Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

“Perry, you take too much responsibility upon yourself. None of us had any reason to suppose he had been poisoned, let alone with belladonna.” Mr. Knightley gestured toward the book-strewn table. “As it was, you spent half the night perusing your references to identify the probable agent. Edgar Churchill cannot benefit from our self-recrimination. Our time and energy are best spent determining whether the poisoning was accidental or intentional.”

“Where might Mr. Churchill or a poisoner have acquired the belladonna?” Darcy asked. “Does it grow in this area?”

“Though it is cultivated for its medicinal value, I do not grow it myself — I would not want the berries to entice my children or anybody else’s. The small amount of dried root that I keep on hand, I obtain from a London chemist and keep hidden. I checked my store of it this morning, and it has not been pilfered. Belladonna could, however, thrive somewhere in the neighborhood without my knowledge, or even that of the landowner. Though more common on the Continent, the plant can be found growing wild here and there in England.”

Mr. Perry withdrew his watch from the fob pocket of his waistcoat. “I should leave now, to ensure that I reach London before dark.” He looked at Darcy apologetically. “Forgive me for cutting short our conversation, but I am going to consult my colleague to see if he agrees with my conclusion of belladonna poisoning. If he does, I shall be grateful for your aid in sorting out the rest of the matter.”

Darcy glanced at Mr. Knightley. “If his colleague does concur, perhaps Mr. Perry should call upon Edgar Churchill’s solicitor whilst in town and enquire into the particulars of his will. Frank mentioned the gentleman’s name this morning — Ian MacAllister. While I understand that Frank is Edgar Churchill’s primary heir, we need to determine whether other individuals have a financial interest in his death.”

Mr. Perry agreed. “I will also stop in Richmond, to speak with the Churchills’ physician about Mr. Churchill’s general health.”

“Frank Churchill said that his aunt and uncle were in the care of a Mr. Flint,” Mr. Knightley told him. “While talking with him, pray also enquire more closely into the particulars of the seizure that claimed Mrs. Churchill.”

Mr. Knightley and Darcy exited the shop, and Mr. Perry went to collect his horse.

“Despite my apprehensions regarding Frank Churchill, I cannot envision him tramping about the country harvesting wild nightshade,” Mr. Knightley said.

“No — but a more knowledgeable person might.”

“An herbalist?”

“Particularly one lacking a fixed location in which to cultivate his or her own plants.”

“A gypsy herbalist.”

“It would seem, Mr. Knightley, that our interests might be more allied than we realized. Both investigations could involve, directly or indirectly, gypsies.” Darcy gazed down the street. He now wanted more than ever to speak with Hiram Deal, but there was still no sign of his cart in Broadway Lane. “We need to find that peddler and determine the extent of his relationship with the gypsies whose wares he vends, and ascertain to whom in the neighborhood he sold their so-called remedies.”

“ ‘We’? You agree to assist me, then?”

Darcy was uncertain how Elizabeth would feel about his entering into such a commitment. She would not oppose it on principle; it was her nature to render aid when she could. However, taking on responsibility for a murder investigation would likely mean not only postponing their visit to Colonel and Anne Fitzwilliam at Brierwood, but also leaving Lily-Anne back in London with Georgiana a while longer. If an assassin indeed roamed Highbury, he wanted his daughter nowhere near.

Yet, as he had just told Mr. Knightley, it appeared that in lending his assistance to the Churchill matter, he might also forward his own interests, or at least ensure that the robbery investigation did not become altogether forgotten as the local authorities concentrated on the more serious Churchill affair. Too, he had to admit, if only to himself, that the Churchill matter intrigued him.

He extended his hand. “I suppose I do.”

Mr. Knightley accepted it and shook firmly. “Excellent. For there is another individual whose association with the gypsies warrants questioning.”

Darcy looked past Mr. Knightley’s shoulder to a person who had just entered Broadway Lane.

Frank Churchill.

Leaving Donwell Abbey, Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley set out in the opposite direction from the gentlemen. Though Mrs. Knightley affected to let chance choose their course, Elizabeth sensed that her hostess had a destination in mind. She walked with purpose, and carried on her arm a basket with several small jars inside.

Their strides eventually brought them to a stream spanned by a small wooden footbridge. On the far bank, a path ran alongside the water toward a mill.

“This is a pretty walk,” Elizabeth said. “Do you take it often?”

“No. Mr. Knightley and I actually live at Hartfield, my father’s estate. Papa is in declining health and dependent upon my companionship. When we married, we thought it best to defer my permanent removal from the house until… until my father no longer needs me. We are presently at Donwell only because of last night’s party.”

“Mr. Knightley sacrificed his independence to reside in your father’s home?” Elizabeth could not imagine Darcy even temporarily relinquishing life at Pemberley to live with her parents at Longbourn.

“Mr. Knightley has known my father even longer than I have, and is as dutiful a son as Papa could wish for.”

They crossed the stream and followed the path until they reached a farmhouse. It was a small but sweet cottage, well cared for and cheerful despite the gloomy clouds that obscured the sun. They had approached it from the side; Mrs. Knightley led them to the front, which faced a narrow lane.

“This is Abbey Mill Farm,” Mrs. Knightley said. “We are here to visit Mrs. Harriet Martin, the young lady Frank Churchill rescued from the gypsies last May. If they have returned to the neighborhood, perhaps she can recall something that might aid us in apprehending your thieves.”

Their knock was answered by a pretty woman with an artless manner and ready smile. “Mrs. Knightley! I did not anticipate the pleasure — Oh, do forgive me! I have not yet waited upon you since your wedding-trip, but I had heard how occupied you were with the Churchill party. Was it a lovely affair? With you hosting it, I am certain it was! Do come in. Robert is out — he has taken his mother and sisters into the village. They will be sorry to have missed you.”

“I am sorry for it, too, but my object in calling was to see you. Here,” she said, reaching into her basket, “I have brought you some apple butter from Donwell Abbey.”

Mrs. Knightley made introductions, identifying Elizabeth as a visiting friend. Harriet offered a smile and invited them into her sitting room, a neat but busy space with an abundance of frilly curtains, pillows embroidered with flowery platitudes, and mediocre watercolors. A portrait of Harriet hung above the fireplace. It was a good likeness, painted by a more skilled artist than the other pictures, though in Elizabeth’s opinion it rendered its subject too tall.

Harriet ushered them into seats and attempted several times to take one herself. She leaped out of it at random intervals, however, as new ways to accommodate her guests entered her mind. She must make them tea. No? Would they like a bit of cake? The fire screen must be adjusted. Were they quite sure they did not want cake? Perhaps toast spread with the Donwell apple butter? There was a note she had written for Mrs. Knightley that now she could hand-deliver.