The Intrigue at Highbury

by Carrie Bebris

  Elizabeth no longer needed to whiff the tea to guess whether it had been poisoned. Or to guess how Edgar Churchill and Nellie had been poisoned. Like Miss Bates, both of them had drunk tea with Miss Jones shortly before falling ill. Elizabeth could not account for Frank Churchill’s poisoning—yet—but the other three could not be coincidence.

  Much as Elizabeth doubted, it remained possible that someone else had poisoned the tea—Mr. Deal or Rawnie Zsófia—but it was beyond doubt that Miss Jones had knowingly administered it. Clever lying girl.

  Elizabeth looked again at the note. She would have to study it more thoroughly later, but the handwriting bore similarities to that of the anagram she and Mrs. Knightley had solved.

  The maid entered with the spectacles. “I am sorry to be so long. I could not immediately find them.”

  Miss Jones thrust the teapot and cup toward the maid. “Patty, kindly take these and wash them. We will not need them any more tonight.”

  “No, Patty—do not wash them.” Elizabeth looked at Miss Jones. “Mr. Knightley will want them.”

  Loretta’s gaze darted from Elizabeth to the door and back. Then she let go of the china and sent it smashing to the hard oak floor.

  As Darcy reached the top of the stairs, a loud crash within the apartment propelled him through the door without pausing to knock. He knew Elizabeth was inside—Hartfield’s coachman, waiting in his own vehicle in front of the house, had told Mr. Knightley that their wives were on a social call. As social calls did not generally involve shattered porcelain, Mr. Knightley and Mr. Deal followed hard upon.

  The spectacle that greeted them required a few moments to absorb. Elizabeth stood near Miss Jones and a maid, shards of china and clumps of brown matter scattered at their feet, dark liquid spattered on their hems and spreading across the wood floor to soak into the worn Oriental rug on the other side of the room. Mrs. Knightley and Miss Bates were nearby; Miss Bates was seated at a table, gripping it with one hand as she peered toward the sodden mess on the floor. A bewildered Mrs. Bates looked as if she had just risen from her chair beside the fire. The crash was probably the first sound she had heard in a decade.

  Whether all were startled more by the crash or by the abrupt entrance of the gentlemen, Darcy could not tell. He crossed to Elizabeth and satisfied himself that she appeared unharmed.

  Miss Bates, however, looked ill.

  “We need Mr. Perry at once,” Elizabeth said. “I believe Miss Bates has been poisoned—by the tea Mr. Deal enclosed with his letter.”

  Mr. Knightley was halfway to the stairs in an instant. “I will send James for Perry.”

  “Mr. Deal did not write the letter,” Darcy told Elizabeth. “We are unsure who did.”

  At that news, Elizabeth looked hard at Miss Jones. “Perhaps the person who served the tea.”

  “What is happening? Oh! What is happening? Mrs. Darcy, what did you say about poison?” Miss Bates squinted toward the door. “What was that crash? Who is here?” She tried to rise but sank back into the chair and brought her hands to her temples. “Oh, my head! It spins. . . .”

  Mr. Deal regarded Miss Bates in consternation. Then turned a disbelieving gaze upon Miss Jones.

  “You?” His face held shock, betrayal, bewilderment.

  Miss Jones stared at him dumbly.

  “What have you done, Loretta?”

  “I—” She swallowed and looked down at the shattered teapot. “I accidentally dropped—”

  “What have you done?” He crossed to Miss Bates and gently lifted her chin so that he could examine her eyes. The pupils were so wide that Darcy could see them from where he stood.

  “Mr. Deal?” Miss Bates squinted at him. “You are out of gaol! Oh, I am glad. But I feel so poorly—”

  Mr. Deal strode towards Miss Jones. He scooped up a wad of wet leaves from the floor and thrust them towards her. “You put belladonna leaves in the tea?”

  “And some of the root.”

  Her unapologetic admission shocked him as much as the act. “Did you poison my father, too? And Frank?”

  “And that little scullery wench at Randalls.”

  “Oh, it is so warm in here,” Miss Bates moaned. “And my head . . .”

  With a look of anguish, Mr. Deal threw the clump of leaves at Loretta’s feet. “Patty, fetch mustard powder and a tumbler of warm water as quick as you can.”

  Darcy wondered whether they ought to wait until Mr. Perry arrived rather than trust Mr. Deal to properly treat Miss Bates. But Mr. Deal seemed to know what he was about—Mr. Perry had treated Frank Churchill with mustard—and time was of the essence.

  Patty brought the mustard and tumbler, along with a towel for Mr. Deal. As the peddler wiped the tea from his hand, Mr. Knightley returned.

  “What is transpiring?” he asked Darcy.

  “Miss Jones has admitted to poisoning all four victims—with belladonna, just as Mr. Perry thought. Mr. Deal had no idea. I believe he now intends to administer an emetic to Miss Bates.”

  “If one of you ladies would mix a spoonful of the powder with the water?” Mr. Deal asked. As Elizabeth took the jar from the maid and began to prepare the mixture, he glanced to Mr. Knightley. “Sir, Miss Bates might be more comfortable in the privacy of her bedchamber when the mustard-water takes effect. Will you help me move her?”

  Mr. Knightley met Darcy’s gaze, then looked pointedly at Miss Jones.

  Darcy nodded.

  Mr. Deal and Mr. Knightley assisted Miss Bates into the bedroom. The magnitude of her distress was evidenced by the dearth of her discourse. She went in comparative silence, issuing only occasional murmurs. Elizabeth followed them with the mustard-water, while the maid set about cleaning up the mess of tea and broken china.

  Old Mrs. Bates, upset and confused, called out for her daughter. Mrs. Knightley went to her. She tried to explain what was occurring—which, indeed, they all were still trying to figure out—but as it seemed inappropriate to shout the details of Miss Bates’s distress at the volume required for the elderly lady to comprehend them, Mrs. Knightley soon gave up. She instead settled Mrs. Bates into her chair, brought over one for herself, and sat beside her, holding her hand and soothing her as best she could.

  Miss Jones, meanwhile, attempted to take advantage of everybody’s divided notice to make an escape. Darcy put a swift end to that notion. She had moved a single step toward the door when he swung it shut and interposed himself.

  He had but one question for her.

  “Why?”

  She laughed derisively and said nothing, turning her head away. But her insolent expression transformed to pained when she caught sight, through the bedroom doorway, of Mr. Deal dabbing Miss Bates’s flushed face with a damp cloth.

  Her countenance hardened. “He does not love her, you know. He cannot love her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he loves me.” There was an odd light in her eyes. “Or he will—once I explain it all to him.”

  Darcy could not fathom an explanation that would excuse her crimes, let alone win a man’s affection. She would be lucky to escape hanging.

  Mr. Perry arrived and went immediately to his patient. With Miss Bates now in the apothecary’s care, Mr. Knightley, Elizabeth, and Mr. Deal came out of the bedroom and closed the door behind them.

  “Mr. Perry praised Mr. Deal for acting so quickly,” Mr. Knightley said. “Once she voids her stomach, she should be out of danger.”

  Mr. Deal’s anxious gaze lingered on the bedroom door.

  “Hiram?”

  The peddler flinched at the sound of Miss Jones’s voice.

  “Hiram, when you understand why I—”

  He whirled to face her. “Understand? What is there to understand, Loretta? What could possibly justify what you have done?”

  “I did it for you.”

  “You poisoned Miss Bates—a gentle soul who could not harm a mouse—for me?” He looked as if he, too, were about to become ill.

  “She canno
t make you happy, Hiram. She is like that little slut Nellie and all the other women.”

  “What women?”

  “Every village, every borough we passed through—all of them throwing themselves at you. But none of them know you as I do. At the end of the day you are still nothing but a peddler to them. Whereas I—I would follow you anywhere! I told you so—I offered you a woman’s heart and a woman’s body.” Her voice grew hoarse. “But I was just a child in your eyes. You told me to go home, back to my parents.”

  “And you should have listened! But instead—instead of returning to your father, you murdered mine? Did you do that for me, too?”

  “Edgar Churchill was never a father to you, any more than his wife was a mother.”

  A fresh expression of horror overtook his features. “Did you kill her, as well?”

  She laughed. “I wish I could take credit. That hateful old lady deserved to die—when I overheard you tell Madam Zsófia what she had said to you, I was only sorry that God took her before I thought of it. But her death made me realize that all of the Churchills needed to be punished—and I knew that if I could be the one to bring them to justice, to make them pay for what they had done to you, to vindicate you—then—then you would see that I am not a child.”

  “What did Edgar and Frank Churchill do to me that merited poisoning them?”

  “All of the Churchills treated you cruelly! While your parents lived in their fancy houses and wore fine clothes, while your cousin usurped your birthright, you lived amongst gypsy thieves.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “I have never regretted my life with the Roma.”

  Miss Jones’s last statement brought to Darcy’s mind the puzzle they had received. “Was it you who left the anagram? ‘He dwelled amongst thieves’—”

  “ ‘—as they lived large in Richmond’?” Her mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smile. “I most certainly did. I could not be silent. Everyone mistook the Churchills for victims. Their hypocrisy needed to be known.”

  “But why did you implicate yourself and Mr. Deal with the second solution—the one about hidden motives?” Mrs. Knightley asked.

  Miss Jones regarded her as if she were daft. “There was no second solution.”

  “Indeed, there was.”

  “If you found one, your own imagination created it, for I did not.”

  “But I—” Mrs. Knightley stared at her unbelievingly. “ ‘Clever lying girl—Deal had hidden motives—Not what he seems’—You did not hide that second message in the puzzle?”

  Now Miss Jones’s expression was scornful. “Why on earth would I?”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Deal said quietly, “the powers you mocked by engaging in false prophecy caused you to reveal more than you intended.”

  Loretta looked as if she were about to mock that suggestion as well, but then appeared to think better of it.

  “Did you author the previous puzzle, too?” Elizabeth asked.

  “The one Mrs. Elton spoke of? No. But hearing her talk about it at the Crown gave me the idea of writing my own message as a puzzle, and I sent it to the post office with Alice when she took Mrs. Todd’s letters so that no one would know it came from me. I hoped you would assume the two puzzles were written by the same person—and I see that I was successful.” She turned back to Mr. Deal. “Hiram, do you understand now how I planned for us? When the caravan moved on and you stayed behind, I remained as well—to help you avenge yourself on your father, and clear the way for you to claim your rightful inheritance.”

  Mr. Deal turned away, unable to look at her any longer. He crossed to the window and stared through the rain-spattered glass into the night. Darcy could only imagine his thoughts.

  “When did you poison Frank Churchill?” Mr. Knightley asked Miss Jones.

  “At the Crown. I had been lingering round the village since leaving the caravan, eavesdropping for news that Edgar Churchill had in fact died, and watching for an opportunity to punish Frank. I followed him to the inn. It was very busy—a stagecoach had just arrived, and the kitchen was in disorder trying to serve all the passengers quickly to get them back on the coach. When the serving girl left his tea unattended before bringing it to him, I added my own ingredient.”

  “Nobody noticed you?”

  “I learned a few things from the gypsies.” She took obvious pride in her acts.

  “I suppose that is how you poisoned Nellie, too—tainting her tea when she had her fortune read at the Crown,” Elizabeth said.

  “That was a bit more difficult, but I managed. Edgar Churchill was the easiest of all, as I made his tea and served it myself.”

  Mr. Deal cast her a look of utter revulsion. “I am going to check on Miss Bates.”

  “Hiram—”

  He did not look at her as he passed, but went straight to the bedroom and shut the door.

  “Did not Thomas Dixon become suspicious, once Edgar Churchill had died?” Darcy asked.

  “Thomas Dixon knows enough to leave other people’s secrets alone, if he wants to keep his own.”

  “What secrets would those be?”

  “Nothing that pertains to the Churchills or anybody else in Highbury. But my gypsy friend told me his palm was rather revealing, to one who knows how to read them. If you want to learn more, you shall have to ask him.”

  Footsteps on the staircase announced the arrival of another visitor. As nobody was expected, they all waited in some suspense as Mr. Knightley answered the knock.

  Thomas Dixon appeared, his arms laden with parcels. “Where is Miss Bates? I come bearing new draperies! And her carpet will be delivered tomorrow.”

  He paused, taking in the scene around him—most particularly the great brown stain on the rug. He stepped aside to avoid soiling his shoes. “Well! It seems I am just in time!”

  Thirty-seven

  “Oh! If you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and open!”

  —Emma Woodhouse, Emma

  Miss Jones took Hiram Deal’s place in the Guildford gaol pending trial. Had she read her own tea leaves before embarking on her murderous plan, she might have foreseen where it would end. Then again, given her competence as a fortune-teller, perhaps not. As it was, she managed to attain at least tolerable conditions for herself by plying her dubious soothsaying talents (supplemented by considerable theatrics) among her fellow prisoners, earning enough coppers to secure small comforts while she awaited the spring assizes.

  Thomas Dixon, when questioned, admitted to having authored the raven riddle. Following Edgar Churchill’s death, he had thought perhaps the poison had been administered at the gypsy camp, but had not wanted to betray his own presence there for fear of implicating himself in the crime. The appearance of the first charade had inspired him with a means of aiding the investigation anonymously through a puzzle of his own, and it was an easy matter to leave the letter on the post office counter as the aged postmaster snored in his chair. As for the secret to which Miss Jones had alluded, no one ever asked him about it, and he never told.

  Eventually, as his fortune had predicted, Mr. Dixon indeed came into money as a result of a death—just not that of a Churchill. Years after the Highbury intrigue was resolved, his friend Ridley passed out of this life while defending his honor in a duel. A lifelong bachelor estranged from his relations, the gentleman bequeathed his fortune and London townhouse to Thomas Dixon. Mr. Dixon assuaged his grief and memorialized his friend by immediately embarking on a comprehensive redecorating scheme. He was last seen engaged in a spirited debate with his favorite upholsterer over the virtues of paisleys versus stripes.

  Hiram Deal was proved to indeed be the son of Edgar and Agnes Churchill. The discovery of the nurse who had attended his birth, combined with the testimony of a superannuated servant, corroborated his story, and the court officially recognized him as Edgar Churchill’s legal heir. The events in Highbury having left him feeling his age and weary of wandering, Mr. Deal exchanged his itinerant lifestyle for a more settled e
xistence. His years amongst the gypsies, however, forever influenced his perspective. He rejected the considerable estate of Enscombe and the responsibility—and values—it represented. He signed over his inheritance to his cousin, Frank, reserving for himself only enough money to open a respectable shop and live a comfortable existence with his new wife: a woman of maturity, of gentle, even temperament, of cheerful disposition, and of open heart.

  Miss Henrietta Bates became Mrs. Hiram Deal in a simple ceremony performed by Mr. Elton in the village church. Mrs. Elton pronounced the wedding entirely devoid of elegance or fashion, citing in particular the insufficient quantities of lace and beadwork adorning the bride’s dress. Her opinion of the new Mrs. Deal’s exotic mother-in-law, who attended the nuptials in full drabarni regalia, she dared not utter for fear of attracting unfavorable attention from Madam Zsófia.

  The rest of Highbury, however, rejoiced that the spinster whose prospects had so long appeared hopeless (particularly to the Eltons) made so happy a marriage, one of affection, esteem, and companionship. Mrs. Deal, at last sharing her life and home with someone who both heard and responded to her, was no longer dependent solely upon the sound of her own voice to fill the silence, and gradually came to better govern her own discourse. Mr. Deal, in turn, at last enjoyed the felicity and contentment of ending each day in comfortable conversation with an intimate audience before his own hearth. Both considered themselves to have come into wealth—true wealth—beyond any they expected to know in this life.

  The newlyweds took up residence in a larger house, appointed in a discordant combination of plain English style and eclectic foreign embellishments that would have given Thomas Dixon seizures had he known. Frank and Jane Churchill were delighted to see both Bates ladies established in the new home, which included old Mrs. Bates’s familiar chair by the fire and a room for her that no longer required the elderly lady to hazard a dark, narrow stair. What Mrs. Bates thought of her new son’s history was anybody’s guess, but she welcomed him into her family with warmth, and the expressions on her countenance as she attended the conversations between him and her daughter on winter evenings led one to believe that she actually heard them.