Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

“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.