“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.”
“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?”
“I do not — I am simply trying to comprehend the message. You have not yet convinced me that it is from Mrs. Elton. What has she to gain by sending such a note?”
“The satisfaction of vexing me.”
“Then do not give her that satisfaction,” Mr. Knightley said. “Let us consider this more objectively. The message arrived addressed to both of us, on the day following an attempt on Frank Churchill’s life. The first note, you say, arrived yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“So, two days after Edgar died. And it was addressed solely to you?”
Emma nodded.
“What did it say?”
“It was a charade. The solution was ‘hopeless.’ ”
“Unfortunately, that could just as easily refer to our investigation. What made you believe the note was from Mrs. Elton?”
“The penmanship appeared to be hers. And she and I are… having a bit of a disagreement.”
Mr. Knightley regarded her suspiciously. “On what matter?”
She hesitated. “Mrs. Elton is quite put out by my recent attention to Miss Bates.”
“I see. So put out that she was inspired to write verse on the subject?”
To avoid his gaze — and her increasing self-doubt — Emma once more studied the sentence. This time she took particular note of the penmanship. Though she did not have yesterday’s charade at hand for comparison, it appeared to her that these block letters were larger, scribed in bolder strokes than Mrs. Elton’s feminine script. “Perhaps someone else did write it,” she conceded.
“The letter bears a local postmark, and Highbury is a small village,” Mr. Darcy said. “Would not the postmaster recall who brought it to the post office?”
Emma laughed. “We can ask him, but I doubt he will be able to enlighten us. Mr. Fletcher is a man of rather advanced years, as deaf as Mrs. Bates and even more prone to nodding off in his chair. People leave letters on the counter all the time rather than disturb his naps. Jane Fairfax managed to conduct a secret correspondence with Frank Churchill all last winter and spring without anybody in the village being the wiser.”
“I am afraid my wife is correct in her description of the postmaster,” Mr. Knightley said. “I will visit him tomorrow, but we are more likely to determine this note’s author through our own deduction.”
“Might the author be the ‘unkind individual’?” Emma offered.
“Unkind persons generally do not recognize that failing in themselves,” Mrs. Darcy said. “If this was written by someone in attendance at either party, it most likely refers to one of the other guests.”
“The writer went to this much trouble to advise us that someone unkind was among the company? One need look no further than Mrs. Elton to know that.”
“Your dislike of the vicar’s wife is blinding you, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley. “I believe Mrs. Elton is neither the composer of this message, nor the person the author wishes to bring to our attention.”