The Highbury Murders

by Victoria Grossack

  “The whole thing seems impossible. I can’t imagine that she was killed by anyone who knew her,” volunteered Mr. Weston, writing rapidly at the writing desk.

  “No, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Elton. “Dear Jane, everyone loved your aunt – the idea of someone wanting to kill her is impossible.”

  “But someone did kill her,” Mr. Knightley pointed out. “Let us not speculate just now but try to determine what we know. Elton, Mrs. Elton, about what time did Miss Bates leave the Vicarage?”

  “She stayed later than most of the others,” said Mrs. Elton. “We offered her a ride in our carriage but she refused.”

  “More’s the pity!” said Mr. Elton. “I should have insisted on walking her home – Mrs. Churchill, my deepest apologies, but when she left it was not quite dark.”

  “It is not your fault,” said Jane, “how could you have any idea?”

  “With the preparations for the musical afternoon, the household has been in an uproar and I wanted to choose my sermon for Sunday,” Mr. Elton continued making his excuses.

  Mr. Knightley persisted in ascertaining facts. “Shortly before dark,” he said. “That was about five-thirty yesterday. Who else was still with you?”

  Mr. Elton and Mrs. Elton exchanged a glance. “Miss Nash, Mrs. Goddard and her students were given a ride by the Coles. The Perrys and the Coxes had departed.”

  “What about the servants? And the young musicians?”

  “The young musicians!” Mrs. Elton exclaimed. “Surely you don’t suspect any of them – they are too young – oh, my! Dear Jane, I cannot imagine that it is so. No, Mr. Knightley! What you are implying is impossible!”

  “Calm yourself, Augusta,” said Mr. Elton, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  “I have no suspicions, yet, Mrs. Elton,” said Mr. Knightley. “But I want to know who was where, when. I’m sure your young musicians are not killing women in churchyards – but one of them could have seen something, or someone.”

  “Ah – of course, of course,” said Mrs. Elton, relaxing a little. “I am so upset just now, I can’t remember. Let me think. You and Mrs. Knightley were the first to leave – and right after that the Westons – I do understand your deserting so early; I’m a mother as well. Others stayed to enjoy the cake, but perhaps half an hour later, everyone from Mrs. Goddard’s school left with the Coles. The Perrys and the Coxes departed before Miss Bates, too. We wanted to talk to Miss Bates about the addition to the church in honor of her mother – she was very interested, Mrs. Churchill. Then she left. The servants – even the two we hired from the Crown – were still with us. They stayed another hour at least, washing and moving the furniture back into place.”

  “Miss Bates left shortly before five o’clock,” said Mr. Knightley. “I think we can assume that Miss Bates was not visiting her mother’s grave for very long, so that the servants who left another hour later could not have anything to do with the –” he hesitated, and glanced at Jane Churchill, as if concerned about her sensibilities, but after a second plowed on, “—with the attack on Miss Bates – or have even seen anything.”

  “What about the musicians?” asked Mr. Weston, who had finished his letter and was inserting the paper into an envelope.

  Mrs. Elton frowned, as if trying to recall, and then said, “All the young musicians were gone, except for the two Draper girls, who were waiting to be met by their father and walked home.”

  “The gypsies,” said Emma, in a low voice, but everyone turned and looked at her.

  “Yes, the gypsies from Gilbert’s farm,” repeated Mr. Knightley. “When did their father arrive?”

  “Draper arrived a few minutes after Miss Bates departed. I was glad to see him, for Mr. Elton was at the point of preparing to take out our carriage to take them home himself – they are too young to go so far alone. Not that they can’t walk so far – they are sturdy types – but we just had the cushions cleaned,” Mrs. Elton said.

  “What sort of man is their father?” asked Mr. Weston. “This Draper?”

  “You think he--?” asked Mr. Elton.

  “Well, someone killed her,” said Mr. Weston grimly.

  “Oh, my word!” Mrs. Elton was half-hysterical at the suggestion. “To think we might have had a killer in the house! He entered our kitchen and we even gave him a few leftover biscuits to take home with him after the afternoon. I may have been speaking with a murderer!”

  “Please calm yourself, Mrs. Elton,” said Mr. Knightley. “We don’t know that the girls’ father is the culprit. Did you notice anything unusual about him when you spoke to him?”

  “You mean, he could have killed Miss Bates before he came to my house?” Mrs. Elton asked, her voice rising.

  “Do you think he took his daughters with him and killed her in front of them?” asked Mrs. Weston, aghast.

  “What? No, I see what you mean, perhaps not – that would be too much, even for a man like him,” said Mrs. Elton.

  “What was Draper like when you saw him?” asked Emma, who had been listening to the conversation very carefully, but was also keeping an ear open for the return of her father.

  Mrs. Elton, sitting straighter with all this attention, considered. “He was breathing hard when he came to the kitchen and his hands were a little dirty – he needed a shave – but I did not see any blood.”

  “Did you notice anything, Elton?” asked Mr. Knightley.

  The vicar shook his head. “I congratulated Draper on how well his daughters performed. He thanked us for the opportunity and then took Florica and Kizzy away. I then went to my study and worked for several hours while Mrs. Elton supervised the servants as they cleaned up from the party.”

  “What about you, Weston?” asked Mr. Knightley. “Did you notice anything?”

  “As Mrs. Elton already said, we left shortly after you did. Anne wanted to get back to our little girl, and I had some items of business from my brothers to review. I went to my study and worked late too.”

  “We noticed nothing,” said Mrs. Weston.

  They heard footsteps in the hall; Mr. Perry and Mr. Woodhouse were finished with their private business. They all fell silent, for everyone knew Mr. Woodhouse could not endure this sort of conversation. Emma was divided; in a way she wanted them all to depart, for she needed to take care of her father and her child and tend to her household, but on the other hand, she was extremely curious about what more might be said.

  “We will have to investigate,” said Mr. Knightley. “Weston, Elton – and Cole – we should meet at the Crown today and discuss what is to be done about this. Emma, could you write a note for me and send it around to Cole?”

  “For what time?” Emma asked.

  Mr. Knightley glanced at the clock. “Let us say three this afternoon. I must first go to Donwell. Weston, Elton, does that hour suit you?”

  The other men acquiesced. “I will go to the post office with this note to Frank,” said Mr. Weston. “Jane, can I escort you anywhere? If not to Randalls, then back to your grandmother’s apartment?”

  “I wish to consult with Mr. Perry,” said Jane.

  “What about the funeral?” asked Mr. Elton.

  Jane sighed. “Of course, we must plan that.”

  Emma was struck by how a murder caused not only grief and fear, but so many other activities and inconveniences. “Would you mind going into another room for these discussions?” asked Emma. “I don’t think my father’s nerves are ready to listen to the details for a funeral.”

  Everyone was aware of Mr. Woodhouse’s sensibilities. Mr. Weston left Hartfield to take the letter to the post office, while the Eltons and Jane Churchill went to the dining room, which had been cleared of its breakfast things, and sat at the large round table. Mr. Elton took out a pencil and a piece of paper and started making suggestions regarding the funeral service. Mr. Knightley assisted Mr. Woodhouse to his chair before the fire, while Mr. Perry took another seat.

  “How are you, Papa?” Emma asked, knowing that her a
ttentions were what her father required. “How was your walk?”

  “I survived,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “There was one point where I thought I heard someone in the shrubbery. I was absolutely terrified, especially when something dark came out.”

  A thrill of fear rushed through Emma. As Mr. Weston had said, someone had killed Miss Bates, and obviously they did not know who it was, so it was not impossible that a murderer lurked on Hartfield’s property.

  “It was only a pair of crows,” Mr. Knightley assured everyone.

  “Still, I was terrified.”

  “There is nothing to be afraid of, Papa,” Emma reassured him, “it sounds as if you frightened the crows even more than they frightened you.”

  This pleasantry was unintelligible to Mr. Woodhouse; Emma decided it was too soon for wit.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Woodhouse?” offered Mrs. Weston.

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “What a morning! What has happened to Highbury?”

  No one could answer him. Mrs. Weston poured tea for Mr. Woodhouse, then served a cup to Mr. Perry; Mr. Knightley declined. “I will check on the others,” Emma said, who was curious about the Eltons and Jane Churchill.

  The others were concluding their business, Mr. Elton writing notes about which readings to include in the service – Miss Bates’s favorite passages in the Bible – and Jane was nodding agreement. A grave would be dug beside her parents’ although it was dreadful to think Miss Bates would be buried where she was killed.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” asked Emma.

  “Nothing, Mrs. Knightley,” said Mr. Elton, putting the paper and the pencil in his pocket. “Mrs. Churchill, I will take care of these details for you.”

  “My dear Jane, come and stay with us,” said Mrs. Elton. “At least until Mr. Frank Churchill comes to claim you.”

  “You are very kind, Mrs. Elton, but I must refuse,” Jane said.

  Mrs. Elton was mortified. “You mean to stay here with the Knightleys?”

  “You are welcome to do so,” Emma said.

  “You are very kind, Mrs. Knightley, but—“

  “Or the Westons? You ought to stay with them,” said Mrs. Elton. Her perpetual competition with Emma meant that she could not endure Mrs. Churchill choosing to stay with the Knightleys in preference to herself, but the Westons were somewhat neutral territory, and of course Mr. Weston was Jane’s father-in-law. If Jane chose to stay with the Westons that would be understandable and not showing any favoritism towards the Knightleys.

  “You are very kind but I will return to the apartment, at least for the present.”

  Both the Eltons and Emma looked at Mrs. Jane Churchill as if she were mad. “Jane! I know our humble vicarage does not have the luxury that you are accustomed to in London or in Edgecombe, but our place has to be more comfortable than your late grandmother’s cramped apartment.”

  “Or if you don’t want to stay with us or the Knightleys – infants can make life inconvenient,” said Mr. Elton, “then why not the Westons?”

  “Thank you, but I am determined,” said Jane. “I do not think I will be alone long. My – husband will be here later today, I am sure – tomorrow at the very latest.”

  “Are you not frightened?” Emma blurted out, for Jane’s face was pale and looked frightened to her.

  “A little, but I will take precautions to protect myself. Ah, Mr. Perry, there you are. Could I trouble you to escort me back to my aunt’s apartment?”

  Mr. Perry acquiesced, and then Jane thanked Emma and the Eltons and departed. The Eltons and Mrs. Weston left too – the mothers wanting to return to their young children, and Mr. Elton full of ideas for his Sunday sermon, which would have to be revised to reflect the evil that had come to Highbury. One of the Hartfield servants was dispatched to accompany Mrs. Weston the half-mile to Randalls. In the meantime, Emma had many questions for Mr. Knightley but was reluctant to raise them before her father. They went to the hallway to speak, as he put on his coat and prepared to depart.

  “I need to get to Donwell Abbey, if only for a few hours,” Mr. Knightley said. “The harvest cannot wait. After that I will meet with Cole, Elton and Weston to determine what we can do about this dreadful business. Will you be all right?”

  “My father is very anxious,” said Emma. “Someone has killed one of his oldest friends.”

  “I will not take the carriage. If James remains here, Mr. Woodhouse will not be as worried.”

  “For himself, perhaps, but what about you?” asked Emma.

  “Do you really think I am in danger?” Seeing his wife frown, and remembering that there was a killer in the area, Mr. Knightley continued, “What if I ride instead of going by foot?”

  “That would be better,” Emma said. “And faster.”

  “Very well. We both have things to do – and I have that meeting at the Crown – but I will be home as early as I can.”

  “Will you tell me anything you find out?” Emma asked, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Knightley.

  “Do you have any suspicions?”

  “Nothing that makes sense,” said Mr. Knightley, pulling on his riding gloves.

  “Do you mind if I develop some?” asked Emma.

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Knightley. “I would appreciate your imagination. This is a far more important subject than wondering why Mr. Elton has placed one of his own wine glasses on his own furniture. We will talk later, dear Emma.”

  16 waiting, worrying and wondering

  Even after their visitors had left, the rest of the day at Hartfield was unsettled. Emma soothed her father, answered questions from the curious servants, and wrote responses to the many notes that were delivered by the servants of their Highbury neighbors. The frequent knocking at the front door made Mr. Woodhouse especially nervous, for he was afraid that the murderer, whoever he was, would come to Hartfield.

  “I don’t think that a murderer would knock,” said Emma, easing her son’s fist out of his mouth – Baby George persisted on sucking on his knuckles, which were now chafed and red.

  “Why wouldn’t a murderer knock?” asked Mr. Woodhouse. “It has to be the easiest way to get inside.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill us?” asked Emma.

  “Why would anyone want to kill Miss Bates?” asked Mr. Woodhouse. “We’re far more likely victims than Miss Bates!”

  “Nonsense, Papa, everyone likes and respects you,” said Emma. “And we are not out in a graveyard at night, but inside a large house with thick walls and a stout door.” She refrained from mentioning that Miss Bates had probably been killed before dark.

  But Mr. Woodhouse had his own retort to his daughter’s argument. “The stout door is why the murderer will knock!”

  Despite Mr. Woodhouse’s concerns, Mrs. Knightley insisted on their doors being opened whenever someone knocked on them, the front as well as the service. And so, Emma learned later, the servants at Hartfield prepared to defend themselves with the tools of their respective trades: James the coachman with his horsewhip, the butler with the poker, and Serle the cook with a rarely-used waffle iron, as Mr. Woodhouse had refused to eat waffles for decades. After all, a murderer had been in Highbury the night before, and had attacked one of their village’s most harmless citizens, so who could tell where danger lurked? It was best to be prepared. Even Emma imagined herself grabbing her baby and running through the house and out a side door – presuming the murderer came in through the front – or defending her father and her son with a large book or a heavy brass candelabrum.

  So, the inmates of Hartfield were relieved when the person at the door turned out to be the familiar Mr. Perry arriving with an ointment for Baby George’s red hand, or their beloved Mr. Weston with a report, early in the afternoon, that his son Frank was on his way to Highbury and that Miss Bates’s funeral would be on Monday, or the usual deliveries of butter, coal and the post. And they were happiest, of course
, when Mr. Knightley returned from his day at Donwell Abbey and his meeting at the Crown Inn, for not only was he safe, but everyone else at Hartfield felt safer.

  They exchanged the news, mostly repeating what they already knew. Miss Bates’s body had been taken to the undertaker and her funeral would be on Monday. Mr. Frank Churchill was on his way down from London to be with his wife; it was possible, given how fast he was on a horse, that he had already reached Highbury.

  “Do you have any idea who killed her?” Mr. Woodhouse asked Mr. Knightley.

  “No, sir,” said Mr. Knightley. “Not yet.”

  “It still seems so impossible,” said Mr. Woodhouse.

  “Indeed, sir,” agreed Mr. Knightley.

  “Murder! In Highbury!” exclaimed the old man, and then turned to eating his dinner.

  Emma, who wanted more than platitudes, but who did not want to upset her father further kept her questions to herself until later. “So, tell me: what are you doing to find out who did it?” asked Emma, when she and Mr. Knightley were finally alone.

  Neither Highbury nor Donwell had a police force, as justice was usually meted out by local magistrates such as Mr. Cole, for Highbury, and Mr. Knightley, for Donwell. Kingston was the nearest town with a real constabulary. Once a criminal was determined to be a criminal, or at the very least a suspect, that person could be arrested and put into gaol, but determining who that person was, without witnesses or incriminating evidence, was an entirely different matter.

  “As you know, I met with Cole, Weston and Elton,” said Mr. Knightley. “We determined what we already know, which is not much, and decided what we will do to learn more.”

  “And what is being done?” asked Emma.

  “Weston and Elton, as those who live nearest the churchyard, went over where the murder took place to see if they could discover anything more in the light of day. They learned little, though: the weapon seems to have been a piece of an old gravestone – in the sunlight they could see blood on it.”