The Highbury Murders

by Victoria Grossack

  Emma felt fear of a sort she had never known before. She backed away from him, unfortunately also away from the door, the only means of egress if she did not want to rush into another room and jump out of the window. She sat down on Mrs. Bates’s old chair in the corner, while he waved the poker at her menacingly.

  “Frank – Frank – if you do anything to Mrs. Knightley,” Jane warned, coming to him and taking his arm, “if you harm her in any way, I will not live with you.”

  “You are not living with me now. I came back to Highbury to plead with you again, then found you having this conversation.”

  “If you harm Mrs. Knightley, I will never live with you.”

  His face relaxed, and he stepped away – but he was still between Emma and the door. “Jane, she is a danger to us.”

  “But what is going on? Why should he do anything to me? What is it he is supposed to have done? Oh! Mrs. Churchill!” said Emma, comprehending, and then added, more for her own benefit than for the sake of her listeners: “Your aunt, I mean, not your wife.”

  With all the swiftness of thought, Emma recalled how the old Mrs. Churchill had always been considered an obstacle to Frank Churchill’s marriage to anyone – how that woman’s famous pride, her influence over her easily guided husband, her jealous possessiveness of her husband’s handsome young nephew, whom she had raised since he was a child of two – would have found fault with any young woman he might have chosen. This was even true of Jane Fairfax, who was beautiful, elegant, intelligent and accomplished – who had been raised by her father’s friend Colonel Campbell in the best circles – but who came with no fortune and no noble connections, even though the origins of the other Mrs. Churchill were not illustrious either.

  Emma also recalled how the first Mrs. Churchill had died when the secret engagement between Jane and Frank had been strained to the breaking point – how Jane had tried to end the relationship, and had made plans to go to a friend of Mrs. Elton’s as a governess – how Mrs. Churchill’s timely death had allowed Frank to come out in the open and pursue his courtship of Jane Fairfax without the secrecy that had troubled Jane so severely.

  Frank said to his wife, “You see? She knows. She understands. And now we are in danger, and will be so long as she lives.”

  “As long as I live?” Emma asked, her terror increasing.

  “What do you plan to do?” Jane demanded. “Would you kill Mrs. Knightley, too?”

  A shiver ran through Emma as she stared at the Churchills.

  “Your aunt at least was old and ailing,” Jane reasoned, “and probably had only months, not years, to live. But Mrs. Knightley is young and healthy. She has a husband who loves her, a father who dotes on her, and a baby who needs her.”

  Frank hesitated, and sat down. “You are right, Jane, it is not the same.”

  Emma relaxed a little.

  “What shall I do?” Frank asked. “What will we do?”

  Jane said, most cautiously, most reasonably, “Mrs. Knightley has no proof of what happened. She only has suspicions.”

  “And my dear aunt has been buried for more than a year. If there was any sign in the body when she died, it has turned to dust long since.” As Frank worked to persuade himself that Emma could do them no harm, that young matron wondered how she could escape. Should she scream? Run to the door?

  Then Frank’s reasoning seemed to go the other way. “I do not trust Mrs. Knightley. Even if she cannot prove the case against me, she can talk, and talk is enough to destroy my reputation, both in Highbury and with my uncle. I – we – will be ruined.”

  “What is the alternative?” asked Jane. “You cannot kill her without its being discovered.

  “And how can I compel her to keep silent if I let her go? I have no hold over her. You at least love me, don’t you, Jane?”

  “Yes. It would be easier if I did not, but yes, Frank, I love you.”

  “Then promise to live with me again, and I will permit Mrs. Knightley to leave,” said Frank.

  Emma’s eyes met Jane’s, and in Jane’s eyes she saw despair.

  “Very well, Frank,” said Jane, drawing herself up resolutely.

  “Mrs. Knightley – Emma, whom I care for like a sister, whom I have no wish to harm – Jane will be safe with me as long as you remain silent. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Emma said.

  “Then you may go,” said Frank.

  “Give me the poker, Frank,” commanded Jane. “Mrs. Knightley will be reluctant to pass you if you still hold it.”

  Frank handed his wife the poker. Emma’s knees quivered like custard, but she managed to rise from Mrs. Bates’s old chair and cross the room slowly, each step feeling like a mile. She was still in danger, for Frank Churchill was strong enough to harm her even without the poker – but nevertheless she neared the door, and then she began to breathe more easily, because she was certain that she could open it and dash down the stairs before Frank caught up with her. But she was loath to leave Jane alone with Frank. Frank might love her, and Jane might love him, yet what sort of life could they have together?

  Emma then said, “But what about Miss Bates? Mrs. Churchill – Jane – you cannot live with a man who killed your aunt!”

  Frank shook his head. “I had nothing to do with the death of Miss Bates. I was not here; I was away in London with my uncle.” Meeting her doubting look, he added: “I swear it! You may not believe me, but I swear it.”

  Emma looked at Jane; the other woman, still holding the poker nodded, confirming her husband’s assertion.

  “You mean Miss Bates was killed by gypsies? By that Draper fellow?” Emma asked, and swayed on her feet as she wondered if Highbury, her dear Highbury, was full of criminals born both high and low.

  “No,” Jane Churchill said, “my aunt was not killed by gypsies.”

  “But –“ Emma began, and looked at Jane holding the poker, standing tall and strong and fierce despite her condition, perhaps because of it. “How can you speak with such assurance? Do you know who killed your aunt?” And she was certain that Jane did know, and if Jane had killed her aunt then she would have no doubt and little fear.

  “Leave now, Mrs. Knightley,” Jane commanded in a clear, hard voice. “Not all your questions will be answered.”

  Emma decided that Jane was right; it was better for some of her curiosity to remain unsatisfied, at least for the moment. She put her hand on the doorknob and started to open the door – and again had the odd sensation one has when another is pulling open the door at the same time one is pushing it.

  In the shadows she saw a familiar figure. “Mr. Weston!” she exclaimed. “I am so glad to see you!”

  “Emma,” he said shortly, coming inside and pushing her back before him, so that she was once again in the middle of the apartment. He slammed the door behind him. “I should have known.”

  With the increased light of the apartment as opposed to the dark staircase, Emma could see that Mr. Weston was not smiling. Well, why should he be smiling? If he had heard any of the conversation transpiring in the Bates’s apartment, he had to be suffering great disappointment in his son Frank, his pride and joy. And yet other words besides ‘disappointment’ occurred to her as better fitting the expression on his face: anger, sinister anger.

  “My word! Mr. Weston, what is going on?” Emma cried out.

  “You know too much,” he said.

  “I apparently know nothing,” Emma said, “for I cannot understand your involvement in this.”

  “Then that is a pity,” said Mr. Weston, and in his hand Emma saw his army pistol.

  Emma wished just then that she were like her friend Harriet, who had the ability to faint in a situation such as this, for surely that would be better than what she was discovering: that dear Mr. Weston, the husband of her dearest friend, was turning out to be a monster! But she did not seem to be able to lose consciousness; instead her heart beat quicker than ever and she felt more intensely alive – just when she seemed mos
t likely to be killed.

  “You don’t intend to use that on me,” said Emma, horrified. “Surely you can’t intend to use that on me.”

  “It may be old – from my army days – but I assure you it works,” said Mr. Weston.

  Jane, still holding the poker, moved forward and pushed Emma behind her. “And if I am not mistaken – Colonel Campbell taught me a little about artillery – that pistol contains only one bullet. You cannot kill both Mrs. Knightley and me.”

  “You know a lot, Jane – you know too much for a woman – but you do not know everything. It is possible to kill two people with one lucky shot, especially given how you are standing in front of Emma. And if they don’t both die at once, then they will suffer horribly.”

  “Father, no!” said Frank.

  “You would be better off without this Jane as your wife, Frank,” Mr. Weston said. “I was willing to accept her and her lack of fortune – after all, I married Miss Taylor, also portionless and without connections. Money is not everything. But Jane does not want to live with you. She does not trust you. I am afraid she does not even love you. And she has failed to give you a child. Believe me, you would be happier with someone else. Next time, choose someone less discerning.”

  “Father, I love Jane. Put down your weapon.”

  “Frank, I wish I could,” Mr. Weston said, but instead he aimed his pistol at his daughter-in-law and cocked it.

  “No!” Frank cried, leaping forward, pushing the women out of the way - at the same time as there was a deafening bang. The women both screamed, and Emma tumbled to the floor, while Jane and Frank went sprawling as well.

  Now it was Mr. Weston’s to cry, “No!” in despair. He knelt beside Frank, who was bleeding in the chest.

  Jane was the first to recover. She scrambled to her feet, and stood with the poker over Mr. Weston and his son. “You have shot him,” she said coldly. “You shot your own son.”

  “Frank, I am so sorry,” said Mr. Weston, taking his son’s hand. “Frank, you will be all right.”

  “No – no I won’t,” the younger man gasped.

  “Mrs. Knightley – Emma – are you all right?” Jane asked.

  Emma pulled herself to her feet. Her lip was bleeding, for she had hit it on a table, but other than that she was uninjured. “Yes,” she said.

  “Then fetch help,” Jane said. “Please.”

  “Of course,” Emma said, and went once more to the door of the apartment. She opened it, to discover people rushing up the stairs.

  “What is going on?” asked Patty, breathless.

  “That was a pistol shot, that was,” said Charles, the baker’s boy who helped downstairs.

  Patty entered the apartment, saw Frank Churchill groaning and bleeding on the rug on the floor, and screamed.

  “There has been a terrible accident,” Emma said, feeling as if her wits were returning to her at last. “Send someone for Mr. Perry. And send someone else to my husband. He should be at a meeting at the Crown.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Knightley,” said Charlie, taking one last look into the apartment, then turning and clattering down the stairs.

  “Thank you,” Jane said to Emma, then she addressed her ash-faced servant. “Patty, fetch some linens.”

  “Yes, mum,” said Patty, and put down her basket and darted into another room.

  “Jane,” Frank groaned from his position on the floor, “Jane, can you forgive me?”

  Emma thought that Frank ought to be asking her for forgiveness, or for forgiveness from his dead, poisoned aunt, or even his uncle, her bereaved husband, but to Frank, Jane’s affection and approval were all that mattered.

  “Take this,” Jane said to Emma, handing her the poker. “Move aside, Mr. Weston – my husband needs me.” And she knelt beside the young man.

  Emma was ready to wield the poker if Mr. Weston attempted to attack her again, but the older man did not. Instead he allowed his daughter-in-law to kneel by her husband, while remaining on the floor himself, cradling his son’s head in his lap. Patty rushed back into the room and handed towels and bed linens to her mistress.

  Jane pressed a towel against her husband’s wound; the white cloth was soon stained with crimson.

  “You’ll be all right, son,” he said. “They’ve sent for Mr. Perry.”

  “No, Father, I won’t,” said Frank. “I’m dying. Jane, please, tell me you forgive me.”

  “As a Christian, I forgive you,” she said.

  “You were always better than I. I never deserved you,” said Frank. “But did I ever make you happy?”

  “Oh, Frank!” Jane exclaimed, and finally the reserve broke down. “Of course – of course you did.”

  Emma heard footsteps running up the stairs. “Emma! Emma, are you all right?”

  Mr. Knightley burst into the room, followed by spry Mr. Perry, Mr. Elton, Charlie the baker’s boy and finally a puffing, red-faced Mr. Cole.

  “Emma, my love, what is going on?” Mr. Knightley asked, while Mr. Perry pushed his way to Frank and knelt by the bleeding young man.

  “Mr. Weston shot his son,” Emma said, putting down the poker, and leaning against her husband’s strong arm.

  “What?” exclaimed Mr. Knightley. “An accident?”

  “Not exactly,” Emma replied. “I will explain everything to you in detail later, but Mr. Weston was trying to kill us – Mrs. Churchill and me – but he shot Frank instead.”

  Mr. Knightley, surveying the scene, gave a brief nod. Instead of asking further questions, he first told Mr. Elton to pick Mr. Weston’s pistol up from the floor. Then Mr. Knightley compelled everyone to step back a little from the principals: Frank, lying on the floor, tended by the apothecary Mr. Perry, Frank’s wife Jane, and Mr. Weston, Frank’s father.

  Tears ran down Mr. Weston’s face. “I have done terrible things,” he said. “But before you punish me – and I deserve punishment – can you help Frank? Perry, can you help Frank?”

  “This wound is too severe,” said Perry, pressing a fresh linen against it, and watching the blood spill out anyway. “I’m sorry.”

  “Will die,” Frank gasped. “Hurts.”

  “Can you give him something for the pain?” demanded Mr. Weston.

  “No,” said Perry. “I am afraid he won’t last long enough for laudanum drops to make a difference. There is no point in moving him, either – that would only cause him unnecessary pain.”

  Mr. Knightley inspected Emma’s cut lip, and said that it would swell for a few days, but it did not look serious. She gripped his arm as they moved to the sofa and sat down. The minutes they spent in the Bates apartment were few, but they were imbued with an intensity that created memories starker than any Emma had ever known. The sight of those on the floor: Frank, surrounded by his father and his wife. Frank’s labored breathing. The blood at the corner of his mouth, a sign that the internal injury was too great. The wheezing breaths of Mr. Cole, who seated himself by the piano. The serious expressions on the men’s faces. The smell of the many people in the small parlor, the smell of gunpowder and the smell of Frank Churchill’s blood. The throbbing of her lip. Mr. Knightley’s arm around her, and Emma’s gratitude that her husband was a truly good man who deserved her confidence and trust.

  Mr. Elton recalled that he was a clergyman and gave the gun to Mr. Cole and administered extreme unction.

  “He is dead,” Perry announced.

  “My dear boy! My beloved son!” said Mr. Weston, and he closed Frank Churchill’s unseeing eyes. Then he tenderly moved Frank’s head from his lap to a cushion on the floor, and stiffly rose to his feet. “Mr. Knightley and Mr. Cole, I am implicated in four deaths–“ everyone gasped at this number, and even Emma, counting rapidly, could not identify all the victims, “—and so I give myself over to you. As Jane has every reason to want me out of her sight, I suggest that you escort me to the Crown Inn and put me under guard there. Mr. and Mrs. Stokes are best equipped for dealing with this situation and are not as deeply involved and s
o will be less distressed. Jane – Emma – I apologize for my behavior.”

  Emma could not help observing that Mr. Weston, now that the crisis was over, had reverted to his usual obliging and considerate personality, even giving advice on how to arrest him while causing the least fuss to others.

  “Very well,” said Mr. Knightley, and after a quick word with Emma, he, Cole and Elton took Mr. Weston away.

  .

  24 a murderer’s confession

  Emma remained with Jane a little longer in the apartment.

  “Can I help you? Is there anything you need?”

  Mrs. Churchill, still kneeling by the body of her dead husband, said that she was grateful for Mrs. Knightley’s offer, but that she would be all right. “I am not alone. Mr. Perry knows what must be done, and Patty is with me.”

  Emma put on her coat and walked to the door again. This time her passage was not blocked; this time no one burst through it to threaten her and Jane. She paused on the threshold to say, “Thank you for saving my life, Mrs. Churchill.”

  “Mrs. Knightley, if not for me you would have never been in danger,” Jane replied.

  Emma then descended the staircase, thinking of all the things she had to do. First and foremost – Mrs. Weston needed to be informed. Poor Mrs. Weston! Mr. Woodhouse had always described her as poor since her marriage to Mr. Weston, but for the first time the epithet seemed just. Her father, it turned out, was in his way prescient. It occurred to her then that Mr. Knightley would send someone to inform Mrs. Weston, or might even go himself, and that as dear as Mrs. Weston was and as great as her claims might be, Emma’s first duty was to her father. She had an overwhelming desire to reach the safety of Hartfield, jumping a little as a dog barked and as a pair of boys ran past. She felt deeply relieved as she crossed through the iron sweep-gate and entered her own property.

  The vestibule was rather dark, so the butler did not notice anything wrong as he took her coat – simply informing her that the baby had just settled down for his nap. When she entered the parlor, concerned for her father, she found him asleep in his chair before the fire, completely unaware of the terrible events. Emma alone and finally safe, indulged in some private tears. When the maid arrived with the tea cart, only then did anyone notice Emma’s tears and her swollen lip.