The Intrigue at Highbury

brought her hands to her temples. “Oh, my head! It spins. ..”

Mr. Deal regarded Miss Bates in consternation. Then turned a disbelieving gaze upon Miss Jones.

“You?” His face held shock, betrayal, bewilderment.

Miss Jones stared at him dumbly.

“What have you done, Loretta?”

“I—” She swallowed and looked down at the shattered teapot. “I accidentally dropped—”

“What have you done?” He crossed to Miss Bates and gently lifted her chin so that he could examine her eyes. The pupils were so wide that Darcy could see them from where he stood.

“Mr. Deal?” Miss Bates squinted at him. “You are out of gaol! Oh, I am glad. But I feel so poorly—”

Mr. Deal strode towards Miss Jones. He scooped up a wad of wet leaves from the floor and thrust them towards her. “You put belladonna leaves in the tea?”

“And some of the root.”

Her unapologetic admission shocked him as much as the act. “Did you poison my father, too? And Frank?”

“And that little scullery wench at Randalls.”

“Oh, it is so warm in here,” Miss Bates moaned. “And my head…”

With a look of anguish, Mr. Deal threw the clump of leaves at Loretta’s feet. “Patty, fetch mustard powder and a tumbler of warm water as quick as you can.”

Darcy wondered whether they ought to wait until Mr. Perry arrived rather than trust Mr. Deal to properly treat Miss Bates. But Mr. Deal seemed to know what he was about — Mr. Perry had treated Frank Churchill with mustard — and time was of the essence.

Patty brought the mustard and tumbler, along with a towel for Mr. Deal. As the peddler wiped the tea from his hand, Mr. Knightley returned.

“What is transpiring?” he asked Darcy.

“Miss Jones has admitted to poisoning all four victims — with belladonna, just as Mr. Perry thought. Mr. Deal had no idea. I believe he now intends to administer an emetic to Miss Bates.”

“If one of you ladies would mix a spoonful of the powder with the water?” Mr. Deal asked. As Elizabeth took the jar from the maid and began to prepare the mixture, he glanced to Mr. Knightley. “Sir, Miss Bates might be more comfortable in the privacy of her bedchamber when the mustard-water takes effect. Will you help me move her?”

Mr. Knightley met Darcy’s gaze, then looked pointedly at Miss Jones.

Darcy nodded.

Mr. Deal and Mr. Knightley assisted Miss Bates into the bedroom. The magnitude of her distress was evidenced by the dearth of her discourse. She went in comparative silence, issuing only occasional murmurs. Elizabeth followed them with the mustard-water, while the maid set about cleaning up the mess of tea and broken china.

Old Mrs. Bates, upset and confused, called out for her daughter. Mrs. Knightley went to her. She tried to explain what was occurring — which, indeed, they all were still trying to figure out — but as it seemed inappropriate to shout the details of Miss Bates’s distress at the volume required for the elderly lady to comprehend them, Mrs. Knightley soon gave up. She instead settled Mrs. Bates into her chair, brought over one for herself, and sat beside her, holding her hand and soothing her as best she could.

Miss Jones, meanwhile, attempted to take advantage of everybody’s divided notice to make an escape. Darcy put a swift end to that notion. She had moved a single step toward the door when he swung it shut and interposed himself.

He had but one question for her.

“Why?”

She laughed derisively and said nothing, turning her head away. But her insolent expression transformed to pained when she caught sight, through the bedroom doorway, of Mr. Deal dabbing Miss Bates’s flushed face with a damp cloth.

Her countenance hardened. “He does not love her, you know. He cannot love her.”

“Why not?”

“Because he loves me.” There was an odd light in her eyes. “Or he will — once I explain it all to him.”

Darcy could not fathom an explanation that would excuse her crimes, let alone win a man’s affection. She would be lucky to escape hanging.

Mr. Perry arrived and went immediately to his patient. With Miss Bates now in the apothecary’s care, Mr. Knightley, Elizabeth, and Mr. Deal came out of the bedroom and closed the door behind them.

“Mr. Perry praised Mr. Deal for acting so quickly,” Mr. Knightley said. “Once she voids her stomach, she should be out of danger.”

Mr. Deal’s anxious gaze lingered on the bedroom door.

“Hiram?”

The peddler flinched at the sound of Miss Jones’s voice.

“Hiram, when you understand why I—”

He whirled to face her. “Understand? What is there to understand, Loretta? What could possibly justify what you have done?”

“I did it for you.”

“You poisoned Miss Bates — a gentle soul who could not harm a mouse — for me?” He looked as if he, too, were about to become ill.

“She cannot make you happy, Hiram. She is like that little slut Nellie and all the other women.”

“What women?”

“Every village, every borough we passed through — all of them throwing themselves at you. But none of them know you as I do. At the end of the day you are still nothing but a peddler to them. Whereas I–I would follow you anywhere! I told you so — I offered you a woman’s heart and a woman’s body.” Her voice grew hoarse. “But I was just a child in your eyes. You told me to go home, back to my parents.”

“And you should have listened! But instead — instead of returning to your father, you murdered mine? Did you do that for me, too?”

“Edgar Churchill was never a father to you, any more than his wife was a mother.”

A fresh expression of horror overtook his features. “Did you kill her, as well?”

She laughed. “I wish I could take credit. That hateful old lady deserved to die — when I overheard you tell Madam Zsofia what she had said to you, I was only sorry that God took her before I thought of it. But her death made me realize that all of the Churchills needed to be punished — and I knew that if I could be the one to bring them to justice, to make them pay for what they had done to you, to vindicate you — then — then you would see that I am not a child.”

“What did Edgar and Frank Churchill do to me that merited poisoning them?”

“All of the Churchills treated you cruelly! While your parents lived in their fancy houses and wore fine clothes, while your cousin usurped your birthright, you lived amongst gypsy thieves.”

He shook his head in disgust. “I have never regretted my life with the Roma.”

Miss Jones’s last statement brought to Darcy’s mind the puzzle they had received. “Was it you who left the anagram? ‘He dwelled amongst thieves’—”

“ ‘—as they lived large in Richmond’?” Her mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smile. “I most certainly did. I could not be silent. Everyone mistook the Churchills for victims. Their hypocrisy needed to be known.”

“But why did you implicate yourself and Mr. Deal with the second solution — the one about hidden motives?” Mrs. Knightley asked.

Miss Jones regarded her as if she were daft. “There was no second solution.”

“Indeed, there was.”

“If you found one, your own imagination created it, for I did not.”

“But I—” Mrs. Knightley stared at her unbelievingly. “ ‘Clever lying girl — Deal had hidden motives — Not what he seems’—You did not hide that second message in the puzzle?”

Now Miss Jones’s expression was scornful. “Why on earth would I?”