with a report on the situation. But the group that entered was entirely different: Mr. and Mrs. Weston had arrived with their little girl.

  They had come because Mr. Knightley, on his way to Donwell, had stopped briefly at Randalls to let them know what had occurred at his estate. Mr. Weston said that they had heard and seen nothing, and asked if he should ride out with Knightley to Donwell to look things over. But Mr. Knightley said he had a different request: given the situation, his father-in-law was certainly anxious. Mr. Woodhouse would feel safer if Mr. Weston were in the house, and Mrs. Weston could assist Emma better than anyone else in offering Mr. Woodhouse a soothing word.

  “I am most grateful,” said Emma in a low tone to them both.

  Mr. Knightley judged rightly; the arrival of Mr. Weston, who had been a captain in the militia when young, and who was known to still have his army pistol in a closet at home, even though he had not fired it in years, greatly lifted the spirits of Mr. Woodhouse. Furthermore, Mrs. Weston – less upset at the news of a theft at Donwell Abbey than Emma was – was better able to soothe her old friend and former benefactor. The antics of little girl and the baby, unaware of the events troubling the adults, finally amused Mr. Woodhouse despite himself.

  As the day continued, the event became more interesting than terrifying, a great source of speculation and conversation, especially as Mr. Weston promised to remain with them until they received a message, at least, from Mr. Knightley. Word about the theft spread throughout Highbury, and throughout the rest of the morning and afternoon servants arrived bringing notes of concern from their neighbors: the Perrys, the Coles, Miss Bates and Mrs. Churchill, even the Eltons and Mrs. Goddard. They hoped that the Knightleys and Mr. Woodhouse were well; a few hinted that they would like more information whenever it became available. Emma and Mrs. Weston distracted Mr. Woodhouse by helping him compose and write responses to these neighborly inquiries; they were indifferent in their feelings, and they hoped to have more information later. The latter was especially useful, as it ensured that the next day or so would be occupied with more written exchanges with the rest of Highbury.

  Mr. Weston, less interested in the correspondence, and no longer required to assume a protective pose to reassure Mr. Woodhouse, whiled away the time by playing with the children: helping his little girl, Anna, to walk around the room, much to the fascination of Emma’s baby boy. With the latter Mr. Weston made funny faces, and the baby laughed merrily.

  Emma ordered a basin of gruel for Mr. Woodhouse and tea and bread and cheese and cakes for everyone else. Everyone agreed with him that gruel was very healthful; none of the other adults would try any, but then little Anna Weston surprised everyone by asking for some and actually liking it. Mr. Woodhouse nodded his approval. “It is very good for you, Perry always assures me,” he told Mrs. Weston, a statement he made a thousand times before, but Mrs. Weston nodded agreeably anyway. “She will not be bilious.”

  “Bilious?” objected Mr. Weston. “Of course not. My little Anna is as healthy as a – she is the picture of good health.”

  Before Mr. Woodhouse could continue enumerating the merits of gruel, and admiring little Anna Weston for liking it, they heard the front door open again. It was Mr. Knightley at last, and naturally all eyes turned towards him. Even the children stopped playing and looked up at Emma’s tall husband.

  “Well, Knightley?” asked Mr. Weston. “What happened?”

  10 details from donwell

  Mr. Knightley greeted Mrs. Weston, kissed his wife and child, shook hands with the men, then took a seat near the fire. Emma poured him a cup of tea and prepared him a plate with bread, butter and cheese, while everyone waited expectantly.

  “Tell us what happened, Mr. Knightley,” Mr. Woodhouse said. “Was it very distressing?”

  Everyone listened as Mr. Knightley spoke. William Larkins had not erred; the silver was gone, truly gone, for they had searched the entire estate and had found nothing. Mrs. Hodges was nearly hysterical and he had needed time to calm her down. She had demanded that he inspect her rooms to prove that she was not guilty – he had never suspected her – but she demanded that he look through her rooms anyway. Once that was done, and nothing found, she was finally capable of giving intelligible answers to his questions.

  With no master at Donwell Abbey, the silver was rarely used, only kept in a cabinet off the formal dining room – again a room, with Mr. Knightley residing at Hartfield, that was seldom visited. Mrs. Hodges made a point of polishing all the silver every month, dividing it into two groups and doing half each time. Hence she had not looked for the silver for an entire fortnight. Moreover, the thieves had only taken what was inside the cabinet, leaving several candlesticks and a tea set on display.

  “Very clever,” said Mrs. Weston, “the culprit did not want the theft to be detected.”

  “He wanted to maximize his time to get away,” said Mr. Weston.

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Mr. Knightley.

  Emma hesitated. She hated to say anything that might increase her father’s anxiety, and y
et she felt compelled to speak. “It does sound as if it was done by someone who knows some of the ways of Donwell Abbey.”

  “Indeed it does, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley, and she could see that the idea had already occurred to him – and that he did not like it.

  “A very bad business,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “a very bad business.”

  “Can you tell us anything more?” asked Mrs. Weston, pulling her daughter, who was growing tired, on to her lap.

  Mr. Knightley believed that the thief had broken through a side door, the one that led to the strawberry beds.

  “No one picks strawberries at this time of year,” said Mr. Weston. “Well, Knightley, do you have any suspects?”

  Mr. Knightley shook his head. “I questioned Larkins and Hodges and the other servants, went over the grounds, and have even gone to my nearest neighbors to speak to them. Mr. Gilbert has plenty of help staying with him these days – such as that Draper fellow who helped with the bull – but Gilbert swears by them. I went to speak to Robert Martin and his family too. Harriet still maintains she saw some strangers, on the same day Gilbert’s bull trampled my turnips.”

  The Westons asked when and how Gilbert’s bull had invaded Mr. Knightley’s turnips, and he succinctly explained it to them. Emma remarked to herself that the event, which had been so amusing when told before, now served only to remind them of when things had occurred.

  “So do you think one of them could be the thief?” asked Emma.

  “Harriet could not tell me much about the strangers, but one thing was certain – whoever she saw was on foot and not carrying anything. Donwell Abbey had a lot of silver, Emma. I don’t see how thieves could carry it off without at least a cart of some sort.”

  Emma studied her husband; her heart went out to him. Mr. Weston, like usual, expressed himself openly. “A wretched loss, Knightley – a shame, a real shame. Anne, we should be getting home – the little girl is tired – Knightley, you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do? I’m at your disposal.”

  It took the Westons a while to depart, with their farewells to Mr. Woodhouse and to Emma, and picking up their child. But eventually they left, with much gratitude on Emma’s part for their assistance on a difficult day. The Hartfield inmates then ate their dinner, during which they continued discussing the situation at Donwell Abbey. Most of the anxious speculating was done by Mr. Woodhouse, who repeated his ideas and worries many times, and most of the reassuring was done by Mr. Knightley.

  But Emma was sure that Mr. Knightley, out of concern for her father, was not voicing all of his thoughts. A glance at him, a slight nod from him, let her know that, like so often, they would discuss it later.

  “So, Mr. Knightley,” she said, when the others were asleep and they were settled in their room, “let me know what you really think.”

  “What more is there to say? Your father’s right; it’s a bad business – a very bad business.”

  “Tell me again how much is gone.”

  She listened – without picking up her needlework – as he told her. The thief had been thorough. Except for the items that were on display, all of Donwell Abbey’s silver had been cleared out, including items that had been belonged to the Knightley family for two centuries. Moreover, the lock to the side door was broken – rather cleverly so, again not something one would notice. The loss, Mr. Knightley estimated, was worth many hundreds of pounds.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, for it struck her as a grievous loss. “Do you have any suspicions? Ones that you did not want to voice before my father?”

  “Nothing definitive; but a few things seem more likely than others,” said Mr. Knightley. “The thief must have had a means of conveying the silver, because there was too much for it to have been carried under someone’s coat. Either there had been several people, or the thief had had a cart or a wheelbarrow or a carriage. And the theft must have happened during the last fortnight, since the last time Mrs. Hodges had cleaned the silver.”

  “Do you think it happened when that bull was in your turnip field?”

  “It is tempting to think so, but does not strike me as likely. There were more people around – perhaps in a different part of the estate – but the thief would have been taking a great risk in entering Donwell Abbey when so many were running about. And strangers would not know where the silver was.”

  “Perhaps that was when the strangers determined where your silver was,” said Emma.

  “You are thinking of Gilbert’s laborer, Draper,” said Mr. Knightley.

  She confessed that she was. “We know everyone else and it is hard to think you have been robbed by someone you trusted. Besides, if the door was damaged, it probably was not someone inside your house. Unless it was someone inside your house” – she contradicted herself a little, “and that person was trying to divert suspicion by damaging the door.”

  “It is unpleasant to think of anyone we know stealing the silver,” Mr. Knightley admitted, “but Draper was not robbing me when he was helping to get the bull out of my field. I could see him most of the time, including when he was leading the animals away.”

  Emma tried to imagine the farmhand somehow hiding the Donwell Abbey silver somewhere about the animals before he left, but it was too difficult for even her practiced fancy. Where on the animals could he put the silver? How could he have managed it without the others noticing? Nay, it was impossible. “Perhaps he came back later,” she said. “Perhaps he only used the bull’s getting into your field as an excuse to look over your estate.”

  “Perhaps,” said her husband. “But when I spoke to Draper at Gilbert’s – and I made a point of speaking to him in his own lodgings, under the pretext of wanting to question everyone and ask if anyone had seen anything suspicious – I saw none of my silver. I saw no evidence of wealth at all, actually.”

  Emma’s curiosity was diverted. “What are his lodgings like?”

  “Small, cramped, but very neat. The man has two daughters, about twelve and eleven.”

  “Two daughters?”

  “Why not? They are also small – rather dark-complexioned, like their father – and their names are Florica and Kizzy.”

  “Really!” said Emma, rubbing her nose. “Did you speak to them?”

  “I asked them – in front of their father and Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert – if either of them had seen anything suspicious.”

  “Two sharp-eyed girls might very well have seen something. And?”

  “They told me nothing. Of course, they may have not felt comfortable talking to me. I have asked Mrs. Gilbert to chat with them later and tell me if they tell her anything.”

  Emma glanced at her needlework basket but did not pick it up; the theft was far more fascinating than embroidery. It seemed to her that the Draper fellow was still the most likely suspect. “What if Draper wanted to inspect your estate for opportunity and arranged for the bull to enter your turnip field?”

  Mr. Knightley scratched his chin. “Perhaps. Gilbert was surprised that the animal went to my house. But it seems an inconvenient and unreliable way to go about it.”

  “Did Mr. Gilbert not tell you that Draper is a magician with animals?” asked Emma, pleased with herself at remembering this detail which supported her theory.

  “Indeed, he did,” said Mr. Knightley.

  They sat together for a while without speaking. “What will you do?” asked Emma.

  He had told William Larkins to fix the door, and to make it more secure, although it was rather like closing a stable door after the horse had bolted.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Emma asked. “Go to Donwell and take a look?”

  “Dear Emma, you cannot track down thieves!”

  “I could look over the damage myself. I am your wife and Donwell Abbey will be my home someday.” She was actually curious to look at the door and the area where the silver had been and to see if she could come up with any ideas.

  “Emma, you are no expert in how thieves break into houses.�
��

  “Don’t you value my opinion?” Emma asked, a little stung.

  “Yes, but I really don’t think there is anything significant to see, and if you come with me to Donwell Abbey you would only worry your father. Of course, the next time you come I can show you where everything happened. However, I will prove to you that I value your opinion, for there is a matter on which I want consult you: how shall we break this to John and to Isabella?”

  Emma considered. Mr. John Knightley’s temper was much more volatile than his older brother’s, whereas her sister Isabella was almost as nervous as Mr. Woodhouse, having inherited their father’s disposition. So John would be angry about the injury to his boyhood home, and Isabella would be terrified for everyone in the vicinity of Highbury.

  “I don’t see what we can do but write to them and to let them know what happened,” said Emma. “You had better write to your brother, for you can describe what has been stolen better than I.”

  “They will be horrified that crime has come to Highbury,” said Mr. Knightley.

  “Indeed. And how many homes are broken into in London – how many pockets are picked in the city, even in Brunswick Square?” asked Emma.

  That brought a smile to her husband’s lips. “You are right,” he said, “and you remind me, too, that far worse things have happened. But I advise you not to use this argument in front of your father; he will only grow anxious for Isabella and the children.”

  “You can rely on my discretion.”

  “And I promise you that you can rely on mine,” said Mr. Knightley. “I am sorry I upset him this morning.”

  “No, no, you could not help saying what you did. And how could this event be kept from him? I thank you for sending Mr. Weston here, especially when you were so very worried and very busy. Now, about informing our relations in Brunswick Square?”

  “Very well, I will write a short note to John about the event, and you can write the details to your sister.”

  “But I have not seen them myself! Oh! Don’t worry – I know you are very busy. We will have years and years to spend at Donwell Abbey, and then I can complain about not knowing what is going on in Hartfield. Perhaps Serle and James will run off to Scotland together and take my father’s silver with them to finance their new existence.”