The Intrigue at Highbury

that. Yes, Frank Churchill did happen to arrive at just the right time, did he not? As I recall, he decided on some whim to send his horses ahead and walk a mile or two up the road?”

“It was not a whim — he said he was inspired by the fineness of the morning.”

“He was in too great a hurry that day to take proper leave of you, yet he had time to stroll toward Richmond at a pace so leisurely that no one noticed his approach until he was among them.” Mr. Knightley made a sound of disgust. “You are correct: that is not a whim. That is Frank Churchill to the core.”

“Mr. Knightley, you will prejudice our visitors against the gentleman before they even meet him.” Mrs. Knightley turned to the Darcys. “Frank Churchill is actually a charming fellow. My husband unfairly expects all young men to conform to his own exacting standards of behavior.”

“My standards are no more rigorous than what society expects of any well-bred gentleman.”

Mrs. Knightley smiled at the Darcys. “I look forward to introducing you should an opportunity present itself.”

“I take it that Frank Churchill is not the Mr. Churchill who passed away last night?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh, dear. You learned of that already? No, it was Edgar Churchill who died. Frank is his nephew — adopted son, actually; Edgar’s only heir. It was Frank and his new wife, Jane, whom last night’s dinner was meant to honor.” She looked at her husband. “Truly, Mr. Knightley, could you not show a hint of compassion for him, just for today? Tomorrow you may return to being critical.”

“I feel his loss keenly. How is that?”

“Much better. Now, when do you propose taking the Darcys to the London road?”

Mr. Knightley, having finished his breakfast, swallowed a final sip of coffee. “We can proceed as soon as you are ready,” he said to the Darcys.

“Let us go now, then,” Darcy replied.

As Elizabeth and Darcy waited in the hall with Mr. Knightley for a servant to retrieve their cloaks, a gentleman arrived whom they recognized as one of the guests from the night before. Mr. Knightley introduced him as Mr. Frank Churchill.

“Mr. Darcy and I heard of your recent marriage and your uncle’s death,” Elizabeth said. “Please accept our congratulations on the former and condolences on the latter.”

“With gratitude. It has been a bewildering four-and-twenty hours, to go from a state of elation to one of grief. I hope by this call, however, to begin to put both my feelings and my uncle’s final affairs in order.”

He seemed a pleasant young man, her own age or perhaps a year older, with a handsome, clean-shaven countenance and clear blue eyes that looked as if they seldom took the world seriously. Mrs. Knightley had called him “charming,” and Elizabeth sensed he was a gentleman who took pains to make himself liked by all he met. Even now, despite his recent bereavement, his manners were calculated to please. His demeanor was warm, and lighter than Mr. Knightley’s had been at breakfast while discussing the same death.

Frank turned to Mr. Knightley. “I have written to Mr. Ian MacAllister, my uncle’s solicitor in London, to inform him of Mr. Churchill’s death. Among other business, I asked him to arrange for an undertaker to come today to collect my uncle’s remains and prepare them for transport to Yorkshire. I assume he will engage the same man who handled my aunt’s arrangements.”

“Before I can release Mr. Churchill, I must confirm that Mr. Perry has done with him.”

Frank chuckled. It was a thin sound, as if he realized its inappropriateness. “While I hold Mr. Perry’s medical skills in as much esteem as does everybody in Highbury, I think my uncle is beyond the good apothecary’s aid. Even the eminent Mr. Flint, my late aunt’s physician, could not revive him at this point.”

Mr. Knightley did not return the humor. “As you yourself stated last night, Edgar Churchill’s death was sudden and unexpected. Mr. Perry only wishes to ascertain, if he can, the nature of your uncle’s final illness. We would like to be able to assure the village that no virulent disease threatens Highbury.”

Despite the opinion that Mr. Knightley held of Frank, Elizabeth thought he could speak a little more sympathetically toward a young man who just lost his uncle and benefactor. If Donwell Abbey had hosted last night’s party in Frank’s honor, Mr. Knightley must be on at least somewhat friendly terms with Frank Churchill. Yet now he was comporting himself like—

Like a magistrate.

Elizabeth regarded the two gentlemen more closely, particularly Mr. Knightley. She knew that Mr. Knightley harbored suspicions about the cause of Edgar Churchill’s demise.

Suspicions which apparently included Edgar’s heir.

Nine

The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry.

— Emma

The site of the robbery proved easier to find than Darcy had anticipated. The horses had stamped and skittered so much during the episode that their hoof marks — along with plenty of human footprints — covered that section of the road, and shards of glass from the carriage lamp still lay in the dirt.

Darcy wished they had arrived sooner, before other traffic had marred the scene. Returning before any subsequent vehicles had passed through would have been impossible, but he could not help but reflect that some of the fresher wheel marks likely belonged to Mr. Knightley’s departing guests. There was no help for it, however — the magistrate had, rightfully so, spent the earlier part of the morning occupied with the matter of Edgar Churchill. In Mr. Knightley’s place, Darcy, too, would have fixed a higher priority on investigating a suspicious death in a prominent local family — not to mention one that had occurred in his own home — over the robbery of strangers passing through the village.

Fortunately, the later vehicles and pedestrians had not utterly obliterated two sets of men’s boot prints that led out of and back into the trees on one side of the road. Miss Jones’s accomplices had apparently hidden in the elms, then approached the carriage from behind once the rear lamp was extinguished. Their trail, however, disappeared once it reentered the woods.

Darcy moved among the elms with Mr. Knightley and Mr. Cole, the parish constable. As he searched for some indication of which direction the thieves had gone, he saw Elizabeth go back to the road. She paused when she reached the spot where their coach had stopped the night before, and stared with a deflated expression at the jumble of prints toward the rear.

He approached. She picked up a glass shard from the ground and lifted her gaze to the treetops.

“There is not even a sign of that troublesome raven.”

Darcy, too, felt frustrated by the lack of leads this excursion had produced. “The bird has doubtless found another shiny object to capture its interest.”

She released a sigh as Mr. Knightley joined them. “We are not going to recover our belongings, are we?”

“Come, now,” Mr. Knightley said. “Surely you can grant me and Mr. Cole at least a day before resigning hope?”

“Of course. Though I do not know how you intend to solve a robbery without any evidence.”

“I hardly expected the bandits to leave behind a calling card. We do, however, have another potential source of information. There has been a peddler in the village of late. It is possible that the thieves approached him, trying to sell the stolen goods. If he is still in the neighborhood, we will question him. Even if he has not personally encountered the robbers, his profession brings him into contact with so many people that he might have heard something about highwaymen in the area.”

“Perhaps he should also be asked about gypsies,” Darcy said. “Might the band your wife spoke of this morning have returned? You did mention a recent series of poultry thefts.”

“It is possible — we have not yet caught the poultry thieves. However, filching turkeys from unguarded outbuildings is hardly as bold an enterprise as stopping a private carriage and stealing a gentleman’s chest.”

“Both crimes employ stealth rather than direct confrontation. Our robbers might not be the same individuals