The Intrigue at Highbury m&mdm-5

by Carrie Bebris

  “May I ask what it said?” Darcy enquired.

  “Oh, he thanked me and Mother for the tea we shared on Sunday. It should more properly have been addressed to my mother, or to us both, I suppose, but it was thoughtful nonetheless. He is all consideration, Mr. Deal — though he forgets it was Wednesday we had the tea, not Sunday. Men do not have the memory for such details that we women do — is that not true, Mrs. Darcy? Pray, forgive my saying so, sir. I only mean it in good nature. But you have seen Mr. Deal, yes? How does he get on?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Elizabeth said, “and he thanks you for the basket.”

  “Oh!” A smile spread across her face. “I am so glad! I—”

  “In fact,” Elizabeth continued, “if you care to send anything else by Mr. Darcy tomorrow, he would be happy to accept the commission.”

  Miss Bates looked to Mr. Darcy. “Would you? Oh! Perhaps I should — why, yes — I shall gather some more things together right now, and you can bring them whenever you next go there. Will you be long with Miss Jones?”

  “We have several errands this afternoon,” Elizabeth said. “I will call for the parcel in the morning.”

  Miss Bates departed in happy occupation — leaving them in happy solitude. Darcy looked at Elizabeth with admiration.

  “That was well done.”

  Their luck held: Miss Jones was at home. Mrs. Todd invited the Darcys to wait in the small sitting room, then sent her daughter to summon Loretta. Alice returned a minute later to report that Miss Jones would be down to receive them directly. The child then hung about, staring at their visitors to the point where Mrs. Todd gave her a coin and dispatched her to the post office to see whether any letters had arrived from her brothers.

  “She goes every day,” Mrs. Todd explained when the child had scampered off. “Since my younger son followed his brother into the militia, posting my letters or calling for theirs has become her special responsibility.” The landlady then busied herself in the kitchen, leaving the Darcys to themselves.

  As they waited for Miss Jones to appear, Elizabeth wondered whether Mrs. Todd could possibly fit one more item of bric-à-brac into the tight space. Little figurines, small pieces of china, and trinkets littered every horizontal surface, each one seeming to call, chirp, or cry out for notice. She could not imagine Mr. Todd, whatever manner of man he had been, living in this cacophony of clutter. Darcy looked entirely out of place. She felt crowded herself.

  Miss Jones took so long about appearing that Elizabeth was not without anxiety that the girl might have fled, but at last she found her way to them. She greeted them with a breezy “good day” and an insouciant smile, and sat down on the edge of the chair nearest the door.

  “We are pleased to find you at leisure to see us,” Elizabeth said. “We had feared you would be too busy peering into teacups at the Crown.”

  “I was on my way over there, in fact,” she replied. “The present situation has the village at sixes and sevens, so many are seeking my insight.”

  “Present situation?” Darcy asked.

  “Mr. Deal’s arrest, and a poisoner about.” She rose to rescue a soldier statuette standing at attention precariously close to the edge of a shelf. She slid it back several inches to keep watch beside a painted cat with a chipped ear. “First the Churchills, now a maid — my customers want to know if they will be next.”

  “If they fear being poisoned, Mr. Deal’s arrest ought to reassure them.”

  “Only if he is indeed the poisoner.”

  “Do you believe him innocent?” Elizabeth asked. “You know him better than anybody, I suppose, having traveled in the caravan with him.”

  Miss Jones appeared gratified by this acknowledgment. “I do, indeed, and he is not a treacherous man. I blame the gypsies.”

  “I thought the gypsies have left the neighborhood?”

  “They have, so far as I know.” She adjusted a china creamer shaped like a dairy cow. “But they are a devious lot — one among them in particular. I told you, they have an old woman who claims to be a healer. Madam Zsófia knows everything about plants and poisons, and she is secretive and stingy with her knowledge. And Madam Zsófia dislikes the English. I would not be at all surprised if she gave Hiram poisoned physics to sell unknowingly to innocent villagers.”

  “Did she poison Edgar Churchill when he visited the gypsy camp?”

  Loretta accidentally bumped the cow against another figurine, knocking a shepherd boy onto his back. She murmured an indistinguishable word and righted the shepherd. When she turned to face them, she wrapped her arms in front of her as if she were cold.

  “I am afraid she might have. She was hovering around us — she probably slipped it to him when nobody realized.”

  “ ‘Us’—who else was there?”

  “Mr. Dixon and another gypsy woman. There were more gypsies in the camp, but they left us to ourselves. All but Madam Zsófia.”

  “Why did you not mention Mr. Churchill’s visit when we last asked you about him?” Elizabeth said.

  “Because Madam Zsófia is a frightful old hag! I am afraid even now that she will somehow know what I told you and put a curse on me.”

  Elizabeth had hardly considered Rawnie Zsófia an old hag, though she imagined the master drabarni could indeed create a frightening presence if she wished. “She cannot hear us; I am sure you are safe.”

  “Even so… I would not cross her.”

  Darcy lifted a carved wooden cottage off the table beside him and turned it over in his hands. “Why did Edgar Churchill and Mr. Dixon come to the camp?”

  “To have their fortunes told.”

  Darcy pretended to examine the carving; Elizabeth knew that knickknacks held no attraction for him. “If Mr. Dixon was so interested in prognostication that he strolled out of the village to find the camp”—he traced his finger along the miniature roofline, then looked up at Miss Jones—“why, then, did he refuse to let you tell his fortune when he came upon you in such a convenient place as the Crown?”

  “I can read tea leaves and palms, not a person’s thoughts. You shall have to ask him. Perhaps he is afraid of what I might reveal.”

  “What was revealed at the gypsy camp?”

  She shrugged. “That a death would bring him money.”

  Elizabeth tried to gauge Darcy’s response to that interesting little prediction, but his attention remained on Miss Jones.

  “And Mr. Churchill’s tea leaves?”

  “I could not make them out.”

  “Why not?”

  “I do not know.” She recrossed her arms. “Even Madam Zsófia cannot always read the signs.”

  “Did Madam Zsófia attempt to read theirs?”

  “No.”

  Darcy set the wooden cottage back on the table. “When, then, was she in close enough proximity to slip Edgar Churchill the poison?”

  Loretta stared at him a moment, blinking. “At one point, he seemed in some discomfort and said he was bothered by gout. Maybe she overheard and followed them afterwards to give him one of her concoctions.”

  Additional questions yielded little else, and they were conscious of time passing. They soon left to see whether Mr. Knightley had returned from London.

  “To hear Miss Jones describe Mr. Deal’s gypsy mother, Baba Yaga is come to England,” Darcy said as they headed back to Hartfield. “I half expected her to tell us that Madam Zsófia rides through the night in a mortar and pestle, stealing children.”

  Elizabeth, too, thought Loretta’s description greatly exaggerated. “When I met Rawnie Zsófia, she did not look like an old Russian witch from legend.”

  Darcy glanced at the gloomy blanket of clouds above; Elizabeth hoped the rain would hold off until he had completed his second trip to Guildford.

  “Perhaps not.” Darcy’s tone matched the weather. “But she is increasingly looking like a murderess.”

  Thirty-Three

  “A vast deal may be done by those who dare to act.”


  — Mrs. Elton, Emma

  Mr. Knightley returned to Hartfield just as Darcy was preparing to leave for Guildford. After a brief update from Mr. Perry on the maid’s condition and a summary of Darcy’s findings just detailed enough to convey the necessity of another gaol visit, Mr. Knightley traded Hartfield’s coach for Darcy’s, and both gentlemen began their second long journey of the day. The only thing that might be said in favor of the drive was that it provided an opportunity for Darcy to more fully recount the day’s conversations with Mr. Deal, Madam Zsófia, and Miss Jones, and to share the letter from Lord Chatfield. Mr. Knightley had nothing to report of his investigation into Mr. Deal’s birth; he had only just begun when Mr. Perry’s message brought him home.

  “In light of these new developments,” Mr. Knightley said when Darcy had done, “you lean, then, towards Mr. Deal or Madam Zsófia as the poisoner?”

  “I still want to talk to Mr. Dixon again, and I have not altogether eliminated Frank Churchill, but… yes. Mr. Deal’s participation might prove unwitting, but his mother’s involvement would be entirely deliberate.”

  Darcy paused. Elizabeth, perhaps beguiled by Madam Zsófia’s gypsy charms, favored Thomas Dixon as the killer. He admitted as much to Mr. Knightley. “I cannot discount Mrs. Darcy’s opinion,” he added. “She is the only one who has met and spoken with Madam Zsófia, and my wife’s instincts have served us well in the past.”

  Mr. Knightley nodded. “Mrs. Knightley also has her own views on the matter. She will not hear a word against Thomas Dixon, or Frank Churchill, and still harbors hope that her favorite peddler will be exonerated. I think she would very much like to see this crime laid at Madam Zsófia’s feet.”

  “And you?”

  Mr. Knightley gazed out the window at the dimming landscape. “I am trying to withhold judgment until we learn all we can.”

  By the time they reached Guildford, both men were weary, hungry, and thoroughly tired of the insides of coaches. They were also not inclined towards pleasantries when Mr. Deal was at last before them in the private but dreary room they were granted for the interrogation. Barely had the peddler’s face registered surprise at seeing Darcy for the second time that day — with another basket, no less — than Mr. Knightley motioned him onto a splintery wooden chair beside the table, sat down on an equally suspect seat across from him, and commenced the interview.

  “Mr. Deal, is your mother — your gypsy mother — familiar with belladonna?”

  Mr. Deal regarded Mr. Knightley warily. He glanced up to Darcy, who remained impassive, then back at the magistrate.

  “Of course she is. I would venture to say that Rawnie Zsófia knows every plant that grows in England, and many that do not.”

  “Did she share her knowledge with you?”

  “She did not formally train me as a healer — she saw that my talents lay elsewhere. But she taught me some rudiments, that I might tend to myself if the need arose. And she taught me to identify many plants in regions through which we regularly passed.”

  “Was belladonna among them?”

  “Aye. In fact, it was one of the first. Gypsy travelers often forage to feed themselves, and when I joined the kumpania, my mother taught me which plants were poisonous and which were not. She especially made sure I could identify belladonna — she did not want me or any other child in the caravan to be tempted by its sweet berries, or mistake them for something else.”

  Mr. Knightley regarded the peddler in consternation. “Are you telling me that from childhood, every member of the caravan can recognize belladonna?”

  “I expect so.”

  The magistrate rubbed his temples. Darcy nearly did the same. Their pool of suspects had just expanded exponentially.

  However, the number with clear motive remained finite. “We have been told that Edgar Churchill and Thomas Dixon visited the gypsy camp the day Mr. Churchill died,” Darcy said. “Did Madam Zsófia speak of the event to you?”

  If Mr. Deal feigned his look of astonishment, the peddler was a better player than many on stage. “No — I knew nothing about it. From whom did you hear this?”

  “Madam Zsófia herself.”

  “You have spoken with my mother?”

  Darcy handed him Madam Zsófia’s basket, from which the medicines had been removed. “This is from her.”

  His face still all amazement, Mr. Deal accepted the basket but did not examine its contents.

  “We would like to speak with Madam Zsófia further,” Mr. Knightley said. “Where might she be found?”

  “With the caravan, I assume.”

  “And where is the caravan?”

  Mr. Deal turned to Darcy. “As I told you this morning, I do not know.” He ran his hand through his hair. “By the gods, I would like to speak to her myself. I cannot believe my mother met with Edgar Churchill and did not tell me. Are you certain you understood her correctly?”

  “Miss Jones has confirmed it.”

  “Loretta met him, too?” He stared at them, his expression transforming from surprise to dismay. “What—” His gaze drifted along the cell walls as if answers to the questions tumbling through his mind might be found etched in the cold stone. Then he closed his eyes and swallowed. “What occurred?”

  “Allegedly, the two gentlemen had their fortunes told.”

  “By my mother?”

  “By Miss Jones and another girl.”

  Mr. Deal’s eyes opened, but he did not look at either gentleman. He stared instead at a large knothole at the edge of the table, though Darcy doubted Mr. Deal even saw it. “What was my mother’s contact with Edgar Churchill?”

  “We hoped you could tell us. Miss Jones claims he complained of the gout. What might Madam Zsófia have given him for it?”

  Mr. Deal thought for a moment. “Tansy root.” He looked at Mr. Knightley. “Preserved in honey. Gout is not a common ailment among members of our caravan, but I sell many preparations of tansy root to gorgios. I believe I sold one to you, Mr. Darcy. It is not a cure that works immediately, however — one must take the remedy daily for it to have effect.”

  Mr. Perry had said the gout remedy Darcy purchased was indeed tansy. “She could have given him anything and told him it was a cure for gout. Including belladonna.”

  “She would not do that!” Mr. Deal said.

  “Are you certain?” Darcy countered. “Particularly if she thought she was protecting you?”

  “From my father?”

  “From his rejection. Or from want — perhaps she intended to secure your inheritance.”

  “I told you, the Roma do not think that way.”

  “Maybe one does,” Mr. Knightley said. “One who has lived amongst them but is not truly a gypsy.”

  Mr. Deal turned his head sharply to stare at Mr. Knightley. “What do you mean?”

  “If Madam Zsófia did not poison Edgar Churchill, perhaps you did. You just admitted that you sold many gout remedies — or something passing for gout remedies — to gorgios.”

  “Not to him.” Mr. Deal slowly shook his head. “And none of the remedies I sold were anything but what I claimed.”

  “If you did not prepare them yourself, how can you be certain?”

  Thirty-Four

  A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress.

  — Emma

  Emma wished Mr. Knightley had not needed to rush off to Guildford nearly the moment he returned from London. In the wake of his abrupt departure, it had taken some effort to convince Mr. Woodhouse that his son-in-law was quite safe and not out personally nabbing gypsies. If only she could assure herself of that fact.

  There being only three remaining at Hartfield — Emma, her father, and Mrs. Darcy — dinner was a quiet event. After the meal, Emma anticipated a long evening spent diverting her father with games of backgammon or cards. But Mr. Woodhouse surprised her by announcing his intention to retire to his chamber for the night. She immediately became anxious for his health.

  “No, my dear, I
am fine. Only a little tired, is all. When Perry was here earlier, he asked me whether I had been sleeping well, and I said how could anybody, with all these gypsies about? He made me promise to retire early tonight. So I am off to bed.”

  Emma could not imagine anybody’s being able to fall asleep this early and hoped her father, in his determination to follow Mr. Perry’s advice, was not consigning himself to hours spent fretting in the dark about trampers stealing his poultry.

  She saw him comfortably settled in his chamber, and after assuring herself that he would indeed drift off to sleep, went to the drawing room. Mrs. Darcy stood at one of the windows.

  “Has the rain started?” Emma asked. She had not heard any drops falling, but it had threatened all day.

  Mrs. Darcy started and turned round. “What? Oh — no, it has not. I beg your pardon — I did not hear you enter.” She moved away from the window and sat down on a chair near the fire. “I was contemplating something Miss Bates said this afternoon, though it might be entirely insignificant.”

  “If Miss Bates said it, it probably was.” Emma took the seat opposite her. “However, tell me anyway.”

  “She mentioned that she had just found a note from Mr. Deal, and assumed he had left it at her door sometime before his arrest. But were that so, would she not have discovered it earlier? We encountered her in Broadway Lane this morning, and she had already been to the bakery and back to pack a basket for Mr. Deal. Surely she would have seen the letter lying there?”