“Madam! Oh, my word, Madam! Are you all right?”
“Some dreadful things have happened, but I do not have the strength to explain. You will learn everything soon enough. As for my lip, I fell and cut it on a table. Bring me something to clean it with, will you, Maggie?”
The maid rushed to comply, while Emma poured herself some tea – which proved to be awkward and even a little painful to drink with her bruised lip. But the warm liquid was comforting in its way.
So many questions remained. Mr. Weston had mentioned that he had been instrumental in four deaths. Which four? Frank Churchill, obviously. Miss Bates. The first Mrs. Churchill. But who else?
The maid returned and helped Emma tend her lip. They were about this when Mr. Woodhouse awoke from his doze before the fire. He was alarmed to find that his dear daughter had been injured and wanted to send for Mr. Perry immediately. Emma, aware that the apothecary had more significant cases to tend to, made light of her situation.
“What happened? How could you have hurt your lip so?”
Emma explained that she had slipped and fallen.
“You should not be outside walking about. There is mud, after such a storm as we had, there is certainly mud. You should take better care of yourself, my dear Emma; you are too delicate for such adventures. Let James drive you, or if you walk, take Mr. Knightley with you so that you can hold on to his arm.”
Emma was in no mood to argue this point. “Yes, Papa.”
“Where exactly did you fall? Near the Crown Inn – in front of Ford’s?”
“No, Papa. I was at the Bates apartment.”
“You fell inside? On the stairs, perhaps? I remember that they have a dangerous staircase.”
“No, Papa. Papa, you must prepare yourself. There has been a terrible accident.”
Emma was reluctant to tell her father what had happened, because it would overburden him, yet it was impossible to keep this information away from him. Best that he hear it from her, when he could see that she was alive and relatively safe, if not completely uninjured.
Mr. Woodhouse was absolutely horrified. Frank Churchill dead! Shot by his own father, their dear Mr. Weston! In front of Emma! Had Emma been shot? Was she certain that the injury to her lip was not a gunshot?
Emma could not speak lightly of such grave matters but she did her best to reassure her father that she was well. She promised to see Mr. Perry when he was available, and represented that others needed the apothecary’s care more than she did.
“Who?” demanded Mr. Woodhouse who could not admit that others’ claims might be more pressing than his daughter’s.
“Mrs. Jane Churchill, who saw her husband die. Mr. Weston, who must be horrified that he killed his son. Mrs. Weston – Papa, you know how sensitive Mrs. Weston is. She must be reeling from shock. If Mr. Perry can help her in this situation, we must let him do so.”
Mr. Woodhouse had trouble acknowledging the superiority of the claims of the widow and the bereaved father, but Mrs. Weston – their own dear Mrs. Weston, who had lived at Hartfield for so many years – he agreed that Mr. Perry should tend her if she needed it. Emma did not explain how much Mrs. Weston might need assistance – she wished she could go to her friend just then.
“And where is Mr. Knightley?” asked Mr. Woodhouse fretfully. “Why is he not home, taking care of us?”
“He has things to do, Papa,” said Emma, although she wondered that point herself. “We are perfectly safe.”
Mr. Woodhouse was of the opinion that if Mr. Weston could start shooting people in apartments, then no place was safe. Emma did what she could to soothe him, but it was hard work, especially as part of her agreed with her father. The two of them ate supper – a note arriving from Mr. Knightley that he was detained – and the minutes ticked by. Finally, after the baby had fallen asleep and even Mr. Woodhouse, despite the day’s excitement, had begun to yawn, Mr. Knightley arrived from the Crown Inn. He kissed his wife and baby, assured his father-in-law that he was well, that Frank Churchill was definitely dead – and that Mr. Weston, who had been so dear to them for many years but had turned out to be a dangerous murderer – that Mr. Weston would die.
Mr. Woodhouse and his daughter exclaimed in astonishment.
“What? Is he to be hanged?” Mr. Woodhouse demanded.
“How could that be decided so quickly?” asked Emma. “No, of course it has not. Did he have a second pistol? Has he shot himself?”
Mr. Knightley explained that they were both wrong. It turned out that Mr. Weston had had some of the poisonous mushroom about him. They had searched him for additional weapons, but left him with what they thought was simply a snuff box – they thought it would be kind to leave it with him – and it had contained some of the mushroom that he had given to his son to poison Mrs. Churchill. Mr. Weston had consumed it, a lethal dose.
“What about Mr. Perry?” Emma demanded. “Can he do anything for Mr. Weston?”
Mr. Perry had seen him and confirmed that there was no antidote. Mr. Weston would suffer for a while, then seem to recover for about half a day – and then he would die, unless some miracle intervened.
Emma and her father both expressed their horror. Then Emma inquired after Mrs. Weston.
“She has been taken to see him. And Mr. Weston has asked to see you, too, Emma. I have come to see if I can escort you to the Crown Inn.”
“Me?” asked Emma.
Mr. Woodhouse was appalled at the idea of his daughter going to visit a murderer. “Especially so late at night!”
“I assure you, sir, I will protect Emma,” Mr. Knightley said.
“But why does he want to see me?” Emma asked.
“I think he wishes to apologize for what he has done, and to ask forgiveness. Will you come? You need have no fear. And if you do not come now – well, very soon, it will be too late.”
Emma considered quickly. Mr. Weston was obviously not the man she had always taken him to be, yet despite what had transpired she could not so easily hate a man she had always looked upon as a friend. For so many years he had been a favorite! Was it all a lie? And then she thought of her dear friend Mrs. Weston. Even if she were not to go for his sake, she would have to go for hers.
“Very well,” said Emma, feeling that she could hardly refuse a deathbed request. “Papa, I will be safe with Mr. Knightley – you know I will be safe.”
“But who will protect me?” Mr. Woodhouse fretted.
They assigned that responsibility to the coachman and to the butler, and then Mr. and Mrs. Knightley went out into the night. The distance to the Crown Inn was not far, and as long as one wore sensible boots instead of dancing slippers, the walk was easy. During it Emma experienced many peculiar sensations: what could a dying murderer want to say to her? How could she be so important as to warrant being asked to his deathbed?
When they reached the Crown Inn, however, she discovered she was not the only person that Mr. Weston had asked to visit him before he died. As she was escorted to another room in which she could wait, she learned that Mr. William Cox, the lawyer, was with him. Well, Mr. Weston had been a man of business; it was natural for him to want to set things in order before he died.
But others were gathered as well; it seemed like a large number, and Emma could not help thinking that Mr. Weston had always been friendly with many, and that to be the favorite and intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity. Yet when she looked at the crowd which had gathered, she could understand why most had come. The Eltons were there – Mr. Elton in his official capacity, as he would be expected to give Mr. Weston extreme unction, and Mrs. Elton’s words made it clear that she would never sit at home alone on an occasion such as this, insisting that she needed to be there to lend support to her caro sposo. Perhaps she was succoring him; who could tell? Even Mr. Elton, whose hypocrisy ran deep, might find it difficult to minister to a man and neighbor who turned out to be a murderer. Next to Mrs. Elton
sat Jane Churchill, her face white and her expression solemn – now her presence, given that Mr. Weston had tried to kill her, and given that he had caused the death of her husband, was more difficult to comprehend. She did not appear to be here in order to gratify either curiosity or vanity; her expression of dignified disgust made it clear that she had only come because she thought it was the right thing to do.
Emma scanned the room for Mrs. Weston, but Mrs. Elton informed her that Mrs. Weston was with her husband and the lawyer. Emma and her husband took seats, and then Mr. Perry – it was easy to understand why Highbury’s apothecary was here, even if he could not hope to cure Mr. Weston, he might be able to alleviate his suffering – Mr. Perry came over to her and inquired after herself and her father. “I have not had time to look at your lip, or to see if you are suffering from the shock of this morning.”
Emma assured the apothecary that her hurt was superficial, and although she was still horrified and saddened by the events of this terrible day, she was all right. As for her father, he was very distressed, but he had retired for the night. “Thank you so much for the sleeping draught. I am sure he will sleep the night through. He always does.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Mr. Perry.
“Perry, have you any idea when Weston will want to see Mrs. Knightley?” Mr. Knightley asked.
Mr. Perry, however, knew little more than the others in the room. Mr. Knightley brought Emma a cup of tea from a pot that Mrs. Stokes had placed on the sideboard, and she settled down for a long wait. Most were quiet, even Mrs. Elton. Glancing at Mr. Elton, Emma recalled how embarrassed she had once felt in his presence, after he proposed marriage to her. That shame, which at the time had seemed so deep, so dreadful, was only a shallow memory now. Especially compared to what Jane Churchill and Mrs. Weston must be experiencing!
Even on his deathbed Mr. Weston was practical; twenty minutes later, Mr. Cox came into the room and asked for Mrs. Knightley and Mrs. Churchill. Emma squeezed her husband’s hand; “I should like Mr. Knightley to come with me.”
“By all means.”
The Knightleys rose from their chairs, but most eyes were focused on Jane Churchill. Would she go to see the murderer of her husband?
Mrs. Churchill stood. Mr. Cox offered her his arm, and they made a strange procession, the lawyer and the widow; followed by the Knightleys. Emma’s heart seemed to leap in all sorts of strange directions inside her; what would they find?
They went to a room that was used by visitors to Highbury. Mr. Weston was inside it - not on a bed, but stretched out upon a sofa, his face rather gray. He was not tied to anything, and Mrs. Weston sat on a chair beside the sofa, holding his hand. Her eyes were wet and red, but she was calm.
“Thank you for coming,” said Mr. Weston, and Emma was surprised to hear how normal and ordinary his voice sounded, as if he was the same Mr. Weston who had always been so welcomed by her family and her friend – and she supposed he was the same Mr. Weston, but that she had never known him completely. “Both of you. Please, sit down.”
Emma took a seat on the other side of Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Knightley sat beside her. Jane, however, remained standing.
“What do you have to say?” asked Jane, and her voice shook a little, but her posture was straight.
“I want to ask you both for forgiveness. I am a murderer, but I am about to die, and so before I do I want to tell you what happened.”
Mrs. Weston shook her head slightly, as if she could not bear to hear everything again, and Emma squeezed her hand. Jane said nothing and so Mr. Knightley cleared his throat and asked Mr. Weston to continue.
“Yes, I know I do not have much time. It started long ago. When I was a boy, Jane, wandering around the fields and woods near Highbury, your grandmother took me and several other children and explained which mushrooms were safe to eat – and which would kill you – and how. The other children included your mother and your aunt.”
“And?”
“I wondered if your aunt recalled that conversation. I was frightened – not so much for myself, Jane, but for those I loved – love more than myself. My wife, our daughter Anna, and especially my son Frank.”
“But now your son is dead,” Emma could not help saying.
“Yes – and he gave his life to save you and Jane.”
“Continue about the mushrooms,” Mrs. Weston said.
“Yes, my dear. Do you remember that day more than a year ago, when we went to Box Hill? I knew something was bothering Frank. He would not tell me what – he respected the secrecy of your engagement, Jane – but I guessed that Mrs. Churchill was thwarting his life’s plans. While we were exploring, I found some of those mushrooms. I gave them to him and explained what they could do.
“Obviously it was wrong of me – and of Frank – to use the mushrooms on Mrs. Churchill. But according to him, she was ill and suffering, and would not live much longer anyway.”
“If Mrs. Churchill was dying, then why did you kill her?” Jane asked.
“Frank was terribly distressed – as I said – and Mrs. Churchill had been complaining of illness for years. She might have lasted for years, and destroyed all his hopes of happiness. Yes, Jane, I see the mistake in my reasoning – you may add hypocrisy to my many sins! I told myself that she was about to die but if I had truly believed that I would not have acted as I did.”
They fell silent, contemplating this admission of murder. Then Emma asked, because she felt the question needed to be asked, and she was not sure if Jane could ask it. “And Miss Bates?”
“After Mrs. Bates died – and I did not kill her; her death was natural – Miss Bates was the only one in Highbury who knew about my connection to the deadly mushrooms in the past. You were staying with her, Jane – and you were clever. I knew how much Frank loved you, and I wanted to make sure you learned nothing from your aunt. So after the concert at the Eltons, when I realized I could meet with Miss Bates alone, I first went home and then told my wife that I was working on important papers and was not to be disturbed. Then I left through the window of my study, went back to the graveyard, and waited for Miss Bates there.”
“Where you killed her,” said Mr. Knightley.
“Yes, I killed her, but I made sure I struck her very hard, so that she suffered as little as possible,” said Mr. Weston. “Yes, I am aware how self-serving I sound – how terribly I have acted. But I want to assure you, Jane, that she fell after a single blow and stopped breathing almost immediately. And then I took her locket, so that it would look as if she were robbed. The gypsies would be blamed. But then Emma found the locket, and Jane – who already had her suspicions about Mrs. Churchill’s death – sent Emma Mrs. Bates’s sketch of the death-cap mushroom.”
“You wanted innocent people to be suspected in Miss Bates’s death?” asked the fair-minded Mr. Knightley, more furious than Emma had ever heard him.
Mr. Weston sighed. “I was desperate to protect Frank – and my relationship with Frank. I could not have used mushrooms again; he would have realized what I had done, and even Miss Bates – or you, Jane – might have understood that she was being killed by the death cap. Besides, Miss Bates suffered far less from the blow to the head than she would have if I had poisoned her.”
“But those innocent people! To be falsely accused! Perhaps they are accustomed to it, but does that not make it worse?” asked Emma, horrified.
Mrs. Weston finally spoke. “Emma, Mr. Weston has asked Mr. Cox to make sure the fellow receives fifty pounds in reparation.”
Mr. Knightley nodded grudgingly. “That is a start.”
“Given my situation, it is all that I can do,” said Mr. Weston.
Jane, still standing, spoke. “Mr. Weston, did you ever use those mushrooms any other time?”
Mr. Weston sighed.
“Well? Did you?” Mr. Knightley repeated Jane’s question.
Emma watched as Mr. Weston nodded, and listened with horror as he continued to confess. “My wife – my first wife,
Frank’s mother – also suffered from a long illness. She was spending freely, taking away from what should have been Frank’s fortune. As the apothecary told me her condition was hopeless, anyway, it did not seem so very wrong.”
Jane said, “So, in effect, you killed both of Frank’s mothers – and my aunt – and you would have killed me.”
At this summary – with the inclusion of Frank the tally became four – Emma recoiled. “A wife killer!” she could not help saying. Even Mrs. Weston shuddered.
“Yes, I have been a wicked man, and I tempted Frank into wickedness as well. I should have been patient; I should have counseled Frank to be patient.”
He coughed, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. “I do not have long to live, and I deserve to die. I ask nothing for myself. But those I love – my wife and my little daughter – I ask you, Emma, and you, Jane to help. Not financially – I have settled my affairs with Mr. Cox, and Mr. John Knightley has my will – but forgive them.”
Emma was moved despite herself. “You can be sure that I will always treat Mrs. Weston as my dearest friend.”
Jane Churchill was a little cooler, but her losses had been far greater than Emma’s. “You may rest assured that I bear Mrs. Weston and your daughter no ill will.”
Mr. Weston nodded.
“Is there anything else?”
“No – “ he said, and his face was turning grey, “—send Perry to me.”
Mr. Knightley escorted Emma and Jane from the room.
.
25 confidantes at last
Despite no one at Hartfield besides Mr. Woodhouse and little George Knightley having slept well, the next morning Emma rose early. A note arrived from Mrs. Weston that Mr. Weston had died during the night, and that, although she knew she would need condolence later, that day she preferred to be alone at Randalls.
The Highbury Murders Page 18