Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

“I did not question her death at the time — only considered it extraordinarily lucky for Frank. But now, having seen Edgar Churchill also die of an unexpected ailment, I cannot help but wonder about the nature of the aunt’s.”

“Has Mr. Perry reached any conclusions about the cause of Edgar’s death?”

Mr. Knightley stopped, his countenance grim. “He suspects Edgar Churchill was poisoned.”

They had reached the road. Not too far distant, Darcy could see several buildings huddled at the village’s edge.

“I find myself confronted with two suspicious deaths,” Mr. Knightley said, “one of which occurred in my own home. And the chief suspect is a man against whom I have long harbored prejudice. I fear I am not capable of the objectivity required to properly investigate the matter.”

Darcy respected the magistrate’s self-knowledge, but also wondered why Mr. Knightley felt the responsibility fell entirely upon himself. “Ought not Mr. Perry, as coroner, conduct the enquiry?”

“Mr. Perry is a good apothecary and an excellent man, but he is no investigator. He will offer his medical expertise and hold his inquest, but unless someone actually witnessed Frank Churchill administering the poison, he will likely declare Edgar’s death a case of accidental ingestion.”

“Mr. Cole, then?”

“Mr. Cole is a reluctant constable. It is a position no one in this parish particularly wants, so it rotates annually. Cole does what is expected of him, but no more, and has not the drive to pursue an unpopular investigation against a very popular member of this community. I am afraid no one in Highbury does.” He paused. “This case requires a disinterested party who can gather and evaluate evidence without the influence of prior connexions or fear of negative consequences to his own reputation within the village. After receiving Lord Chatfield’s endorsement this morning, I am rather hoping that you, Mr. Darcy, will do me the great favor of guiding the investigation.”

Darcy was surprised at being asked to take such a prominent role. His countenance must have registered his astonishment.

“You need not answer me this moment,” Mr. Knightley said. They headed into the village, where Darcy hoped to catch sight of the peddler’s cart. “I realize I ask a great deal — much more than our brief acquaintance supports. Pray, forgive my presumption. I ask not out of my own interest, but the interest of justice.”

Darcy was not by nature disposed to insert himself into affairs which did not concern him. “I do not know whether I am the proper person to assist you so directly. I have no official standing — no legal or moral authority that would compel anyone to cooperate with my efforts.”

“It is precisely your lack of formal status that I hope will enable you to undertake this enquiry in a subtle manner that does not alert the entire village to the fact that Frank Churchill is under suspicion of murder. Should a more official role become necessary, I can appoint you one. Pray, consider my proposal a while longer before refusing it out of hand.”

They had reached the village centre. A signpost indicated that they stood in Broadway Lane, but to Darcy’s disappointment, no peddler’s cart greeted them.

Mr. Knightley noted Darcy’s expression. “It would have been convenient to find Hiram Deal waiting here for us, but I suppose only Frank Churchill enjoys that sort of serendipity. We shall enquire after the peddler.” He stopped before a respectable-looking house with a shop front on the lower level. A sign bearing a mortar and pestle hung above the door. “First, however, let us call upon Mr. Perry.”

They entered the shop, a compact but orderly space designed to accommodate the apparatus of the apothecary’s art. Two wooden cabinets with numerous small drawers held all manner of ingredients for medicines, salves, and other remedies, while shelves displayed the measuring tools, mixing equipment, and scales used to prepare them. In the far corner stood a bookcase, its neat rows punctuated by gaps from the removal of several volumes that lay open on the worktable. A portmanteau rested on the floor against one of the table legs.

The room was empty of people save for Mr. Perry himself, though scampering footsteps above revealed the presence of either several children or a scurry of squirrels. The sound put Darcy in mind of Lily-Anne, who could crawl across the floor of Pemberley’s nursery with considerable velocity. It would not be long before she took her own first independent steps. He hoped the matter of the robbery would be resolved and their family united in short order.

Mr. Perry greeted them with an expression of concern. “Mr. Knightley, I did not expect to see you again until I returned from London. Has something else occurred?”

“Nothing of a sinister nature. I merely hoped that you might impart to Mr. Darcy the suspicions you shared with me this morning. Mr. Darcy has some experience probing unusual deaths, and I have solicited his assistance with the Churchill matter.”

Darcy experienced a moment’s apprehension that the coroner would resent the intrusion of a stranger into his enquiry, but Mr. Perry’s countenance instead reflected relief.

“Indeed? Mr. Darcy, I welcome any wisdom you can shed on the matter. I have completed my examination of Edgar Churchill; he presently lies in the next room. Do you wish to see his remains?”

Darcy had no wish to see anything of the sort if he could help it. Though he had witnessed the results of violent death before, it was hardly a pleasant experience, and he still was not entirely certain he wanted to involve himself in this affair.

“I am not a medical man, so perhaps you could simply report your findings. Mr. Knightley said you found evidence of poison?”

“I found nothing definitive in respect to his remains. My suspicions, therefore, derive from the symptoms I and others observed in Edgar Churchill while he was yet alive. I believe them consistent with the consumption of belladonna.”

Darcy had heard of the plant, but knew little of it. “Belladonna is also called ‘deadly nightshade,’ is it not?” The question comprised nearly his entire store of knowledge on the subject.

“Yes, and with good reason. It is highly toxic. People, particularly children, are sometimes tempted by its sweet purple berries, with tragic consequences. In fact, a colleague of mine in London treated three children this past summer who had eaten only a few berries each. Two of the children died.”

“Are other parts of the plant poisonous?”

“All of it, in varying degrees — the root most of all. In controlled amounts belladonna possesses medicinal properties, but the leaves and roots can prove as fatal as the berries.”

“What symptoms did Mr. Churchill exhibit?”

“It seems to have begun with fever and dry mouth,” Mr. Perry said. “Mr. Knightley and others report that from the time Edgar Churchill arrived at the party, he was flushed and complained of being too warm.”

“He also suffered thirst. Frank could not fill his wineglass fast enough,” Mr. Knightley added. “He then became agitated and belligerent, raving incoherently and even suffering a hallucination. I confess, we merely thought him drunk. Mr. Perry, however, says that such behavior is also symptomatic of belladonna poisoning.”

“As were the later signs I observed firsthand — dilated pupils, vomiting, extraordinarily loud and rapid heartbeat,” Mr. Perry said. “The utter loss of voice and repetitive finger movements are particularly indicative.” He winced and looked away, his gaze passing over the various tools of his profession. “In hindsight, of course. If only I had realized at the time what was happening, I might have been able to save him.”