Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 5

C HAPTER 5

A fter bidding farewell to the kitchen boy at the gates of Hartfield, Emma continued into Highbury for the unwelcome task of confronting Miss Bates.

Mrs. Cole, one of Hartfield’s neighbors, stood on the opposite side of the street, conversing with the baker’s wife—likely gossiping about Mrs. Elton. Highbury’s shock at her death was mixed with wild speculation.

One of the more ludicrous tales, told to her only this morning by her maid, proposed that Mrs. Elton had been slain by a vengeful ghost arisen from a church vault. When Emma had asked why a ghost would kill the vicar’s wife, Betty had defensively replied that she was simply repeating what she’d heard from Mrs. Cole’s footman, who’d heard it from a groom at the Crown, who’d heard it from persons unknown at the vicarage.

Flapping a hand, Mrs. Cole eagerly hailed her. Emma ducked her head and hurried along, praying that her neighbor—a good woman but greatly inclined to gossip—wouldn’t follow.

As she made her way through the village square, several locals seemed more determined than usual to pay their respects. A few even tried to stop her progress. Now feeling more than a trifle annoyed, Emma simply gave them a firm nod of the head and quickened her pace.

With relief, she finally reached the doorway that led up to the Bateses’ modest set of rooms. Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, she glanced back at the street. Mr. Cox, the local solicitor, was now steaming in her direction, a purposeful gleam in his eye. Emma fled inside and slammed the door shut. It would seem she did need protection—not from deranged murderers, but from the local gossips.

She was not yet halfway up the stairs when the door at the top flew open and Miss Bates anxiously peered out, as if fearing callers. Normally, Miss Bates loved nothing more than visits, with long-winded chats and lengthy rereadings of the latest missive from her niece, Jane Churchill.

But not today, it would seem.

“Oh . . . oh, Mrs. Knightley,” she exclaimed. “How . . . how kind of you to come calling when you must have so many other duties to attend to. Everyone in Highbury is telling such dreadful stories. I’ve not spoken to anyone myself, but I’m all atremble to hear such terrible things from Patty. Our maid, you know. So much gossip, she says. How terrible for poor Mrs. Elton. She would be appalled to hear such things said about her. And poor Mr. Elton! Mother is quite beside herself thinking about him.”

“Yes, it’s distressing,” replied Emma in a sympathetic tone. “But I think it’s best to ignore the tales as much as possible, as they are bound to be inaccurate.”

Miss Bates ushered her into the parlor, then slammed the door shut so forcefully that Mrs. Bates, dozing by the fire, startled awake.

“Mother, it’s Miss Woodhouse,” Miss Bates loudly announced. “I mean Mrs. Knightley. So kind of her to call after yesterday’s frightful experience at the church. Miss Woodhouse, I mean Mrs. Knightley . . . Dear me, I am such a scatterbrain today. What would Mr. Knightley think to hear me call you Miss Woodhouse? He would be quite shocked, I am sure.”

Emma smiled. “It’s not so surprising. After all, you knew Miss Woodhouse for a great deal longer than you have known Mrs. Knightley.”

“Yes, yes, as you say. Look, Mother, it is Mrs. Knightley. To think that she would find the time to call on us is kindness itself. And what must Mr. Woodhouse think? He would not wish you to exert yourself on our behalf, Mrs. Knightley, especially in such hot weather.”

Mrs. Bates, a tiny woman who was almost swallowed up by her ruffled mobcap and voluminous shawl, looked bemused. It was not an unusual response on her part, although she was obviously aware that her daughter was behaving more oddly than usual.

Emma stepped closer. “How are you this morning, Mrs. Bates? Well, I hope.”

The elderly woman eyed her daughter for a few seconds before replying.

“I cannot complain, Mrs. Knightley,” she said in voice reedy with advanced years. “How is Mr. Woodhouse this morning?”

“He is tolerably well, ma’am. Thank you for asking.”

“Dear Mr. Woodhouse,” exclaimed Miss Bates, fluttering like a demented moth between Emma and her mother. “So very kind yesterday. I was in such a state, Mrs. Knightley. I’m quite ashamed to think how I acted. But your father was such a comfort to me. And his insistence that James bring me home in the carriage!” She raised her voice. “Did you hear that, Mother? Mr. Woodhouse wished to call out the carriage for me. Of course, I refused. I know how Mr. Woodhouse hates to inconvenience poor James and the horses. But I was in such a state, you see. So very kind of him, don’t you think, Mother?”

Mrs. Bates darted a perplexed glance at Emma. Having reached an age where she spent much of her time dozing by the fire, rousing only for a visit to Hartfield for tea and a game of quadrille, she must certainly now sense the anxiety churning through her daughter’s waterfall of words.

Emma dreaded both the chore before her and the upset that was to come. Mrs. Bates was too old to manage the repercussions that would result from her daughter’s involvement—however inadvertent—in Mrs. Elton’s murder.

Miss Bates continued to stand in the center of the room, clenching her hands. Her gaze darted about, resting first here and then there, but never on Emma.

“Miss Bates, I hate to impose,” Emma said. “But might we have a word? There is a particular matter I wish to discuss with you.”

The spinster visibly startled. “How foolish of me to keep you standing. I cannot think how my manners have gone begging. And you have been so kind. No one could ask . . . ask for better friends.” Her voice wavered as she sank down in her chair. Her face was bleached white as bone, and her eyes were red-rimmed behind her spectacles.

Miss Bates usually reminded Emma of a sparrow darting about in the hedgerows, her drab plumage offset by her cheerful—if occasionally irritating—chirping. The daughter of the former vicar, Hetty Bates had been raised in genteel and comfortable circumstances. But after the death of Reverend Bates, Hetty and her mother had descended to a state of near poverty. They had been forced to move from their former home to this small set of apartments and had to struggle to make ends meet. But so decent and kind were both women that they invoked in their friends and neighbors a true spirit of charity, which greatly ameliorated their reduced circumstances.

In recent months, those circumstances had improved even more, thanks to the marriage of their beloved niece, Jane, to Frank Churchill. Frank was Mr. Weston’s only son and had been adopted at an early age by rich relations from Yorkshire after the tragic death of the first Mrs. Weston, thus becoming heir to a considerable fortune. Jane and Frank had wished to move their relatives to more genteel quarters, but Miss Bates had refused. She’d stated with her usual good cheer that she and her mother were perfectly content. They had everything necessary in their excellent family, cherished friends, and cozy life in their beloved Highbury.

Yet such was obviously no longer the case.

She sat across from Miss Bates, who had extracted a handkerchief from the pocket of her gown and was dabbing her cheek. Emma’s heart sank as she noticed that the stitching matched that on the handkerchief she’d found in the graveyard.

Miss Bates met her gaze, and she then hastily shoved her handkerchief back into her pocket before mustering a travesty of a smile.

“Tea, Mrs. Knightley? We have an excellent apple cake from the bakery. No one makes apple cake as well as Mr. Wallis . . . oh, except for Hartfield’s cook, naturally. No one makes an apple cake like Serle. I expect that’s because she uses Mr. Knightley’s apples. Everyone knows Donwell Abbey has the best apple orchard in the county. Just last week, I was speaking on that very subject with Mrs. Elton—” She broke off on a gasp. “Oh, Mrs. Elton! What is to be done, Mrs. Knightley? I cannot even think . . .”

“It’s about Mrs. Elton that I wished to speak with you,” Emma hastily interjected. “I do not wish to distress you, but I’m afraid I must ask you a question.”

Miss Bates cast a fearful glance at her mother, who’d gone back to dozing by the fire. Her daughter breathed a sigh of relief and made a visible effort to compose herself.

“I cannot think what question you would need to ask, Mrs. Knightley. My mother and I live so quietly here. We cannot possibly know anything.”

Emma opened her reticule and carefully pulled out the handkerchief. “I believe this is yours, is it not?”

Miss Bates stared for a moment, her eyes rounded in shock. “I . . . I . . . Where did you find that?”

“In the churchyard, by the lych-gate.”

Miss Bates made a visible attempt to recover. “Oh . . . yes, that is mine. I must have dropped it the other day, when Mother and I went to put flowers on my father’s grave. We try to do that every week, you know, if Mother feels up to it.”

Emma sighed. Clearly, sterner measures were in order.

“Miss Bates, I truly hate to press you, but I think we must be honest with each other. I believe you dropped this yesterday, when you fled from the vestry.”

For once, the spinster was struck dumb. Then, still silent, she shook her head in vigorous denial.

Emma turned over the piece of cambric and pointed to the bloodstain. “But, dear ma’am, how do you explain this?”

Miss Bates squeezed her eyes shut and again vigorously shook her head, as if in doing so, she would deny the very existence of yesterday’s events. When Emma reached out and touched her arm, her eyes flew open.

“Please,” Miss Bates pleaded in a thin, fear-laced voice. “Please don’t make me talk about it.”

Emma put aside the handkerchief and took her trembling hands. “Whatever happened, whatever you saw, you are not alone in this. Mr. Knightley and I will support you in every way possible, as will my father. Your friends will protect you, I promise.”

But they could do nothing to help Miss Bates until she was persuaded to tell Emma what had happened. And that had to occur before the frightened woman was forced to confess to Dr. Hughes or Constable Sharpe, who would have little patience with her foibles and hesitations.

“Won’t you please tell me what happened?” Emma coaxed. “Dear Miss Bates, please let me help you.”

“You must think me very foolish,” the spinster finally whispered. “But I simply wanted the whole thing to go away . . . to pretend I could forget I’d ever seen it.”

“I wished to do the same. But we cannot forget it, can we?”

Miss Bates squeezed Emma’s hands before letting go. “But you are so brave, Mrs. Knightley. My father always used to say I was too timid for my own good, and he was perfectly right. I have not the fortitude to deal with something as horrible as m-murder. Please don’t make me do so.”

Timid was not the word that Emma would have ever applied to Miss Bates, but she supposed it was apt in this situation.

“But you are also a vicar’s daughter, and no one in Highbury has a greater sense of both morality and compassion than you do, Miss Bates.”

The woman pulled out her handkerchief to dab her eyes and blew her nose. “You are too kind, Mrs. Knightley.”

Sadly, Emma hadn’t always been kind. But now she simply gave the poor dear an encouraging smile, silently willing her to talk. Never did she think she would actually wish for Miss Bates to talk, but murder produced strange, unintended effects.

“Do you remember what time it was when you came upon Mrs. Elton?” she finally asked.

“I . . . I’m not entirely sure. Only a few minutes before two o’clock, I believe.”

That made sense to Emma, since she and Harriet had entered the church fifteen minutes after the hour at most.

“Did you know that Harriet and I were going to be in the church to do the flower arrangements?”

“I remembered when I heard you and Mrs. Martin out in the porch. That . . . that is when I hid in the vestry.”

“Miss Bates, why did you hide?”

She seemed to crumple in her chair. “I . . . I was in such a terrible state. And then I heard your voices, and I couldn’t bear for you to find me with . . . with Mrs. Elton . . . the way she looked. What would you think of me?”

Emma frowned. “We would think that you had stumbled upon the body, just as we had. Why would we assume anything different?”

Miss Bates flapped an agitated hand. “I don’t know. But to discover me with Mrs. Elton like that . . . all alone and in such a state . . . someone might misconstrue . . .”

Emma forced herself to wait several seconds to see if she would continue. “Misconstrue what, Miss Bates?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. I’m just being foolish.”

When Mrs. Bates gave a little snort, as if waking up, her daughter shot a fearful glance in her direction.

“Mother cannot know,” she whispered. “Her heart. It’s not strong.”

There would be no way to avoid her mother finding out, since Miss Bates would be called to testify at the inquest. But mentioning that fact now would no doubt pitch her into full-blown hysterics.

Emma patted her knee. “You’re not to worry about that. Just tell me what you saw when you entered the church.”

Miss Bates drew in a trembling breath. “Well, at first, I saw nothing. But I was in the back, waiting, you know. So, I did not yet see the . . . Mrs. Elton.”

“What were you waiting for?”

Miss Bates briefly rolled her lips inward, as if reluctant to answer. “I was to meet Mrs. Elton at two o’clock.”

Well, that is not good.

Emma had to stifle any signs of dismay at such an unfortunate admission. God only knew what Dr. Hughes would make of it, though.

“And may I ask why you were meeting Mrs. Elton in the church instead of at your own apartments or the vicarage?”

Miss Bates lifted a trembling hand to her cheek. “Dear me, I can hardly remember. I swear it has all gone clean out of my head. But it was such a shock. Seeing her like that . . . so . . .”

“Yes, it was horrible, and it makes perfect sense that you would forget at the time. But surely you can recall now.”

She looked everywhere but at Emma. “Now that I think about it, I believe it was to discuss new altar linens. Yes, indeed that was it. Because the old ones are terribly worn, you know. The last time Jane and Frank visited Highbury, Jane was quite shocked by the state of them. She offered to buy an entire new set for the church.” She tried to smile. “So like Jane, isn’t it? Only she would think to replace all the altar linens.”

The altar linens were decidedly not worn, since Emma and her father had paid for a new set on Mr. Elton’s arrival at the parish two years ago. Why would Miss Bates tell such a patently obvious lie?

“So you were waiting in the back of the church for Mrs. Elton. When did you finally go up to the chancel?”

“When I realized she was late. I like to go up to the front of the church and sit for a spell. It reminds me of the days when my father was vicar. But that’s, that’s when . . .”

“That’s when you saw her.” Emma recalled the scene to mind. “Miss Bates, did you touch the body?”

“Yes, but only because I didn’t think she was dead, or else I would never have done such a thing,” she blurted out. “I . . . I know I shouldn’t have, but—”

Emma put out a reassuring hand. “It’s fine. I did the same.”

“I started to untie her bonnet,” Miss Bates said in a wretched voice. “To give her some air. But that’s when I saw the blood, and . . .” She covered her mouth.

“Yes, it was beyond horrific.” Emma hesitated for a second. “Miss Bates, did you touch her collar or bodice?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Perhaps to give her some air?”

Miss Bates shook her head. “After I saw all the blood, I was too frightened to go near her again.”

“Perfectly understandable. Did you notice if Mrs. Elton was wearing a necklace, by any chance?”

“I don’t think she was. But it was all such a blur, especially after I realized she was dead. I cannot truly be sure what I saw.”

“So, you don’t recall if her collar was askew in any way or if the buttons at her throat were undone?” Emma didn’t dare ask her if she’d noticed bruising on Mrs. Elton’s throat.

Miss Bates’s eyes went as wide as a startled rabbit’s. “Why would I notice something like that, Mrs. Knightley, especially when she was already dead? Besides, I couldn’t bear to look at her for fear of becoming sick.”

Emma sighed. “Yes, quite.”

Miss Bates would make a dreadful witness at the inquest. She could only hope Dr. Hughes would take into account the poor woman’s excitable nature.

“Just a few more questions, if I may. Do you recall how your handkerchief became stained with Mrs. Elton’s blood?”

She looked rather green at the memory. “I already had it in my hand when I went to untie her bonnet. It must have brushed against some of her hair. Her hair, it was quite . . .”

“Yes, I saw. Try not to think about it.”

“But how can one not think about it?” she burst out. “I will see that horrible sight before me for the rest of my days. If only Mrs. Elton and I hadn’t—”

When she broke off with a little gasp, a ripple of alarm skittered through Emma. “If only you hadn’t what, Miss Bates?”

When the woman shrank back, Emma grimaced. “Forgive me, ma’am. I don’t mean to be sharp with you. But please finish what you were going to say. You and Mrs. Elton hadn’t . . . what?”

“That is to say . . . nothing, nothing at all, really. But some might misconstrue it. It was just a silly thing, really. Mrs. Elton was a trifle annoyed with me, which is not to be wondered at. In her kindness, she overlooked my failings and eccentricities. Always so generous, so ready to forgive.”

“But why would Mrs. Elton be annoyed with you?”

The spinster seemed to struggle to find the words. “She . . . she has always been such a good friend to us, especially to dear Jane. Such kindness, such condescension she showed to Jane during that difficult time. You remember how Mrs. Elton arranged for her to become a governess to one of her friends in Bristol, and with such generous terms, too. You might also recall—”

Emma’s impatience finally got the better of her. “Yes, I recall. But what does this have to do with you and Mrs. Elton and what happened yesterday?”

“Poor Jane. She will be so distressed by all of this,” Miss Bates said, now fully off on her tangent. “And in her condition, too. Frank will never forgive me.”

Emma frowned. “And what condition is that?”

Miss Bates seemed to brighten. “Jane is in the family way. It’s still early days, so we are quite secret about it. She was to write to Mrs. Weston this week. But Jane’s health has never been good, you know, and when she hears this dreadful news, I fear it will affect her.”

“Frank will take care of her, you may be sure.”

“Very true. Thank goodness for Frank. He and Jane are so very generous to us, but we cannot be a burden to them, especially now. With friends like you and Mr. Knightley, we want for nothing. And Mrs. Elton’s generosity! It was beyond anything. If only—” She suddenly pressed her lips together, looking. . . frightened?

Yes, Miss Bates was indeed frightened. Of Mrs. Elton, if Emma didn’t miss her guess.

She tried to phrase her next question as delicately as she could. “Did Mrs. Elton perform a particular service for you, one that left you feeling indebted to her?”

“I . . . I . . . Well, she was always so generous, you know.”

Generous was not a term Emma would have applied to Mrs. Elton, at least when it came to others. To herself, however, the vicar’s wife was more than generous.

“Then can you tell me why you and Mrs. Elton fell out?” she gently asked.

Miss Bates was now visibly trembling. “It was just a trifling thing, I promise, and the fault was all mine. And now she is dead. Dead! I cannot bear it.”

She burst into tears, taking refuge behind her hands. Dismayed, Emma snatched up her reticule and began digging through it for smelling salts.

“Hetty, what’s wrong?” came a quavering voice from the chair by the fireplace.

Startled, Emma glanced over. She’d all but forgotten that Mrs. Bates was in the room. But the elderly woman was now wide awake and staring at her daughter, her wrinkled features doubly wrinkled in concern.

Emma dredged up a smile. “Miss Bates is simply upset about Mrs. Elton. She’ll be fine momentarily.”

Miss Bates blew her nose and tried to compose herself. “Everything is fine, Mother. Mrs. Knightley is right, as always. We are all grieved by Mrs. Elton’s death. So terribly upsetting.”

By this point, Emma was finding Mrs. Elton’s death more aggravating than not, since the woman was proving just as difficult in death as she was in life. As the next bit of news she needed to impart would surely illustrate.

“Miss Bates, while I am loathe to distress you any further, we must tell Mr. Knightley that you were at the church and that you discovered the body before Harriet and I did.”

Miss Bates moaned. “Must we?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Yes . . . yes, you are right, as always. So silly of me to run away, but I was so frightened and did not know what to do.”

“I can speak to Mr. Knightley on your behalf, if you like. I can explain why you left the church so suddenly.”

Miss Bates clutched at Emma’s hands, as if clutching a lifeline in a stormy sea. “Would you? I cannot bear the idea of talking about this again.”

Emma steeled herself. “I’m afraid you will have to talk about it again, Miss Bates. Dr. Hughes and Constable Sharpe will both wish to speak to you, since you discovered the body. But Mr. Knightley and I will do everything to support you in any way we can. I promise.”

Miss Bates stared at her, utterly horrified. Then she collapsed in her chair, her body shaking with sobs.

“Hetty, Hetty, what is the matter?” cried her mother, struggling to stand.

Emma jumped to her feet. “Everything is fine, Mrs. Bates. You’re not to worry. I will take care of this.”

The old woman gaped at her, clearly thinking her a ninny. A moment later, rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door flew open to reveal Patty, laden with a basket of foodstuffs.

“Patty, thank goodness,” Emma exclaimed. “Do you have any smelling salts?”

The competent young woman dumped her basket on the floor and hurried to Miss Bates. “Smelling salts won’t work, ma’am. I’ll put her to bed and then run to fetch Mr. Perry.”

“No, you stay with Miss Bates,” Emma replied. “I’ll fetch Mr. Perry.”

Patty nodded before hoisting Miss Bates up from the chair. She wrapped her arm around the weeping spinster’s waist and all but carried her from the room.

With a weary sigh, Emma dropped back into her chair.

“Mrs. Knightley,” Mrs. Bates said in a tremulous voice. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Everything , she was tempted to reply. And she feared that was no exaggeration.