Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

Unfortunately, it appeared that pleasure was foremost on the mind of Mr. George Knightley this evening. Carriages lined the circular drive before the mansion’s stately front doors. Half the neighborhood must be within.

“It appears the magistrate is hosting a party,” Elizabeth said as their coach joined the queue. “I doubt he will welcome an intrusion from us.”

Darcy concurred. Upon reaching Highbury, they had stopped at the first house they saw to enquire where the constable or magistrate might be found, and were directed to Donwell Abbey. Their informant had failed to mention that the present might not be a suitable time to impose on Mr. Knightley’s notice. Had Darcy known, he might have postponed this call until morning. He and Elizabeth had wanted, however, to alert the local authorities as soon as possible to the presence of highway robbers in the area, not only in hopes of their own stolen possessions being recovered but also to prevent others from being similarly victimized. Too, while they were nearly certain that “Miss Jones” had conspired with the thieves to create a distraction, the very slight chance that an innocent woman had in fact been abducted along with their chest impelled Darcy and Elizabeth to report the incident posthaste.

“If the highwaymen are still about, his own guests could be at risk when they depart. Let us advise the butler of our reason for calling; he will know whether his master will consider our business urgent enough to warrant an interruption.” The competence and dedication of magistrates varied widely from parish to parish; Darcy hoped Mr. Knightley would prove himself to be among England’s more conscientious administrators. “If Mr. Knightley does not see us tonight, I shall request that he contact us at the inn.”

His valet had by now secured a room at the Crown, which they both looked forward to reaching. Already weary from the long day of travel, anxiety over the health of their groom and footman compounded their desire to dispatch their business quickly so that all could rest. Though upon regaining consciousness the two servants had insisted they were none the worse for the assault, Elizabeth had assessed them with a mother’s eye and remained troubled all the way to Highbury.

He stepped out of the carriage and turned to assist her. As he offered his hand, the doors of Donwell Abbey opened and people spilled onto the steps. They chattered, as guests normally do when leaving a large assembly, bidding each other farewell and exchanging promises to call upon each other soon. But there was a muted quality to the burble, an unusual restraint, and repeated murmuring of the words “shocking” and “Churchill.”

Darcy and Elizabeth paused to allow the majority of departing guests to clear the stairs. Two ladies and a gentleman escorted an older man in a thick muffler and heavy greatcoat.

“Poor Mr. Churchill!” the old man exclaimed. “I am quite certain it was the bisque. Do not allow the servants to dine on the leftover soup, Emma. Nor the syllabub.”

“I shall make sure they are safe, Papa.”

Darcy approached the butler. “We have been told that this is the home of Mr. George Knightley, the magistrate?” At the servant’s affirmation, Darcy presented his card and lowered his voice. “My wife and I are passing through Highbury. We were just robbed on the road from London and would like to apprise Mr. Knightley of the incident.” He gestured towards the departing guests. “If this is not an appropriate time, we can return at his first convenience.”

The butler invited them to step into the entry hall, where they were dwarfed by great columns supporting the ribbed vault ceiling. Tapestries adorned the grey stone walls; the one nearest them depicted a medieval hunt. The servant soon returned with a tall, authoritative-looking gentleman.

“I understand you are looking for the magistrate. I am Mr. George Knightley.”

Darcy bowed. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, of Derbyshire, and my wife. Pray excuse us for arriving at such an inopportune moment.”

“Our party was just concluding. I do have another pressing matter, so we might have to continue our conversation tomorrow, but I can give you a few minutes now. Let us discuss your business in the library.”

They followed him through former cloisters to a large chamber that held at least as many volumes as did Pemberley’s library. A passing glance at some of the titles — Darcy could not help himself — revealed a wide range of subjects and authors: philosophy, economics, history, science, law, politics, poetry. He saw, too, that Mr. Knightley shared his commitment to keeping abreast of the latest agricultural theories and practices. On one of the tables lay open a book that Darcy had been reading himself before leaving Pemberley.

Mr. Knightley motioned them toward two armchairs, then took a seat on the opposite side of the table. “I am sorry that your introduction to Highbury was less than cordial. Tell me what occurred.”

“We were on the road from London, a mile or two outside of the village, when a young woman hailed our carriage,” Darcy said. “We stopped to assist her. Claiming to have injured her ankle, she drew us and our coachman away from the carriage. While we were thus distracted, someone else struck our other two servants unconscious and stole our chest. Then the woman slipped away as well.”

“Did you see the assailants?”

“No. The rear carriage lantern broke, and I had brought the forward lantern with me when I approached the woman. Our servants did not see anyone, either. When they regained consciousness, our footman said he had been hit from behind while repairing the lantern. After some minutes, the groom went to check on him, discovered him lying on the ground, and was struck from behind, as well.”

“So the robbers never directly confronted you?”

“We saw only the woman.”

Mr. Knightley closed the agricultural volume and set it aside, along with a page of notes. From a drawer he withdrew a fresh sheet of paper and reached for his quill. “Kindly describe her. You said she was young?”

“Perhaps sixteen. She had blond hair.”

“Light blond,” Elizabeth said. “Her face and arms were tanned, considerably browner than her ankle, which she asked me to examine. She had small bones but seemed strong. She wore a white muslin dress. It was somewhat dirty, but not beyond what one would expect for a person who had been wandering lost in the woods for hours, as she claimed to have done.”

Mr. Knightley nodded as he took down the details. “What story did she tell?”

“She identified herself as ‘Miss Jones,’ though I would be astonished if that is indeed her true name,” Darcy said. “She said she was visiting cousins, also named Jones, at a nearby farm.”

“We have two families named Jones who farm in this parish. I shall enquire after the woman. Did she offer any other information?”

“Nothing about herself,” Elizabeth said, “though just before she disappeared, she told me there were highwaymen about.”

“This is the first I have heard of any highwaymen in the area. The worst menace we have known recently is a rash of poultry thefts. Have you any reason to think you were targeted on purpose? Was anyone paying particular attention to you or your belongings when you last stopped to water the horses?”

Darcy could recall no such unwanted notice, nor could Elizabeth. “I expect they waited along the road to take advantage of any promising traveler, and we merely happened into their path first.”

“You are fortunate that they did not confront you directly and seize the chest by force. Were you armed?”

“Yes.”

“Did you lose the weapon with the chest?”

Darcy shook his head. His small traveler’s pistol had been concealed in his greatcoat, and the robbers likely never suspected that Elizabeth carried an even smaller one in her reticule — or that she was a surprisingly talented markswoman. “My pistol was not inside it. The chest contained an heirloom set of christening garments and a signet ring that belonged to my late mother.”