The Intrigue at Highbury

Twenty-Eight

“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.

Edgar Churchill’s death, however, remained suspicious.

“You claim that you told Agnes Churchill you would attempt no contact with your father,” Darcy said, “yet you were seen with him here in Highbury at least twice — once in conversation at Randalls, and again in Broadway Lane whilst Frank purchased his snuff box.”

Mr. Deal nodded. “When I said that to Mrs. Churchill, I was so wounded by her treatment of me that I assumed I would receive a similar reception from her husband. But after my initial shock subsided and I had time to consider the matter, I realized that I was not the sole victim of her pride and deceit. In discarding me, she had denied Edgar Churchill his only son. I thought what my own feelings would be if I learned that an infant I believed I had buried more than half a lifetime ago was found to have lived. To the Roma, family is everything; to the English… not always. I had little reason to hope that Edgar Churchill was any different than his wife. He had married her, after all, and lived with her some forty years. But the fact that she had been so desperate to maintain his ignorance of me made me wonder what sort of man he was, and whether he might want to choose for himself to accept or reject me.

“My gypsy mother discouraged my wish to meet him. The omens were unclear, and she did not want to see my heart rent twice. I was persistent, however, and when the Churchills came to Highbury after Frank’s wedding, so did our caravan.

“As I had with Mrs. Churchill, I presented myself to my father first as merely a peddler, so that I might judge his character. I found him so very different from his wife that I could scarcely imagine them together. His manner encouraged my hopes and, with great caution, I revealed myself to him. He was understandably shocked, and grieved by my account of such deceit and cruelty on the part of his late wife. Yet he saw in me a glimpse of his younger self, and remembered irregularities in long-ago conversations with his wife, that made my story plausible.”

“He simply accepted you as his long-lost son upon the spot?” Mr. Knightley asked.

“Heavens, no. He was no gull. He intended to verify my history as best he could, and said he would write to his solicitor immediately. The physician who attended the birth was long dead, but the nurse might yet be found, and some of the servants present in the house that night were still with the family.”

“Money seemed to be foremost on Agnes Churchill’s mind,” Darcy said. “Did either you or he make any mention of your inheritance?”

“I assured him I did not want anything from him, save the pleasure of knowing him at last.”

“And how did he respond?”

“He promised that if I were indeed his son, I would finally know my father’s affection and acknowledgment.” He picked up his wine once more but did not drink, only stared at the glass in his hand. “That was the first and last conversation I had with him. We did not speak while Frank was purchasing his snuff box. It was too awkward, our acquaintance too new — more fragile than this glass.”

“Did he tell Frank Churchill about your conversation?” Darcy asked.

“If he did, my cousin has superior bluffing skills to even the gypsies, for he has betrayed no hint that he knows me as anything but a peddler.”

“You must have suffered quite a shock when your father died,” Mr. Knightley said.

“Indeed, yes.” He emptied the wineglass again, but declined Mr. Knightley’s offer of a third. “I grieved at the news. I grieve still.”

Mr. Deal rose and returned his wineglass to the side table from which Mr. Knightley had taken it. Elizabeth slipped out of the room. As she did so, Darcy caught sight of Mr. Cole in the hall.

“It sounds as if you learned a considerable amount about Edgar Churchill in a short period of time.” Mr. Knightley left his seat and approached him. “As you have no doubt heard, the coroner’s inquest ruled his death a case of poisoning, though whether accidental or deliberate remains undetermined. Can you think of anybody who might have wished him harm?”

The table rested beside a window, and Mr. Deal gazed into the gathering darkness. “I certainly did not. For me, his death could not have come at a worse time.” Bitterness tinged his voice. “I no sooner found my father than lost him.”

He turned to face Darcy and Mr. Knightley. “I have given you a full accounting of my dealings with the Churchills,” he said to the magistrate. “Am I free to leave?”

Mr. Knightley and Darcy exchanged glances. Mr. Knightley stepped forward.

“I am afraid not.”

Twenty-Nine

Pending verification of his story and further enquiry into his gypsy associations, Hiram Deal was committed to the county gaol. Mr. Knightley could not risk such an experienced itinerant fleeing. After thirty years of wandering with a gypsy caravan, the peddler surely knew every cove and corner of England, and Mr. Knightley and Darcy had no doubt of Mr. Deal’s success should he take it into his mind to disappear.

As the Darcys crossed Broadway Lane toward their waiting carriage the following morning, Elizabeth recalled her first meeting with the peddler. Though she presumed he possessed a colorful history, she had never imagined it so extraordinary. God forgive her, she was almost glad Mrs. Churchill had met her demise. It was fitting retribution, unjust only in that she died of natural causes while her guiltless husband had been poisoned.

“Are you quite certain you wish to accompany me to Guildford?” Darcy asked. “I should think you could find any number of more pleasant ways to occupy the day.”

The street was busy, Highbury already abuzz with word of Hiram Deal’s arrest. Elizabeth would just as soon escape the small village for a time.

“None superior to enjoying your companionship en route; we have had precious little time to ourselves since arriving here. Too, as much as I esteem the Knightleys, I do not mind absenting myself from Hartfield for a considerable portion of the day.” She smiled. “If Mr. Woodhouse orders me one more basin of gruel, I fear I shall choke on it.” The old gentleman meant well; she had come to realize that his gruel-mongering was a sign of regard. The two of them had developed an odd but congenial rapport. “But explain to me why you need to see Hiram Deal straightaway this morning, when he was just taken to gaol last night.”

It had required no small effort to persuade Darcy to allow her to ride with him to Guildford. Gaols were filthy places, breeding chambers for typhus, lice, and all manner of other plague and pestilence. By agreement, she would remain in the carriage while he met with Mr. Deal.

“Mr. Knightley and I did not complete our interrogation. By the time Mr. Deal explained his connexion to the Churchills and Mr. Cole returned, dusk was approaching, and Mr. Knightley wanted Mr. Deal on his way to Guildford before the hour grew late in case any of his gypsy familia lurked along the road with notions of liberating him.”

Darcy’s tone held a shade of derision as he pronounced the gypsy word. Though Elizabeth had been fascinated by Mr. Deal’s experience among the Roma and his friendship with Rawnie Zsófia, Darcy was more cynical.

“What else do you wish to ask him?”

When Darcy did not reply, she followed his gaze. Miss Jones had just emerged from Mrs. Todd’s house, apparently headed for the Crown Inn to ply her fortune-telling trade. She saw the Darcys, paused, and glanced towards her destination. They stood directly in her path to the Crown; there was no way to avoid them.

Miss Jones straightened her shoulders and continued towards them. “Good day to you,” she said in passing.

“Miss Jones — a word, if you please,” Darcy said. It was not a request.

Miss Jones stopped. She considered Darcy in silence for a moment. “And if I do not please?”

“I am confident that is not the case.”

“Then pray, be quick, for I have business this morning. There are those who will not begin their day until I have looked into their teacups.”

“I, too, have business this morning,” Darcy said, “with a man who I believe is a mutual acquaintance. How well do you know Hiram Deal?”

“The peddler? Perhaps hardly at all.” She tilted her head to one side and regarded Darcy brazenly. “Perhaps very well. Why do you wish to know?”

“I understand he travels with the same gypsy caravan that you claim kidnapped you. I wonder if he might tell a different tale of your experience than the one that you related.”

“Hiram came and went. He was not with the caravan when I was taken — we met later.”

“And what was your relationship then?”

“Our friendship is… an unconventional one. We were the only two English living amongst the gypsies. Infer what you will.”

Until that moment, Elizabeth had contemplated only a business relationship between the two — Mr. Deal selling what Miss Jones and the other gypsies stole. Had there been a romantic liaison? Mr. Deal was easily old enough to be Loretta’s father, but more disparate unions occurred in all classes of society. The handsome peddler had attracted the interest of many a maid in Highbury.

“Mrs. Darcy! Good morning!”

Elizabeth turned at the familiar voice behind her. Miss Bates approached, carrying a basket covered by a checkered cloth.

“I see you have your carriage. It is a fine day for a drive, is it not? Though a bit cold — I am glad to see you have a blanket with you. We have not had rain for several days, so the roads are plenty dry — that makes such a difference when traveling — dry roads. Mr. Deal and I were just discussing that fact on Sunday, and he would know, traveling as much as he does. — But the most shocking rumor is circulating the village this morning. Our dear Mr. Deal has been taken to gaol!”

“Gaol?” Miss Jones appeared genuinely stricken. The defiance left her countenance. She looked to Darcy. “Is it true? Has Hiram been arrested?”

“He—”

“I learned it straight from Nellie Hopkins, who works in the kitchen at Randalls,” Miss Bates said. “I met her early this morning at the bakery. She was sent to fetch baked apples for Jane. — Dear Mrs. Weston! She has been sending her apples to Mr. Wallis for baking ever since I mentioned Jane was partial to them — he does them just right. But what was I saying? Oh, yes! Nellie told me about Mr. Deal. She had it from one of the Randalls housemaids — Hannah — her father is the coachman at Hartfield. An excellent driver, James — whenever Mr. Woodhouse invites my mother and me to Hartfield, James always collects us and brings us home. It was he who drove Mr. Deal to Guildford with Mr. Knightley and Mr. Cole. Nellie was half beside herself. I think she is sweet on Mr. Deal — calf love, you know — eyes big as moons whenever she sees him. She is such a pretty little thing, and says he is so charming towards her.”

“Indeed?” Miss Jones’s face bore an expression of annoyance. Even Elizabeth, who had more patience for Miss Bates’s chatter, wished the spinster could keep to her narrative without so much digression.

“Oh, he is charming towards everybody — even me,” Miss Bates continued. “He is such a nice man. I do not know what he was arrested for. If James knows, he did not tell Hannah — as he should not — a good servant keeps his master’s business to himself. He only said Hannah should not use a gypsy elixir Mr. Deal had given her. Nellie had one, too, that she bought from him — a love philtre, she said it was. Imagine, believing in such a thing! Oh, to be that young again. Nellie said she did not believe one word against Mr. Deal. Nor do I. This whole business must be a mistake. Yes, I am certain — simply some dreadful, unfortunate mistake that will be rectified as rapidly as possible. Surely Mr. Knightley is taking care of the matter even now. I saw him pass through town very early this morning, looking so businesslike. Doubtless, that was his errand. ..”

In truth, Mr. Knightley was gone to London in search of the nurse who had attended Hiram Deal’s birth. As nearly forty years had passed, he harbored little hope of determining her name, let alone finding her alive, but he needed to at least attempt to locate her. He planned to call upon the Churchills’ solicitor as a starting point, and engage the aid of his own brother, a lawyer, as well. Elizabeth wished he and Darcy had traded errands — she would have preferred to accompany Darcy to London, where she could spend time with Lily-Anne while Darcy did his detecting — but Mr. Knightley’s status as a magistrate lent him more authority to loosen unwilling tongues.

“… all most shocking. Why, mere hours before Mr. Cole took him, Mr. Deal was in our parlor — he has visited my mother and me three days this se’nnight. Had a spot of tea with us on Wednesday, and brought us each a rose. Roses in November! They were dried roses, of course, but still so fragrant! I was quite speechless. ..”

Elizabeth was amazed that anyone could render Miss Bates speechless. She met Darcy’s gaze; he looked eager to conclude their interview with Miss Jones and be on their way.

Miss Jones did not appear amused, either. Vexation continued to dominate her features as Miss Bates rattled on.

“… such an interesting man! I could listen to his tales for hours. He has started to call me ‘Bella’ when he relates them — it is a little joke between us, you see — instead of ‘Bates,’ he says ‘Bella’—It is Italian for ‘beautiful,’ he tells me. — ‘Miss Bella, I have another story for you today.’—I expect he would call my mother ‘Mrs. Bella’ but she would not quite hear him and it would only confuse her. Oh! Here is Mrs. Elton coming up the lane. I heard you told her fortune, Miss Jones. What an extraordinary hobby! My mother and I only knit. I do not know that I believe one can see the future in a teacup, but there seems no harm in trying.”

“A teacup can indeed hold one’s fate.” Miss Jones regarded Miss Bates appraisingly. “I would be happy to look into yours this morning.”

“Would you? Gracious! I cannot imagine you would see anything interesting.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Well, I — perhaps another morning? I do need to speak with Mrs. Elton. Who is that with her? Oh! I believe it is Mr. Simon. — Indeed, it is Mr. Simon. Poor fellow — there is something not altogether right with him, I think. Good day to you, Mrs. Elton! Look — she motions for me to come to her. Oh, I nearly forgot! This basket is for Mr. Deal — bread and a pork pie and a cheese. I simply could not stop thinking about the poor man, cold and hungry in that dreadful gaol. Can you give it to Mr. Knightley, to see that Mr. Deal receives it?”

“I will make sure that it reaches Mr. Deal,” Darcy said. Elizabeth, who stood closer, accepted the basket from her.

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy! So kind of you. Do tell him I pray that his health does not suffer while he is there. I understand that gaols are such ill places. Poor man! — Look, Mrs. Elton motions me again. I must go.”

“I will walk with you,” Miss Jones said.

“That would be lovely. Oh — there is Nellie, going into the Crown. What a list of errands she must have this morning! You can ask her more about Mr. Deal. Good day to you, Mrs. Darcy! Mr. Darcy!”

Miss Jones thus made her escape, and Darcy did not prevent her. They had a fourteen-mile drive to Guildford, and needed to be on their way. Darcy handed Elizabeth into the carriage and soon they were in motion.

Elizabeth set Miss Bates’s basket on the seat beside her, along with the blanket they had just purchased at Ford’s. “I expect Mr. Deal will appreciate Miss Bates’s thoughtfulness.”

“He will, indeed.”

Elizabeth heard the odd inflection in his tone. Darcy knew too well the conditions Mr. Deal presently suffered. A year ago he had been gaoled for two days on a false accusation. It was an experience he still avoided discussing. But the fact that it had been his idea to bring the blanket for a man who might have been complicit in robbing them, spoke volumes.

She was not sure, however, that even Darcy would do the same for a man he thought was a murderer. “Do you believe Mr. Deal’s story about the Churchills?”

He frowned. “I was just asking myself that very question.”

“And what was your self’s reply?”

“You interrupted at the very moment I was about to find out. Now we shall never know.”

The carriage increased its speed as it left the village. Darcy tilted his head back against the seat and let his gaze wander along the roof. “In the matter of his true parentage, all of the principals who could have corroborated his tale are dead, with the possible exception of the nurse — a circumstance rather convenient to Mr. Deal’s cause if he is lying.”

“Let us assume for the moment that he is indeed their son — that that much of his tale is true — the scarlet fever, the gypsy caravan — everything up to his confrontation with Mrs. Churchill. Do you think he is our poisoner? We have only his word that Edgar responded favorably to his revelation. Even if Mr. Deal truly had no interest in the Churchill fortune, people kill for reasons other than money. If Edgar Churchill rejected him, Mr. Deal might have killed him — and tried to kill Frank — out of revenge, or despair. And with an herbalist as his gypsy mother, he is the likeliest of anybody to have access to belladonna.”

“That last would be true no matter what his motive.”

“Perhaps Mr. Deal did do it for the money — and then also tried to kill Frank, the Churchills’ heir. Oh! But that makes no sense. Frank’s will likely leaves the estate to Jane, so Mr. Deal would have no claim upon it. For Mr. Deal to benefit from Edgar’s death, he would have had to wait until he had been written into Edgar’s will. The murder took place too early. So if we solely consider money, we are back to Jane Churchill and Mr. Dixon as our chief suspects, and of the two of them, I favor Mr. Dixon. He was not pleased when Miss Jones offered to divine the name of his true love. I think he carries a torch for Jane. Perhaps he intends to fuel it with the Churchill fortune, after she becomes a widow.”

Darcy shook his head. “You are mistaken. Frank is not Edgar Churchill’s heir.”

“Whatever do you mean? The Knightleys said that the Churchills had formally adopted him.”

“According to Edgar’s solicitor, the will names Frank as his heir only in the absence of a child of Edgar’s body. If Mr. Deal is truly Edgar’s son—”

“Then when Edgar died, Mr. Deal became the owner of Enscombe.” Elizabeth tried to sort out the implications of this unexpected fact. “But does Mr. Deal know that? And is Frank aware of Mr. Deal’s identity? It all comes down to how much each suspect knows, and when he learned it. Edgar requested a meeting with his solicitor just before he died. Did he want to write Mr. Deal into the will more formally? Eliminate him from it altogether? Perhaps the meeting was not specifically to discuss the will at all, but to initiate an investigation to confirm Mr. Deal’s parentage.”

“Regardless of the meeting’s purpose, it was in Mr. Deal’s financial interest for Edgar Churchill to die before it took place,” Darcy said. “He was already the heir; there was nothing more to be gained by the meeting and much to lose if Edgar in fact wanted to write him out. If Mr. Deal knew the terms of the will, he had motive to kill Edgar before those terms could be changed. Though he claims not to want the money, it is now his by default if he can prove his identity.”

“And the motive behind Frank’s poisoning, if Mr. Deal is guilty of Edgar’s?”

“Kill off the pretender for good measure.” Darcy frowned in concentration. “Let us skip over Frank as a suspect for the moment and move on to Jane Churchill and Thomas Dixon, or Thomas Dixon acting alone. They are the least likely to know about the ‘heir of the body’ provision. If we assume their ignorance, they believe their interest lies in first eliminating Edgar, then Frank.”

“They are in for a rude surprise when they learn that Mr. Deal’s existence has undone all of their careful scheming, if indeed either of them is the poisoner.”

“Now to Frank Churchill. Of all the suspects, he is the most likely to know that the will contains the provision, but does Frank know that Mr. Deal is Edgar’s son? If so, Frank has no motive for killing Edgar — he is better off trying to persuade his uncle to change the terms of the will to do right by his adopted heir. But if he does not know Mr. Deal is Edgar’s son — and Mr. Deal says Frank does not — then Frank believes he benefits immediately from Edgar’s death. And if he knows about Mr. Deal but does not know about the provision, he believes he benefits by killing Edgar before his uncle can write Mr. Deal into the will.”

“But in any case, if Frank poisoned Edgar, who poisoned Frank?”

“Perhaps Frank himself? His poisoning was less severe than Edgar’s. He could have taken a smaller dose, or pretended the symptoms, to give the appearance that he, too, was a victim. He maintained a secret engagement for months — this would not be the first instance of Frank’s acting in deceit to throw suspicion off himself in pursuit of greater gain.”

Elizabeth sighed and looked out the window at the passing autumn landscape. “This was simpler when Mr. Deal was merely a friendly traveling peddler.”

Darcy handed Mr. Deal the basket and blanket, and endeavored not to touch any surface in the cell or breathe too deeply of its air. Mr. Knightley said there had been no recent cases of gaol-fever in Surrey, but one never knew.

Mr. Deal accepted the gifts with surprise, glancing inside the basket to quickly ascertain its contents. “Thank you, sir. I fair near froze last night, and the food is not fit for swine.”

“The basket is not from me, but from Miss Bates.”

Mr. Deal’s face brightened a little — as much as anything could appear bright in such dismal surroundings. “Indeed?”

“She also sends many wishes for your continued health and a swift resolution to what she is certain must be an extraordinary misunderstanding.”

He smiled. “Miss Bates is a lady with a heart full of affection and generosity. It is a shame she has only her mother on whom to expend it. You, too, sir, are most compassionate. The blanket—”

“Yes, well…” Darcy coughed, uncomfortable being thanked by a man he had helped incarcerate, and still more disturbed by their present surroundings: an all-too-concrete reminder of the ordeal that had motivated the gift. “I am not come here on a social call. Now that you have admitted the extent of your gypsy associations, I have questions for you regarding our robbery and your acquaintance with Miss Jones.”

“I swear to you, sir, I do not have your belongings.”

“But you know who does. The thieves were part of your caravan.”

“The caravan departed immediately after the robbery.”

“Where has it gone?”

“I do not know. I have not been in contact with them.”

“Surely you have some notion. How else would you know where to meet the caravan when you wish to rejoin it?”

“Perhaps I do not intend to rejoin it.”

“Because you plan to live on Edgar Churchill’s fortune?”

“What? No!” He swept his hand as if sweeping away the suggestion. “I told you, I have no interest in his money. I simply grow tired of tramping.”

Mr. Deal’s earnest expression and manner inclined Darcy to believe him. But Darcy knew that in any conversation with Deal, he could not allow himself to forget that he spoke with a salesman.

“Would you not miss your gypsy mother?”

“I would find a way to see her. Or she would find me.”

Though a high, barred window revealed a patch of sky, the cell was dim. The gathering clouds reflected Darcy’s mood. If the peddler would not, or could not, offer any information regarding the gypsies’ present whereabouts, Darcy would never see the christening garments, or his mother’s ring again. The thieves knew they were being hunted. Doubtless, the caravan was far from here.

Though Elizabeth had promised to wait in the carriage, it was not long before cramped muscles led her to amend her agreement to beside the carriage. Darcy was inside the gaol; he need never know that she had quit their coach for a time to circle the vehicle and breathe fresh air.

Their coachman eyed her askance. “Now, Mrs. Darcy, I am going to be in a world of trouble with your husband if—”

“Nonsense, Jeffrey. I am not going anywhere.”

The gaol stood some thirty yards away. Two gaolers guarded its entrance. They appeared ignorant, unclean fellows, distinguished from the prisoners within only by their liberty to leave at the end of their shift. They lounged on tipply wooden stools and occasionally passed between them a flask that Elizabeth doubted contained water.

She gathered her cloak more tightly about her. Though the morning had begun promisingly enough, dark clouds now hung heavy in the sky, threatening rain. As eager as she had been to leave Highbury, she now wished Darcy would hasten his business so they could return.

A woman wandered into view. She was tall, and wore a brightly colored dress that swirled about her legs as she walked. Long, thick black hair streaked with grey hung down her back, tumbling over her dark purple shawl and bound only by the kerchief tied round her head. She carried a basket trimmed in red, gold, and purple, similar to one Elizabeth had seen on Mr. Deal’s cart. She walked with purpose towards the gaolers.

Elizabeth could not hear what she said to them, only the mocking laughs they issued in reply.

“He’s busy — got a gen’leman with ’im now,” said the stouter of the two guards. “But even if he didn’t, I’d ’ardly let in the likes of you.”

The woman spoke again, gesturing towards her basket.

Elizabeth moved several yards closer. Her footman was beside her in an instant. “Ma’am…”

If Darcy questioned her, she was still near the carriage. “Hush, Ben. I only want to hear.”

The gaoler stood up, knocking over his rickety stool. “Prisoners ain’t allowed stuff from outside.” He lied — Darcy had walked in carrying both the blanket and Miss Bates’s basket without eliciting so much as a second glance. “Whatcha got hidd’n in there — knives’n such?”

His hand darted towards her. The woman quickly stepped back, but not before the gaoler managed to snatch something from the basket. “An apple? Surely y’got somethin’ better in there.” He took a bite and spat it out at her feet.

“Aw, Joe, can’t you see she was saving that for ’im?” The smaller fellow, emboldened by his comrade’s bottle-fed bravado, now rose. “What else are you savin’ for ’im? Are you his gypsy whore?” He yanked off the woman’s kerchief, revealing a greater proportion of grey.

Elizabeth had witnessed enough.

She started towards the entrance. Her footman matched her strides. Behind, she could hear Jeffrey trotting after them.

“Ma’am, surely you are not contemplating—”

“Indeed, I am not contemplating. I am quite decided.”

The stout guard barked out a laugh. “She’s old for a whore.”

“There’s no accountin’ for some men’s taste.” The woman tried to grab her kerchief, but the gaoler crumpled it in his grimy fist. “What will you gimme for it?”

“Sheka.”

“Gypsy dog!” The guard with the apple threw it at her. It struck hard enough to make the woman stumble. The taunts escalated, slurs so cruel and coarse that Elizabeth’s ears burned to hear them.

So engrossed were the gaolers in tormenting the woman that Elizabeth was upon them before they noticed her.

“Is this how Englishmen in service to the king treat a woman?”

The gaolers said nothing in response, but ceased their abuse. The stout guard spat in defiance.

Elizabeth held out her hand, palm up, towards the other gaoler, and fixed him with what she hoped was a commanding stare. Apparently, it was forceful enough, for he surrendered the kerchief. She turned to the woman to give it back to her, and met eyes as black as night.

“Nais tuke.”

“You are welcome.” Elizabeth gestured towards her coach. “Come with me. We can speak in my carriage.”

They started back towards the vehicle, her servants following. The coachman cleared his throat. “Mrs. Darcy, if I may speak freely?”

She paused. “What is it, Jeffrey?”

He cast a wary glance past her shoulder at the gypsy woman. “Are you certain it is wise to invite a… a person you do not know… into the coach?”

“I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but I know perfectly well who this woman is.”

Rawnie Zsófia.

Thirty

Bracelets clinked and jangled as Rawnie Zsófia stepped into the carriage. She sat down opposite Elizabeth and assessed her with an unwavering gaze. Perfume, barely noticeable when they had been outside, now added to the air a foreign scent Elizabeth could not identify. Though the coach was Elizabeth’s domain, it was difficult to say which woman occupied the small space with greater presence.

“So.” The gypsy woman set her basket on the floor and adjusted her skirts. “You are Rawnie Darcy.”

“Rawnie?” Elizabeth regarded her in puzzlement. She had thought “Rawnie” was Zsófia’s Christian name. If indeed gypsies were Christians.

“Rawnie—‘lady.’ Lady Darcy. Or madam, if you prefer.” She brought a hand to her own chest. “The gorgios sometimes call me Madam Zsófia.”

“It is simply Mrs. Darcy. I have no title.”

“You are more a lady than many who boast the title, Rawnie Darcy.”

Elizabeth wondered how Rawnie Zsófia had known her surname, and asked whether she had divined it.

The old gypsy smiled enigmatically. “If I told you that your name formed in the mist of my crystal ball, would you believe me?”

Elizabeth hesitated.

“Do not answer. I heard your servant address you.”

Rawnie Zsófia shook out her kerchief, determined that it was none the worse for having been clutched by a cretin for several minutes, and retied it round her head. Though according to Mr. Deal’s tale she must be sixty, she was yet a striking woman. While threescore years and a lifetime of traveling had etched lines in her dark skin, her angular face reflected wisdom as well as age, and her eyes appeared to hold secrets as numerous as Mr. Deal’s wares. She gingerly touched her side where the apple had struck.

“Did they injure you?” Elizabeth asked.

“They did nothing I have not endured many times before. But you did not invite me here to talk about Zsófia. You want to talk about my son. What is it you wish to know?” She had a low, mellisonant voice, one that charmed and disarmed its listeners.

“Whether he poisoned Edgar Churchill.”

Rawnie Zsófia laughed. The sound blended with her clattering bangles to form its own music. “You are direct. I admire that. So few gorgios are. I shall answer you with equal frankness. No, he did not.”

“How can you be certain?”

“I know Hram.”

“Hram?”

“That is his nav romano—his gypsy name. Hram Deal. It was I who gave it to him. It is not a name from the modern Romany tongue, but one formed of older words from the mountains of Romania, whence my mother’s people came. It means ‘church hill.’ The name connected Hram to his past, which I scryed in my ball, and to his future trade, which I read in his hand. He alters it to ‘Hiram’ when dealing with the gorgios, but among us he remains Hram. And Hram, despite having formed in the womb of a cold-blooded gorgie, has the heart of a Rom, and could never betray or harm a member of his familia—Romano or English.”

“He considers himself a gypsy, then?”

“Nai. He has learned our ways, and he sells our goods. He sings and dances with us, has celebrated and sorrowed with us. But he is not fully a Rom. Yet he is no longer purely English, either. Hai shala—do you understand? From nine to nine-and-thirty, he has divided himself between two worlds, existing in both but belonging to neither. I suspect that is why he has never taken a wife — though I sense, too, that he fears passing to a child the deformity that has so troubled his own life. Hram has a good heart and would make a fine husband to any woman. I know he would never stray, for he does not even accept what some would freely give.”

Rawnie Zsófia’s last statement brought to Elizabeth’s mind the morning’s conversation with Miss Jones. “There is a young Englishwoman whom I believe has been traveling with your caravan.”

“Hai. Loretta. She left the kumpania several days ago, I hope to return to her family.” Rawnie Zsófia sighed heavily and shook her head. “Her signs are very difficult to read. She is clever but not wise. Passion rules her instead of reason.”

“Was she kidnapped, as she claims?”

“Nai. She fell in love with a handsome young Rom of our kumpania and ran away from her family to be with him. Unfortunately, he did not return her love. She stayed with the caravan, hoping to win him, but he did not want a gorgie wife, especially one so headstrong and foolish. Two months ago he married a Romani.”

“And yet she continued to travel with the caravan?”

“I counseled her to go back to her own kind. So, too, did Hram. He had been away when she first joined the kumpania, but he returned shortly after the young man rejected her. She spent much time with Hram, following him like new pup, and he pitied her. I hoped that since he is English, like her, she would listen to him, but nai.”

“Did they — were they ever—” Elizabeth faltered, unsure how to delicately phrase her question. They were, after all, discussing Rawnie Zsófia’s son.

“Were they lovers? Nai. Hram has long been a man, and Loretta, though she has a woman’s body, is still very much a child. Perhaps she offered herself — sons, especially grown ones, do not tell their mothers everything, and even the most gifted drabarni cannot discern all. But he has no interest in her, save that of offering guidance to a fellow gorgio. He helped her understand the ways of the gypsies, but he did not teach her the ways of men and women.”

“Did her education in gypsy ways include the art of fortune-telling?”

“She is dukkering for the gorgios, is she?” Rawnie Zsófia released a low chuckle. “Hai, she asked me to teach her, and I saw that she has the intelligence to learn. But she had not the patience. Learning to read leaves or the cards or a palm takes time. One must know what to look for, and then how to interpret what is seen, and this knowledge comes only through practice. But Loretta, she wanted this understanding instantly. By the gods, she wanted to begin her training with the crystal! She sulked when I said we would start with tea. It was the same when she asked to learn the healer’s art. We were not an hour gathering plants when she complained of boredom and went off to watch her young Rom train ravens.”

Trained ravens. Elizabeth had suspected that the bird which appeared so conveniently at the time of their robbery had been a party to the conspiracy. She now had confirmation.

Rawnie Zsófia continued. “I do not think Loretta wanted to gain the skill of a drabarni, so much as the mystique of one. She is not alone in this. There are many Romani who learn only enough to persuade gorgios to part with their money. Loretta found such a one in our kumpania to teach her, and was starting to earn a fair number of coins. But it will be luck, not prophecy, if any of her foretellings actually come to pass. When she told Edgar Churchill’s fortune, she made such a jumble of it that another drabarni had to help her.”

“She met Edgar Churchill? When?”

“He came to our camp one afternoon, the day after Hram revealed himself to his father. Another gentleman was with him. I do not know his name.”

“How did you know he was Mr. Churchill?”

“My son had told me about his meeting with Churchill the day before, and my tea leaves that morning had told me to expect a visitor named ‘C.’ But even without that sign, I would have known him for Hram’s father.”

That Edgar Churchill had visited the gypsy encampment was certainly an interesting turn of events. “Why did Mr. Churchill come?”

“They were not seeking our camp, but when they came upon it, Loretta and a Romani girl persuaded the other gentleman to have his fortune told. Churchill looked uneasy, but also curious. He kept glancing about — maybe he hoped to see Hram, who was away in the village, or maybe he simply feared someone else would pass by and see him talking with gypsies. The girl and Loretta took them aside, and I busied myself nearby so I could observe the man my son had so long yearned to meet.

“Loretta made tea while her friend read the gentleman’s palm. After telling that fortune, the girl invited Churchill to give her his palm, but he refused. Loretta encouraged him to drink his tea, and talked very prettily to him, and by the time he finished the tea she had persuaded him to let her read the leaves.” Rawnie Zsófia rolled her eyes skyward and shook her head. “Of course, she had no idea what she was looking for. She uttered such nonsense that her friend took the cup from her and added her own forecast, so Churchill would feel that he got something for his coin. But even she seemed unsure. As Churchill and the other gentleman rose to go, one of the ravens flew over to them. It landed beside Churchill and let out a cry that sounded almost like a laugh. The other gentleman was amused, but the bird made Churchill even more uneasy, and they hurried away. I cannot blame him.”

“Why?”

“Ravens are bad omens. They nearly always mean trouble. And they often mean death.”

A chill passed through Elizabeth, and she burrowed more deeply into her cloak. “Did you warn Mr. Churchill?”

She shook her head. “The true meanings of omens take time to reveal themselves. The raven could be seen as a portent for Hram, that Churchill meant to harm him as his wife had threatened. Until I was sure, I had my son to protect.”

Rawnie Zsófia’s shawl had slipped. She returned it to her shoulders and started to rise. “The clouds grow thicker, and I have a long walk back to the kumpania. I must go.”

Elizabeth offered to drive her, but Rawnie Zsófia declined. She allowed the footman to assist her out of the coach, then extended her basket toward Elizabeth.

“I brought my son food, and medicines to keep him well in that unhealthy staripen. Will your husband give this to Hram?”

Elizabeth accepted the basket. She could predict Darcy and Mr. Knightley’s response. Heaven only knew what the “medicines” might contain, and who they were really intended for. “Only with the magistrate’s approval. I will be truthful with you — I doubt Mr. Deal will be allowed to have the medicines. He is suspected of poisoning someone, after all.”

“My son is suspected of many things he has not done.” She nodded towards the basket. “Look you inside, Rawnie Darcy. You will see.” She closed the coach door.

Elizabeth leaned against the seat. The air inside the coach still held the scent of perfume, and her mind whirled with all she had just heard. A few minutes passed before she returned altogether to the present; still more time would be required to absorb what she had learned.

She pulled the basket onto her lap and drew back the cloth that covered its contents. Apples and other foodstuffs filled it, along with several stoppered phials. She removed the food and medicines, setting them on the seat beside her. Another cloth lined the bottom, apparently bunched to form a cushion. She lifted out the cloth and discovered that the fabric did not itself form the cushion, but covered something else.

In the bottom of the basket, carefully folded, lay the Fitzwilliam family christening garments. And on top of them, Lady Anne’s signet ring.

Thirty-One

“Did we not agree that you would stay in the carriage?”

The set of Darcy’s jaw told Elizabeth that he was not furious. But he was not happy. An unkind thought regarding their servants passed through her mind as the coach lurched into motion. She could not believe they had betrayed her, however good their intentions. “Jeffrey told you?”

“Jeffrey? No. The gaolers saw fit to inform me. They are fine fellows — the very sort from whom one wants to hear reports about one’s wife.”

“I was in the carriage—” He gave her a hard look. “Well, in view of the carriage.”

“That is hardly the same thing.”

“You will be glad I took the liberty, when I tell you what occurred.”

The journey back to Highbury passed swiftly as Elizabeth recounted her conversation with Rawnie Zsófia. Thankfully, Darcy’s mood improved with each detail.

“So,” he said when she had done, “Edgar Churchill visited the gypsy camp on the day he died. I wager the other gentleman was Thomas Dixon. He was evasive when we asked him where he and Mr. Churchill walked that afternoon.”

“But why the secrecy? Does Mr. Dixon simply not want to bear the stigma of a person who associates with gypsies? Does he think he would appear foolish if it were known that he consulted a fortuneteller?” She paused, attempting to imagine the impeccably dressed Thomas Dixon in the midst of a roisterous gypsy camp. “Or did he lead Mr. Churchill there for some reason? Did they truly just happen upon the camp, or did one or both of them deliberately seek the caravan?”

“If either of them went there intentionally, I should think it would have been Edgar Churchill, seeking Mr. Deal.”

“Unless Mr. Dixon had intentions of his own. Rawnie Zsófia said that he was entirely willing to have his fortune told that day, yet he refused to let Loretta read his tea leaves two days ago at the Crown. Perhaps he was afraid that the second reading would reveal something about him that he does not want known.”

“Or he realized that the only revelation Miss Jones made at the camp was that she is an utter charlatan, and he was wise enough not to be taken in twice. Too, bear in mind that we have only Rawnie Zsófia’s account of what occurred in the camp, and she is not to be trusted.”

“Because she is a gypsy?”

“That alone is reason enough. But she is also Mr. Deal’s mother, and admitted that she protected her son at the expense of Edgar Churchill’s safety.”

“When did she say that?”

“In regards to the raven’s warning.”

Though it was dim inside the coach, Elizabeth beheld him with astonishment. “And when did Fitzwilliam Darcy start believing in omens?”

“I do not. But if Rawnie Zsófia does, then declining to act upon what she perceived as a warning bespeaks a less than honorable character. And if this renowned fortune-teller does not believe in portents, she is a greater fraud than Miss Jones. Either way, she is guilty of deceit and could be guilty of more. Indeed, she herself could very well be the poisoner. Of all the suspects, she alone possesses expert knowledge of herbs, and now we know she had the opportunity to administer the poison hours before Edgar Churchill died.”

“But she had no direct interaction with Mr. Churchill while he was at the camp.”

“So she claims. As I said, we have no reason to trust her.”

Though Elizabeth followed Darcy’s logic, she could not deny her own instincts. Darcy had not met Rawnie Zsófia; he had only cold reason and secondhand accounts to guide his interpretation of her. While Elizabeth remained cautious, she was not unwilling to believe that Zsófia’s words contained at least some truth. She considered the return of the baptismal clothes and signet ring an act of good faith — a development she had not yet shared with Darcy.

“We started discussing Edgar Churchill’s visit to the gypsy camp before I reached the most surprising part of my conversation with Rawnie Zsófia.”

“Did she tell your fortune?”

“No, she left this basket.” It remained beside her on the seat. Elizabeth had repacked it with the most interesting article on top, protected by the cloth cover.

“I just delivered Miss Bates’s. Are we starting a collection?”

“This one was also intended for Mr. Deal, but it contains something for us, as well.”

“Indeed?” He said no more, but the tone of his voice conveyed in that single word the full measure of his skepticism.

“See for yourself.”

Darcy grasped the basket by its handle and brought it beside him. Casting Elizabeth a dubious look, he lifted the cover.

And suddenly looked up at her again. “The christening set?”

“And your mother’s ring.” She removed her glove. “I put it on my finger for safekeeping.”

He leaned forward, took her hand, and examined the ring as best he could in the dismal light. “It appears undamaged.” Though done with his inspection, he retained her hand. His knees brushed against hers as the coach jostled. “What explanation did she give?”

“None. She was gone before I found them in the bottom of the basket. She said only that Mr. Deal was suspected of many things of which he is not guilty.”

“His mother had our stolen belongings in her possession. I would say that connects him rather strongly with the theft.”

“Unless she obtained them herself from the thieves in order to return them to us.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Perhaps to win our goodwill toward her son? To demonstrate that gypsies — some, at least — are acquainted with honor?”

“Or to distract us from the more heinous crime of Edgar Churchill’s murder.”

“Or that,” she conceded. “Whatever her motive, we have recovered our possessions, which means that as soon as Edgar Churchill’s poisoner is identified, we can collect our daughter and Georgiana, and finally join Anne and Colonel Fitzwilliam at Brierwood.”

“You could go now. Jeffrey can drive you to London tomorrow to retrieve Lily-Anne and my sister, then take all of you to Brierwood whenever you wish. I will meet you there when this Churchill matter is resolved.”

She was tempted, but shook her head. Her place was with Darcy.

“Mrs. Knightley would never forgive me,” she said. “I would return in a month to find the case still unsolved, and you and Mr. Knightley discussing husbandry over spruce beer.”

“Thank goodness you have returned.”

Had Mrs. Knightley not said a word upon their arrival at Hartfield, Darcy would have seen in her face that something had changed. He and Elizabeth hastily removed their cloaks and followed her to the drawing room. She shut the doors.

“Mr. Perry was here earlier,” she said. “He came directly from Randalls, where one of the maids is ill. He suspects belladonna.”

“Will she recover?” Elizabeth asked.

“Mr. Perry is confident. He treated her as he did Frank Churchill, and she is already improved. Like Frank, she is young and of stronger constitution than Edgar Churchill was.”

“Who is she?” Darcy asked.

“One of the kitchen girls — Nellie.”

The maid Mrs. Bates had been talking about that morning. “Does Mr. Perry have any notion how she might have ingested the poison?”

“He says she imbibed a philtre she had obtained from Mr. Deal.”

Darcy could scarcely comprehend anybody’s being so foolish. “Why would she do that, knowing he had been arrested?”

“Young girls do unwise things,” Elizabeth said.

“Apparently, she meant to prove to some of the other servants that Mr. Deal is innocent of any wrongdoing,” Mrs. Knightley explained. “While in the village earlier today, she asked Miss Jones for a tea leaf reading, and when that failed to produce the ‘evidence’ she hoped for, she went back to Randalls and drank the whole phial.”

“Good heavens!” Elizabeth looked down at the signet ring on her finger. “I had wanted to believe him guiltless.”

So had Darcy. “Mr. Deal might not be the poisoner. It could be his mother. She shares at least some of the guilt — by Mr. Deal’s own admission, she was the one who prepared the remedies he sold.”

“I cannot believe that of her.” Elizabeth glanced at Mrs. Knightley. “I met Rawnie Zsófia, Mr. Deal’s gypsy mother, today, while Mr. Darcy was in conference with Mr. Deal.” At Mrs. Knightley’s expression of astonishment, she continued. “I will tell you more about our interview later, but she did not impress me as a capricious person.” Elizabeth turned back to Darcy. “Why would she poison people randomly? Edgar Churchill, I can understand, if she thought she was somehow protecting her son. Frank Churchill, I can understand — he grew up in the privilege that was by right Mr. Deal’s. But a naïve kitchen maid infatuated with a handsome peddler? I fail to comprehend why either Mr. Deal or his mother would harm her, or sell tainted physics to the village at large.”

“Perhaps the philtre was meant for someone else and accidentally found its way into her hands,” Darcy said. “Or it was unknowingly contaminated with belladonna while the poison was being prepared for the Churchills. Regardless, it implicates Mr. Deal, which means I will be making another trip to Guildford to question him. And this time I will travel alone.” He did not want to chance Elizabeth’s having another private encounter with Rawnie Zsófia. She might not survive it.

“Mr. Knightley might go with you,” Mrs. Knightley said. “As soon as Mr. Perry suspected that Nellie had been poisoned, we sent an express to London. If I know my husband, he will lose no time returning here to attend to this latest incident himself.”

Darcy would prefer Mr. Knightley’s companionship. In truth, he would prefer to not immediately climb back into the carriage for another journey to Guildford. He consulted his watch. “I do not want to delay too long. Among other questions, we need to ask Mr. Deal how many remedies he sold in Highbury and to whom. If Mr. Knightley has not returned in two hours, I shall go without him. Meanwhile, Mr. Perry should advise the villagers against trusting any preparations purchased from Mr. Deal, if they have not already used them.”

“We can stop at the apothecary shop to see him on our way to speak with Miss Jones,” Elizabeth said.

“He is not there,” Mrs. Knightley replied. “He has gone back to Randalls to check on his patient. However, he promised to stop here again with a report. I will convey your recommendation about warning the villagers.”

“We also need to talk to Thomas Dixon. Is he here?”

“No, he is gone to London to see about Miss Bates’s new furniture.”

Was nobody in Highbury today? “When he returns, try to keep him here until we have an opportunity to question him. It seems he knows more about Edgar Churchill’s final hours than he has admitted.”

As Darcy and Elizabeth waited for their cloaks, Mrs. Knightley suddenly recalled another matter for Darcy’s attention. “In all the business about Nellie, I nearly forgot — a letter arrived for you. Actually, it was addressed to both you and Mr. Knightley.” She went to retrieve it and returned directly.

Darcy knew the hand at once.

Gentlemen,

I am delighted to be of service in your investigation, particularly in regards to this most intriguing clue. I assure you of my discretion, as well as that of the young philologist to whom I referred your query. Mr. Atwell has a keen interest in lexicography; indeed, I believe he means to be the next Samuel Johnson. I enclose herewith his reply. You will see that although he offers several possible meanings for “unkind individual,” he decidedly favors one. Mr. Atwell believes the writer’s employment of the collective noun for crows to denote “murder” suggests the use of the same strategy in the earlier portion of the message. For my part, although I find it fascinating to learn that a group of ravens is called an “unkindness”—an altogether fitting term for the gloomy creatures — I fail to see how that information can possibly aid your quest. Shall I present the message to another connoisseur of language? I know a professor at Oxford who might be consulted. Consider me at your disposal. I am—

Yours sincerely,

Chatfield

Thirty-Two

“Perhaps a raven witnessed the murder of Churchill.”

The fully revealed message sent a shiver through Elizabeth as she spoke it aloud. “If the riddle is true, the raven did not merely portend Edgar Churchill’s death — the poisoning occurred at the camp.”

“I do not understand,” said Mrs. Knightley. “Do you speak of the bird that appeared during your robbery?”

“Yes, or one kept by the same individuals — Rawnie Zsófia said that the gypsies train them,” Elizabeth replied. “Regardless, Edgar Churchill and Thomas Dixon visited the gypsy camp several hours before your party, and while they were there, a raven took particular notice of Mr. Churchill.”

“Madam Zsófia must have found an opportunity to administer the poison to Edgar Churchill while he was there,” Darcy said. “Perhaps through one of her physics.”

“But Miss Jones said that while the gypsies camped outside of Highbury, no English came to Rawnie Zsófia for healing.”

“Since when have we considered Miss Jones a trustworthy source of information? Moreover, I believe she said that none had come to the camp for that purpose — which does not mean that no one came for a different purpose, and received treatment while there.”

The servant appeared with their cloaks. As Elizabeth donned hers, she pondered a point that had been troubling her. “We have neglected to consider the second poisoning — Frank’s, which occurred several days after the gypsies quit Highbury. Perhaps the poison was not given directly while Edgar Churchill was at the camp, but sent home with him and taken afterwards.”

“Self-administered?” Darcy asked.

“Or administered by Thomas Dixon.”

“I cannot believe that of him,” said Mrs. Knightley. “If Mr. Dixon is guilty of any crime, it is idleness. Or perhaps too great an attention to fashion.”

“Well, someone is guilty of murder,” Darcy said. “And someone else knows more than he or she has said, because the raven did not write that riddle. It is now even more critical that we talk to Miss Jones and Thomas Dixon about what occurred at the gypsy camp. Perhaps with three versions of events, we can begin to piece together what actually happened.”

The Darcys were very nearly deterred from interviewing Miss Jones by the sight of Miss Bates approaching Mrs. Todd’s house at the same time as they.

Darcy emitted a low groan. “If that lady takes hold of the conversation, we shall never get it back.”

Elizabeth feared the same thing. She had come to believe that Miss Bates could talk for an hour without pausing for breath. They did not have an hour to waste.

“I shall take care of Miss Bates.”

She deemed it best to seize the initiative. “Good afternoon to you, Miss Bates! How delightful to meet you again. Is your business with Mrs. Todd, I hope? For we were hoping for a private consultation with Miss Jones.”

“Oh! Mr. and Mrs. Darcy! You are returned from Guildford! I was—” She glanced at the door on which she had been about to knock, then back at them apologetically. “I came to see Miss Jones myself. I thought perhaps she could tell me about Mr. Deal — whether the terrible things I hear are true. Why, people are saying he poisoned poor Nellie, and probably Frank and Mr. Churchill. Oh, Mrs. Darcy! He cannot have poisoned Frank — or anybody — can he? I will not believe it of him. Not our Mr. Deal! I thought perhaps Miss Jones could read it in the tea leaves, or something. — It is nonsense, I know — fortune-telling — but I simply have not been able to stop thinking about it all. I found a note from Mr. Deal today. — Nothing improper, mind you. — Gracious, it is years since a note to me from any man might excite speculation! — He must have left it before all the unpleasantness.”

“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

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

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?”

Emma found it rather curious that Miss Bates should be sending anything to the peddler, as she suffered such straitened circumstances herself. But Miss Bates had a kind heart, and even in her own want shared what she could with those less fortunate.

“Miss Bates lives for letters. I cannot imagine that a note from anybody would have repeatedly escaped her notice.” The room was cold; Emma rose and stirred the fire. “Indeed, I am surprised she did not recite it verbatim when she spoke of it later. Or did she?”

“No, she said only that he thanked her for the tea he had shared with her and Mrs. Bates on Sunday.”

“Mr. Deal has been taking tea with the Bateses?” Even more curious. Was he on such familiar terms with other customers?

Emma sank back into her seat as the most extraordinary thought took hold. Was Mr. Deal wooing Miss Bates? Impossible! But… taking tea at her house… small little gifts… writing to her — a practice decidedly improper unless a couple were engaged. ..

Could it be? It would not be the first instance of a courtship having advanced right before her eyes without her realizing it. But — independent of his status as a murder suspect — he was entirely unsuitable! A peddler — an itinerant — raised by gypsies!

It was inconceivable that a respectable lady such as Miss Bates — a clergyman’s daughter, no less — could consider such a disreputable character. Even if he were cleared of the murder, even if his claims upon the Churchill name proved true, he had no claim upon the Churchill fortune. It belonged to Frank. Was Miss Bates — Mrs. Hiram Deal — to tramp across England with him, living out of his cart? The notion was absurd.

Still more absurd, however, was Mr. Deal’s interest in Miss Bates. With every scullery maid and farmer’s daughter in the village making eyes at the man, what attraction did a windy spinster hold for him? He could not possibly have fallen violently in love with her.

Did he prey upon her sentiments for some ulterior purpose?

Emma realized that she yet held the fire poker. She rose and replaced it, but did not sit back down.

“Mrs. Darcy, I am suddenly quite interested in that letter myself. Would you care to take a drive with me?”

Thirty-Five

Mr. Knightley withdrew a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “I want a list of every person in Highbury to whom you sold any sort of remedy — a physic, tincture, ointment, infusion — anything purportedly medicinal.”

Mr. Deal regarded him incredulously. “I do not know the name of every single customer.”

“No, but you know some of them quite well — such as the maid Nellie, who spent half her wages buying philtres from you and who is now abed with belladonna poisoning.”

“Nellie? Poisoned!” Mr. Deal looked genuinely horrified. “Will she recover?”

“We believe so.”

“There are others to whom you have given particular attention,” Darcy said. “What is your design on Miss Bates?”

“Miss Bates? Why, nothing at all unseemly. I meant only kindness.”

“Nothing unseemly?” Mr. Knightley said. “Everything perfectly proper? Such as corresponding with her — an unmarried lady?”

“We are not corresponding.”

“Miss Bates told me this morning that she had received a letter from you,” Darcy said.

“What are you talking about? I wrote no letter to Miss Bates.”

“You did not leave her a note thanking her for the tea you took together on Sunday?”

“No, though perhaps I ought to have. But it was only Wednesday — yesterday — that we had tea and”—he gestured at his surroundings—“I have been a little occupied.”

Darcy noted Deal’s memory for dates, which coincided with Miss Bates’s account. The letter’s author had erred; Mr. Deal had not. Who, then, had written the letter? And to what purpose? Why would anybody trouble himself to forge a thank-you note?

Unless it was not a thank-you note.

Someone in the village had sent three letters to Hartfield with hidden meanings. Though Mrs. Elton had admitted to writing the first, he could not credit her with the others. Had Miss Bates’s note been authored by the writer of the latter two? Was it not a simple thank-you, but another word puzzle?

Darcy drew Mr. Knightley aside. In a low voice, he shared his conjecture. Mr. Deal watched them with open interest, making no attempt to pretend he was not trying to hear their conversation.

“We need to see that note,” Darcy finished.

“We will call upon her tomorrow as early as possible.”

“I think you should go now,” Mr. Deal said.

The peddler’s impertinence took Darcy aback. “I do not recall our having solicited your opinion.”

“I give it to you freely.” He leaned towards them on the rickety chair. “Gentlemen, someone has murdered my father, attempted to kill my cousin, and poisoned an innocent young girl. Now a fraudulent letter bearing my name has appeared at the home of one of the few people in Highbury who has extended friendship — honest, disinterested friendship — towards me. This letter concerns you enough that you suspended your interrogation of me to discuss it between yourselves. I have told you that I am not the criminal you seek, told you in so many ways that I do not think there is another manner of expressing it. Yet you waste your time here with me while Miss Bates might even now be in danger. I beg you — set off without delay for Broadway Lane to examine the note and ensure that good lady’s safety. If you insist on continuing this interview, we can do so another time.” He motioned towards the stone walls with a defeated shrug. “I am not going anywhere.”

Mr. Knightley turned to Darcy and nodded. “He speaks sense. We can finish this tomorrow, after we have determined more about the letter and taken steps to protect Miss Bates, if necessary.”

Much as Darcy hesitated to trust the peddler, any threat he posed was contained by prison bars — while if the poisoner yet roamed free, Miss Bates was not the only person at risk. “Let us go directly.”

Mr. Knightley approached the door to signal the guard. Mr. Deal rose.

“Mr. Knightley—”

He turned back to the peddler. “Yes?”

“I do not suppose, sir, that you would contemplate taking me with you?”

At the magistrate’s startled gasp, Mr. Deal held up his palm. “Pray, do not dismiss the idea yet. Only consider — I might be able to help. That letter allegedly came from me; it was almost certainly written by someone familiar with my movements. If I were to examine it, I might find something in it that you cannot.”

Mr. Deal also might use the opportunity to lead their investigation further astray. Or to escape. Or worse. “We can bring the letter back with us if we believe his perspective would prove useful,” Darcy said to Mr. Knightley.

“How many trips to Guildford do you want to make?” Mr. Deal responded. “At the expense of valuable time?”

“Is it not rather late to be calling upon the Bates ladies unanticipated?” Elizabeth asked as she and Mrs. Knightley negotiated the dark staircase that led to the apartment. She was anxious herself to see Mr. Deal’s letter, cherishing faint hope that it might somehow illuminate larger questions about the peddler, but she did not want to incommode or intrude upon the older women.

“Trust me, they will be grateful for the company.”

Mrs. Knightley knocked upon the door. Voices within indicated that at least one other visitor was with the ladies. She and Mrs. Knightley were not only intruding, Elizabeth thought ruefully, but also unlikely to obtain a glimpse of the letter depending upon who was present.

Miss Bates was delighted by their arrival. “Oh, do come in! Mother, look who has come! It is Mrs. Knightley and Mrs. Darcy. You remember Mrs. Darcy? Darcy. What an impromptu little party we are forming! Mrs. Darcy, can you guess who else is here?” She moved aside to allow them passage into the apartment.

At the tea table sat Miss Jones.

Elizabeth endeavored to disguise her chagrin. Loretta Jones was the last person before whom she wanted to broach the subject of Mr. Deal’s letter. She still did not know quite what to make of the relationship between the young woman and the peddler. Though Rawnie Zsófia had refuted any romantic attraction on Mr. Deal’s part, Loretta’s words this morning suggested a rather proprietary interest in the man.

Miss Jones seemed equally discomposed by Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley’s appearance in the apartment. She forced a laugh. “How very unexpected, Mrs. Darcy, to see you again today.”

“Indeed. I had no idea you were a friend of Miss Bates.”

“My mother and I were just getting better acquainted with Miss Jones,” Miss Bates said. “Do sit down.”

The parlor looked much the same as it had upon Elizabeth’s last visit, right down to old Mrs. Bates knitting in her customary place. Apparently, Thomas Dixon had not yet implemented any of his grand plans for the room. Elizabeth wondered whether the elderly lady was among the few furnishings he would allow Miss Bates to keep.

Miss Bates adjusted her mother’s lap blanket. “Are you warm enough, Mother? To me it feels quite warm over here by the fire, but I know you are often cold. Do you need your shawl? Your shawl? No? Do but say the word if you change your mind.” She drifted back towards the tea table, where a pair of cups, one overturned onto its saucer, rested near a small pot. “Miss Jones has come to tell my fortune. You have arrived just in time to hear it.”

Elizabeth supposed the fortune-telling trade was not as lucrative as Miss Jones had hoped, if she was going door to door attempting to increase business. “I did not realize, Miss Jones, that fortune-tellers make house calls.”

“For particular persons, I do.” She smiled at her hostess. “As Miss Bates said, we are getting better acquainted.”

“I am so glad you came by, Miss Jones! Indeed, at first I declined to have my fortune read, did I not? But afterwards, I said to myself, ‘Now, Hetty, what is the harm?’ I hoped perhaps Miss Jones could read Mr. Deal’s fortune for me, that I might learn how long he will be consigned to that horrible gaol. But she says that is not the way such things work — he is not here to drink his own tea, which is required. — Do I have it right, Miss Jones? — I have been learning all about fortune-telling this evening! One must drink one’s tea and then swirl the leaves to get a proper reading, she tells me. I cannot do it on Mr. Deal’s behalf. Though, in a sense, it would be Mr. Deal’s tea, as it came from him. Is that not sad, that his tea should be here but not him?”

“Whatever do you mean, Miss Bates?” asked Mrs. Knightley.

“Why, the tea was a gift from Mr. Deal! He took tea with my mother and me yesterday, and afterwards he left us a lovely note expressing his thanks, and a small parcel of tea. Oh! Now where did that note go? I showed it to Miss Jones, and now I cannot remember where I placed it. Do you recall, Miss Jones?”

Miss Jones glanced about, her brow furrowed. “I do not. But surely it will turn up.”

“I regret you have misplaced it,” Mrs. Knightley said. “I should like to see what sort of letter a peddler writes.”

“Oh, Mr. Deal writes a fine letter! Do you not agree, Miss Jones?”

“Yes, very fine.”

“When did you find the parcel?” Elizabeth asked.

“I went out around noon today, and there it was, just inside the door at the base of the stairs. Such a surprise! I do not know how I overlooked it earlier. And so thoughtful of Mr. Deal! I was going to save the tea for his next visit, but when I told Miss Jones of it, she encouraged me to use it tonight for the fortune-reading. She said if I used Mr. Deal’s tea and concentrated on a question pertaining to him while I drank it, the leaves might reveal the answer.”

“As there is much in question about Mr. Deal at present, I am sure you will have no trouble,” Mrs. Knightley said. “Except, perhaps, limiting the experiment to a single query.”

Elizabeth did not think Miss Bates ought to consume anything provided by Mr. Deal until the poisoning matter was resolved. “It seems a shame not to save the tea to enjoy with Mr. Deal. Maybe you should reconsider.”

Miss Bates laughed. “Oh, it is too late to reconsider now! The tea is already made. Would either of you care for some? There is plenty. My mother does not drink tea this late when we are at home — she says it keeps her awake — and Miss Jones declined. I have already drunk mine and swirled the leaves. Miss Jones was about to read them when I heard your knock. Why do not both of you take some, too, and we can all have our fortunes read together?”

“Miss Jones has already read my fortune, several days ago.” Alarm passed through Elizabeth at the news that Miss Bates had drunk the tea. She assessed Miss Bates for indications that the tea had been tainted. Unfortunately, Elizabeth realized that she had not the faintest idea what she ought to be looking for. To her untrained eye, Miss Bates appeared her usual self, if perhaps a little flushed from the excitement of visitors and fortune-telling.

Miss Bates reached for the pot. “What about you, Mrs. Knightley? Would you care for tea?”

“I think it has gone cold,” Miss Jones said. She moved the pot to the other side of the table and reached for one of the teacups. “Let us read your fortune, Miss Bates, before your impression fades from the leaves. Afterwards, we can make a fresh pot if anybody cares for a cup. Where is your maid? The remaining tea from this pot should be dumped so that nothing interferes with the signs.”

Elizabeth did not recall such interference having been a concern when Miss Jones told her fortune at the Crown; the would-be drabarni had embellished her patter with experience. Considering how unpracticed Loretta’s “dukkering” had been when she arrived in the village, Elizabeth could only imagine how she must have sounded while affecting to read Edgar Churchill’s leaves at the gypsy camp. The fortune that poor Nellie heard this morning had likely been far more intriguing and smoothly delivered than Edgar’s, at a fraction of the price. She wondered how much Miss Bates was being charged for this performance.

“Oh! Well! We certainly do not want anything to fade or interfere. Patty, come take away this pot for us. — She will be but a moment, I am sure. Can we begin? What must I do?”

“Simply take a seat and keep still, so I may concentrate.”

“Ah, I can do that.” She sat down at the table, across from Miss Jones. “Right here — as I was before?”

“Yes, just so. Now, tell me the question you held in your mind as you drank the tea.”

Miss Bates closed her eyes and rested one hand on the table. “When will poor Mr. Deal return to his friends in Highbury?”

Thirty-Six

“You may open your eyes, Miss Bates. Let us see what the leaves say.” Miss Jones rotated the teacup. “Look — there is a D — and a trail of leaves — that means a journey.” She looked up at her client. “I said you may open your eyes, Miss Bates.”

The spinster blinked several times and brought her other hand to her head. “Forgive me — I feel a bit dizzy. It must be the excitement. Though it is exceedingly warm in here.”

Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley exchanged glances and went to her directly. Mrs. Knightley put a hand to the spinster’s forehead. “She does feel quite warm.”

“Maybe someone should open a window,” Miss Jones suggested.

While Mrs. Knightley attended Miss Bates, Elizabeth approached not the window, but the teapot. Perhaps she could determine by smell whether the tea had been adulterated. Before she could reach it, however, Miss Jones seized the pot.

“Good idea,” said Miss Jones. “We should get these things out of the way.” She picked up Miss Bates’s teacup with her other hand.

Elizabeth reached again toward the pot. “I was not—”

Miss Jones rose and spun away from her chair to take the tea things into the next room.

A folded sheet of paper fell from her skirts.

They both watched it slide to the floor. And then both scrambled to retrieve it. Though Miss Jones was closer, her hands were full, and Elizabeth snatched it up first.

It was Mr. Deal’s note. He thanked Miss Bates for the tea he had enjoyed with the ladies on Sunday, and in return humbly offered a special China black he reserved for his best customers. He further urged her to try it before he next saw her, so that she might tell him whether she liked it.

Miss Jones disciplined her anxious expression into one of false brightness. “Look at that! It must have fallen aside after Miss Bates showed it to me. Thank heaven we found it. — Good news, Miss Bates — Mrs. Darcy has found your letter.”

Miss Bates blinked. “The letter from Mr. Deal?” She rubbed her eyes and blinked again. “I am having trouble seeing it. Patty,” she called out, “can you bring my spectacles? Everything is a blur.”

Elizabeth fixed Miss Jones with her own gaze. She could see quite clearly.

Miss Jones had taken the letter. Just as she had seized the teapot. Or — more to the point — seized the tea inside it. The tea that had arrived with the letter. The tea that she did not want anybody else examining too closely.

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 cannot 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

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 existence. 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.

Emma, who had first introduced Mr. Deal to Miss Bates — as peddler to customer — took credit for the match. Or at least, consolation in the fact that Mrs. Elton’s matchmaking efforts did not succeed. Once Mr. Deal’s legitimacy was confirmed and it became known that he was a Churchill, she deemed the union suitable. She took greater pleasure in her new friendship with the Darcys, a pleasure shared by her husband, who at last had a peer with whom he could discuss agricultural issues to his heart’s content. Upon parting, the two gentlemen made plans to meet again in London, and to include Lord Chatfield among the party.

Mr. Woodhouse bemoaned the departure of “poor Mrs. Darcy” from Hartfield. He exhorted her to dress very warmly for the journey to Brierwood, and made her promise never to eat bisque. He also hinted that when she arrived at the home of Colonel and Anne Fitzwilliam, she should look inside her trunk for one final mysterious message.

Elizabeth smiled when she found it. Though penned in the less-than-steady hand of Mr. Woodhouse himself, it was easily deciphered.

Serle’s recipe for gruel.