The peddler arrived in the escort of Mr. Cole. Though Mr. Deal labored to maintain his customary affability, there was wariness in his manner as he greeted Mr. Knightley and Darcy.
At Mr. Knightley’s nod, Mr. Cole left the study. The constable would wait in the drawing room with the ladies and Mr. Woodhouse, near at hand should he be wanted. As far as Mr. Woodhouse knew, Mr. Cole — and his waiting carriage — were at Hartfield to visit Mr. Woodhouse. Mrs. Knightley’s father need not know that a suspected murderer was presently under his roof.
With brusque civility, Mr. Knightley invited Mr. Deal to take a seat opposite himself, the large writing table between them. Mr. Deal sat on the edge of the chair, leaning slightly forward like a man ready to engage in conversation — or poised to flee. Darcy remained standing off to one side.
The magistrate did not waste time on pleasantries. “Mr. Deal, have you any notion why I asked you to come here this evening?”
“None, sir. Though I suspect you do not wish to see my inventory of brandy.”
The attempt at levity failed to elicit a smile from Mr. Knightley. “Tell us about your business with the Churchills.”
“The Churchills?” The peddler, clearly perplexed, glanced from Mr. Knightley to Darcy and back. “I thought I had — when we spoke some days ago, Mr. Darcy — but certainly, I can repeat it for you. I sold the younger Mr. Churchill a snuff box.”
“We mean your previous business with the family,” Darcy said. “In Richmond.”
The peddler blinked. “Richmond? I never met either of the misters Churchill in Richmond.”
“But you did visit their house. On June twenty-sixth.”
“I visited many homes in Richmond last June. Usually I deal with the servants or the lady of the house. Rarely gentlemen. As to whether I stopped at the home of a family named Churchill specifically on the twenty-sixth, I cannot say. Surely you do not expect me to remember with such clarity the calls I made five months ago?”
Darcy stepped closer, forcing the peddler to tilt his head up to look at him. “You recall the history of every item you hawk from your cart. I indeed presume you capable of recollecting a meeting on the twenty-sixth of June that resulted in a heated argument with the lady of the house. The servant I spoke to today certainly remembers it.”
Mr. Deal shifted, turning his body so that he no longer faced Darcy, but Mr. Knightley. He did not, however, look at the magistrate. He stared at the clawed feet of the writing table as he brought up his maimed arm and absently rubbed the stump with his hand. His countenance bore an expression of defeat. And shades of fear.
Mr. Knightley rested his own arms on the table and formed a temple with his fingertips. “Mr. Deal, the servant’s testimony provides sufficient cause to arrest you tonight. If you wish to offer your own explanation of events, or have anything to say on your behalf, now would be the time to do so.”
Mr. Deal opened his mouth to speak, but no words issued forth.
“You had a row with Mrs. Churchill, after which she suddenly died. I doubt you fought over the price of lace,” Darcy said. “The servant told me that he had seen you loitering near the house for a se’nnight previous.”
Mr. Deal’s jaw tightened.
“What business brought you to the house?” Mr. Knightley asked. “How did you know Agnes Churchill?”
Mr. Deal raised his head. The look he gave Mr. Knightley was direct and unapologetic.
“She was my mother.”
IN WHICH HIGHBURY BECOMES ACQUAINTED
WITH A MURDERER
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure.
— Emma
“Oh, Mrs. Churchill… What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!”
— Isabella Knightley, Emma
We are to believe that in her youth, Agnes Churchill secretly bore a child that she kept hidden for decades?” Though Mr. Knightley voiced the question, Darcy was equally incredulous.
“My birth was not a secret, only my life — even to her.”
“Mr. Deal, kindly explain yourself.”
As Mr. Knightley spoke, movement at the door caught Darcy’s attention. Elizabeth silently entered. Her expression indicated that she had something to tell him, but a brief exchange of unspoken communication indicated that it was not exigent. As he did not want to interrupt Mr. Deal or miss what he was about to say, Darcy motioned her to wait quietly. Mr. Deal’s back was to her; he had not seen her enter. Elizabeth’s attendance would not inhibit his admissions. Mr. Knightley gave no sign of disapproval and did not betray her presence.
“I have had, in truth, three mothers,” Mr. Deal said. “Only two, however, deserve the name. Though Agnes Churchill gave me life, she would have stolen it from me just as quickly had the nurse who attended my birth followed her orders. Thankfully, the nurse instead took me far away and gave me to her childless cousin.”
Since entering Highbury, Darcy had not heard one favorable word about Agnes Churchill. Still, he found it difficult to comprehend any mother’s being capable of what Mr. Deal alleged. Or any father. “Were you born out of wedlock?”
“Indeed, no. Edgar Churchill was my father, and my arrival, a little more than a year into their marriage, was entirely legitimate. But I learned this only recently. Growing up, I knew merely that I had been born in London to parents either unable or unwilling to keep a maimed child. I always imagined they were a kind but fortuneless couple with so many other mouths to feed that they could not afford to raise a son whose deformity would forever be a burden.”
“And the woman who did raise you?” Mr. Knightley asked.
“My adoptive parents were hardly wealthy themselves. They owned a modest shop in a village not unlike this one, and it was there that I learned my sums and began to develop the skills of a salesman. They also taught me my letters and manners, for they knew the life of a cripple would not be easy, and they wanted to prepare me as best they could to make my way in the world.”
“How, then, did you come to consort with gypsies?”
Mr. Deal leaned back, settling into both his chair and his story. His manner, however, did not have quite the ease with which he spun his trader’s patter. This time, instead of selling his wares, the peddler had to sell himself, and Darcy and Mr. Knightley were determined not to be taken in.
“When I was nine, scarlet fever claimed both of my parents, along with most of the village. Before she died, my mother told me that my birth name was Churchill, but cautioned me against trying to find my true parents. I would be safer and happier in the village, she said, running the shop with the guidance of a friend she asked to look out for me until I could manage independently. But her friend died, too. The outbreak left the village decimated; parish relief was exhausted, and nobody wanted the trouble of caring for a child not theirs, not whole, and of unknown origins. I sold everything I could not carry, packed my haversack, and left the village determined to somehow find my way to London.
“I had not journeyed a mile when I encountered a kumpania—a caravan — of gypsies moving through the area. They had heard of the contagion that claimed our village and, afraid I carried the fever, warned me to keep my distance. But they had among them a drabarni. In the Romany tongue, that word can mean a seer or a healer; Rawnie Zsófia was both. There are many pretenders to both arts among the gypsies, but if there is one who truly possesses the gifts of prophecy and medicine, it is Rawnie Zsófia. She told her fellow gypsies that they had nothing to fear, that I must join them. She was a young woman then, not yet thirty and unmarried, but already they respected her as if she were an elder.
“She asked me where I traveled. Her black eyes at once fascinated and frightened me — I was certain she could see straight into my mind and heart. I stammered out that I was seeking my mother. ‘You need look no farther,’ she replied. ‘I foresaw that you would come to me. From today, you are my chosen son.’ ” His voice grew thick as he recalled the meeting and repeated her words.
“And so I became a gypsy, with a gypsy life and a gypsy name. Among the Roma, Rawnie Zsófia’s protection was better than royal patronage, and they accepted me without question. My deformity was nothing to a people who had themselves endured centuries of persecution, and they taught me such skills as were within my power to make others overlook my missing hand. It was in this familia that I learned the art of storytelling. And a few other talents.”
What these other talents were, Mr. Deal did not specify. Darcy suspected that a number of them were of questionable legality.
“In turn,” the peddler continued, “I became the caravan’s middleman with the gorgios. My English features and respectable speech enabled me to move freely wherever we traveled, and I soon earned my keep by selling the gypsies’ wares in towns we camped near. As I grew older, the path of my journeys often divided from that of the caravan, sometimes for prolonged periods. But always I returned to my gypsy mother, the woman known to others as Rawnie Zsófia, but to me alone as dai.”
Darcy stirred impatiently. The peddler had an interesting history, but none of it explained his recent dealings with the Churchills and the events of June twenty-sixth. “When and why did you seek out the Churchills?”
“Though I was content with my gypsy familia, I often wondered about my birth parents. Whenever Rawnie Zsófia told my fortune, she would not reveal anything she saw about the Churchills, and a sorrowful expression would overcome her face if I asked whether I would ever meet them. ‘In time, my chavo,’ she would say. ‘In time.’
“Last spring, the caravan camped just outside of Highbury. I was not with them, but there was an incident involving a young woman who became frightened when some of the children begged her for a coin. A gentleman intervened — Mr. Churchill, the woman called him. Though he bears a resemblance to my own appearance fifteen years ago, Rawnie Zsófia needed no physical cues to know him immediately for my kin. She had already seen him in visions. When I was next with her, I sensed that something had changed. I asked why she was so heavyhearted. ‘The time is come,’ she said.
“I traced Frank to the Churchills’ house in Richmond, then over the next month ascertained that the senior Churchills were indeed the couple who had abandoned me. Though I trusted the truth of Rawnie Zsófia’s visions, I needed more objective proof before attempting to meet them. And that is all I wanted — simply to meet them. I did not intend to reveal my identity.”