“The Churchills are very much in love,” Emma insisted. The observation about Mr. Dixon, she did not address. Jane Churchill’s friendship with Thomas Dixon forwarded Emma’s own plan for the gentleman, by advancing his intimacy with Miss Bates. She shook her head emphatically. “Depend upon it,” she said to them all, “Jane Churchill is not the person you seek.”
Mrs. Weston rejoiced at the arrival of her friend and, after allowing Mrs. Knightley ample time to ascertain for herself the state of Frank’s health, invited Emma to accompany her to another room to see a muffler she was knitting for Mr. Woodhouse. She included Elizabeth in the invitation, but Elizabeth, noting the lines in Mrs. Weston’s countenance that evidenced the anxiety of a long night just past, supposed the muffler merely a pretext for a much-needed tête-à-tête between old friends. She declined to intrude, and instead remained with Darcy, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Perry, and the Churchills.
Frank Churchill’s own account of the evening offered little more information than had the others. It differed, however, in his insistence that he had not come to the vicarage drunk; in fact, he had not consumed any wine or liquor all day. When Darcy suggested that perhaps something he had eaten disagreed with him, he repeated what he had told Mr. Perry: at dinner, he had eaten only what everyone else had. And nobody else had become ill.
“What about before dinner — before you went to the Eltons’?” Mr. Knightley asked. “What did you consume earlier in the day?”
“I breakfasted at Randalls. In the afternoon, I had cake at Hartfield while waiting to speak with you. And tea. A cup — no, two cups of tea.”
Elizabeth did not recall anyone’s having enjoyed a second cup of tea before the arrival of Mrs. Elton’s antagonistic charade, probably because such an indulgence would have sent Mr. Woodhouse into paroxysms. Mrs. Knightley must have somehow poured it for him when nobody else was looking.
“Are you certain, Frank?” Jane Churchill, sitting beside him, covered his hand with hers. Apparently, at least fondness existed between them. “When you went into the village, you did not stop at the Crown?” She turned to Darcy and Mr. Knightley. “After calling on you at Hartfield, he met us at the vicarage rather than return to Randalls.”
Frank Churchill withdrew his hand from hers. “I was not drunk at dinner. Will my own wife not believe me?”
Jane stiffened. The fleeting moment of affection was gone, replaced by what Elizabeth sensed was not the newlywed couple’s first experience of discord.
“Of course I believe you. It is only that Thomas Dixon mentioned that he saw you near the inn—”
“Did he? And is that Irishman my keeper now? Or does he merely consider himself the keeper of my accounts? He certainly feels at liberty to spend them.”
“That is unfair, Frank. Thomas Dixon has been nothing but kind, and is only trying to help—”
“Help himself to my fortune, since he does not have one of his own.”
Her face reddened. She swallowed whatever she had been about to say next, and instead drew a deep breath. With a pointed glance in Darcy and Mr. Knightley’s direction, she said in a calmer tone, “You are still not yourself after last night.”
Frank said nothing.
“Mr. Perry,” she continued, “you held Mr. Churchill’s remains for some time before releasing them for burial. Did the same illness that killed him cause Frank’s infirmity last night?”
Mr. Perry paused before replying. Elizabeth knew that he, Mr. Knightley, and Darcy had debated how much to reveal to Frank and Jane Churchill about the belladonna. Frank was still a suspect in Edgar’s death; full disclosure would compromise the investigation irreparably. But last night’s incident demonstrated that Frank was himself in danger, and any man so exposed deserved to be warned. Too, Mr. Perry would soon hold the formal inquest for Edgar, and once it took place, all Highbury would know that at least one Churchill had been poisoned.
“I believe it did. But it was not an ordinary illness. It was poison.”
So much color drained from Jane’s face that she looked as if she herself had been poisoned. “Good heavens! Someone tried to kill Frank? And — oh! — someone did kill his uncle? Poor Mr. Churchill!”
Her shock and dismay seemed genuine. Yet Elizabeth could not help but reflect that if Jane Churchill were indeed involved in the poisonings, she had had plenty of time to rehearse her reaction.
Frank Churchill appeared dumbfounded. “I was poisoned?” He stared at Mr. Perry as if he could not possibly have heard him correctly. “What kind of poison?”
“Belladonna. It is sometimes mistaken for other plants, so it is possible that you and your uncle ingested it accidentally. Since you were both guests here when the poisonings occurred, I will speak with the cook and have a look about the kitchen to make sure it has not inadvertently entered the house. But given that deadly nightshade is not common in this neighborhood and that no one else has experienced symptoms, until we ascertain the source we should for caution’s sake act under the assumption that the poisonings were deliberate.”
Jane Churchill released a soft cry that was half sob, half whimper. “Why would anybody want to kill Frank? Or his uncle?”
“That is what we are trying to determine.” Mr. Knightley gestured towards Darcy. “My friend Mr. Darcy, who has experience in such matters, has consented to assist us. I trust you will extend to him the same cooperation you would show me and Mr. Perry.”
“Of course.” If Mrs. Churchill thought it unusual that an outsider was being entrusted with an important role in the investigation, she did not show it — her countenance was full of too many other emotions.
Darcy, who had quietly observed the Churchills’ reactions while Mr. Perry and Mr. Knightley guided the conversation, now took command of it. He leaned forward, his manner direct but not confrontational. “Mr. Churchill, do you have any enemies? Did your uncle? Anybody who might wish you or your family harm?”
Frank shrugged. “None that I can think of.”
“Servants or former associates who might hold a grudge? An acquaintance who came out on the losing end of a wager placed at cards?”
Without even a pause to search his memory more thoroughly, Frank shook his head.
“I understand that your late aunt was not the most amiable person. Might she have earned someone’s animosity?”
“She had a strong will, a difficult temperament, and unrestrained pride. She therefore had few real friends. But I can think of no one who would consider himself so injured by her that he would avenge himself months later by killing her husband and nephew.”
“What about individuals who might benefit financially from your uncle’s death and yours? Do you have any business partners?”
“Until last week I had no fortune with which to do business.”
Elizabeth could see Darcy’s frustration mounting. Though Frank Churchill answered the queries willingly — or at least, gave the appearance of doing so — his replies provided no leads to follow. Why was he not more forthcoming, with his own safety at stake?
Darcy released an exasperated breath. “Mr. Churchill, it is very likely that someone murdered your uncle, and has attempted to murder you. Are you telling me that you have not the faintest idea why, or who that individual might be?”
“Believe me, sir, I wish I did.”
Darcy sat back and studied Frank, who shifted self-consciously under Darcy’s silent brooding. Then Darcy looked at Elizabeth, glanced at Jane Churchill, and met Elizabeth’s gaze once more. Without his having said a word, she understood.
Perhaps Frank Churchill knew quite well why someone might want to kill him. And perhaps it involved something, or someone, he would rather his new wife not know about.
“Mrs. Churchill,” Elizabeth said, “I have need of Mrs. Knightley — she is somewhere in the house with Mrs. Weston. Might I impose upon you to help me locate them?”
Though comfortable and well appointed, Randalls was not a very large house. Elizabeth estimated that she had five minutes — ten if she were very lucky — in which to both invent a reason for seeking Mrs. Knightley and elicit as much information as she could from Jane Churchill before their discovery of the other two ladies’ whereabouts put an end to this spontaneous interview.
“Mr. Darcy and I found ourselves ensnared in a murder plot within a fortnight of our wedding,” Elizabeth said as soon as they had quit the drawing room and entered the hall. It was not an elegant or subtle opening, but it had the desired effect: Jane Churchill regarded her in amazement — and lost some of the defensiveness from her posture. “So I sympathize with your current circumstances,” she continued. “This might not be the most auspicious manner in which to begin a marriage, but we are proof that one can endure it.”
Jane turned her head away, focusing her gaze on the central staircase that dominated the entry hall through which they passed. “Was the murderer caught?”
“Yes, by Mr. Darcy — and me. We were relieved when the matter was finally resolved, and we could at last retreat to Mr. Darcy’s home in Derbyshire. Just as I imagine you are anxious to reach Enscombe.”
“Indeed, yes. I wish we were there now.” Jane led her past the staircase and down a corridor. Paintings lined the walls — a few landscapes, including one depicting Randalls, and portraits of the Westons and Frank.
“Will your friends, the Dixons, travel there with you?”
“No, they return to Ireland on Friday next.”
“So soon? Mr. Thomas Dixon will no doubt be disappointed to leave Highbury before the transformation of your aunt’s apartment is complete.”
At the mention of Thomas Dixon, Jane stiffened. “Perhaps he can visit some other time.”
“He seems a kind gentleman — generous with his time and attention. One wonders why he has never wed.”