The Intrigue at Highbury

by Carrie Bebris

  “Should a journey to Richmond prove necessary, I can depart as soon as a horse is readied,” Darcy offered.

  “I hope it is not needed,” Mr. Knightley said. “The afternoon is already half gone, and I want to confront Mr. Deal himself by day’s end.”

  Thanks to the recollective powers of a footman who had served the Churchill family for twoscore years, Darcy was spared a hasty ride to Richmond. He instead spent the evening with Mr. Knightley and Hiram Deal. It had been Mr. Knightley’s idea to host the intimate little gathering in his small study at Hartfield, which afforded more privacy than the Crown, his usual venue for magisterial business.

  It had not been Mr. Deal’s idea to attend it.

  The peddler arrived in the escort of Mr. Cole. Though Mr. Deal labored to maintain his customary affability, there was wariness in his manner as he greeted Mr. Knightley and Darcy.

  At Mr. Knightley’s nod, Mr. Cole left the study. The constable would wait in the drawing room with the ladies and Mr. Woodhouse, near at hand should he be wanted. As far as Mr. Woodhouse knew, Mr. Cole—and his waiting carriage—were at Hartfield to visit Mr. Woodhouse. Mrs. Knightley’s father need not know that a suspected murderer was presently under his roof.

  With brusque civility, Mr. Knightley invited Mr. Deal to take a seat opposite himself, the large writing table between them. Mr. Deal sat on the edge of the chair, leaning slightly forward like a man ready to engage in conversation—or poised to flee. Darcy remained standing off to one side.

  The magistrate did not waste time on pleasantries. “Mr. Deal, have you any notion why I asked you to come here this evening?”

  “None, sir. Though I suspect you do not wish to see my inventory of brandy.”

  The attempt at levity failed to elicit a smile from Mr. Knightley. “Tell us about your business with the Churchills.”

  “The Churchills?” The peddler, clearly perplexed, glanced from Mr. Knightley to Darcy and back. “I thought I had—when we spoke some days ago, Mr. Darcy—but certainly, I can repeat it for you. I sold the younger Mr. Churchill a snuff box.”

  “We mean your previous business with the family,” Darcy said. “In Richmond.”

  The peddler blinked. “Richmond? I never met either of the misters Churchill in Richmond.”

  “But you did visit their house. On June twenty-sixth.”

  “I visited many homes in Richmond last June. Usually I deal with the servants or the lady of the house. Rarely gentlemen. As to whether I stopped at the home of a family named Churchill specifically on the twenty-sixth, I cannot say. Surely you do not expect me to remember with such clarity the calls I made five months ago?”

  Darcy stepped closer, forcing the peddler to tilt his head up to look at him. “You recall the history of every item you hawk from your cart. I indeed presume you capable of recollecting a meeting on the twenty-sixth of June that resulted in a heated argument with the lady of the house. The servant I spoke to today certainly remembers it.”

  Mr. Deal shifted, turning his body so that he no longer faced Darcy, but Mr. Knightley. He did not, however, look at the magistrate. He stared at the clawed feet of the writing table as he brought up his maimed arm and absently rubbed the stump with his hand. His countenance bore an expression of defeat. And shades of fear.

  Mr. Knightley rested his own arms on the table and formed a temple with his fingertips. “Mr. Deal, the servant’s testimony provides sufficient cause to arrest you tonight. If you wish to offer your own explanation of events, or have anything to say on your behalf, now would be the time to do so.”

  Mr. Deal opened his mouth to speak, but no words issued forth.

  “You had a row with Mrs. Churchill, after which she suddenly died. I doubt you fought over the price of lace,” Darcy said. “The servant told me that he had seen you loitering near the house for a se’nnight previous.”

  Mr. Deal’s jaw tightened.

  “What business brought you to the house?” Mr. Knightley asked. “How did you know Agnes Churchill?”

  Mr. Deal raised his head. The look he gave Mr. Knightley was direct and unapologetic.

  “She was my mother.”

  Volume the Third

  IN WHICH HIGHBURY BECOMES ACQUAINTED

  WITH A MURDERER

  Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure.

  —Emma

  Twenty-eight

  “Oh, Mrs. Churchill . . . What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!”

  —Isabella Knightley, Emma

  We are to believe that in her youth, Agnes Churchill secretly bore a child that she kept hidden for decades?” Though Mr. Knightley voiced the question, Darcy was equally incredulous.

  “My birth was not a secret, only my life—even to her.”

  “Mr. Deal, kindly explain yourself.”

  As Mr. Knightley spoke, movement at the door caught Darcy’s attention. Elizabeth silently entered. Her expression indicated that she had something to tell him, but a brief exchange of unspoken communication indicated that it was not exigent. As he did not want to interrupt Mr. Deal or miss what he was about to say, Darcy motioned her to wait quietly. Mr. Deal’s back was to her; he had not seen her enter. Elizabeth’s attendance would not inhibit his admissions. Mr. Knightley gave no sign of disapproval and did not betray her presence.

  “I have had, in truth, three mothers,” Mr. Deal said. “Only two, however, deserve the name. Though Agnes Churchill gave me life, she would have stolen it from me just as quickly had the nurse who attended my birth followed her orders. Thankfully, the nurse instead took me far away and gave me to her childless cousin.”

  Since entering Highbury, Darcy had not heard one favorable word about Agnes Churchill. Still, he found it difficult to comprehend any mother’s being capable of what Mr. Deal alleged. Or any father. “Were you born out of wedlock?”

  “Indeed, no. Edgar Churchill was my father, and my arrival, a little more than a year into their marriage, was entirely legitimate. But I learned this only recently. Growing up, I knew merely that I had been born in London to parents either unable or unwilling to keep a maimed child. I always imagined they were a kind but fortuneless couple with so many other mouths to feed that they could not afford to raise a son whose deformity would forever be a burden.”

  “And the woman who did raise you?” Mr. Knightley asked.

  “My adoptive parents were hardly wealthy themselves. They owned a modest shop in a village not unlike this one, and it was there that I learned my sums and began to develop the skills of a salesman. They also taught me my letters and manners, for they knew the life of a cripple would not be easy, and they wanted to prepare me as best they could to make my way in the world.”

  “How, then, did you come to consort with gypsies?”

  Mr. Deal leaned back, settling into both his chair and his story. His manner, however, did not have quite the ease with which he spun his trader’s patter. This time, instead of selling his wares, the peddler had to sell himself, and Darcy and Mr. Knightley were determined not to be taken in.

  “When I was nine, scarlet fever claimed both of my parents, along with most of the village. Before she died, my mother told me that my birth name was Churchill, but cautioned me against trying to find my true parents. I would be safer and happier in the village, she said, running the shop with the guidance of a friend she asked to look out for me until I could manage independently. But her friend died, too. The outbreak left the village decimated; parish relief was exhausted, and nobody wanted the trouble of caring for a child not theirs, not whole, and of unknown origins. I sold everything I could not carry, packed my haversack, and left the village determined to somehow find my way to London.

  “I had not journeyed a mile when I encountered a kumpania—a caravan—of gypsies moving through the area. They had heard of the contagion that claimed our village and, afraid I carried the fever, warned me to keep my distance
. But they had among them a drabarni. In the Romany tongue, that word can mean a seer or a healer; Rawnie Zsófia was both. There are many pretenders to both arts among the gypsies, but if there is one who truly possesses the gifts of prophecy and medicine, it is Rawnie Zsófia. She told her fellow gypsies that they had nothing to fear, that I must join them. She was a young woman then, not yet thirty and unmarried, but already they respected her as if she were an elder.

  “She asked me where I traveled. Her black eyes at once fascinated and frightened me—I was certain she could see straight into my mind and heart. I stammered out that I was seeking my mother. ‘You need look no farther,’ she replied. ‘I foresaw that you would come to me. From today, you are my chosen son.’ ” His voice grew thick as he recalled the meeting and repeated her words.

  “And so I became a gypsy, with a gypsy life and a gypsy name. Among the Roma, Rawnie Zsófia’s protection was better than royal patronage, and they accepted me without question. My deformity was nothing to a people who had themselves endured centuries of persecution, and they taught me such skills as were within my power to make others overlook my missing hand. It was in this familia that I learned the art of storytelling. And a few other talents.”

  What these other talents were, Mr. Deal did not specify. Darcy suspected that a number of them were of questionable legality.

  “In turn,” the peddler continued, “I became the caravan’s middleman with the gorgios. My English features and respectable speech enabled me to move freely wherever we traveled, and I soon earned my keep by selling the gypsies’ wares in towns we camped near. As I grew older, the path of my journeys often divided from that of the caravan, sometimes for prolonged periods. But always I returned to my gypsy mother, the woman known to others as Rawnie Zsófia, but to me alone as dai.”

  Darcy stirred impatiently. The peddler had an interesting history, but none of it explained his recent dealings with the Churchills and the events of June twenty-sixth. “When and why did you seek out the Churchills?”

  “Though I was content with my gypsy familia, I often wondered about my birth parents. Whenever Rawnie Zsófia told my fortune, she would not reveal anything she saw about the Churchills, and a sorrowful expression would overcome her face if I asked whether I would ever meet them. ‘In time, my chavo,’ she would say. ‘In time.’

  “Last spring, the caravan camped just outside of Highbury. I was not with them, but there was an incident involving a young woman who became frightened when some of the children begged her for a coin. A gentleman intervened—Mr. Churchill, the woman called him. Though he bears a resemblance to my own appearance fifteen years ago, Rawnie Zsófia needed no physical cues to know him immediately for my kin. She had already seen him in visions. When I was next with her, I sensed that something had changed. I asked why she was so heavyhearted. ‘The time is come,’ she said.

  “I traced Frank to the Churchills’ house in Richmond, then over the next month ascertained that the senior Churchills were indeed the couple who had abandoned me. Though I trusted the truth of Rawnie Zsófia’s visions, I needed more objective proof before attempting to meet them. And that is all I wanted—simply to meet them. I did not intend to reveal my identity.”

  Mr. Knightley, who had been taking occasional notes as Mr. Deal spoke, stopped his pen midstroke. “After spending years among a race infamous for thievery, you discovered that your parents were quite wealthy, yet you had no ambitions of claiming some of that wealth as your own?”

  A wry smile formed on Mr. Deal’s lips. “My life with the gypsies indeed influenced me, but not in the manner you assume. The Roma are, in fact, not an avaricious people; their language does not even include a word for ‘possession.’ They take and use only what they need, and cannot comprehend the compulsion of ‘civilized’ men to acquire more.” His expression grew serious again. “When I say I did not aspire to the Churchills’ riches, I speak the truth, and after seeing the creature my birth mother became under the malignant influence of money, I am even more decided. I want no part of the Churchill fortune; my cousin Frank is welcome to it.”

  “And is this what you told Agnes Churchill?”

  “Our conversation never progressed that far. Even if it had, her own enslavement to power and wealth so distorted her thinking that I doubt she would have believed me.”

  Mr. Deal cleared his throat several times. It was dry in the room, and he had been speaking some time with little interruption. Mr. Knightley rose and went to a small side table that held a decanter and glasses. As he poured a glass of wine and handed it to Mr. Deal, Darcy went to Elizabeth.

  “What brings you?” he whispered.

  “Mr. Cole was called away,” she whispered back, “but says he will return directly.” She nodded towards Mr. Deal. “This is quite a tale.” She appeared reluctant to leave.

  Indeed, he would not mind hearing her assessment of the story when Mr. Deal had done telling it. “Stay if you wish. Though be discreet.”

  He returned to his position near the table with the wine. Mr. Knightley had just topped off Mr. Deal’s glass.

  “Pray, describe exactly what transpired during your meeting with Mrs. Churchill,” Mr. Knightley said.

  Mr. Deal swallowed more wine before continuing. “I thought it would be best to meet only my mother first, so I waited for a time when Frank and Edgar Churchill were out—that is why the servant saw me loitering in the neighborhood. When the opportunity arose, I called at the house as a peddler and was granted an audience with Mrs. Churchill.”

  Darcy having declined Mr. Knightley’s silent offer of wine for himself, the magistrate returned to his writing table and once more took up his pen.

  “It was not a joyous reunion,” Mr. Deal continued. “Though I took care to hide my maimed arm from view, it caught her notice. She started, and peered into my face, where she found enough Churchill in my features to confirm her suspicion—which I did not deny.

  “She paled and stepped back, arms thrust defensively in front of her, as if she beheld a ghost. I suppose in a sense, she did, for she had presumed me dead all these years. But she quickly recovered herself. Before I could offer even a word of explanation for having sought her out, or tell her how long I had imagined that moment, she accused me of coming to blackmail her, to steal her fortune, to threaten her position in society. How dare I appear after all these years to take what she had spent a lifetime protecting? How dare I presume to even breathe?”

  He took a fortifying draught. “The full story of my nativity tumbled out. Her travail was long and difficult, surpassed in dreadfulness only by the horror of her first sight of me. The trauma she experienced was somehow my fault—I, an infant but minutes old. She refused to present a crippled son to her husband, or to acknowledge the deformed child as her own for all of society to judge her. What little blame that remained unassigned to me was laid on the head of the expensive London physician who had delivered me. Though the physician asserted that my deformity had manifested long before her lying-in and had nothing to do with the instruments he had employed as she labored, she threatened to destroy his reputation if he did not help her get rid of the child by telling Mr. Churchill that it had been stillborn. The attending nurse was paid to dispose of ‘the monstrosity.’ Mrs. Churchill did not care what happened to me, so long as she was never reminded of her terrible ordeal again.”

  Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. Her countenance was full of pity and sadness. He, too, felt sympathy, yet—he hoped—maintained enough detachment to respond to Mr. Deal’s revelations objectively. As all Highbury had already witnessed, the peddler was a consummate storyteller.

  Mr. Deal drained his wineglass. “You can imagine my pain upon hearing myself so described, my very existence thought of only in terms of its affront to her. But more was to come: When Mrs. Churchill had done spewing out the details of my first rejection, she cast me off a second time. After all these years, my father still believed I had been stillborn. She threatened my life if I revealed
myself to Edgar Churchill or exposed them to society. Should I speak of this matter to another soul, no one would miss a lying vagabond peddler, she said, or question his disappearance.

  “Her cruelty and selfishness stunned me. I told her, quite honestly, that neither she nor her husband need fear further contact from me. I had done with them both.”

  Darcy refilled Mr. Deal’s wineglass. “She worked herself into this terrible temper entirely by herself? With no provocation from you?”

  Mr. Deal stared at the glass thoughtfully. “Though her words were strong, I could see fear in her eyes at the threat my existence posed to her power and position in society, and within her marriage. I think that in the hidden recesses of her heart, where she dared not ever look, she had been waiting her whole life to be called to account for what she had done—a criminal living in perpetual dread of being caught. I think the knowledge of her sin preyed upon her nerves for nine-and-thirty years, growing sharper as she aged and came ever closer to facing her Creator. And when I appeared, the greed and guilt that had been feasting upon her soul came rushing forth in a torrent.”

  He looked up at Darcy. “You said she died following our meeting—I heard that a seizure took her.” He set his wineglass on the candle pedestal beside his chair and turned to Mr. Knightley. “I swear to you, I did nothing to antagonize Mrs. Churchill or provoke her anger. Nor did the seizure begin while I was with her, though she was in such a state of agitation that I can well imagine it coming upon her. When I quit the house, however, she was alive and in full possession of her faculties. My only crime was that I was, too.”

  Though Agnes Churchill had provided her son with ample motive for murder, Mr. Deal’s account of events was supported by the reports they had already received from her Richmond physician and household servants indicating that she died of an apoplectic fit. It seemed that if anybody was to blame for her death, it was Mrs. Churchill herself.