The Drapers then left the kitchen, and the Gilberts, Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston went to the parlor.
“ ‘Sorry about that,’ said Farmer Gilbert. ‘But I don’t think they have much to say. And they won’t talk to you, Mr. Knightley.’
“ ‘Perhaps they’ll talk to you?’ I asked. ‘Or the girls might talk to Mrs. Gilbert?’
“ ‘That’s more likely,’ said Gilbert. ‘I know they’re rough and they keep to themselves but I’ve never had an iota of trouble with them. And why would they kill Miss Bates? It makes no sense.’
“We thanked them for their time, and apologized for any distress we might have caused. Then Weston and I left, agreeing that it had not been the most productive of visits. I stopped to check on things at Donwell Abbey while Mr. Weston rode on home to Randalls.”
“I have to agree, the interviews were not that useful,” said Emma, rather disappointed. She wished that she had been there herself, for she was certain that she would have noticed something that would have indicated either innocence or guilt. “And the shepherd youth who works for the Martins?”
“He left well before Miss Bates,” said Mr. Knightley. “Robert Martin said the youth returned before dark.”
“So he had no useful information.”
“None at all,” said Mr. Knightley.
Emma shook her head; she felt as if they were groping in the dark.
18 another bates funeral
The next day was Sunday; the day after that Monday and the funeral of Miss Bates. The attendees were virtually the same as those who had come to the funeral for her mother a few weeks ago. That service was marked by solemn serenity; the one for the daughter, by horror and shock. Everyone still wondered how murder could have found its way to Highbury. At the reception at the Crown afterwards – so similar in the food and the persons present – people were tense.
The Gilberts came to the funeral and the reception and reported that the Drapers had vanished the day before.
“What?” Mr. Knightley asked.
“Yes, they are gone.”
“That sounds guilty,” said Mr. Elton.
“Indeed it does,” said Mr. Weston grimly.
Emma, listening, had to agree.
Mr. Gilbert maintained that he did not believe that Noah Draper had anything to do with the death of Miss Bates.
Mr. Woodhouse, who had consented to come to the Crown Inn again, asked for an explanation. Mr. Weston explained that they had gone to question the gypsies staying on the Gilbert property in connection with the killing of Miss Bates, but that those gypsies had fled.
“But that is good,” said Mr. Woodhouse.
“How is it good, sir?” Mr. Knightley demanded.
The old man turned with relief. “It means that the dangerous criminals are gone,” he said with satisfaction. “Highbury is as safe as it should be.”
“Well, sir, that is a possibility,” agreed Mr. Knightley.
“Certainly a mysterious departure is not a sign of innocence,” said Mr. Weston.
“No, but the two of you made him feel guilty. He may have departed rather than risk a miscarriage of justice,” said Mr. Gilbert.
“Miscarriage of justice!” exclaimed Mr. Weston hotly. “Who here could think that Mr. Knightley would be anything but just?”
“No reflection on you, Knightley,” said Mr. Gilbert. “These fellows, though, they experience prejudice all the time. Draper would not trust any magistrate in any county in England.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Knightley.
“Still, if we know who did it, that’s a good thing,” said Mr. Weston. “Jane will be relieved,” and he left their group to go to speak to his son, daughter-in-law and wife, who were standing in another part of the room.
“If Draper has gone, how are you for labor?” asked Mr. Knightley. “Do you need help? Should I send over William Larkins?”
“I’ll manage,” said Mr. Gilbert, rather shortly, “but that reminds me, we must go now.” And he turned on his heel and left them.
“Why don’t we leave too?” suggested Mr. Woodhouse.
The Knightleys agreed that they had no reason to stay. Mr. Knightley went to summon the carriage – Mr. Woodhouse could not walk the short distance from the Crown Inn to Hartfield – while Emma and her father paused to express their grief once more to the Churchills.
“A fine woman, your aunt,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “She will be missed.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jane.
“She was one of the kindest women I ever met, Mrs. Churchill,” Emma added.
“Thank you, Mrs. Knightley. Thank you for coming. Thank you for everything.”
Although Jane had tears in her eyes Emma thought that Mrs. Churchill looked very relieved. As she helped her father towards the door and they climbed into the carriage, Emma considered what they had learned from Mr. Gilbert, and concluded, as her father had, that Draper’s departure was a good thing. The best thing would have been for the murderer to be caught and hanged – but the next best thing was to have him disappear.
19 finding gold
After the funeral for Miss Bates – and the news about the fleeing of the Drapers – Emma was actually a little disappointed. The intriguing puzzle seemed to have been solved, but the solution was not particularly satisfactory, and she had fewer interesting thoughts to challenge her brains.
Her father, however, was quite relieved, and so emboldened by the disappearance of the man they assumed to be the murderer, that he was able to walk in his own shrubbery without accompaniment later that afternoon.
Mr. Knightley announced that he would spend the following day at Donwell Abbey, and Emma, a little bored and very restless, volunteered to go with him. “I can finally see the cider press you have mentioned so often.”
Her husband was pleased by her interest but suggested that she not come with him in the morning, which was when he intended to go, but follow in the afternoon with the carriage. “You should visit Harriet.”
The next day they resumed their usual routine. Mr. Knightley departed early for his estate, and Emma spent time with her father and her son. Mrs. Weston stopped by with Anna and told her that after Hartfield, she was going to see her daughter-in-law Jane; Frank had departed yesterday for London. She confided that she was afraid that Jane would feel very lonely in the apartment and asked Emma to call on her too.
It did seem as if everyone was doing their utmost to push Emma Knightley and Jane Churchill into intimacy, but on this day at least, Emma had an excuse to postpone it. She had promised Mr. Knightley that she would drive out to Donwell Abbey. Mrs. Weston did not press, and departed with her little girl, while Emma ordered the carriage.
The day was very fine; the sky bright blue, without a single cloud. She glanced at laborers in the orchards and the fields; most of the apples and root vegetables had been gathered. Life had returned to normal; she thought; everyone was relieved but her.
The carriage lurched to a halt shortly before the Abbey-Mill Farm; instead of continuing, James opened the door.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Mrs. Knightley, the carriage needs fixing. I’d rather not drive it with you in it until it’s done.”
“Ah,” she said. “Then help me out, James.”
She descended and they decided that he would continue to Donwell Abbey, which had the tools for repairing the carriage. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, mum.”
“I will walk from here to Donwell Abbey,” she said.
“Mum, are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said, “go and mend the carriage, James.”
Emma then called again on Harriet, and again found her friend suffering – although this time she entered the house without causing her friend to break anything. With alacrity Emma set the place to rights, made a pot of tea, and even rinsed some dishes.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Harriet, almost in tears. “I am so tired, and so queasy, and the babies are
always crying. And now we have learned that Robert’s mother is seriously ill – dying – so she will not be returning to help. And Elizabeth has decided to accept the offer of marriage from William Cox – so she will be not coming back either, at least not to live with us.”
“As long as you don’t tell anyone how poorly I do these things,” said Emma, wiping her hands. “You need help that is constant and competent – better than my occasional visits. If Mrs. Martin is dying and Miss Martin is getting married, you must find someone else. Is there any girl who could come and work for you? Seriously, dear Harriet, can your husband afford it?”
“I don’t know. He’ll think I’m a failure. Mrs. Martin did not have this sort of help.”
“Mrs. Martin did not have twins,” Emma said crisply. Then she added, more thoughtfully: “Perhaps some young girl, willing to train – at least until you’re feeling better – and the twins are a little older. And then one day, when you are feeling better, Harriet, I will send the carriage for you and the babies and you can spend a day or two at Hartfield. My father would love to see you.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Harriet admitted.
Emma then asked if Harriet had seen any sign of anything dangerous at her back gate – or at her front.
“No. Perhaps it is only because I am too sick to feel frightened. But the death of Miss Bates was terrible.”
They discussed the murder of Miss Bates, and gossiped for a little while about the Churchills, and then Emma excused herself, as she was walking to Donwell Abbey. “At some point we will be close neighbors, Harriet – when I move to Donwell Abbey. And I must go there now, my friend.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Knightley,” said Harriet, and then little Lizzie began to cry, distracting her poor mother.
Emma let herself out the front door. She had never walked this way before, so at least the endeavor had the veneer of novelty. Generally novelty, avoided by her father as dangerous, was absent from her life – but not these days!
What a great distance it was - how long these fields were. How far was it – half a mile? No, it could not be so far. And Mr. Knightley walked further, much further, every day. The young Draper girls had walked from the Vicarage to the Gilbert farm – a much greater distance. Even gentlewomen took long walks. Emma remembered how, after one summer afternoon picking and eating strawberries at Donwell Abbey, Jane Churchill – Jane Fairfax back then – had insisted on walking by herself all the way back to Highbury. Well, if Jane Fairfax could walk such a great distance without complaining, then Emma Woodhouse Knightley could manage the much shorter distance from the Abbey-Mill Farm to Donwell Abbey.
Some people, Emma thought, actually liked exploring. Jane Fairfax Churchill had inherited her grandmother’s interest in nature. Emma tried to be interested in the dandelions scattered before the hedgerows – but she preferred well-kept houses. Still, perhaps she would see something interesting – there was a pretty leaf – a fuzzy caterpillar – eventually she would be taking her son George around here. He would be interested in everything, from the smallest pebbles to the largest trees.
Suddenly this walk seemed more interesting, pretending to see it through her son’s eyes. Perhaps Baby George had inherited her imagination., her curiosity. He would ask her the name of the flower – the tree – the caterpillar. And then he would want to know if fairies and leprechauns hid gold in the woods; she imagined explaining to him that leprechauns lived in Ireland, not Surrey. Then he would say that there, not too far from the road, lay something shiny. He would insist on picking it up, hoping to find a coin. Emma’s sister Isabella might try to restrain her boys, talking about dirt and disease, but Emma was more relaxed about such things. In fact, now she was curious about what glittered at the base of the lightning-struck beech tree.
Emma picked up a branch and went to the beech tree and scratched at the dirt before the hollow with it. There was something shiny – something real, not a trick of fairies or leprechauns – more than a coin – a chain of gold.
Emma gasped, dropped the branch – then bent down and picked up Mrs. Bates’s golden locket.
*
“What do you think?” asked Emma later, showing it to Mr. Knightley as they rode in the now-fixed carriage from Donwell Abbey. “It is Mrs. Bates’s locket, isn’t it?”
“I need to examine it in better light, but I believe it is hers,” Mr. Knightley said. “Where exactly did you find it, Emma?”
“In a moment, I can show you,” she said, watching out the window. “There,” she said, “just in front of the tree that was struck by lightning.”
Mr. Knightley tapped on the ceiling of the carriage; James pulled the horses to a halt.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Knightley?” asked the coachman, as Mr. Knightley stepped out and then turned to assist his wife. “Is the carriage giving you trouble?”
“No, James, the carriage is riding fine. But Mrs. Knightley wishes to show me something.”
Emma led her husband back to where she had dug up the locket. “Right there,” she said, pointing at the ground, “I found it right there.”
Mr. Knightley surveyed the area, walking around the tree, looking inside the hollow and all around. “Very well spotted, Emma,” he said. “Nothing inside the tree – no other dirt in the area appears disturbed.”
“You were hoping to find your silver?”
“A vain hope. Come, it is getting dark,” he said.
They returned to the carriage and James continued driving them home, discussing, as the horses pulled them towards Hartfield, who could have placed the locket there.
“Do you think it was put there by Miss Bates’s killer?” Emma asked.
“Probably,” said Mr. Knightley, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket and using it to clean the locket.
“But why? If the killer wanted to sell it, then why bury it?” Emma wondered. “Of course, by putting it at that beech tree, so easy to recognize, he could easily locate it again. So perhaps the killer was not in a position to sell it during the last few days. And perhaps he did not want to keep it with him because he was afraid that it would be discovered among his things – and that would incriminate him.”
“There seems to be no need for you to ask me questions, Emma, as you are answering them yourself.”
“Ah, but I do not know if these are the right answers, Mr. Knightley. I don’t even know if they are the right questions.”
“But they are a good start. In general I would like to know: if the locket was placed there by Miss Bates’s killer, what does that tell us about him?”
“Or her,” Emma mused.
“A woman? Nonsense – surely Miss Bates was not killed by a woman,” said Mr. Knightley.
“Do you think women are incapable of murder?”
“Not at all. But I think women, if they kill, tend to use poison, such as arsenic. Miss Bates, however, was hit on the head with a large stone – an act which required considerable strength. What woman do you know who is strong enough – brutal enough – to lift a heavy rock and then use it to hit poor Miss Bates with such force as to kill her?”
“You have a point,” Emma said.
“But back to the matter of the locket. If we assume it was buried at the beech tree by the killer, then that means the killer must have passed along that road. And might be planning to come past here again.”
The carriage lurched over a bump in the road, and Emma’s stomach seemed to jump at the same time. “That means that the killer could still be in the area,” she said.
“Exactly. The killer stood where you stood, Emma. I do not want you walking along that road again – at least not until we know he has been apprehended.”
Mr. Knightley spoke with such gravity that Emma shivered. She recollected how terrified Harriet had been of the strangers she had seen walking along the path behind the Abbey-Mill Farm. Harriet might be silly; she might be so fatigued that she could barely see straight – but Harriet was not a complete fool and she was sensible to
intense feelings in others. What if Harriet had sensed something dangerous, someone evil, behind her house?
She made these ideas intelligible to Mr. Knightley; he nodded. “I am worried. But still, Emma, if we could keep your father from becoming too anxious…”
“I understand,” Emma said. She glanced out the carriage window; they were nearing Hartfield. “What should we do with the locket?” she asked, as they went through the iron sweep-gate.
Her husband looked at her with surprise. “Return it to Mrs. Churchill, of course.”
20 sketches from the past
The next day the weather was windy, with clouds gathering in the west. Emma put on thick boots and a warm cloak and then walked to Highbury, the Bates locket wrapped in tissue and in her reticule. The distance to Highbury was short, and soon she was surrounded by the village houses and buildings, all full of friendly people. Even if one of them was a killer, others would rush to help her if she called out for help.
Still, her fears made the most innocuous appear sinister. What other crimes were happening in Highbury? Were there undetected poisonings, as Mr. Knightley suggested? Were other articles of silver being stolen? Even Mr. Cole, chatting with Mrs. Stokes in front of the Crown Inn, looked dangerous.
She was as bad as Harriet, thought Emma, opening a door and climbing a staircase to the Bates’s apartment. She supposed she should consider it the Churchill apartment now – and even it would not retain that title for long, as Mrs. Churchill would surely not continue renting it.
As was usual, Emma heard voices before she reached the apartment door. She paused to listen, and for once felt she was being rewarded instead of being punished, as she discerned the friendly voices of Mr. and Mrs. Weston.
She knocked, and was admitted by Patty. “Mrs. Knightley,” Mrs. Churchill said, “come in and join us.”
Emma entered, and was happy to see that her ears had not misinformed her. Mrs. Churchill and Mr. and Mrs. Weston were working their way through a stack of papers.
The Highbury Murders Page 14