“This one is so coldly calculating that I can scarcely believe I just heard you utter it. And if Jane Churchill likened service as a governess to slavery, consider what profession your hypothesis suggests.”

They left their room to go down to dinner. In the corridor they met Thomas Dixon — resplendent in an embroidered satin waistcoat, frilled shirt, and cutaway maroon frock coat with a high velvet collar and brass buttons. Whatever secrets his heart might conceal, the gentleman certainly knew how to dress.

“I understand you are just returned from Randalls,” Mr. Dixon said. “How is Frank Churchill today?”

“Much improved,” Elizabeth replied.

“I am glad to hear it. What a fright for poor Jane! I hope he learned from this experience. If not”—his eyes twinkled—“we shall have to bring him to Ireland and teach him how to drink.” He seemed to be in a more pleasant mood than he had been the night before; Elizabeth wondered how he had spent his day.

“Frank claims he was not intoxicated,” Darcy said, “—in fact, that he did not have a drink all day. But I understand that he was seen near the Crown shortly before the Eltons’ party.”

“Was he?” Mr. Dixon began to remove his left glove, gently tugging on each finger. “I wonder what he was doing there.”

“He claims he was on his way to the vicarage.”

“I am sure that is all there is to it, then.”

“The reports we have heard of his conduct at the Eltons’ sound similar to what we heard of his uncle’s final night,” Darcy continued. “Did you not take a walk with Edgar Churchill earlier on the day of the Donwell party?”

“Yes.” He removed the other glove and held the pair in one hand as he tucked two fingers into his fob pocket.

“Did he already seem to be feeling poorly when you were together?”

Mr. Dixon fumbled with his fob chain, trying to retrieve his watch from its pocket. “He appeared fine.”

“Perhaps the exercise strained him. Did you walk far?”

He at last succeeded in withdrawing the watch. “We went nowhere in particular.” He sprung open the lid. “So late already! I must go dress for dinner.” He snapped the lid shut and hurried off.

Elizabeth followed him with her gaze until he was well out of hearing. “I thought he was dressed for dinner.”

“For all your speculation about Thomas Dixon’s relationship with Jane Churchill, I think the most significant connexion in his life is his tailor.” Darcy took her arm and led her towards the staircase.

“All the more reason to plot marriage to a wealthy widow — he could afford a fleet of tailors. He is definitely hiding something.”

“His quizzing glass?”

“Jane said it was Thomas Dixon who saw Frank near the Crown before the party. And it was Thomas Dixon who took a walk with Edgar Churchill shortly before the Knightleys’ party — information also revealed by Jane. Thomas Dixon was the last person to see either poisoning victim in good health, before any symptoms appeared. And he seems quite reluctant to talk about it.”

“You take this as evidence that he conspires with Jane Churchill? If she were indeed plotting to kill her husband so that she could become Mrs. Thomas Dixon, why would she volunteer any information that betrays his involvement?”

“I do not yet relinquish the possibility of collusion between them,” Elizabeth said, “but there is an alternative theory we have not yet considered. Perhaps Jane does not know about the plot. Perhaps it is all Mr. Dixon’s.”

Twenty-One

“Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentlemen’s hands I ever saw.”

“I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small — wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”

— Emma Woodhouse and Mr. Knightley, Emma

The second riddle arrived as had the first: in the post, anonymously.

This one was not a charade, however, but a much shorter puzzle. And it came addressed not solely to Emma, but to both the Knightleys.

It was Mr. Knightley, alone in the study, who opened it as he sorted through the letters that had arrived while he and the others spent the day interviewing the Eltons and their dinner guests. His first response, upon breaking the seal and seeing that the note contained but a single sentence, was annoyance that he had paid good coin to receive such a short message — particularly one postmarked in Highbury.

His next response, upon reading the enigmatic line, was to immediately seek his wife to ask whether she had any better notion than he why the mysterious missive had appeared.

He found her in the drawing room with her father, Thomas Dixon, and the Darcys, who had gathered there in anticipation of dinner and waited only on him to go into the dining room. His thoughts full of the Churchill matter, he had not realized the hour. He apologized to the company for having kept them from their meal, and drew Emma aside as the others started into the dining room.

“We received a rather unusual message with today’s post.”

Emma took the paper from him. With a glance at her father, who talked to Mr. Dixon as he made his slow way to the table, she unfolded the note.

PERHAPS AN UNKIND INDIVIDUAL WITNESSED THE GATHERING OF BRAGGARTS OF AN ELEVATED RELIGIOUS HOUSE.

It was penned, unlike the last riddle, in block letters to disguise the hand. Emma, however, needed no additional evidence of its authorship. She rolled her eyes ceilingward. “It is only Mrs. Elton again.”

“Mrs. Elton?”

“She sent me the most spiteful charade yesterday. Apparently, she has not done venting her spleen.”

“What did it say?”

“Nothing significant.” Emma knew her husband’s opinions on the subject of matchmaking, and did not care to hear them again at present. He might just side with Mrs. Elton. “Come look at this, Mrs. Darcy.” She hoped that a third party in the conversation would quell any lectures on matrimonial manipulation that her husband might feel inspired to deliver. “We have received another attempt at cleverness from the vicarage.”

Mrs. Darcy came to her, curiosity writ on her countenance. Mr. Darcy crossed the room with her. She frowned as she scanned the note, which Mr. Darcy also read. “That is rather an odd message,” she said. “I cannot grasp quite how it relates to the content of the first. Are you certain it is from Mrs. Elton?”

“Who but the Eltons would consider Highbury’s vicarage ‘an elevated religious house’? Their self- consequence never fails to astonish me.” At Mrs. Darcy’s expression of confusion, Emma continued. “This refers to their dinner party. Mrs. Elton must take one final opportunity to remind me that I was not invited.”

“I do not believe that is her meaning at all, if this note is indeed from her,” said Mr. Knightley. “She is unlikely to call her own guests ‘braggarts.’ ”

“Yes, it is a term better applied to the hosts.” Emma read the message again: braggarts of an elevated religious house. She drew a sharp breath as she realized its meaning. “That woman is altogether insufferable! Gathering of braggarts, indeed! Well, she need not ever concern herself about associating with such company again.”

Her three companions all regarded her in puzzlement.

Emma turned to her husband. “Do you not see? Donwell Abbey is the religious house. She refers to our dinner party. More specifically, to you and me — she says ‘braggarts of’—not at—an elevated religious house. Donwell is our home — nobody is ‘of’ Donwell but we.”

“The reference could be to Donwell parish, which is home to half the guests who attended.”

“Why do you defend her?”

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