“Maybe one does,” Mr. Knightley said. “One who has lived amongst them but is not truly a gypsy.”
Mr. Deal turned his head sharply to stare at Mr. Knightley. “What do you mean?”
“If Madam Zsofia did not poison Edgar Churchill, perhaps you did. You just admitted that you sold many gout remedies — or something passing for gout remedies — to
“Not to him.” Mr. Deal slowly shook his head. “And none of the remedies I sold were anything but what I claimed.”
“If you did not prepare them yourself, how can you be certain?”
A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress.
Emma wished Mr. Knightley had not needed to rush off to Guildford nearly the moment he returned from London. In the wake of his abrupt departure, it had taken some effort to convince Mr. Woodhouse that his son-in- law was quite safe and not out personally nabbing gypsies. If only she could assure herself of that fact.
There being only three remaining at Hartfield — Emma, her father, and Mrs. Darcy — dinner was a quiet event. After the meal, Emma anticipated a long evening spent diverting her father with games of backgammon or cards. But Mr. Woodhouse surprised her by announcing his intention to retire to his chamber for the night. She immediately became anxious for his health.
“No, my dear, I am fine. Only a little tired, is all. When Perry was here earlier, he asked me whether I had been sleeping well, and I said how could anybody, with all these gypsies about? He made me promise to retire early tonight. So I am off to bed.”
Emma could not imagine anybody’s being able to fall asleep this early and hoped her father, in his determination to follow Mr. Perry’s advice, was not consigning himself to hours spent fretting in the dark about trampers stealing his poultry.
She saw him comfortably settled in his chamber, and after assuring herself that he would indeed drift off to sleep, went to the drawing room. Mrs. Darcy stood at one of the windows.
“Has the rain started?” Emma asked. She had not heard any drops falling, but it had threatened all day.
Mrs. Darcy started and turned round. “What? Oh — no, it has not. I beg your pardon — I did not hear you enter.” She moved away from the window and sat down on a chair near the fire. “I was contemplating something Miss Bates said this afternoon, though it might be entirely insignificant.”
“If Miss Bates said it, it probably was.” Emma took the seat opposite her. “However, tell me anyway.”
“She mentioned that she had just found a note from Mr. Deal, and assumed he had left it at her door sometime before his arrest. But were that so, would she not have discovered it earlier? We encountered her in Broadway Lane this morning, and she had already been to the bakery and back to pack a basket for Mr. Deal. Surely she would have seen the letter lying there?”
Emma found it rather curious that Miss Bates should be sending anything to the peddler, as she suffered such straitened circumstances herself. But Miss Bates had a kind heart, and even in her own want shared what she could with those less fortunate.
“Miss Bates lives for letters. I cannot imagine that a note from anybody would have repeatedly escaped her notice.” The room was cold; Emma rose and stirred the fire. “Indeed, I am surprised she did not recite it verbatim when she spoke of it later. Or did she?”
“No, she said only that he thanked her for the tea he had shared with her and Mrs. Bates on Sunday.”
“Mr. Deal has been taking tea with the Bateses?” Even more curious. Was he on such familiar terms with other customers?
Emma sank back into her seat as the most extraordinary thought took hold. Was Mr. Deal wooing Miss Bates? Impossible! But… taking tea at her house… small little gifts… writing to her — a practice decidedly improper unless a couple were engaged. ..
Could it be? It would not be the first instance of a courtship having advanced right before her eyes without her realizing it. But — independent of his status as a murder suspect — he was entirely unsuitable! A peddler — an itinerant — raised by gypsies!
It was inconceivable that a respectable lady such as Miss Bates — a clergyman’s daughter, no less — could consider such a disreputable character. Even if he were cleared of the murder, even if his claims upon the Churchill name proved true, he had no claim upon the Churchill fortune. It belonged to Frank. Was Miss Bates — Mrs. Hiram Deal — to tramp across England with him, living out of his cart? The notion was absurd.
Still more absurd, however, was Mr. Deal’s interest in Miss Bates. With every scullery maid and farmer’s daughter in the village making eyes at the man, what attraction did a windy spinster hold for him? He could not possibly have fallen violently in love with her.
Did he prey upon her sentiments for some ulterior purpose?
Emma realized that she yet held the fire poker. She rose and replaced it, but did not sit back down.
“Mrs. Darcy, I am suddenly quite interested in that letter myself. Would you care to take a drive with me?”
“A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye…”
Mr. Knightley withdrew a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “I want a list of every person in Highbury to whom you sold any sort of remedy — a physic, tincture, ointment, infusion — anything purportedly medicinal.”
Mr. Deal regarded him incredulously. “I do not know the name of every single customer.”
“No, but you know some of them quite well — such as the maid Nellie, who spent half her wages buying philtres from you and who is now abed with belladonna poisoning.”
“Nellie? Poisoned!” Mr. Deal looked genuinely horrified. “Will she recover?”
“We believe so.”
“There are others to whom you have given particular attention,” Darcy said. “What is your design on Miss Bates?”
“Miss Bates? Why, nothing at all unseemly. I meant only kindness.”
“Nothing unseemly?” Mr. Knightley said. “Everything perfectly proper? Such as corresponding with her — an unmarried lady?”
“We are not corresponding.”
“Miss Bates told me this morning that she had received a letter from you,” Darcy said.
“What are you talking about? I wrote no letter to Miss Bates.”
“You did not leave her a note thanking her for the tea you took together on Sunday?”
“No, though perhaps I ought to have. But it was only Wednesday — yesterday — that we had tea and”—he gestured at his surroundings—“I have been a little occupied.”
Darcy noted Deal’s memory for dates, which coincided with Miss Bates’s account. The letter’s author had erred; Mr. Deal had not. Who, then, had written the letter? And to what purpose? Why would anybody trouble himself to forge a thank-you note?
Unless it was not a thank-you note.
Someone in the village had sent three letters to Hartfield with hidden meanings. Though Mrs. Elton had admitted to writing the first, he could not credit her with the others. Had Miss Bates’s note been authored by the
