“Did you see the assailants?”
“No. The rear carriage lantern broke, and I had brought the forward lantern with me when I approached the woman. Our servants did not see anyone, either. When they regained consciousness, our footman said he had been hit from behind while repairing the lantern. After some minutes, the groom went to check on him, discovered him lying on the ground, and was struck from behind, as well.”
“So the robbers never directly confronted you?”
“We saw only the woman.”
Mr. Knightley closed the agricultural volume and set it aside, along with a page of notes. From a drawer he withdrew a fresh sheet of paper and reached for his quill. “Kindly describe her. You said she was young?”
“Perhaps sixteen. She had blond hair.”
“Light blond,” Elizabeth said. “Her face and arms were tanned, considerably browner than her ankle, which she asked me to examine. She had small bones but seemed strong. She wore a white muslin dress. It was somewhat dirty, but not beyond what one would expect for a person who had been wandering lost in the woods for hours, as she claimed to have done.”
Mr. Knightley nodded as he took down the details. “What story did she tell?”
“She identified herself as ‘Miss Jones,’ though I would be astonished if that is indeed her true name,” Darcy said. “She said she was visiting cousins, also named Jones, at a nearby farm.”
“We have two families named Jones who farm in this parish. I shall enquire after the woman. Did she offer any other information?”
“Nothing about herself,” Elizabeth said, “though just before she disappeared, she told me there were highwaymen about.”
“This is the first I have heard of any highwaymen in the area. The worst menace we have known recently is a rash of poultry thefts. Have you any reason to think you were targeted on purpose? Was anyone paying particular attention to you or your belongings when you last stopped to water the horses?”
Darcy could recall no such unwanted notice, nor could Elizabeth. “I expect they waited along the road to take advantage of any promising traveler, and we merely happened into their path first.”
“You are fortunate that they did not confront you directly and seize the chest by force. Were you armed?”
“Yes.”
“Did you lose the weapon with the chest?”
Darcy shook his head. His small traveler’s pistol had been concealed in his greatcoat, and the robbers likely never suspected that Elizabeth carried an even smaller one in her reticule—or that she was a surprisingly talented markswoman. “My pistol was not inside it. The chest contained an heirloom set of christening garments and a signet ring that belonged to my late mother.”
Mr. Knightley dipped his pen again and looked to them both. “I shall require a description of the items if we are to have any hope of recovering them.”
“The christening clothes are a beautiful set,” Elizabeth said. “An embroidered gown of cream satin, trimmed with silk braid and silk ribbon ties. There is also a long pinner bib with Hollie point lace, and a lace-edged cap.”
“The signet ring is gold, inscribed with the initials A.F.,” Darcy added. The letters stood for Anne Fitzwilliam, the name Darcy’s mother had borne before her marriage. Upon Anne de Bourgh’s marriage to Colonel Fitzwilliam, the name had become hers, and Darcy had thought the ring ought to be, as well. Now the cherished baptismal set and ring were in the possession of conscienceless thieves with no value for their history or appreciation of their worth. Both Darcy and Elizabeth were deeply disturbed by the theft.
They provided a few more particulars. When they had done, Mr. Knightley returned the quill to its stand. His countenance, sober since their interview had commenced, grew more grim.
“Until we know more about the highwaymen, I am afraid I cannot be optimistic about your belongings being recovered,” he said. “I do, however, pledge to do all I can. In the morning, I would like you to accompany the constable, Mr. Cole, to the area on the London road where you encountered Miss Jones. Perhaps daylight will reveal clues as to the identities of these bandits.”
The butler entered. “Mr. Perry has returned, sir.”
“Thank you. I shall attend him directly.” Mr. Knightley rose. “I will send someone now to the Jones farms to learn what we can, but then I must excuse myself to address another matter before I can discuss this one with you further.” He withdrew his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. “The hour is grown quite late. I hope you do not intend to continue your travels tonight?”
“No, we plan to take a room at the Crown Inn. Our servants and remaining luggage were to meet us there.”
“I am afraid they undoubtedly found the Crown full. The assembly that was breaking up as you arrived here included many guests who have taken rooms there.”
“Is there another inn?”
“Unfortunately, no. We are a small village.” He paused. “But a hospitable one, I like to believe. Allow me to offer you accommodation here.”
“We do not wish to intrude on your celebration,” Elizabeth said.
“Not at all. I am sorry to say that the celebration reached a premature end. The dinner honored friends who recently wed, and the groom’s uncle unexpectedly died not long before your arrival.”
Darcy now understood the odd hush that had enveloped the crowd as it departed. “Surely you do not want strangers among you at such a time.”
“Half the guests are strangers to me—friends of the bride and groom. Your presence will be no intrusion, and I insist upon extending you a kinder welcome to Highbury than did Miss Jones. Permit me to send for your things at the Crown. In the morning, we can discuss your incident in greater detail and attempt to locate your stolen belongings.”
Mr. Knightley summoned a servant and instructed him regarding the arrangements. “And send a man to Hartfield to ensure that Mr. Woodhouse reached home safely,” he added.
“Now,” he said, leading the Darcys out of the library, “let us find Mrs. Knightley so that she can make your acquaintance.”
As they passed through the cloisters once more, Darcy mentioned the agricultural book he had seen on Mr. Knightley’s desk. “I have recently been reading Stuart myself, and am not certain I agree with all of his recommendations. Perhaps after more urgent business has been resolved, we can exchange opinions of his theories.”
Mr. Knightley appeared pleasantly surprised by the suggestion. “I should like that very much. Few among my acquaintance, save my steward, enjoy discussing such issues as much as I do.”
“Mr. Darcy has the same difficulty,” Elizabeth said. “Though, while we were in London, he managed to find enough gentlemen of similar interests at Lord Chatfield’s dinner party that they spent half the evening discussing husbandry.”
“It was not half the evening.”
She chuckled. “Tell that to the wives.”
Darcy addressed Mr. Knightley. “And none of those gentlemen had read Stuart’s book.”
Mr. Knightley had followed the marital exchange with interest. “You are acquainted with the Earl of Chatfield?”
“Indeed, I have the honor of calling him a friend,” Darcy said.
“As do I, though we missed each other the last several times I was in town. I begin to believe he knows absolutely everybody.”
Darcy was inclined to agree. The earl liked nothing better than to collect a group of diverse individuals around his dining room table to see what sort of conversation resulted, and in all of the parties Darcy had attended, he had never dined with the same group of people twice. His lordship belonged to several learned societies, and counted members of still more among his seemingly endless connexions. Men of arts and letters and science, men of medicine and law, military men and men of God—from artists to zoologists, philanthropists to philosophers, one could never predict whom one might encounter at a gathering hosted by Lord Chatfield. For all his intellectual curiosity, however, the earl was a discriminating judge of charact
er, and the fact that Chatfield included Mr. Knightley among his friends further reassured Darcy of the magistrate’s reliability.
When they reached the main hall, they found not Mrs. Knightley, but a gentlemanlike man about Mr. Knightley’s age, carrying an apothecary’s bag.
“Mr. Perry, I am glad you were able to return so quickly,” Mr. Knightley said. “I will join you in a few minutes. First, however, can you visit the servants’ hall? Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s coach was robbed, and their groom and footman were struck unconscious. They are awake now, but we should like them examined.”
“My goodness! You were not yourselves injured, I hope?”
After the Darcys gave their assurances, Mr. Knightley directed a passing footman to accompany the apothecary to the servants’ hall. He then turned back to Mr. Perry. “When you have done downstairs, a servant will escort you to Mr. Churchill’s chamber. I will meet you there. Do you require additional assistants?”
“For Mr. Churchill? No. I shall conduct only a preliminary examination here. Should we believe a more thorough autopsy is warranted, the remains can be moved to my office and a surgeon summoned.”
The word “autopsy” commanded Darcy’s attention. Apparently, the apothecary’s patient was the deceased uncle, and there had been something peculiar about his demise.
As Mr. Perry headed for the servants’ hall, Mr. Knightley regarded the Darcys apprehensively. “I wish Mr. Perry had exercised more caution in his speech just now,” he said. “The circumstances of Mr. Churchill’s death were a bit unusual, but not a general cause for concern. If you could refrain from mentioning the autopsy before anyone else, I would be most obliged.”
Darcy perfectly comprehended the magistrate’s position: Mr. Knightley did not want to create panic or invite rampant speculation whilst he had yet to determine whether there was anything about which to panic or speculate. Nor did he want to compromise the coroner’s ability to fully probe questions raised by the postmortem examination.
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Darcy and I have found ourselves called upon to investigate several suspicious deaths, more than one of which proved to be murder.” The incidents were not subjects he and Elizabeth were themselves in the habit of discussing with others, particularly someone with whom they were barely acquainted, but he wanted to assure Mr. Knightley that he recognized what was at stake. “We understand the importance of maintaining silence on such matters, and you may depend upon ours regarding Mr. Churchill.”
“I appreciate your discretion. Murder is a crime with which we, thankfully, are little acquainted in Highbury, and I trust that remains the case. I expect Mr. Perry’s findings to confirm Mr. Churchill’s death as accidental. One merely prefers certainty.”
Mrs. Knightley, the butler informed their host, was engaged with the Westons and Churchills at present, and Mr. Knightley decided to leave them undisturbed. With apologies for what he perceived as neglect, but which the Darcys did not take as such, he consigned them to the care of the housekeeper.
“I shall introduce you to Mrs. Knightley on the morrow. Meanwhile, do not hesitate to ask for anything you require.” Mr. Knightley started to retreat, but then halted and turned to them once more. “By the bye—did you solve them? The murders?”
“We did indeed,” Darcy said.
Mr. Knightley did not reply. He merely looked pensive as he headed to meet the apothecary in Mr. Churchill’s chamber.
Eight
“As it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.”
—Mr. Knightley, Emma
I believe,” Elizabeth said to Darcy as she sat at the dressing table, preparing to go down to breakfast, “that you and I have grown alarmingly accustomed to the presence of death and mayhem in our everyday existence.”
Across the bedchamber, he paused over the letter he was writing to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Why do you say so?”
“One might expect that being set upon by thieves and arriving here in the midst of a fatal fête would disturb one’s equanimity, yet I think I fell asleep last night the moment I closed my eyes.” Indeed, by the time their servants and luggage were collected from the Crown, little had remained of the night, and Elizabeth had noticed almost nothing about their chamber save the great canopied walnut bed centered on one wall. Upon awakening, she had found herself in a spacious, well-appointed room with sturdy, centuries-old furnishings and a view of Donwell’s apple orchard in the distance.
“You were exhausted from the travel and turmoil.”
She knew Darcy had been, as well. Despite her fatigue, his restlessness had disturbed her slumber more than once during the night, and this morning his mood remained more serious than usual.
“Even so, if misadventure continues to find us whenever we leave home, people will stop inviting us to visit.” She adjusted the lace of her chemisette and pinched her cheeks to add color to them. “I doubt Mr. Knightley has any notion what he took on by encouraging us to stay. It was noble of you to warn him.”
“I did nothing of the sort.” He added a line to the end of his letter, then signed his name. “In mentioning those previous incidents, I merely sought to assure him of our discretion regarding the Churchill matter.”
“Nevertheless, I approve your conscientiousness. Mr. Knightley seems a good sort of man, and I look forward to meeting his wife.”
She turned back to the mirror and made the finishing touches to her toilette. Though more inclined to wear a simpler dress to breakfast, Elizabeth wanted to make a good impression upon Mrs. Knightley, and so had chosen her chintz morning gown, with its scalloped front-button closure from bodice to hem. With winter approaching, her maid had attached the long, ribbon-trimmed sleeves just before they left Derbyshire, for which Elizabeth was grateful. Despite the fire in their chamber, the air held a nip that she attributed to the wind rustling the leaves outside.
Darcy, too, had chosen his attire with care. The navy blue coat was among her favorites, for it complemented his dark hair and eyes, and showed to advantage the broad shoulders that never shirked a burden placed upon them.
She smoothed the curls that peeked from under her cap, and rose. “Altogether, I declare this a better experience than the last night we passed in an abbey.”
Her lighthearted reference to Northanger Abbey and the intrigue it had held elicited the smile from Darcy that she had hoped to provoke. It was slight and brief, but she was glad to see it flicker across his countenance.
“Here, however, it is my mother’s jewelry that is missing.”
“I rue the ring’s disappearance,” she said, “but the christening garments distress me most.” The set had been worn by three generations of Darcy’s family: first, Hugh Fitzwilliam, the Ninth Earl of Southwell, and his two sisters, Lady Catherine and Lady Anne, Darcy’s mother. In time, their children had worn it: Hugh’s three sons, including James—now Colonel—Fitzwilliam; Darcy and his sister, Georgiana; and Lady Catherine’s daughter, Anne de Bourgh. Most recently, Darcy’s daughter, Lily-Anne, had been baptized in the set. “We cannot replace a christening gown worn by yourself and your daughter, and so many of your other relations. I had hoped to see more children of ours wear it after Anne and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s child is christened.”
“I do not intend to leave Highbury until we have exhausted all possible avenues for recovering our belongings. Mr. Knightley might already have learned something about the thieves during the night.” He dripped melted wax onto the letter and sealed it. “Though doubtless he is more occupied with Mr. Churchill.”
“It would be unnatural if he were not. To have a guest die during dinner—what a dreadful event! And then two strangers arrive in the midst of it to report a robbery. I think it speaks well of Mr. Knightley’s character and sense of duty that he gave us any of his time at all.”
“If highwaymen indeed threaten the village, their presence requires his attention even while he investigates the Churchill matter.” Darcy rose, the letter in one hand. The other he offered to Elizabeth and led h
er to the door.
“The question he posed to us at parting—do you suppose he suspects Mr. Churchill’s death was not accidental?”
“We do not know enough about the circumstances, or our host, to speculate. Nor is it our concern.”
“It most certainly is,” she replied as they stepped into the corridor. “For if we are still at Donwell for dinner, I hear we should avoid the bisque.”
Mrs. Knightley was younger than Elizabeth had expected. Given Mr. Knightley’s age, she had thought the magistrate’s wife would be closer in years to her husband’s, but instead the mistress of Donwell Abbey appeared to be within a year or two of Elizabeth’s own. Elizabeth recognized her as the lady whose father had left Donwell in dread of leftover syllabub the previous night. She was a beautiful young woman with a slender figure, flawless complexion, and intelligent hazel eyes. Her manners were graceful and her demeanor amiable, though the strain of the previous evening’s events was apparent in the smile she offered upon introducing herself.
Their hostess had been alone at table when the Darcys entered the breakfast room, the duty of seeing off numerous departing guests having prevented her from breaking her own fast until now. “Pray forgive my not having received you last night,” she said. “I did not know of your arrival until after you had retired. I am sorry to learn of the incident that brought you to us. Mr. Knightley assures me that neither of you came to harm?”
“We did not, but two of our servants were rendered unconscious for a time.”
“They have been attended to. Mr. Perry determined that they suffered no serious injury, but did advise a day of rest before they resume their duties.”
Elizabeth was relieved for the health of their servants, both loyal employees who had served the Darcy family for years. “I daresay we shall not be continuing our journey for at least that long, as your husband wanted to speak with us more today. Is Mr. Knightley about?”
“I have not seen him downstairs yet this morning, which surprises me, as he seldom rises this late.” Emma gestured toward the sideboard, where the morning’s meal had been set out for the convenience of guests leaving at various times. “After the events of last night, you must be famished. I believe the rolls are still warm, and if you will indulge a bride’s boasting of her new husband’s strawberry fields, Donwell’s jam is the finest in Surrey.”
The Intrigue at Highbury Page 7