Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

“No indication of anything striking the coach?”

She shook her head.

“It appears, then, that at least one of the thieves is a highly proficient slinger.”

Darcy had drawn the same conclusion. Not only had the ruffian used a molded bullet instead of an ordinary stone, but he had disabled the light with a single shot.

Elizabeth held out her hand for the bullet. “May I?” She weighed it in her palm and turned it over to examine both sides. “Why not simply use a stone? It would have been far easier and less expensive to obtain.”

“Bullets cast from the same mold provide consistent weight, shape, and balance — and therefore improved accuracy for a slinger who uses them regularly,” Darcy explained. “Our thief did not want to risk missed shots that would have drawn attention to himself or squandered the cover afforded by the raven’s behavior.”

“I did not realize slings were in such common use,” Elizabeth said.

“Though primitive, they can be an effective hunting weapon. My brother and I took many a hare that way as boys,” Mr. Knightley replied. “Because slings are more portable and less expensive than bows and firearms, especially if one throws stones instead of bullets, there are men who prefer to use a sling — particularly individuals who want a small, lightweight weapon with free ammunition that can be replenished as they roam.”

Elizabeth returned the bullet to the magistrate. “Such as gypsies?”

Mr. Cole emerged from the elms. “Miss Jones’s trail disappears into the woods, just like the others.”

Mr. Knightley shared their discovery, then pocketed the bullet. “Try the Richmond road,” he told the constable. “Look for signs of recent encampment. It may be that our gypsy friends have come back to Highbury.”

Upon their return to Donwell Abbey, Darcy and the others found Mrs. Knightley in the morning parlor. Having just come from visiting her father at a neighboring estate, she was seated near the fireplace, about to start on some needlework. She happily set aside her thimble and turned to her husband with a hopeful expression. “Did you discover anything of use?”

“Possibly,” Mr. Knightley replied. “We hope, however, that you might also provide some assistance.”

“I certainly shall if I can.” She invited them to join her near the fire and rang for tea. An autumn chill had settled in Surrey, and their morning errands had left them all in want of warm refreshment.

A servant entered with the tea accoutrements and arranged them on a round mahogany table circled by four shieldback chairs. After she left to retrieve the hot water, Mr. Knightley turned to his wife.

“The peddler who has been in the village this fortnight — Mr. Deal — do you know where he might be found?”

Mrs. Knightley frowned. “Surely you do not think Mr. Deal is involved with the robbery? I daresay he is the most honest peddler I have ever met, and Mrs. Weston will concur.”

“I merely wish to ask him a few questions and secure his cooperation should the thieves approach him with the stolen items.”

Mr. Knightley’s reply seemed to satisfy his wife. “I believe that he generally calls upon people at their homes, but you might try Broadway Lane. That is where I last saw him.”

“When was that?”

“Two days ago. I did not speak to him at the time, however, as Frank and Edgar Churchill occupied his attention.”

“Indeed? What were they doing?”

“Frank purchased a snuff box. At least, I assume he bought a snuff box, as he was looking at a pair of them before his uncle and I became engaged in conversation.”

The maid returned with the silver tea urn, and they all moved to the table. Mrs. Knightley prepared the tea, using a silver scoop to measure leaves out of a wooden caddy inlaid with ivory. She spooned the tea into a Wedgwood pot, then poured boiling water from the urn.

“How did Edgar Churchill appear?” Mr. Knightley continued.

“Out of sorts, though not nearly so out of them as when he arrived here for dinner. He seemed melancholy, and I supposed Frank’s wedding had reminded him of his late wife. I tried to improve his mood but—” She glanced at the Darcys self-consciously. “I am afraid I made a blunder of it. I had half a mind to ask Mr. Deal afterwards whether one of his gypsy remedies could cure a broken heart.”

“Gypsy remedies?” Darcy could not help but interrupt.

Mr. Knightley regarded his wife with equal surprise. “Mr. Deal sells gypsy wares?”

“Various physics and ointments,” she said. “He had a chest of them when I first met him at Mrs. Weston’s house — cures for everything from rheumatism to warts. They are quite popular with the villagers.” The tea having steeped sufficiently, Mrs. Knightley turned to Elizabeth. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

“Let me be sure I understand you,” Mr. Knightley said slowly as his wife poured tea. “Mr. Deal regularly consorts with gypsies?”

“Well, I do not know that he consorts with them. But even if he did, that is not a violation of the law, is it?”

“Not long ago, merely being found in their company would have put him at risk of hanging. Those laws have been repealed, but as you know from Harriet Smith’s experience, gypsies remain uncivilized, lawless vagrants given to all manner of criminal behavior, and Mr. Deal would do well to avoid association with them. His own itinerant habits render him suspect enough.”

“He is a peddler! How is he to practice his trade without traveling?”

“In a proper shop, as Mr. Ford does.”

“I patronize Ford’s as often as anybody else in Highbury. I have yet to see some of the goods there that Mr. Deal offers. The shawl Miss Bates wore last night came from him, as did the lace on the handkerchief Jane Churchill carried on her wedding day. The village is enamored with him and his merchandise. So long as he obtains his goods legally, what is it to us where or from whom he acquires them? Indeed, by engaging in business with the gypsies, he does us all a service — he deals with those people so that we need not.”

“Did he mention when he had acquired the remedies?” Darcy ventured to ask. “Might the gypsies presently be in this area?”

“He did not say — I assumed he had brought them from elsewhere.” Mrs. Knightley turned to her husband. “If he had indicated that gypsies were again in the neighborhood, I certainly would have told you.”

“Did Edgar Churchill purchase anything from Mr. Deal?” Mr. Knightley asked.

“Not that I witnessed.” She sipped her tea. “I suppose he might have before I came upon them, but judging from his demeanor, I doubt it. He seemed impatient for Frank to finish his transaction, so he likely did not engage in one of his own.”

“Did Frank Churchill buy one of these elixirs?”

“Frank? No. Whatever would Frank Churchill need a remedy for? He is in excellent health. He could not even benefit from a potion that promises luck — he just wed a woman he adores, and stands to inherit a fine estate. Were it not for his uncle’s death, his life would be perfect.”

“Yes,” Mr. Knightley said. “Perfect.”

She set down her teacup. “Mr. Knightley, need I remind you that Frank Churchill is the stepson of my dearest friend?”

“Not at all. I am fully aware of that fact.”

Mrs. Knightley glanced at Elizabeth and Darcy. All felt the awkwardness of the little moment of marital discord.

“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Knightley said, “I have an errand in the village. Would you care to accompany me? I could show you Highbury, which is a charming little village when one is not being robbed by highwaymen, and the walk would provide an opportunity for us to have that discussion about Stuart’s theories.”