Though Emma loved the avuncular Mr. Weston, she had to concede Mr. Knightley’s assessment of his fitness for this particular duty. The man possessed such an open, honest character that he was constitutionally incapable of keeping a secret.
“What about Mr. Cole or Mr. Cox?” she suggested.
“They have no experience with investigations, and their connexion to the Churchills is slight; their involvement at this stage would appear odd enough to inspire the very speculation and gossip we hope to discourage. The one person I might depend upon is Mr. Perry. Though he serves as our coroner, his interest would most likely be seen as medically, not legally, motivated. But his time at present is better spent examining Mr. Churchill’s remains, and I want to conduct the interviews and disperse immaterial witnesses as quickly as possible. No, I am afraid I must do this myself.”
As there was no dissuading him, Emma returned to the drawing room to divert her guests’ attention from a process which, despite Mr. Knightley’s characterizing it as a series of “personal conversations,” had to her all the hallmarks of an inquisition.
Fortunately, Edgar Churchill had interacted with only his most intimate acquaintances whilst in the drawing room, and Frank, though he had flitted from group to group, had in his usual style said little of consequence, so most of the guests had observed nothing of import and were released fairly quickly. They all might see their beds before the hour grew unconscionably late. Emma was particularly eager to send her father home, as word of anyone’s death was sure to upset him. The Westons took the news of Edgar Churchill’s demise particularly hard, and Miss Bates’s exclamations, though heartfelt, were enough to inspire a hasty retreat by every member of the company even had propriety not.
Despite her warm defense of Frank, Emma could not dismiss Mr. Knightley’s skepticism from her mind as she encouraged their overnight guests to retire to their individual chambers, and saw the rest depart. There would be no more merriment, let alone matchmaking, among this assembly. Guests originally expected to stay a se’nnight were already forming plans to leave on the morrow. So much for her hopes regarding Miss Bates. The only person’s prospects that had improved this evening were Frank’s.
Yes, it was most inconsiderate of Edgar Churchill to die during his nephew’s marriage celebration.
But for his nephew, it was also most convenient.
in which Mr. and Mrs. Darcy become acquainted
with Mr. and Mrs. Knightley… and
all of Highbury
“There are secrets in all families, you know.”
“The sooner every party breaks up, the better.”
Donwell Abbey was an impressive residence, its entire facade alight against the surrounding darkness. Like a number of England’s great houses, Donwell had once been home to a religious order before King Henry the Eighth dissolved the monasteries, and its stone walls yet evinced dignity and grace. Though successive generations of private owners had influenced its current architecture, enough carved saints piously embellished its remaining pointed arches to recall the building’s hallowed origins.
It was appropriate that a former center of religious life should yet serve parish business — as the home of the magistrate — and on any other occasion Fitzwilliam Darcy would have welcomed the opportunity to become acquainted with the master of such a house. But the purpose of this visit was not pleasure, nor was Darcy in a social mood.
Unfortunately, it appeared that pleasure was foremost on the mind of Mr. George Knightley this evening. Carriages lined the circular drive before the mansion’s stately front doors. Half the neighborhood must be within.
“It appears the magistrate is hosting a party,” Elizabeth said as their coach joined the queue. “I doubt he will welcome an intrusion from us.”
Darcy concurred. Upon reaching Highbury, they had stopped at the first house they saw to enquire where the constable or magistrate might be found, and were directed to Donwell Abbey. Their informant had failed to mention that the present might not be a suitable time to impose on Mr. Knightley’s notice. Had Darcy known, he might have postponed this call until morning. He and Elizabeth had wanted, however, to alert the local authorities as soon as possible to the presence of highway robbers in the area, not only in hopes of their own stolen possessions being recovered but also to prevent others from being similarly victimized. Too, while they were nearly certain that “Miss Jones” had conspired with the thieves to create a distraction, the very slight chance that an innocent woman had in fact been abducted along with their chest impelled Darcy and Elizabeth to report the incident posthaste.
“If the highwaymen are still about, his own guests could be at risk when they depart. Let us advise the butler of our reason for calling; he will know whether his master will consider our business urgent enough to warrant an interruption.” The competence and dedication of magistrates varied widely from parish to parish; Darcy hoped Mr. Knightley would prove himself to be among England’s more conscientious administrators. “If Mr. Knightley does not see us tonight, I shall request that he contact us at the inn.”
His valet had by now secured a room at the Crown, which they both looked forward to reaching. Already weary from the long day of travel, anxiety over the health of their groom and footman compounded their desire to dispatch their business quickly so that all could rest. Though upon regaining consciousness the two servants had insisted they were none the worse for the assault, Elizabeth had assessed them with a mother’s eye and remained troubled all the way to Highbury.
He stepped out of the carriage and turned to assist her. As he offered his hand, the doors of Donwell Abbey opened and people spilled onto the steps. They chattered, as guests normally do when leaving a large assembly, bidding each other farewell and exchanging promises to call upon each other soon. But there was a muted quality to the burble, an unusual restraint, and repeated murmuring of the words “shocking” and “Churchill.”
Darcy and Elizabeth paused to allow the majority of departing guests to clear the stairs. Two ladies and a gentleman escorted an older man in a thick muffler and heavy greatcoat.
“Poor Mr. Churchill!” the old man exclaimed. “I am quite certain it was the bisque. Do not allow the servants to dine on the leftover soup, Emma. Nor the syllabub.”
“I shall make sure they are safe, Papa.”
Darcy approached the butler. “We have been told that this is the home of Mr. George Knightley, the magistrate?” At the servant’s affirmation, Darcy presented his card and lowered his voice. “My wife and I are passing through Highbury. We were just robbed on the road from London and would like to apprise Mr. Knightley of the incident.” He gestured towards the departing guests. “If this is not an appropriate time, we can return at his first convenience.”
The butler invited them to step into the entry hall, where they were dwarfed by great columns supporting the ribbed vault ceiling. Tapestries adorned the grey stone walls; the one nearest them depicted a medieval hunt.
