Mr. Woodhouse spent the morning shaking his head and exclaiming over the events. “Mr. Weston! Mr. Weston killed so many people!”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Knightley, who had decided to stay at Hartfield that day, supporting his wife after her ordeal.
“Poor Mrs. Weston! What will she do?”
“We will visit her later, Papa,” said Emma. “Today she asked to be alone, but later she will need us.”
That day, Emma had no desire to leave Hartfield. Most of Highbury’s gentlewomen seemed to prefer the safety of their own hearths – even though the murderers were dead – and most made it clear that their husbands should stay home as well. One exception was Mr. Perry, who looked as if he wanted sleep himself, but who called to see how they all were. He informed them that the bodies of Mr. Weston and his son had been moved to the undertaker and Mr. Elton was consulting with their widows about funerals. On a more cheerful note he reported that the little Draper girl was recovering.
“I am glad to hear it,” Emma said. “Now you should go home and rest.”
“Yes, my friend, take care of yourself, or who else will take care of us?” said Mr. Woodhouse.
Yawning, Mr. Perry departed from Hartfield to go home and take a nap.
At Hartfield the inmates relaxed. The baby turned over for the first time from his stomach to his back, and enjoyed the applause and smiles of his parents so much that he tried to do it again. Mr. Woodhouse talked about his gruel; Mr. Knightley wrote letters of business about the Donwell harvest, and Emma chatted with the three men in her family.
In the afternoon, to Emma’s great surprise, Mrs. Churchill called at Hartfield.
After greeting them all, and mutually satisfying themselves regarding each other’s health, Mrs. Churchill asked if she could speak in private with Mrs. Knightley.
“Of course,” Emma said, rising.
Mr. Knightley stayed with Mr. Woodhouse, working on his correspondence at the desk but also commiserating with his father-in-law when Mr. Woodhouse required it, which allowed Emma to lead Jane Churchill into the small parlor and offer her a seat.
“I hope it is not too cold in here,” Emma said, and told a housemaid to bring them tea and to stoke the fire. When these things were done, and they were finally alone, she asked: “How are you really, Mrs. Churchill?”
Mrs. Churchill smiled wryly at her hostess. “I still don’t know. I have not yet decided. But there is one thing I am certain of, Mrs. Knightley – I owe you an apology. I involved you in a dangerous situation, and you could have been hurt or killed. I wish there was some way I could compensate for this.”
Emma poured tea for them both. It was strange to think that Jane Churchill could feel as guilty about her as she had ever felt about Jane Churchill. She decided to press her advantage. “I understand you were sworn to secrecy before, but if you could let me know what happened...”
“Of course,” Jane said, then asked a question Emma did not expect. “Have you studied mathematics?”
“Mathematics! No, of course not,” said Emma.
“I have. These days great progress is being done in understanding what is likely and what is not.”
“Through mathematics?” Emma asked, thinking that no matter how well she thought she knew the citizens of Highbury, discoveries could always be made. Mrs. Bates was a naturalist; her granddaughter a mathematician. And only yesterday she had learned that Mr. Weston and his son were killers.
Jane continued. “When Mrs. Churchill died – the previous Mrs. Churchill, my husband Frank’s aunt – at the time I felt nothing but relief at the bounty of God. It may have been wrong of me to rejoice in the death of a fellow human being, but I had heard that she was ill, and that she was suffering, and I felt she spread nothing but unhappiness. But later…”
“Yes?”
“Later it struck me that the timing was too convenient. And Mr. Churchill – Frank’s uncle – told me that his wife, although her health had been deteriorating for some time, for years in fact – Mrs. Churchill died of a seizure of a completely different nature.”
“Ah!” said Emma, comprehending, at least in part. “And you became suspicious. When did you realize that it was mushrooms?”
“I asked Mr. Churchill to describe how she died and her symptoms were exactly those that someone who consumed poisonous mushrooms – the death cap with the white spots – would experience. And I remembered that my aunt had shown me some on Box Hill when we explored there.” She shook her head. “Many have assumed that I would be a good influence on Frank. And I believe I was, in certain respects. But he was always tempted to short cuts, to taking the easy way instead of doing what was strictly right.”
“His affection for you was genuine,” said Emma.
“I believe it was. Yet when I became convinced that something was – wrong – about Mrs. Churchill’s death, I no longer felt comfortable around him. He noticed my distancing myself. At first he thought it was because I was upset because I had had a miscarriage, but in truth it was because I suspected – and later became convinced – that I was married to a murderer.”
“Were you frightened?” asked Emma.
“Of course! I did not know what to do. I would have left – I considered going to the Campbells, but they were in Ireland. I even considered going out to be a governess, as I had once planned, but then I discovered I was with child. But when my grandmother died, it gave me the excuse to spend some time away from Frank.”
“Did he know why you wanted to be apart?”
“Yes. Frank was clever. He discovered that I had corresponded with my aunt about poisonous mushrooms – and he realized that I had spoken to his uncle about Mrs. Churchill’s death. Frank knew that I knew, and begged me not to tell anyone what he had done. I promised I would not, in exchange for him letting me stay in Highbury.”
“With your aunt.”
“Yes, in my aunt’s apartment, even though more comfortable alternatives were available to me. As you know, I am with child. Because my child’s father is a murderer, I was finding it difficult to rejoice in the fact and so I did not want to tell anyone about it. I was sure that if I stayed with you, or the Westons – or even the Eltons – my secret would be discovered. But as you know, being with child is exhausting. On the day of Mrs. Elton’s musical afternoon I really did want to sleep. So I stayed home, but my aunt never came back.”
“Did you suspect--?”
“Mrs. Knightley, I honestly did not know what to think. Frank was supposed to be in London with his uncle, and although the distance is not insurmountable, it seemed unlikely. How would he know that my aunt was in the graveyard? And yet, as I knew that he had murdered his aunt, I could not help wondering if he had murdered mine.”
“The locket,” Emma said.
“Yes, the locket. The locket – the possibility that my aunt had been killed for gold – that was comforting. And yet there were difficulties. I know that Donwell Abbey had been robbed, but no one here has been harmed before.”
“Did you suspect Mr. Weston?”
“I did. If Frank had any accomplice in Highbury, who other than his father? I determined that Mr. Weston could have done it – and when you gave me my grandmother’s locket, I believed he had done it.”
“But when did he hide the locket at the beech tree?”
“Did he not go with Mr. Knightley to question that fellow at the Gilbert estate?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “Mr. Weston must have hidden it then, or on his way home, because Mr. Knightley remained a while afterwards at Donwell Abbey.”
“Ah – I thought it must have been something like that.”
Emma poured them each another cup of tea. “I can hardly imagine how trapped you must have felt.”
“I was desperate. I knew Frank had killed his aunt – but I had promised not to tell anyone about it. You were the only one in Highbury who I thought was clever enough and suspicious enough to figure out the truth, so I sent you my grandmother’s drawing of the
mushroom.”
Emma was flattered to be deemed clever by the educated and accomplished Jane Churchill, who spoke so casually of ‘mathematics.’ “I knew something was wrong – even Mrs. Weston knew something was wrong – but I did not understand what.”
“Poor Mrs. Weston! I believe she is innocent in all this.”
“I am sure of it, Mrs. Churchill.”
“Please, call me Jane. Mrs. Churchill is the name of a woman who was murdered by my husband. I would prefer that you called me Jane.”
“You may call me Emma,” said Emma.
.
26 two more funerals
Mr. Elton conducted two more funerals in Highbury, burying Mr. Weston and his son in the local family plot. As both were confessed murderers, it was done rather hastily, to avoid any discussion about the propriety of keeping their earthly remains in the Highbury parish. But Mr. Elton armored himself with the defense that he had administered extreme unction to each – and both had been so popular while they lived – but rather to his surprise, and Mrs. Elton’s, no one objected.
For the women of Highbury, there had been many changes. Old Mrs. Bates was dead, but that was hardly a surprise. Poor Miss Bates was murdered. Mrs. Weston was alive, but now ashamed of her husband and almost relieved that he was dead. Mrs. Jane Churchill was packing her aunt’s and grandmother’s things, and preparing to leave Highbury.
Emma, who only a few weeks ago had felt like the least-liked gentlewoman in Highbury, was suddenly very popular. Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and even Mrs. Elton, curious to learn exactly what had transpired in the Bates apartment, called at Hartfield to learn everything they could. And Mrs. Churchill – Jane – visited as well and let Emma know what was happening and her plans for the future.
Jane told Emma that she had written an explanation of everything to Frank’s uncle Mr. Churchill, who was horrified to learn that his wife had been murdered. The events were so significant that he came down to Highbury to see his nephew’s grave – staying in the best room at the Crown Inn – and met with both Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Churchill. One point that Jane related was rather illuminating. Mr. Churchill claimed that Mrs. Churchill – the deceased Mrs. Churchill – had never trusted Mr. Weston. “Handsome, charming, but weak,” were the words that Mrs. Churchill had used to describe him. “It seems she was right,” Mr. Churchill continued. “My wife was a good judge of character. We tried to bring Frank up to be better, but could not overcome his natural defects.”
Mr. Churchill was pleased to learn Jane was expecting, and hoped that the child would prove more resolute than its father and grandfather. He settled a sum on Jane Churchill, who announced that she would leave England to visit her friends in Ireland. She departed from Highbury, taking her faithful servant Patty with her.
Mr. Knightley’s harvest was in, so he only went several days each week to Donwell, and could spend more time at Hartfield. The day that Mr. Weston and his son were buried, he said to Emma of Frank Churchill: “You always called him the child of good fortune. It seems he played a role in making his own good fortune.”
“Yes,” Emma sighed. “Too large a role.” Then she asked Mr. Knightley if he knew how Harriet was doing.
With all the excitement, Emma had nearly forgotten Harriet and her suffering, but now she had an idea. She went with Mr. Knightley one crisp day to Donwell Abbey, where she finally saw the cider press, then went a little further in the carriage to call on the Gilberts. After a discussion with Mrs. Gilbert, and later with Noah Draper and his daughters, she arranged for the older girl, Florica, to train as a maid at the Martins. With the girl’s assistance, Harriet recovered her looks and spirits, and the next time Emma called she was able to tell Emma that the people who had frightened her that day at the back gate were none other than the two Draper girls. They had been sent by their father in search of Mr. Gilbert’s escaped bull calf. The girls, too, had noticed earlier that someone had been making trips through the side door of Donwell Abbey, but their father had forbidden them to say anything, simply because he did not want them involved.
Later Mr. Knightley asked, “How is your friend, Mrs. Weston?”
“She is avoiding me,” said Emma, sighing. “I think she feels guilty because she told Mr. Weston that Jane had sent me the drawing by Mrs. Bates – the sketch of the poisonous mushroom – which is what prompted him to go the Bates apartment with his pistol.”
“But it is not her fault – she had no idea!”
“I know that. I believe she knows that. But she cannot forgive herself.”
Mr. Knightley scratched his chin. “I will talk to her and tell her how much she is missed at Hartfield.”
“Would you?” asked Emma. “Not only I miss her, but my father misses her. And Baby George is in love with her daughter.”
Mr. Knightley called on Mrs. Weston, and the next day she resumed her calls at Hartfield, but the visits were awkward, and Emma wondered if they would ever be at ease with each other again.
.
27 restored treasure
They were sitting in the parlor just after dinner – Mr. Woodhouse asleep before the fire, the baby asleep as well, Mr. Knightley reading aloud to Emma as she attempted to sketch her father – she was not satisfied with her efforts and wondered if, like old Mrs. Bates, she should concentrate on drawing flora and fungi.
They heard a carriage pulling into the drive. “Who could that be?” asked Mr. Knightley, putting down his book, and even Mr. Woodhouse was roused from his doze.
It was Mr. John Knightley, arrived from London. His appearance was so unexpected that it first alarmed his Hartfield relatives, but he assured them that there was no emergency; everyone in Brunswick Square was well. No, he had some unexpected business in their area and so had driven down on the spur of the moment.
Emma made sure he had a cup of tea and a plate of meat and bread and cheese and apple tart, and told the servants to ready a room. Her father’s curiosity, assured that his daughter and grandchildren were healthy, went no further, but Emma and her husband were both certain that there had to be a specific reason for Mr. John Knightley’s coming so suddenly to see them. Mr. John Knightley’s eyes sparkled with some untold story, but as they understood that it could be something he preferred to convey in private, they all praised Mr. Woodhouse’s gruel until the old man went to bed.
“So, John, will you tell us why you are here?” Mr. Knightley asked, pouring them each a glass of wine.
Mr. John Knightley reached into his pocket, took out a silver spoon and passed it to his brother. “Do you recognize this, George?”
Mr. Knightley exclaimed: “What? But I thought it was stolen.” He passed the spoon to Emma; she did not know it as well as her husband did, but it looked like a piece from the set at Donwell Abbey.
“It was stolen,” said Mr. John Knightley.
“Then how have you found it?”
Mr. John Knightley sipped his wine and explained that he was walking with a client along C—Street, where he saw something familiar in a shop window. The shop’s reputation was not stainless, but Mr. John Knightley’s client had considerable influence in the area, so they went inside. There he identified many more items stolen from Donwell Abbey.
“Someone sold them to the man at the shop?” asked Mr. Knightley.
“Can you guess who it was?” and Mr. John Knightley’s eyes twinkled. “It was a man who explained he wanted to sell his mother’s silverware.”
“Was it a gypsy?” asked Emma. “How could a gypsy fool such a man?”
“No, the merchant swore it was definitely a gentleman. He gave me a description, and I have no doubt who it is.” Mr. John Knightley spoke slowly, savoring their anticipation. “Your vicar, Mr. Elton.”
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Knightley, while Emma raised her hand to her mouth.
They asked for more particulars; Mr. John Knightley was able to satisfy. They determined from a copy of a bill of sale that the silver had been sold to the merchant the day after Mrs. Bate
s’s funeral.
“You were correct, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley. “The Eltons were suffering pecuniary distresses! He must have taken the silver up to London to sell even before anyone knew it was missing.”
“And that chest he brought back from London!” Emma cried. “He never had any particular attachment to it. He only said that so he would have a good reason for taking his carriage.”
“A chest?” asked Mr. John Knightley. “You know, the merchant said that the seller – or rather the thief – bought an old chest that he had on his premises. But I don’t understand what you mean about Elton’s carriage, Emma.”
“Why don’t you explain, my dear,” said Mr. Knightley, and he rose to place another log on the fire.
Emma told their brother about the chest; how it had been the excuse for Mr. Elton’s taking the carriage to London. Yet it was not very attractive and Mr. Elton had not treated it with any especial interest or respect. “Now we know that it was only a ruse, so that Mr. Elton could take the carriage to London without raising suspicion.”
“How very elaborate,” said Mr. John Knightley coolly. “Why didn’t he just pretend to have a cold?”
They all laughed, and Mr. Knightley teased his younger brother that he was obviously better equipped than Elton for a life of crime. Mr. John Knightley admitted that as a lawyer he was accustomed to thinking deviously.
“I owe you a compliment, Emma,” said her husband. “I never appreciated the significance of that ugly chest, while you realized immediately that something was wrong.”
Emma was happy to be proved right – or at least not entirely wrong – in this instance. “It is a hideous piece of furniture,” she said, “not worthy of being appreciated for itself, and Mr. Elton never behaved as if it meant anything to him. I rather expect they decided that Mr. Elton would choose any piece of furniture that suited – good enough for their plan – but that Mrs. Elton must have felt dismay when she saw what he had brought back.”
The Highbury Murders Page 19