Posted on Wednesday, 31 October 2007

“Serle, have you heard the news? All the turkeys over at Randalls have been killed!”

The old housekeeper of Hartfield gasped. “What? No!”

“Yes, ‘tis true. Frances went to the poultry house to gather the eggs, and found the headless beasts lying in the yard.”

“Ugh! That’s terrible! Who do they think done it?”

“No one knows. If it were thieves, they would have taken the birds, would’na’ they?”

Serle nodded. “Ah, that’s a bad omen. Killin’ for killin’s sake can never be good. I hope they catch the miserable murderer and give ‘em what they got comin’.”

Joyce placed her empty sack upon the counter and went to the doorway. “Anyway, the Woodhouses will be pleased to know the Westons aren’t wasteful people. They’re giving a dinner with the carcasses. So you don’t have to prepare Mr. Woodhouse’s basin of gruel tonight, Serle. I’ll likely make some up for him. Tell me, does he prefer milk or water in the horrid stuff?”

The Woodhouses of Hartfield were enjoying a visit from Mr. Woodhouse’s oldest daughter, Isabella, and her family. Mr. John Knightley enjoyed bringing his family to Hartfield because it was so close to his brother’s estate, Donwell Abbey. They had not expected to have their visit marred by such grisly news.

Mr. Woodhouse pulled his blanket up to his chin. “All the turkeys killed? Just like that? Oh, John! What can be done?”

Mr. John Knightley looked at his father-in-law. “Done about what, Sir?”

“To protect our turkeys! Oh, Emma! To think, all the while we lay in our beds, a murderer lurked not half a mile from our slumber. How frightful! How horrific!”

While Emma murmured words of comfort, John Knightley rose. “I’ll go and speak with your groundskeeper. As Hartfield has but few turkeys, I think you are rather safe. The Westons keep more livestock than you do.”

John went to the small poultry-house outside the kitchen. “Well, Mr. Serle, what do you think of this business with the turkeys?”

The small, bent older man cupped his hand around his ear. “Eh? What was that?”

John spoke slower and louder. “I said, what do you intend to do about the turkeys?”

“The turkeys? They’re noble creatures, ain’t they?”

“Yes, but how will you keep them safe? The turkeys at Randalls were all killed!” John Knightley drew his finger across his throat as an illustration.

“Nah, we don’t need to kill any until Christmastime. These ones we have are too scrawny, yet.” The old farmer stopped talking and gazed at his turkeys, bobbing his head.

“Yes, but, oh, never mind,” moaned John as he turned back to the house.

Meanwhile, back in the house, Emma was having a conversation with her fiancé, Mr. George Knightley. “Papa is worried. He thinks that a poultry thief is as dangerous as a murderer.”

“Now, Emma, for once I must agree with your father. This is no ordinary poultry thief. If it were, there would only be some feathers left of the birds for they would have taken them alive. However, this fellow – or fellows – killed the birds and left the bodies. What can anyone want with turkey heads? No, this is rather a serious business.”

Emma sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. It makes no sense. Do you think we should go to Randalls to dine, then?”

“Part of me thinks it’s rather ghastly, eating murdered turkeys. But I see the sense in it. There is no point in wasting perfectly good meat, especially when the fowl is so expensive.”

“All right, then, let us prepare Papa to go out tonight. You know he never wants to dine anywhere but his own table, but I daresay he might go tonight.”

Together, they approached Mr. Woodhouse.

“Papa, will you go to Randalls with us tonight for dinner? Mrs. Weston could use our company. I am sure she is quite out of sorts with the sad business of her turkeys,” Emma entreated him.

Mr. Woodhouse looked upset. “Eat at Randalls? Do you really mean to eat those birds, my dear? Turkey meat is most unwholesome, you know.”

Mr. Knightley intervened. “My good Sir, I know you fear for our digestive health. But think of the Westons. Think of their loss. Even if you do not eat turkey, we should certainly go and console them.”

Mr. Woodhouse only needed a little more persuasion before he agreed to go. Mr. Knightley and Emma assured him that the cook at Randalls knew of his moderate eating habits and would be sure to make him a tasty basin of gruel while the rest of them dined on turkey with potatoes and vegetables. He need not partake of their rich meal; only his presence was required on this occasion.

“…And they only hurt the turkeys, not a feather of any of the chickens,” Mrs. Weston finished telling the group of ladies gathered around her.

“My goodness!” exclaimed Miss Bates. “What a terrifying ordeal for you, Mrs. Weston. I certainly am glad that it was only the wretched turkeys – not that I wish any harm to them, you understand – but I know that you have a baby just in the house, and to think that they were just outside your window! The nerve of some people! I told Jane, before she went away, you know, and I should probably remind her in a letter, that she ought not to keep turkeys. They are too difficult to maintain. Chickens, certainly, certainly, because they produce so many eggs, but not turkeys.”

Mrs. Weston tried as politely as possible to ignore the interruption. “Mr. Weston thinks the killer may strike again at another house. Please tell your manservants to keep an eye on your henhouses.”

Mrs. Cole asked, “I heard that all the blood was sucked from the poor birds. Is there any suspicion of, well, something supernatural? Werewolves, perhaps? Or witchcraft?”

A collective shudder went round the group of ladies gathered there. Mrs. Weston exclaimed, “Of course not! More than likely, this is a sick prank played by youths who want to raise our hackles. Do not be alarmed. The culprit shall be caught, ladies.”

“Oh my dear Emma, what shall we do? What is to become of us all? Will we slain in our beds? Well, well, perhaps it is all for the best. Turkey is most unwholesome you know. Of course, Serle does an excellent job of preparing it for us.” Mr. Woodhouse’s nerves were making him miserable. Emma thought it would be best if they left earlier than customary that evening and asked Mr. Knightley to call for the coach soon.

“Mr. Weston, you must be very careful you know. What if the thief comes back? Oh dear, I’m sure Miss Taylor is very sorry that she left us now.” Mr. Woodhouse fretted over Emma’s former governess and her status as a happy new wife and mother.

“Papa, you must not say such things. You know that we miss Mrs. Weston very much, but you see how close she is to us and she is very happy here, married to Mr. Weston.” Emma tried to console her father, but at the same time she worried that he would never be at ease with her upcoming marriage.

So after an exceptionally short evening, the carriages arrived and Mr. Woodhouse, Emma, Mr. Knightley and Mr. John Knightley bid their adieus. Mr. Knightley only left after being assured by Mr. Weston that he would personally escort Mrs. and Miss Bates home that evening.

Mr. Woodhouse was in such a state of agitation that evening that he found it difficult to settle on anything. After much cajoling, Emma succeeded in settling her dear Papa in his favorite chair by the fire and in reading to him for a short time, was able to calm him to the point that he was able to retire in relatively calm spirits. Mr. John Knightley was not far behind Mr. Woodhouse in retiring, but Mr. Knightley stayed with Emma for some time afterward before taking his leave of her.

It was very late as Mr. Martin and Mr. Elton crept over the grounds behind Mr. Elton’s small estate. Mr. Martin had agreed to help patrol some of the neighboring properties – though he was sure that Mr. Elton would be safe from the Turkey Bandit as the thief was now being called. It was a crisp, clear night with barely a breath of wind stirring. The only light provided was from the moon above which was at its fullest.

They had nearly arrived at the chicken coop when there was a great commotion and noise that seemed to be coming from just beyond the garden. The two men raced toward the sound - Mr. Elton sure that they were going to capture the thief. Mr. Martin was in front of Mr. Elton when suddenly Mr. Elton cried out and grabbed Mr. Martin by his waistcoat nearly pulling him to the ground. Mr. Elton was not able to maintain his footing, but instead seemed to slide stomach first on the ground with his arms and legs splayed out in all directions.

“Mr. Elton, are you alright?” Mr. Martin turned to help his friend, but was stopped short by the sound of mad laughter. He turned and could just make out the figure of someone in a white nightgown running away and laughing hysterically. If it weren’t for the nightgown billowing in the night, he would have sworn he had just witnessed a werewolf the way the figure had seemed to run and hobble all at the same time. And the laughter – it had an eerie, haunting sound.

“No, I am not bloody well alright, can you help me up man? I seemed to be in some sort of a mess here.” He felt around him and clutched something rubbery and oozing. “Ugh! Robert, shine the lantern over here.” Mr. Martin brought the torch close to the ground. “It’s just as I suspected – I slipped in turkey guts! The Turkey Bandit has struck my poultry house!”

Mr. Martin gasped in surprise and tumbled backwards – right into another pile of innards. “For heaven’s sake!” The lamp had smashed against a tree root, causing it to break.

The two men went to Mr. Elton’s house to wash up. Joyce and Frances stifled laughter as they watched their master and neighbor walk in, dripping with nasty goo on their clothes. Their laughter abated, however, when they realized the cause of the men’s distress. The Turkey Bandit was still at large, and they had been the latest victims.

Emma, Mr. Woodhouse, Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, and their children were all sitting down to breakfast when Mrs. Elton was announced. Emma stood to greet her guest, unwelcome though she was.

“Mrs. Elton! What brings you here so early? Won’t you sit down and breakfast with us?”

“No, thank you, I can not stay. Our turkeys were the victims of the Turkey Bandit’s insidious plan last night.”

“No!” The members of the breakfast room all looked fearfully and worriedly at each other.

“Yes, and my poor caro sposo nearly caught the Bandit, but his efforts were thwarted by the dead turkeys themselves. He slipped and fell in the mess, you know. Nearly broke his hip. Mr. Perry is attending to him right now.”

“What a hair-raising tale,” Isabella, who looked pale, cried.

“Yes, and I am just come to spread warnings. Beware! This Bandit is no one to trifle with! Lock your turkeys up and keep up the watch. Constant vigilance! Now I must take my leave and spread the alarm.” Mrs. Elton said this last with a flourish and swept out of the room.

Just as she left, Mr. and Mrs. Martin arrived.

Emma rushed from her plate of lukewarm kippers to shake her friend’s hand. “Dear Harriet, or I should say Mrs. Martin. How good it is to see you!”

Harriet smiled half-heartedly. “It is always good to see you, Miss Woodhouse.”

Mr. Martin interrupted, “I’m sorry, but this is not a social call. May we speak with you in the hallway, please?”

Mr. Woodhouse looked questioningly at them, but Emma excused herself to lead them into the hallway. “Whatever is the matter?”

“It is just… well, Harriet is, we suspect, with child.” Harriet blushed at her husband’s revelation. “She has not been well, and Mr. Perry advised her to rest as much as possible. My mother and sisters are worried to death about my patrolling at night, and after Mr. Elton and I came so close last night to encountering the foul demon, I fear Harriet does not get the rest her poor nerves need. Is it possible…”

“Do you need to stay here?” interrupted Emma.

“Only if my old room is ready. I would hate to impose,” said Harriet.

“You know you are always welcome here, dearest Harriet! Your room is unoccupied. I’ll have Mary ready it for you. In the meantime, please come and breakfast with us. I assure you that the children will entertain you enough to distraction, and holding the baby, little Emma, will be good practice for when you have your own.” Emma squeezed her friend’s hand in excitement.

As Harriet and Emma retired for the night, Mr. Elton and Mr. Martin were on the prowl once again - this time at Robert’s farm. They had gotten themselves into a very good hiding spot and were settling in for the evening. Mr. Martin had brought some bread and wine for them to eat and drink while they kept up the night’s vigil. A few hours and several drinks later, Mr. Martin heard a twig snap in the distance.

“Mr. Elton, wake up. I believe we are about to capture ourselves a turkey bandit!” Mr. Elton struggled to wake through the haze of drink. He didn’t realize he had consumed quite as much as he apparently had. He got to his feet and peered toward the turkey house. A rustle of leaves then the distinct sound of the turkey house door opening.

“We’ve got him now! Move, Mr. Elton, lest we spook him and he flees.” Mr. Martin was running now. However, when they got to the turkey house, the bandit was no where to be seen.

“Damn! The sneaky thief has somehow managed to get by us. How is he doing it? He must be some unnatural creature of the night.” Mr. Martin flashed his lamp all around. The bandit only got to one of his turkeys. The rest were safe. There were footprints everywhere, but he quickly realized that several of the sets were his own and those of Mr. Elton. There was one set that seemed to be from a very different type of shoes than were normally worn out of doors. Mr. Martin puzzled over this for a moment and decided to head to Mr. Knightley’s estate and see if he was on the lookout tonight.

“Mr. Elton, it seems that the bandit has done all he will do here tonight. I am going to see if Mr. Knightely is out this evening. Will you join me there or will you head to your own home?” Mr. Martin silently hoped for the latter. Mr. Elton was a very good fellow, but he really felt that the noise he made this evening was the cause of the bandit’s escape.

“I think that I shall join you. There is no sense in my going home without capturing the turkey bandit. Mrs. E will not forgive me for it.” Mr. Elton lamented.

Mr. Knightley had his own plans on how to protect his turkeys. He had installed a “security system” around the turkey pen. He had added some barbed wire around the perimeter and along the handle of the door. He had also stationed himself at an angle that would make it easy to make out the identity of the bandit. He could see him coming from at least three sides. If the bandit struck, he would have quite a time keeping from stepping on the barbed wire in the dark. Hopefully, it would slow him enough for Mr. Knightly to make the capture.

Mr. Martin and Mr. Elton found Mr. Knightly near the turkey pen shortly before midnight. “Mr. Knightley, your man said that you were here. My own turkeys are safe save one. I almost managed to capture the beast, but alas, he seemed to have advanced warning of our presence and got away.” Mr. Elton sheepishly turned away at this chastisement from Mr. Martin.

“I have added additional security around the turkeys this evening here. If the bandit comes, I hope I will have more luck than you.” Mr. Knightley was watching the house intently.

For nearly two hours, the three men kept up the vigil. Finally, Mr. Knightley began to doze. He was only asleep he thought for 15 minutes. When he peered over to the turkey house however, something caught his eye. Shiny blue material. He got up to inspect it and realized that it was a patch of material from a dressing robe. On the turkey house door he saw the unmistakable sign of blood - just a small amount around the handle of the door; so his trap had worked. Carefully, he unwrapped the wire from around the handle and opened the door. All of his turkeys seemed to be safe.

Lightning flashed, illuminating Mr. Woodhouse’s old-fashioned bedstead. In the distance, a loose shutter banged in the wind. The elderly man pulled his blanket up around his chin.

Mr. Knightley held out a swath of blue material. It perfectly matched the dressing-slippers that sat next to Mr. Woodhouse’s bed. Slippers that had a tear in one. He looked down at his soon-to-be father in law and saw a mixture of fear and something else he could hardly determine – defiance? His right hand had a bandage covering it.

“Are you going to expose me, George?” the old man asked timidly.

Mr. Knightley held his gaze for a long moment before slipping the material into his pocket. “Why, sir? Why maim the turkeys?”

“I… you must understand, I’ve suffered indigestion ever since our last turkey dinner! It is very unwholesome! Stomachs can not digest such rich meat. I can not bear to think of your marrying my daughter and feeding her turkey meat!”

Mr. Knightley sighed. “If I swear to never serve turkey at my table, will you please stop this insanity? I will keep your secret, but you must make restitution. Our village has lost not only property, but peace of mind as well. Please say that you will stop. I will not allow my father-in-law to behave in such a manner; it is most embarrassing and unbecoming.”

The elderly man exhaled. “Yes. Yes, of course I will stop.”

At breakfast the next morning, all the family and guests wondered what news there could be about the Turkey Bandit. They wondered who would appear to bring them tidings today, but instead Mr. Woodhouse stood and informed them, “I just heard the most marvelous tale from the Americas. A young man there has been traveling around, planting trees of the most wholesome fruit! I know that Donwell Abbey has a productive apple orchard, but the rest of Highbury is sadly lacking in this most digestible fruit. I am thinking of purchasing a large number of these wonderful seeds to spread all over our town. What do you all think?”

The party gathered there was all most supportive of this idea. Instead of grieving over the loss of their poultry, the village was now abuzz with the news of American apple seeds that were to be planted in everyone’s yard. All those who had lost turkeys were to receive twice as many seeds per square foot than those who had suffered no losses. All of Highbury praised him for his generosity and humanitarianism. No one ever suspected that their benefactor had once struck so much fear into their hearts by murdering their turkeys, and had tried to repay them all with fruit. No one ever heard from the Turkey Bandit ever again, and although the trade in poults decreased, people still did keep them on their farms. Highbury returned to its normal calm and content atmosphere.

But whenever Mr. Woodhouse heard of turkey being served at someone’s table, he had a strong urge to open the small wooden box at the foot of his bed to find the axe that had once cleansed the town of the foul fowls.

The End