Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 4

C HAPTER 4

E mma set out immediately after breakfast. If there was one person who could answer the question that bedeviled her, it was her former governess, Mrs. Weston.

George had risen with the dawn to begin a day that would be full of the business of murder, and Emma’s restless anxieties had compelled her to arise, as well. She’d dressed quickly and snatched a bite to eat before setting off to visit her dear friend, who, after George, was the person who knew her best.

In addition to sensible advice, Mrs. Weston would give her unstinting support. With the particular matter before her, Emma suspected she would need every bit of that support.

She turned into the graveled drive of Randalls, where the Westons resided with their little daughter, Anna, not yet one year of age. Emma loved the old Tudor mansion, a sprawling edifice of red brick with lovely casement windows and tall, fanciful chimneys. Enormous chestnut trees lined the drive, and ancient yew hedges intersected the lawns and flower beds. But for the modern fountain in the garden, one could well imagine a dashing knight in doublet and hose, a rapier by his side, trysting with his fair lady.

Come to think of it, a rapier might be particularly useful since there was still a killer on the loose. An image of the deceased Mrs. Elton sprang into her mind, and for the first time, Emma realized that taking a footman for escort might have been prudent.

Chastising her colorful imagination, she hurried to the front door. While it was early to be making calls, Emma had been given carte blanche to visit Randalls whenever she wished.

One of the maids opened the door and ushered her into the vaulted entrance hall.

“Good morning, Hannah. Is Mrs. Weston still at breakfast?”

“She’s in the parlor with Miss Anna.” Hannah cast a quick glance down the drive. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but should you be walking by yourself all the way from Hartfield? I’m sure my father would have been happy to drive you, what with all these nasty villains running about.”

Hannah’s father, James, was Hartfield’s coachman. Emma rarely felt the need for a coach, although loyal James was always ready to transport his charges the short distance it took to get anywhere in Highbury.

“Only one villain, most likely,” Emma replied. “And I do hope he isn’t lurking about the hedgerows in broad daylight, waiting for his next victim.”

Hannah locked the door. “Poor Mrs. Elton was murdered in broad daylight, now, wasn’t she? You just ring when you’re ready to go, Mrs. Knightley, and I’ll have the kitchen boy walk you home.”

Once again, it struck Emma how the impacts of such a heinous deed could ripple outward, disturbing the peace of all those who lived within its dark pool. A new sort of danger seemed to hover over Highbury, bringing with it an unfamiliar vulnerability.

Hannah showed her into the parlor. With its low ceiling, wooden beams, and large fireplace, it imparted a sense of practical comfort. Mrs. Weston had added a number of feminine touches—chintz fabrics for the sofa and chairs and Chelsea porcelain vases filled with freshly cut flowers. Mr. Weston’s contribution had been to modernize the chimney, an improvement greatly appreciated by resident and visitor alike.

Mrs. Weston was seated in a cozy nook by the window, attending to her needlework. She put aside her frame when she saw Emma, and hurried to meet her.

“Emma, dearest,” she exclaimed, hugging her. “When we heard the dreadful news yesterday, Mr. Weston was ready to run all the way to Hartfield to see how you were. Only our fears that his presence would disturb your father held him back.”

Emma was grateful for her friend’s comforting hug. So many times as a child, when some little tragedy or mishap had struck, she’d found shelter in the affectionate embrace of her governess.

Of course, Miss Taylor, as she was then, had always been more than a governess. She’d ably filled the vacant role of mother in Emma’s life. Endlessly patient, the young woman had nurtured both Emma and her sister, Isabella, with steadfast affection and gentle counsel.

The day Miss Taylor had married Mr. Weston had been one of mixed blessings. It had been a match Emma herself had promoted, and she’d been truly pleased to see her dear friend find contentment with an excellent man. Unfortunately, that also meant Miss Taylor was lost to Hartfield forever, replaced by Mrs. Weston, who took up new loves and concerns.

For a time, Emma had felt rather lost herself. But life—and a series of embarrassing mishaps—had taught her much since that fateful day. Now she found herself as contented as Mrs. Weston.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she replied with a reassuring smile. “Father and I received your note before we went into dinner last night. Your words were a great comfort to him.”

“What a dreadful experience for you, though.” Mrs. Weston pressed her hand. “Do you think you could tell me a little about it? It might relieve your mind.”

“Let me see sweet Anna first, as she always lifts my spirits. How is she this morning?”

They peeked into the cradle, set in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Weston touched a gentle hand to her daughter’s head.

“She’s sleeping, thank goodness. My little darling was awake very early, quite determined to have her father’s attention. Naturally, Papa was happy to comply. He carried her all about the room, making the most ridiculous horsey noises. I thought I’d never get her back to sleep.”

Emma gazed at the sweet girl, whose soft brunette locks curled out from under her cap and framed her rosy cheeks. Anna was the picture of peace and contentment. “She is the perfect antidote to yesterday’s unpleasant events. I think I could look at her forever.”

“ Unpleasant seems an understatement.” Mrs. Weston drew her to the sofa. “And poor Harriet! How did she react?”

Emma subsided onto the plump chintz cushions. “She was quite overset. Thankfully, she recovered and went off to find Dr. Hughes and George. I would have been in a terrible fix without her.”

Mrs. Weston prepared a cup of tea, slipping in an extra lump of sugar as a treat. She’d done the same when Emma was a little girl, whenever she had fallen and skinned her knee or engaged in some other childish misadventure.

“Then I’m so glad that Harriet was there, so that you needn’t face such an awful scene alone.”

“I’m afraid the awfulness will continue for quite some time.” She took the cup and gloomily stared into the brew as her mind’s eye once more conjured up the hideous scene.

Mrs. Weston gently touched her shoulder. “I don’t mean to press. If you’d rather not talk about it, I perfectly understand.”

Emma mustered a smile. “I want to tell you, and I also need your advice. I’m in a stew, and I’m not quite sure how to proceed.”

“I am always here for you, as is Mr. Weston.”

“And that is a great comfort.”

She plunged back into the events of yesterday, keeping her description as brief as possible. Still, Mrs. Weston went pale when Emma related how she’d checked the body.

“Heavens,” she exclaimed. “I think I would have fainted dead away. However did you manage to keep your composure?”

“If Harriet hadn’t been with me, I’m not sure I would have. Fortunately, she almost swooned, thus relieving me of the necessity to do it myself.”

“Now, my dear, you can hardly blame the poor girl. She’s been very sheltered, you know.”

“It hasn’t been my habit to stumble upon dead bodies, either.”

“No, but you have never been prone to the vapors or irrational behavior. I shudder to think of your father or dear Isabella coming upon such a situation.”

“Yes, they both have a great deal of sensibility. I seem, on the other hand, to have very little, and thank goodness for that, or we would be suffering the vapors at Hartfield every day.”

Mrs. Weston smile was wry. “Not a likely scenario with Mr. Knightley in residence, I suspect.”

“As you know, his influence on me started years ago. I learned early on that emotional flights of fancy impressed George very little. He either ignored me or gave me an improving book sure to bore me to tears. The latter was a very effective method of correction.”

Mrs. Weston chuckled but then fleetingly pressed a hand to her lips. “How dreadful of me to laugh when poor Mrs. Elton is lying dead in the vicarage.”

Emma shrugged. “I’m not sure how to act, to be frank. Part of me still refuses to believe it, and to believe that I’m involved in such a situation.”

“Only as a witness. I assume you’ll have to give testimony at the inquest—which naturally will be quite unpleasant—but that should be the end of it.”

“Perhaps not quite,” Emma replied after a moment’s hesitation.

Mrs. Weston put down the teacup she’d just been raising to her lips. “Emma, what did you do?”

“It’s not what I did so much as what I found.”

Now that she’d come to it, she was again reluctant to share her suspicions.

“I will keep in the strictest confidence whatever you tell me, if that is what you wish,” Mrs. Weston quietly said.

“Thank you, but it’s bound to come out sooner or later. George knows of it already, if only in part.”

That startled her former governess. “What can you tell me that you couldn’t tell your husband?”

“First, you need to know that there was someone else in the church. I heard that person in the vestry after Harriet left.”

“Good heavens! Emma, it could have been the . . .” Mrs. Weston obviously couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

“Murderer? I doubt it, although I did have to steel myself before investigating.”

Mrs. Weston stared at her in speechless horror.

“It was fine,” Emma hastened to reassure her friend. “I heard that person leave by the vestry door. So it was perfectly safe.”

“Emma Woodhouse, it was nothing of the sort,” Mrs. Weston exclaimed, reverting to her governess ways. “You could have been killed!”

“As I said, the person had already fled the vestry. Nevertheless, I armed myself with a candlestick from the altar, just in case.”

Mrs. Weston covered her eyes.

“And you needn’t scold me,” Emma added. “George has already made an adequate job of that.”

Last night, after they’d gone to bed, he’d given her another lecture about the need to observe caution and to avoid meddling. It had taken a concerted effort to distract him, although distract him she had, and to their mutual satisfaction.

“I certainly cannot blame the poor man,” Mrs. Weston said. “You must be more careful, Emma. Who knows what sort of madman could be about?”

“I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“And you’re not to walk here alone, either, at least for the time being. If Mr. Weston has not returned by the time you leave, I will send the kitchen boy along with you.”

Emma bit back a smile. “A very sensible precaution, to be sure.”

Mrs. Weston brushed an invisible wrinkle from her skirts and made an effort to compose herself. “Now, you said there was something you wished to ask me. I will make a wild guess and assume it’s about something you discovered in the church. Mr. Weston told me that the church was robbed, and that very likely poor Mrs. Elton surprised the thief during the act. Did you find something pertaining to the robbery?”

“Only Mrs. Elton was robbed and her necklace taken. The church’s silver and plate remained untouched.”

Mrs. Weston frowned. “How strange. If that was the case, why murder Mrs. Elton? Why not just take the necklace and flee?”

“That is a very pertinent question, although not one Dr. Hughes or Constable Sharpe seem particularly vexed about. Both assume that upon killing Mrs. Elton, the thief panicked and fled the scene. I suppose that’s possible, but given the cold-blooded way Mrs. Elton was murdered, one would think the killer not inclined to panic.”

Rather than panicking, the killer had taken the time to attempt to eliminate the evidence of his—or her—presence in the church.

Mrs. Weston studied her with consternation. “I hope you’re not intending to meddle in the investigation, my dear.”

Emma widened her eyes, trying to look innocent. “I cannot imagine why you would think I would. I’m merely curious, as any rational person would be. And . . . I’m also concerned.”

“About someone in particular? Someone we know, perhaps?” Mrs. Weston shrewdly asked.

“Yes.” She opened her reticule and drew out the mystery handkerchief. “I found this outside, by the lych-gate. Since it was clear to me that whoever was in the vestry had escaped using the side door, I went out to the churchyard to see if I could catch a glimpse of him. Or her.”

Mrs. Weston’s eyebrows shot up. “Her?”

Emma handed over the dainty piece of fabric. “This is what I found.”

Her friend examined it. “Anyone could have dropped this in the past few days. How do you know . . . ?” Her voice trailed off. As she glanced up, a dawning alarm collected in her light brown eyes.

“Yes, that is a bloodstain,” Emma confirmed.

Mrs. Weston held the piece of fabric gingerly, now looking slightly ill. “Mr. Knightley has seen this?”

“He wanted to take it to Dr. Hughes first thing this morning, but I told him I would do it.”

“Would it not be more appropriate for him to do so? I hate to think of you so involved in this matter, Emma.”

“I suggested that it made more sense if I took it. Dr. Hughes will wish to know why I didn’t tell him last night.” She shrugged. “It was because I simply forgot in all the excitement.”

“How could you forget about a bloodstained handkerchief?”

“I didn’t notice the blood at first.” She circled a finger. “Dead body inside the church, remember? It was only later that George and I saw the stain. I think we can all agree it would be a stupendous coincidence if the blood did not belong to Mrs. Elton.”

“Emma, what is it you wish to ask me ?”

“I’d like you to take a close look at the stitching.”

With a slight frown, Mrs. Weston held up the handkerchief to the light that was streaming through the casement windows. She studied the fabric for a long moment, and then a sharp breath hissed out from between her teeth.

Emma sighed. “You recognize the stitching.”

“Of course. No one else in Highbury has such a delicate hand. Much better than mine, which is why I asked her to teach you and Isabella when you were girls.”

Emma had been trying to convince herself that her anxieties were unfounded, but Mrs. Weston’s answer put all doubts to rest.

“That’s why I didn’t wish to tell George until I was sure of it. But what it suggests defies belief. How is it possible to conclude that she could . . .”

The thought was both horrifying and ridiculous.

Mrs. Weston grasped her hand. “It doesn’t mean that she had anything to do with the murder. It more likely means she was in the church shortly after the murder and was also the person hiding in the vestry.”

“But why would she hide if she had nothing to do with it?”

“You know how easily flustered Miss Bates is. You truly cannot think her capable of murder.”

“I fear Dr. Hughes and Constable Sharpe might not see it that way, given the evidence you hold in your other hand.”

“No person of sense could believe her capable of killing anyone, much less Mrs. Elton.”

From her experience, Emma was not entirely sure that Dr. Hughes was a sensible man. As for Constable Sharpe, it remained to be seen.

“True, but she hid in the vestry. That certainly seems suspicious by its nature.”

“She was obviously very frightened.”

“But she must have heard and recognized our voices. Why not then come out? Besides, how did she get blood on her handkerchief?”

Mrs. Weston looked puzzled. “You seem to be trying to convince yourself that Miss Bates is indeed responsible for Mrs. Elton’s death.”

“No, I’m trying to do the opposite—by making sense of her odd behavior. You didn’t see her yesterday, when she visited Hartfield. She was so greatly upset that I almost called Mr. Perry.”

“For all her excellent qualities, Miss Bates does not possess robust strength of temperament. And recall how Harriet first reacted. Is it so hard to believe that poor Miss Bates would wish for nothing more than to flee? That in a moment of panic, her desire to escape overrode her good sense?”

Since that had been Emma’s initial reaction, she could not entirely disagree. “Still, feeling that impulse and acting upon it are two different things.”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. But I do think it best if you let Mr. Knightley handle these matters. He will know exactly how to deal with Dr. Hughes and Miss Bates. He has such a gentle way with her.”

“Yes, but—”

At that moment, Anna awoke with a wail. Mrs. Weston rose and went to her daughter, leaving Emma to her thoughts.

And what she thought was that she needed to talk to Miss Bates before George did. Her husband would always be a paragon of kindness to the poor woman, but he was also the local magistrate. That would put him into something of a bind, caught between his legal duties and his affections for an old friend.

No, Miss Bates needed to be prepared for what was to come. If there was a reasonable explanation for her presence in the church and the bloodstained handkerchief, Emma would be more likely to draw it out of her than any man, even one as kind as George.

She only prayed there was a reasonable explanation, because any other alternative was too disturbing to contemplate.