Emma nodded. “True. Theft? Once at the Bates’s apartment, he seemed very interested in the locket.”
“Perhaps. But we were just at the Vicarage and saw no symptoms of financial trouble. And if he stole the locket because he wanted the gold, then why hide it so far away?”
“Because – because he was afraid the servants would see it. Or perhaps he hid it in a way that someone might find it and implicate Noah Draper.”
“The latter seems rather far-fetched, Emma.”
“At least we know that it would have been possible for him to hide it. As a vicar, Mr. Elton travels all around the area. And he obviously knew the situation of the Drapers, as Mrs. Elton had the girls sing for us.”
“Again, you make it very clear how he could have done it, but I am still at a loss as to why he would do it. And if Elton hid the locket by the beech tree in order to implicate Noah Draper, then he did not steal it for material gain. In which case I can’t see why he would kill her at all.”
“You are right. The only reason I can come up with is that Miss Bates might have known some dark secret about the Eltons, and he killed her to silence her.”
“Killing Miss Bates would be the only way to silence her – but ‘unknown reason’ is a weak argument, Emma.”
“True. And if the Eltons might have had an unknown reason to kill her, then the same could apply to any other person in Highbury. Except –“
“—except what?”
“If Jane Churchill suspected the Eltons, it would be one more reason why she came to Hartfield that evening, instead of continuing to the Vicarage.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps she only came here because Hartfield was closer. At the very least Jane Churchill is not sitting in her apartment in Highbury, inventing a case against us.”
“I think not. And certainly she trusts you more than Noah Draper does!”
“If your second theory is correct, and she is the murderess, it actually means she thinks very little of my understanding,” said Mr. Knightley, scratching his chin. “This is all very interesting, Emma, but although I feel the truth is swirling around us, I don’t know what it is.”
“Nor do I,” Emma admitted.
“Your imagination is making me dizzy.” He rose and tended the fire. “Let’s go to bed, Emma. Perhaps the answer will come to us in our dreams.”
.
22 Mrs. Bates’s mushroom
The next morning the storm was over. Mr. Knightley explained that he had a meeting at the Crown in the afternoon, and he left immediately after breakfast for Donwell Abbey. The sun was bright and strong; by mid-morning only a few determined puddles remained. Even Mr. Woodhouse found the path dry enough for exercise, and, at her usual time in the morning, Mrs. Weston dropped by with her little girl. They discussed the weather and the children, and finally, when Mr. Woodhouse had had enough attention, Mrs. Weston settled beside Emma while Anna chased dust motes in a sunbeam and Emma’s little boy watched her with envious fascination.
“It seems we have no time to chat these days, dear Emma,” said Mrs. Weston.
“We saw each other only yesterday,” Emma pointed out, “but I know what you mean.”
“Yes, over at Jane’s.”
“How is Mrs. Churchill?” Emma asked.
“I don’t know, Emma. I really don’t know.”
“Something about her is bothering you, Mrs. Weston. If you wish to discuss it, you may be assured of my discretion.”
“Perhaps you have not noticed – nay, I am sure you have – that Jane has been behaving oddly. Up until this week her separation from Frank was understandable, but now Mr. Weston and I are both very concerned. She has not set a day for returning to be with Frank, and she declines to move to Randalls. We do not understand her determination to be independent.”
Emma could finally ask the question she had wished to ask ever since the conversation she had overheard after the funeral of Mrs. Bates. “Could there be a problem in their marriage? Are they unhappy?”
“She claims not, and he claims not, but I suspect they are not telling Mr. Weston and me the truth.”
“They hardly have a reputation for complete honesty,” Emma remarked.
“I know,” said Mrs. Weston. “I have spoken with her alone, but have not been able to break through the reserve. She admits that something is bothering her, but she will not say what.”
“Is she well? She was complaining of fatigue.”
“Possibly not. That could be the problem. If she is ill, it would be like her to hide it. Or at least that is what I believe she would have done if she were still poor and could not afford treatment. But she and Frank have plenty of money. Her behavior is a puzzle – an enigma.”
“You are not the only ones in Highbury who have offered her a roof. We did, but she refused. I believe Mrs. Elton did too. Yet we all have very young children at home. Perhaps that is what is bothering her. Did she not--” and Emma lowered her voice, “—did she not have a miscarriage earlier?”
“I believe so,” Mrs. Weston said, “but I never noticed any reluctance, any symptom of regret, when she plays with Anna.”
“Then perhaps she is not well and she is afraid that being in a household with small children could tire her.”
“Then why not return to Frank? He and his uncle are in London for the season. Their house has no small children and it has to be more comfortable than an apartment up two flights of stairs. Will you talk to her, Emma? If she is having difficulties with Frank, she may be reluctant to speak to me. I know the two of you were never close, but I also know I can rely on your discretion – I don’t feel that I could confide in Mrs. Elton or Mrs. Cole.”
Before Emma could reply, they were interrupted by a servant, bringing a note that had just been delivered. This action roused even Mr. Woodhouse, who had been drowsing in his chair.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Woodhouse, rather alarmed. “Who has sent the note?”
“It is from Mrs. Churchill,” Emma answered.
“Ah, Mrs. Churchill,” said Mr. Woodhouse, relaxing a little.
Mrs. Weston said nothing, but her glance was full of curiosity. Emma opened the letter, scanned it quickly, and then read aloud:
“Dear Mrs. Knightley,
“I wish to apologize for how ungrateful I must have appeared the other day, when you so kindly returned my grandmother’s locket to me. Please forgive me. With my grandmother’s death and my aunt’s murder, I have not quite been myself.
“Of course I am grateful to have the locket back – it is a precious family heirloom – and in return for your efforts, I would like to make a gift to you of one of my grandmother’s drawings. Given your interest in sketching yourself, I think you will appreciate it, even if you do prefer portraits of men and women to sketches of the local flora.
“Very cordially yours,
“Jane Fairfax Churchill.”
Emma had to read the note twice to her father before he understood, but he was touched. “Very kind of her, very appropriate,” he said. “You know that the Bates family cannot afford more, so a personal gift like this is really kind.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Churchill lacks funds,” Emma said, “but I agree it is a kind gesture.”
“What is the picture?” asked Mr. Woodhouse.
“It is a mushroom,” said Emma, studying the rather faded sketch, and then showing it to him.
“A mushroom? It would be much prettier to have a drawing of a flower, I should think. Cowslips – or daisies.”
“I have to agree with you, Papa,” said Emma.
“Still, it is well done. I had forgotten how well Mrs. Bates drew! As do you, my dear,” said the old man fondly.
“May I look at it too, Emma?” Mrs. Weston asked.
“Of course,” Emma said, passing it to her friend, who took the paper to the window to study it in the sunlight.
“Very kind of Mrs. Churchill to send it to us,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “Very attentive for her to give us a memento from
Mrs. Bates. An old friend – I miss her. As I miss her daughter. But we are all getting on. Soon it will be time to bury me.”
“Nonsense, Papa. Your health has been very good lately. You said so yourself at breakfast.”
“Mr. Perry said he would call today – but he is not yet here. What do you suppose keeping him?”
Mrs. Weston walked back from the window and handed the sketch back to Emma. “Mrs. Bates was a talented artist – this is a very faithful depiction of Amanita phalloides.”
Emma was planning to ask Mrs. Weston about the mushroom, when Mr. Woodhouse’s long-awaited Mr. Perry was brought into the parlor. After the usual greetings, Mr. Perry apologized for his tardiness. “Mr. Woodhouse, there was a real emergency at the Gilbert farm – a sick child – a young girl.”
“Oh, dear, a sick girl!” exclaimed Mr. Woodhouse. “I hope it is not serious. And one of the Gilbert girls, you say? A Miss Gilbert? Emma, do we know Miss Gilbert?”
“Not very well, Papa. Mr. Knightley knows the Gilberts, though – they are neighbors.”
“Miss Gilbert is perfectly fine, sir,” said Mr. Perry. “The patient is a younger girl – the daughter of a laborer – a Kizzy Draper.”
“One of the Draper girls! Who sang at the Vicarage?” asked Mrs. Weston alertly.
Emma noticed a slump in Mr. Perry’s shoulders. Her heart fluttering with fear, she asked, “Is Kizzy Draper all right, Mr. Perry?”
“No, she is not. Her condition is serious.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “how sad.”
“What is the matter?” asked Mrs. Weston.
“She has a high fever and a putrid cough.”
“But Mr. Gilbert said the Drapers had left,” Emma objected.
“That’s what they led everyone to believe,” said Mr. Perry, “but they only pretended to depart. In truth, they were hiding in an old barn on the Gilbert farm – Mr. Gilbert was reluctant to lose his help during the harvest – and I think that caused the problem. It wasn’t warm enough for the little girl, and during yesterday’s storm she got wet.”
“It is important to stay warm and dry,” said Mr. Woodhouse.
“You are absolutely right, Papa,” Emma agreed.
“Is the little girl – not Miss Gilbert – warm and dry now, Mr. Perry?”
Mr. Perry assured them that the little girl had been moved to a better room and that she was wrapped in warm dry blankets and was consuming hot broths – but he could not guarantee that she would recover. They all agreed that they were concerned, and then Mr. Perry accompanied Mr. Woodhouse into a different room in order to perform his usual examination.
“I must return to Randalls,” said Mrs. Weston, gathering her daughter. “Do try to talk to Jane, if you can, Emma. I’m worried about her.”
“I will go as soon as I can,” said Emma, thinking that Jane would still probably not confide in her but that she might be very interested to learn that the Drapers had never left the parish of Donwell.
.
23 revelations
Again Emma walked to Highbury and to the building with the Bates apartment. As she opened the door, she gave a start, for she nearly bumped into Patty, the wiry gray-haired servant who had been with the Bateses for so many years.
“Mrs. Knightley!” Patty said “My apologies.”
“How are you, Patty?” Emma asked.
“Well enough, Mrs. Knightley.”
“Your future – will you be staying in Highbury? Or going with Mrs. Churchill?”
“So kind to ask! Mrs. Knightley, I don’t know. Mrs. Churchill has asked me to stay with her for now, and she’s been most generous – doubled my wages, she has.”
“I’m sure no servant is more deserving,” said Emma. “Is Mrs. Churchill at home? May I go upstairs?”
“Yes, Mrs. Knightley. Excuse me now, I have my errands.”
And Patty headed in the direction of the post office, the task of retrieving letters having been resumed by her now that Jane Churchill was no longer carrying on a clandestine correspondence with a secret fiancé.
Emma opened the door and walked up the dark, narrow staircase; for once no conversation floated down towards her.
She knocked on the door; Mrs. Churchill opened it for her. “Oh! Mrs. Knightley – I was not expecting you.”
“If my visit is inconvenient, I will leave at once.”
“I did not mean to appear inhospitable. Please come in and sit down. I trust that you and your family are well? Even Mr. Woodhouse? Everything that is going on must upset him greatly.”
Emma seated herself on a chair and assured Jane that her family was very well. “How are you, Mrs. Churchill?” she asked, studying the young woman’s face, which was pale and even a little puffy. Jane did not appear ill, but she did not appear to be feeling well, either, and there were deep circles under her eyes.
“That is an excellent question, Mrs. Knightley. How am I? What should I tell you? What should I keep secret? You are correct, Mrs. Churchill; I am troubled.”
“Without knowing more I cannot advise you, but if you wish to speak, I assure you that I would be discreet. And let me add that your friends are worried about you.”
“I have promised to keep silent, but is it right to keep silent when you know of a wrong?”
Emma gazed at her with pity. She decided not to press Jane’s reserve. “I came because there are a few specific items I wish to discuss. First, I want to tell you that Draper – you must have heard of him – is still in the area. He was hiding on the Gilbert farm.”
Jane gained a little color at this piece of news, and hope flickered briefly in her eyes.
She is afraid, Emma thought. Mr. Knightley is right, she is terribly afraid.
“I don’t think the Draper fellow has anything to do with me,” Jane said. “I wish he was responsible for my aunt’s death, but I don’t think he is. Mrs. Knightley, I may be the cause, the inspiration, of so many wrongs. I cannot tell you, Mrs. Knightley, of what I have suffered.”
Emma said, “Would you prefer that I ask questions?”
“It would be easier if another guessed the truth. If you guessed, I would not have to break my word.”
It seemed an inefficient way to proceed, but Jane looked so distressed, and besides, there were many questions that Emma had long wished to pose to Jane. “It involves your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Has he – has he betrayed you in some way?” Emma probed delicately, wondering if she was about to learn of a love affair that she had long suspected of Frank Churchill.
“Not exactly,” said Jane, “but he has done far worse to others – or at least to one other, and all out of love for me. My dear Mrs. Knightley, I am absolutely wretched.”
Jane’s words poured water on Emma’s first theory. A husband’s infidelity would have to be considered a betrayal, and if Jane claimed that her husband had not betrayed her – not directly – then he had probably not had an affair.
“And you still love him?” Emma hazarded.
“Yes. But…”
“But you do not trust him.”
“Not completely, no. How can I?”
Without more information – and it was frustrating because others, including the brilliant Jane Churchill, seemed to assume that she was cleverer than she was – Emma did not know how to answer this. She decided to pursue another point of curiosity. “Are you perfectly well, Jane?”
Jane did not answer.
Emma continued. “You have been exhausted. Your face is fuller. We are both matrons now, there is no shame – and you cannot expect to hide your condition for very long.”
“You are right; I am expecting a child. But I was pregnant before, and lost the child, so you can understand why I have not wanted to confide in anyone about my situation. That is one of the reasons I have not accepted the invitations of my friends in Highbury.”
“But your condition is just another reason for your not staying alone! You could fall ill – you c
ould need assistance.”
“Patty can assist me or call for assistance if there is a problem. She is here nearly all the time.”
Emma nodded. “Of course. I’m sure Patty takes good care of you.”
“She is a devoted servant.”
Emma felt that she had received at least a partial answer regarding the mystery of Jane Churchill. “Very well,” said Emma. She then took out the drawing by Mrs. Bates. “Why, Jane – I mean, Mrs. Churchill – why did you send me a sketch of a poisonous mushroom? Is it significant?”
Jane stared at her with a limpid, grey-eyed gaze. “Very.”
“But what does that have to do with anything? Mrs. Bates, your grandmother, died of old age. Your aunt, Miss Bates, was hit over the head with a rock. Unless you sent it to me as a warning? Should I be afraid of you?”
“No – Mrs. Knightley – no, not at all. But someone did die of mushroom poisoning. Can you not think who?”
Emma frowned, thinking of all the deaths that had taken place in or around Highbury in the last twelvemonth, but none seemed to fit.
The door burst open, and Frank Churchill entered.
“Frank!” exclaimed Jane, at the sight of her husband.
Instead of the usual greetings, Frank Churchill addressed his wife in a voice that was low but angry. “You promised not to say anything! You gave me your word. But I have been listening to the conversation. You have broken your word, Jane!”
Emma recalled how often she had overheard conversations from the other side of this door – how she had eavesdropped on the Churchills themselves at the reception after the funeral of Mrs. Bates. In a way she deserved to be overheard, she thought, but she was still confused. “I do not understand what is going on,” Emma said.
“Do not pretend ignorance, Mrs. Knightley,” said Frank Churchill, his handsome face distorted by anger as he grabbed the poker from the fireplace. “You are quick to understand, and even if you do not comprehend everything yet, you soon would. You are a threat to my happiness.”
The Highbury Murders Page 16