Carrie Bebris: The Intrigue at Highbury

“She goes every day,” Mrs. Todd explained when the child had scampered off. “Since my younger son followed his brother into the militia, posting my letters or calling for theirs has become her special responsibility.” The landlady then busied herself in the kitchen, leaving the Darcys to themselves.

As they waited for Miss Jones to appear, Elizabeth wondered whether Mrs. Todd could possibly fit one more item of bric-à-brac into the tight space. Little figurines, small pieces of china, and trinkets littered every horizontal surface, each one seeming to call, chirp, or cry out for notice. She could not imagine Mr. Todd, whatever manner of man he had been, living in this cacophony of clutter. Darcy looked entirely out of place. She felt crowded herself.

Miss Jones took so long about appearing that Elizabeth was not without anxiety that the girl might have fled, but at last she found her way to them. She greeted them with a breezy “good day” and an insouciant smile, and sat down on the edge of the chair nearest the door.

“We are pleased to find you at leisure to see us,” Elizabeth said. “We had feared you would be too busy peering into teacups at the Crown.”

“I was on my way over there, in fact,” she replied. “The present situation has the village at sixes and sevens, so many are seeking my insight.”

“Present situation?” Darcy asked.

“Mr. Deal’s arrest, and a poisoner about.” She rose to rescue a soldier statuette standing at attention precariously close to the edge of a shelf. She slid it back several inches to keep watch beside a painted cat with a chipped ear. “First the Churchills, now a maid — my customers want to know if they will be next.”

“If they fear being poisoned, Mr. Deal’s arrest ought to reassure them.”

“Only if he is indeed the poisoner.”

“Do you believe him innocent?” Elizabeth asked. “You know him better than anybody, I suppose, having traveled in the caravan with him.”

Miss Jones appeared gratified by this acknowledgment. “I do, indeed, and he is not a treacherous man. I blame the gypsies.”

“I thought the gypsies have left the neighborhood?”

“They have, so far as I know.” She adjusted a china creamer shaped like a dairy cow. “But they are a devious lot — one among them in particular. I told you, they have an old woman who claims to be a healer. Madam Zsófia knows everything about plants and poisons, and she is secretive and stingy with her knowledge. And Madam Zsófia dislikes the English. I would not be at all surprised if she gave Hiram poisoned physics to sell unknowingly to innocent villagers.”

“Did she poison Edgar Churchill when he visited the gypsy camp?”

Loretta accidentally bumped the cow against another figurine, knocking a shepherd boy onto his back. She murmured an indistinguishable word and righted the shepherd. When she turned to face them, she wrapped her arms in front of her as if she were cold.

“I am afraid she might have. She was hovering around us — she probably slipped it to him when nobody realized.”

“ ‘Us’—who else was there?”

“Mr. Dixon and another gypsy woman. There were more gypsies in the camp, but they left us to ourselves. All but Madam Zsófia.”

“Why did you not mention Mr. Churchill’s visit when we last asked you about him?” Elizabeth said.

“Because Madam Zsófia is a frightful old hag! I am afraid even now that she will somehow know what I told you and put a curse on me.”

Elizabeth had hardly considered Rawnie Zsófia an old hag, though she imagined the master drabarni could indeed create a frightening presence if she wished. “She cannot hear us; I am sure you are safe.”

“Even so… I would not cross her.”

Darcy lifted a carved wooden cottage off the table beside him and turned it over in his hands. “Why did Edgar Churchill and Mr. Dixon come to the camp?”

“To have their fortunes told.”

Darcy pretended to examine the carving; Elizabeth knew that knickknacks held no attraction for him. “If Mr. Dixon was so interested in prognostication that he strolled out of the village to find the camp”—he traced his finger along the miniature roofline, then looked up at Miss Jones—“why, then, did he refuse to let you tell his fortune when he came upon you in such a convenient place as the Crown?”

“I can read tea leaves and palms, not a person’s thoughts. You shall have to ask him. Perhaps he is afraid of what I might reveal.”

“What was revealed at the gypsy camp?”

She shrugged. “That a death would bring him money.”

Elizabeth tried to gauge Darcy’s response to that interesting little prediction, but his attention remained on Miss Jones.

“And Mr. Churchill’s tea leaves?”

“I could not make them out.”

“Why not?”

“I do not know.” She recrossed her arms. “Even Madam Zsófia cannot always read the signs.”

“Did Madam Zsófia attempt to read theirs?”

“No.”

Darcy set the wooden cottage back on the table. “When, then, was she in close enough proximity to slip Edgar Churchill the poison?”

Loretta stared at him a moment, blinking. “At one point, he seemed in some discomfort and said he was bothered by gout. Maybe she overheard and followed them afterwards to give him one of her concoctions.”

Additional questions yielded little else, and they were conscious of time passing. They soon left to see whether Mr. Knightley had returned from London.

“To hear Miss Jones describe Mr. Deal’s gypsy mother, Baba Yaga is come to England,” Darcy said as they headed back to Hartfield. “I half expected her to tell us that Madam Zsófia rides through the night in a mortar and pestle, stealing children.”

Elizabeth, too, thought Loretta’s description greatly exaggerated. “When I met Rawnie Zsófia, she did not look like an old Russian witch from legend.”

Darcy glanced at the gloomy blanket of clouds above; Elizabeth hoped the rain would hold off until he had completed his second trip to Guildford.

“Perhaps not.” Darcy’s tone matched the weather. “But she is increasingly looking like a murderess.”

Mr. Knightley returned to Hartfield just as Darcy was preparing to leave for Guildford. After a brief update from Mr. Perry on the maid’s condition and a summary of Darcy’s findings just detailed enough to convey the necessity of another gaol visit, Mr. Knightley traded Hartfield’s coach for Darcy’s, and both gentlemen began their second long journey of the day. The only thing that might be said in favor of the drive was that it provided an opportunity for Darcy to more fully recount the day’s conversations with Mr. Deal, Madam Zsófia, and Miss Jones, and to share the letter from Lord Chatfield. Mr. Knightley had nothing to report of his investigation into Mr. Deal’s birth; he had only just begun when Mr. Perry’s message brought him home.

“In light of these new developments,” Mr. Knightley said when Darcy had done, “you lean, then, towards Mr. Deal or Madam Zsófia as the poisoner?”

“I still want to talk to Mr. Dixon again, and I have not altogether eliminated Frank Churchill, but… yes. Mr. Deal’s participation might prove unwitting, but his mother’s involvement would be entirely deliberate.”

Darcy paused. Elizabeth, perhaps beguiled by Madam Zsófia’s gypsy charms, favored Thomas Dixon as the killer. He admitted as much to Mr. Knightley. “I cannot discount Mrs. Darcy’s opinion,” he added. “She is the only one who has met and spoken with Madam Zsófia, and my wife’s instincts have served us well in the past.”