Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 3

C HAPTER 3

D r. Hughes gave Emma a ponderous bow. “Mrs. Knightley, please excuse my calling at such a late hour. I will do my best to keep my inquiries short and to distress you as little as possible.”

She smiled. “And I will do my best to help you, sir.”

“Your magnanimity is greatly appreciated, madam. As a medical man, I can well surmise the degree of violence inflicted upon your nerves by the misfortune of stumbling upon such a shocking scene. It is most distressing for a woman of your character and standing. I sincerely regret your involvement.”

She repressed the impulse to note that any sensible person would be distressed to stumble upon a bloody corpse.

“Fortunately, the shock was relatively short lived,” she instead replied.

“Please sit, Doctor,” George said. “I don’t wish to impose upon my wife any longer than necessary.”

Dr. Hughes rather officiously handed Emma to a walnut-framed chair but then planted himself in front of one of the inset bookcases that lined the walls of the study. George regarded him with an ironic eye before moving to sit behind his neatly ordered desk.

Dr. Hughes, a tall man, had a broad stomach and an imposing head of silver hair. A pair of too-small spectacles that perched halfway down his nose forced him to peer over them with a nearsighted squint. Emma wondered why he wore them. Perhaps he thought they imparted a learned air. For the rest, he was well but soberly dressed and gave the general impression of a serious man. She’d never heard complaints about his medical skills except from her father, who resented his existence on principle, since he was competition for his beloved Mr. Perry.

“Before we begin, Mrs. Knightley,” Dr. Hughes started, “I would like to inform your husband of my latest discussion with Constable Sharpe. He imparted a few additional insights to me shortly after you left the Crown, Mr. Knightley. As I’m sure you can agree, time is imperative in these cases, and the constable did not wish to wait.”

If George was irritated by his supercilious tone, he gave no indication. “Proceed, Doctor.”

The doctor glanced at Emma. “I beg you to forgive me, madam, because some of the details may disturb you. Please believe that I have no wish to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“My sensibilities couldn’t possibly be more offended than they were when I first saw Mrs. Elton’s corpse,” she replied. “Not to mention coming across the bloodstained murder weapon.”

He raised a finger. “The ostensible murder weapon, Mrs. Knightley. We must not rush to conclusions.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I would hate to rush to conclusions, sir. Nevertheless, it seems fairly evident that a heavy candlestick smeared with blood, only feet from a body with a significant blow to the skull, must have played some sort of role in the murder.”

“Dr. Hughes, what additional observations did Constable Sharpe make after I left you?” George smoothly intervened.

The doctor eyed Emma suspiciously but then proceeded. “Mr. Sharpe now feels certain that robbery was the motive. Mrs. Elton’s maid has confirmed that she was indeed wearing her pearl necklace when she left the house. The thief was apparently determined to get his hands on the necklace at any cost—including vile murder.”

From what Emma knew of him, Constable Sharpe was a sober and diligent man. And far be it from her to jump to those pesky conclusions, but his report suggested a certain lack of imagination.

“If it was a thief,” she asked, “then why didn’t he take anything else? There are a number of valuable items in the church, including the candlesticks. In fact, he had one of those candlesticks right in his grasp.”

Hughes gave her a rather pitying smile. “Clearly, Mrs. Elton surprised the thief in his criminal endeavors. And perhaps once he acquired the necklace, he felt no need to take anything else. As Mr. Elton has pointed out, the necklace is quite valuable.”

“Yet one can’t always tell these things at a glance. The pearls may have been artificial, and what appeared to be gold may have been brass. Real pearls are quite rare, whereas imitations are not.”

Dr. Hughes began to look a trifle irritated. “The criminal classes aren’t known for their wit, Mrs. Knightley. The villain obviously saw what looked to be an impressive necklace and took it.”

George held up a hand. “So Constable Sharpe is saying that the thief went into the church, presumably with the intention of stealing the silver. When he was surprised by Mrs. Elton’s appearance, he then decided to rob her instead and wound up killing her in the process.”

“That is exactly what both Constable Sharpe and I are suggesting,” Dr. Hughes replied with a degree of hauteur.

“I still fail to see why he didn’t take the candlesticks,” Emma argued. “They’re also valuable, and they were right there.”

The doctor scowled over the top of his spectacles. “Perhaps he ran out of time, or was alarmed by the outcome of his villainous actions. He was desperate to escape before anyone made the hideous discovery.”

“But he had time to wipe down the murder weapon and put it quite carefully back on the altar. That doesn’t suggest someone in a state of desperation or panic. It seems rather cold-blooded to me.”

“Constable Sharpe and I must disagree, Mrs. Knightley.”

George leaned forward, deliberately catching her eye. “Perhaps the thief was rattled by the escalation of events. He obviously wanted the necklace, but I doubt he wished to kill Mrs. Elton in the process.”

Emma had yet more questions, but her husband clearly did not want her quizzing Dr. Hughes.

Still . . .

“I wonder what Mrs. Elton was doing in the church in the first place?” she asked, more to herself.

Dr. Hughes nodded. “Ah, I have the answer to that. Mr. Elton was under the impression that his wife had a meeting with one of the villagers.”

“I assume the vicar doesn’t know who this person is,” George said.

“He does not.”

Emma looked at her husband. “Mrs. Elton rarely met with villagers on parish business, and certainly not in the church. She hardly stepped foot inside the building but for Sundays.”

George hesitated for a moment. “It is odd, I’ll grant you.”

“Then you must also agree that the timing was also odd—or at least spectacularly unfortunate. Mrs. Elton just happened to have a meeting at the church at the same time as an unknown thief decided to rob the place?”

Dr. Hughes held up both hands. “Forgive me for stating that your observations are rather beside the point at this time. As I have already cautioned, we must refrain from jumping to conclusions. Constable Sharpe is on the case, and he will follow the appropriate lines of inquiry, including ascertaining who Mrs. Elton was meeting in the church and why.”

“If anyone is jumping to conclusions . . . ,” she began.

George hastily intervened. “We take your point, Dr. Hughes. Carry on.”

“I wish to add only that since the cause of death is clear, there will be no need for an autopsy. Mr. Elton was adamantly opposed to another violation of his wife’s dignity, and I see no reason to inflict further distress upon a grieving man.”

Emma’s stomach flip-flopped at the notion of Mrs. Elton sliced open like a specimen in an anatomical experiment. If she were ever to be murdered, she hoped George would be sensible enough to object to such a procedure.

“But,” the doctor added, “as you know, the bereaved also insisted the body be removed to the vicarage. That will, unfortunately, complicate matters for the jury.”

“One certainly sympathizes with Mr. Elton’s feelings,” Emma said. “And is keeping the body at the vicarage truly such a complication? The house is only a step from the church, after all.”

“When the body is left at the scene, it does give the jury a more comprehensive picture of the crime,” George replied. “However, in this case, I think the complications are minimal and will be easily dealt with. Mr. Elton made a strong case that it was inappropriate to leave a murdered corpse, much less his wife, in a sacred setting.”

“Most irregular,” Dr. Hughes muttered, obviously annoyed to see his authority overridden.

“Well,” Emma said, “leaving it there would certainly put a damper on Sunday services.”

When George breathed out a small sigh, she wrinkled her nose in apology. Really, though, the situation was so bizarre that one couldn’t help blurting out the occasional odd comment.

“With your permission, Mr. Knightley,” Dr. Hughes said in frigid tones, “I would like to take Mrs. Knightley’s statement.”

Emma mentally rolled her eyes. “You needn’t ask my husband’s permission, Dr. Hughes. I am perfectly happy to give you a statement.”

Now the doctor looked scandalized. “I am simply trying to be polite, madam.”

“Your courtesy is greatly appreciated, Dr. Hughes,” George said. “I’m sure my wife is grateful, as well.”

Emma glanced at her husband. When he narrowed his gaze, she was tempted to stick out her tongue just to tease him. Dr. Hughes would surely faint dead away at the sight.

“I am at your disposal, sir,” she politely said.

“Then if you would please outline the events of this afternoon, beginning from the moment you entered the church until your husband arrived.”

Emma gestured to the empty chair next to her. “Would you like to sit down, sir? My husband can provide paper and quill if you wish to take notes.”

“That will not be necessary, Mrs. Knightley. I have excellent recall and a sharp mind.”

And a puffed-up ego.

It struck her that relying on one’s memory was hardly sound investigative practice. But since this was her first murder, she would reserve judgment.

“Mrs. Martin and I entered the church shortly after two in the afternoon. We were attending to our usual business of refreshing the flowers in the church prior to Sunday services.”

“And you saw no one lurking about the premises or in the graveyard, behaving in a suspicious manner?”

Like wiping off a bloody candlestick or digging a grave for the intended victim?

“All was as it should be. The church caretaker, as usual, left the front door unlocked, and we proceeded inside.”

With as much detail as she could recall—now wishing that she had written down some of those details—she recounted the sequence of events and her actions. When she began to describe the noises she’d heard emanating from the vestry, Dr. Hughes shot up a hand.

“Mrs. Knightley, are you suggesting that the killer was still in the church? In the vestry, to be precise?”

She shrugged. “How would I know who it was?”

He regarded her with frank disbelief. “You do realize that if there was someone in the vestry, it might very well have been the person who murdered Mrs. Elton.”

Emma made a point of avoiding her husband’s eye. “Of course. That is why I armed myself with one of the candlesticks before I went to investigate.”

Dr. Hughes’s eyes popped wide behind his tiny spectacles, making him look like a rather strange insect. “My word, Mrs. Knightley! I cannot believe your husband would approve of such reckless conduct.”

Before she could bristle up, George intervened. “That is a matter between me and my wife, Dr. Hughes. Please carry on, since the hour grows late. I do not wish to fatigue Mrs. Knightley any more than necessary.”

His tone, though calm, brooked no opposition. Emma decided that she would not be too fatigued to expend a little extra energy on her husband once they were alone.

“My apologies, sir,” the doctor stiffly replied. “What happened next, madam, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“I went into the vestry and found it empty. The door to the churchyard was unlatched and partly open. I hurried outside to see if anyone was there, but both the churchyard and the path to the street were deserted.”

Suddenly, her brain conjured up the image of the dainty white handkerchief lying by the lych-gate. In all the commotion it had slipped her mind, and she’d remembered only after returning home and changing her dress. Eager to speak with her father, she’d simply shoved the cloth in a box on her dressing table and promptly forgotten about it again.

“My dear?” George asked.

She looked at him. His gaze had grown suddenly sharp, as if he could see the wheels spinning in her head. One of those niggling questions, the ones that had dogged her for hours, was possibly coming into focus.

And the possible answer to that question gave her significant pause.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I lost my train of thought for a moment.”

“That is perfectly understandable,” the doctor commented in an indulgent tone. “You were obviously quite rattled, so it is no wonder that your memory of events is vague or even a trifle faulty.”

This time she didn’t hide her irritation. “There is nothing faulty with my memory, Dr. Hughes. Nor was I so rattled that I could not think. Poor Mrs. Martin was overset for a time, but I never lost my ability to either observe or reason.”

“Yes, I spoke with Mrs. Martin. She was quite overcome, which was certainly understandable.” His attitude made it clear that he found Harriet’s response to Mrs. Elton’s demise more appropriately female.

“I, however, was not overcome, and I can relate with perfect clarity what I saw and heard,” Emma retorted.

“My wife did discover the murder weapon,” George pointed out.

“A lucky happenstance,” Dr. Hughes replied.

Indignation surged in her breast. “There was nothing lucky about it. I noticed one of the candlesticks out of place. That then led me to observe that there was blood on it, which someone had clearly tried to—”

“In any event,” the doctor said, talking over her, “you should leave these matters to the law. I am sure Constable Sharpe and I would have discovered the murder weapon soon enough. After all, it is our job as professionals to do so. Ladies—or even gentlemen—should never be required to undertake such unpleasant tasks.”

Emma swallowed the impulse to snap at him. Unfortunately, the man was correct. She was simply a witness, while he was . . .

Incredibly pompous and annoying.

She also couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of duty toward Mrs. Elton. As if in discovering the body, a certain obligation had been placed upon her, one she couldn’t ignore.

“My dear?” George’s gaze held both questions and concern.

She mustered a smile. “It’s nothing. And of course I would never wish to interfere with any formal investigations.”

Informal ones, however, might be another matter.

Dr. Hughes rewarded her with an avuncular smile. “No woman of taste or feeling—and of course you have a great deal of both—could wish to involve herself in such an ugly business. I sincerely regret that you and Mrs. Martin must be subjected to ongoing unpleasantness. It is indeed unfortunate that you had to discover the body.”

“Better us than Mr. Elton, I suppose. The poor man was a complete wreck.”

George stood, signaling the interview was ended. “I think we can all agree that my wife and Mrs. Martin comported themselves with commendable discretion and good sense. If not for them, we might have had half the village descending on the church.”

Dr. Hughes held up his hands, as if conferring a benediction. “I do commend you on your forethought, Mrs. Knightley. As Highbury’s physician, however, let me just note that because you have received such a terrible shock, I should be happy to prepare a calming draught for you or send round a tincture of laudanum to help you sleep.”

“My nerves are perfectly fine, sir, but I thank you for your consideration.”

“But surely—”

“That’s enough for tonight, Dr. Hughes,” George firmly said.

Hughes looked mildly offended but quickly regrouped. “As you wish, Mr. Knightley. That being the case, I will bid you—”

When Emma was struck by another one of those niggling questions, she couldn’t help but interrupt him. “Dr. Hughes, do you think it within the realm of possibility that Mrs. Elton could have been killed by a woman?”

George shot her a startled look. “What?”

Drat.

Her tongue had unfortunately outrun her brain.

“I suppose I’m simply curious,” she said, trying not to sound like a henwit. “I wonder if a woman—no one in particular, you understand—would have the strength to leave those marks on Mrs. Elton’s throat. They were quite pronounced, which suggests a certain degree of strength, does it not?”

Both men stared at her as if she’d lost her mind, which was a trifle awkward. Still, she wanted the doctor’s professional opinion. Even though the candlestick was heavy enough that she’d almost dropped it, Emma felt certain she could swing it with enough force to bash someone’s head in. But to actually grapple with Mrs. Elton, seizing her by the throat and throttling her? That seemed beyond her.

“Well, Dr. Hughes?” she prompted after several moments of fraught silence.

“I suppose a strong woman could theoretically have done so,” he reluctantly replied. “It’s difficult, however, to imagine a lady having the fortitude to commit such a heinous act.”

“I’m not talking about fortitude, sir. I’m talking about physical strength, enough to leave bruises on another person’s neck.”

“A woman who labored with her hands—a farm or kitchen worker, perhaps—might have the strength necessary to commit such a deed.”

“So one engaged in physical labor,” she said, needing to be sure.

He frowned. “Yes, but why would you even ask such a thing, madam? There is not a shred of evidence to suggest that Mrs. Elton was killed by a woman.”

She waved an airy hand. “No, of course not. It was just a random thought on my part.”

By now, George was regarding her with a marked degree of suspicion. Emma did her best to ignore him.

“Random thoughts are best left out of criminal investigations, Mrs. Knightley,” Hughes intoned.

“Of course. Quite right, sir. Do forgive me.”

“Is there anything else, my dear?” George asked.

She tendered what she hoped was a smile as innocent as a babe’s. “No. We must let Dr. Hughes be on his way. I’m sure he still has much business to attend to.”

George ushered the doctor out to the entrance hall. As the two men made their goodbyes, Emma sank down into her chair, mulling over everything she’d heard.

When her husband returned, she tilted her head. “That was quite something, wasn’t it?”

He settled into his chair. “Vastly entertaining. I did warn you, though.”

“I’m grateful you did. I must say, George, I cannot be impressed by Dr. Hughes. The general consensus seems to be that he is a competent enough physician, but what is your opinion of his skills as a coroner?”

“I have always found him to be perfectly adequate in terms of his medical assessments.”

She scoffed. “That is a nonanswer, dearest.”

His smile was wry. “Do I think he’s a pompous ass? Yes, but he takes his duties seriously, and he is punctilious in meeting the legal obligations of the role.”

“Don’t you agree, though, that he was too ready to jump to conclusions? To assume that the killer must be a thief when several valuable pieces in the church were left untouched seems a rather hasty assumption to make.”

“As he mentioned, perhaps Mrs. Elton frightened him off.”

“He was so frightened that he murdered her,” she dryly replied.

“Point taken. But it’s also possible that matters simply got out of hand. Mrs. Elton may have challenged him or was about to cry out for help. And after he killed her, perhaps he was so rattled that he fled the scene rather than look for more items to steal.”

“After taking her necklace, which is admittedly very valuable,” she mused. “Still, he wasn’t so rattled that he didn’t fail to wipe down the murder weapon and put it back in its place on the altar.”

George frowned at the ledger on his desk. “I admit it’s a detail that troubles me.”

“Because?”

He looked up, and their gazes locked.

“Because all of this might suggest that it was not a random theft or a crime of opportunity.”

Emma sighed, hating his answer but unable to disagree. “And if it wasn’t, then it means it had to be someone who knew her.”

“Yes.”

And that was precisely what her little niggles had been suggesting all along. “How utterly ghastly. But who could hate Mrs. Elton so much as to bash her over the head with a candlestick?” When her husband simply lifted a sardonic eyebrow, she threw him a mock glare. “Yes, very comical. But I’m serious, George.”

His spark of humor vanished. “You’re right, of course. And I am indeed grieved that the poor woman came to such a horrible end. She did not deserve such a fate.”

“Nor does Mr. Elton deserve to be so shockingly served, either. I will be the first to admit that they were not a likable couple, but how utterly tragic her murder is. It’s hard to imagine how Highbury will ever really recover.”

As far as she knew, never in living memory had such a violent deed been committed in their heretofore peaceful village. To her, it felt like an essential innocence had been forever lost.

George studied her for several long moments. “Are you going to tell me? Or shall I guess?”

She sighed. “It’s terribly annoying that you can read me so well.”

“I’ve had many years of practice, Emma. I’m assuming it has something to do with your question regarding a woman’s ability to commit murder.”

She placed both her hands flat on his desk and studied her fingernails. Well, actually, she was avoiding his ability to see right through her.

Coward.

Looking up, she met his gaze. “I found something else at the church today. It might be nothing, but combined with the noises I heard in the vestry . . .”

Oh dear.

George was now regarding her with a marked degree of irritation. It was an expression she hadn’t seen on his face since before their marriage, when they all too often argued over her behavior.

“In fairness,” she hastily added, “I completely forgot about it until I was giving Dr. Hughes my statement. It seemed a little thing at the time, and it went clean out of my head.”

“And what is this little thing?”

“When I went outside the church, I found something by the lych-gate.”

He waited for a few moments. When she didn’t immediately reply, his expression transformed from irritated to rueful. “Love, do you not trust me?”

She scrunched up her face by way of apology. “Of course I do.”

Her curious reluctance to tell him what she had found stemmed from a sense that she would be opening Pandora’s box. But opened it must be.

“I found a handkerchief in the grass by the lych-gate. Obviously, someone had dropped it there.”

Understanding dawned in his expression. “A lady’s handkerchief.”

“Correct.”

“But, Emma, there’s no way of knowing who dropped it or when. It could have been Mrs. Elton or someone else passing through the churchyard in the past few days.”

“But it rained yesterday, and the handkerchief was perfectly clean and dry. And I would recognize Mrs. Elton’s handkerchiefs. She used to boast that hers were acquired from a fashionable linen draper in New Bond Street. They were stitched with her initials and always heavily scented, too.”

“All right. What did you do with this mystery handkerchief?”

“Since I didn’t wish to leave the body unattended, I simply shoved it up my sleeve. I forgot all about it until I was changing for dinner.”

“Would you mind fetching it for me now?”

She went to retrieve the folded piece of cambric from the box on her dressing table. When she returned to the study, she gave it to George, who unfolded it and turned it over. Then he held it under the Argand lamp on his desk, inspecting it more closely.

“What is it?” she asked, leaning forward to look.

He pointed to one corner on the back side of the handkerchief.

Emma blinked. “Is that . . . ?”

“Blood? Yes, I believe it is.”

Stunned, she sank back into her chair. “I was in such a hurry that I didn’t notice that.”

“It’s just a small spot on one corner, so I’m not surprised you missed it.”

Emma rubbed her forehead. The events of the day finally seemed to catch up with her, and she suddenly felt very weary.

“Good God,” she whispered.

George carefully placed the handkerchief on his desk blotter and came round to take her hand. She clung to his fingers, comforted by his warmth.

“Emma, do you know to whom it belongs?” he asked.

She met his gaze. “The stitching seems familiar, but I can’t place it.”

He sighed. “We have to tell Dr. Hughes and Constable Sharpe. There’s a very good chance it’s evidence. And if you suspect whose it is, I’m afraid you’ll have to reveal that, too.”

“Yes, I know. It’s just that it might mean . . .”

“That the person who committed the crime might be someone we know,” he quietly answered for her.

Emma again rubbed her forehead, fighting the sensation that they were trapped in a spiraling nightmare. Murder had come to Highbury—and quite possibly close to home.